Time Dancers by Cash Steve

Author:Cash, Steve [Cash, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Prophecies, Fantasy Fiction, Space and Time, General, Fiction, Fantasy, Immortalism, Talismans, Epic, Recollection (Psychology), Children, Time Travel
ISBN: 9780345470935
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 2006-05-29T22:00:00+00:00

Music is the most mystical of all elements of consciousness. According to Sailor, the Meq once used singing as their only form of communication. Painters often feel as if they are playing an instrument rather than painting, and when a painting works, it never feels like work, it feels like playing music. Families know this and use it. If a son is in danger, or a daughter missing, it can become a voice, a bridge, and a silent smile between them. Few things can do this. Music is one.

The winter slipped by quickly. With fireplaces blazing at both ends of Carolina’s living room, music became our passion. On the radio, on the phonograph, in concerts and in clubs such as Mitch’s Chauffer’s Club, the “Jazz Age” was healthy and active in St. Louis, and we talked of little else. Many brilliant musicians passed through and touched our lives. At Carolina’s request, Mitch always invited his favorite players to her house for a good home-cooked meal and a few relaxed hours away from the road life. Each of their talents and personalities were unique, but their hearty enjoyment and appreciation for Ciela’s cooking was universal.

One man I remember well was a young black guitar player from Memphis named Furry Lewis. He told wonderful stories, mostly about characters he knew from the streets, and he had a droll, sly sense of humor. Late one night in the kitchen, I became his mark and unwitting straight man. We were eating pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw and black beans with rice. “You got to come down to Memphis and see me, kid,” he said, then wiped his mouth carefully, slowly, stretching the pause, never meeting my eyes. Finally, I said, “Well, sure, Mr. Lewis, I’d love to. Where do you live?” He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, kid, you can’t miss it. It’s the first little red house painted green.”

In the spring of 1924, we welcomed back baseball and our long, slow walks in Forest Park, then farther to the south along Hawthorne and Longfellow Streets, and all through the cultured, diverse beauty of Shaw’s Garden. Except for an enigmatic postcard from Geaxi, we heard little from Europe or anywhere else. The adage “no news is good news” became our maxim and comfort. Geaxi’s note on the postcard was written in Basque and transitional Meq. Translated, it read:

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