Читать книгу The Neverborne - James Anderson - Страница 3

The strongest principle of growth lies in the human choice.

George Eliot

Book One

The Born

The Throne of the Neverborne Kingdom

The Deceiver sat with his back against one of the many black marble pillars which lined his court. One foot rested on the final step of the throne’s approach, and the other near the throne’s base, and, pouting, he stared through the pillars into the open wasteland beyond.

His thirteen counselors, called the anti-quorum, kowtowed before him, their open palms and foreheads touching the polished obsidian floor. They were positioned in a circle around the blood red ring surrounding the huge in-laid upside down cross of the same crimson color. The Deceiver believed he had been so close, so very close, yet, again, he had failed.

He turned his head and looked at the anti-quorum in their black robes. As his eyes went from spirit to spirit, he wondered who was to blame. Did they do all they could to win this last battle? He went over the details in his mind and decided that everything which could be done was planned and executed well.

They had been fighting these battles for thousands of mortal years and were yet to win even one of them. But, one was all he needed. Just one victory and he would defeat the Creator.

This most recent battle was fought against that ridiculous farmer, that boy he was positive would lose against the powerful black robe facing him. But he didn’t lose. What was the name of that place in which he lived? Russia. That was it. The land that had produced so many people of faith yet also so many faithless murderers. The boy was a sickly Russian peasant without two coins to rub together, yet he beat one of the Deceiver’s greatest warriors, just as he had beaten the same foe so many eons ago.

How did the Creator do it? How did he command such loyalty? Where did these pathetic mortals find the faith and courage to wield the power necessary to beat his most formidable warriors? He had never understood that. If he could capture that secret, he would be victorious.

The Deceiver was becoming more concerned with every successive defeat, and this last one was the most upsetting. Each new battle was more critical than the last because time was running out. Time, the one thing he thought would never end, was ending. It was still a fair distance away in mortal reckoning, but he knew the end was coming, and if time ended and he realized no victories, then his defeat would be complete, and he and his followers would spend eternity in this forsaken corner of creation, away from mortals, because mortality would end. He and his followers would be alone and miserable forever.

Yes, he was very worried. Mortal time was finite. There were only a few battles left compared to the many which had taken place since mortals first occupied their world. Now, each successive battle was more important than the previous one because it was one battle closer to his final chance.

But this last one was particularly upsetting. The mortal Ivan, the small man from a frozen land, could neither read nor write, but he endured indescribable pain and torment and all the despair and doubt that the Neverborne could throw at him, and beat the unbeatable warrior. As punishment, the Deceiver threw the defeated black robe in the farthest reaches of his realm to dwell with the most obscene creatures imaginable. If he needed him again, he knew where to find him. But the Deceiver couldn’t think about that now. He must look forward to the next battle.

He glanced down at his kneeling anti-quorum and frowned.

“Stand up, you idiots,” he said. They all stood and, placing the palms of their hands together in the manner of mortal prayer, extended them toward the Deceiver. He liked that; it made him feel a little like the Creator.

“I refuse to hear excuses for this last catastrophe from any of you fools. All I want to know is who battles next?”

The black robe closest to the Deceiver stepped forward and said, “The red robe Alaal, your worship.”

The Deceiver raised his eyebrows. “Really? Is he born yet?”

“Yes, your worship. He is on the earth.”

“Where? Where is Alaal now?”

Another quorum member stepped forward. “In America, your worship.”

“America!” The Deceiver spat out the word. “I hate America! All that freedom offends me.” The Deceiver rubbed his handsome face with his hands and again stared into the wasteland. He listened to the tormented cries of the spirits who walked the nothingness and was comforted.

“Lasting will fight this battle, will he not?”

All thirteen quorum members bowed their heads and said, “He will, your worship.”

“Bring him to me.”

A tall black robed figure instantly appeared and bowed low, touching his forehead to the floor. “I am here to obey your words, your worship,” said the spirit.

“Stand up and come to me,” said the Deceiver. “I want to see you.” The newcomer moved through the quorum members and stood before the Deceiver. He again kowtowed low and waited.

“Stand up, you fool,” said the Deceiver. “I said I want to see you.” The spirit stood and looked straight ahead, careful not to make eye contact. The Deceiver stood and, with his hands clasped behind his back, walked around the spirit, looking at him from all sides. “You are Lasting, are you not?”

“I am, your worship.”

“You were beaten by the red robe Alaal at the Final Decision?”

A look of pain crossed the spirit’s face. He hated Alaal worse than anything, and he could hate like no other.

“I was, your worship.”

“You must soon do battle with him a second time.”

“Yes, your worship.”

Walking back up the steps and sitting down on his throne, the Deceiver said, “How do you intend to beat him when he has already proven stronger than you?”

The spirit’s face darkened even further. “He is not stronger than I, your worship. I will defeat this mortal and make straight the way for your rule over the mortal world.”

In less than an instant, the Deceiver zoomed to Lasting. His right hand was inside of Lasting’s brain and the spirit was lifted off his feet. A hideous scream came from Lasting. After a few moments, the Deceiver withdrew his hand and Lasting slumped to the floor, balled up and writhing in agony.

“You are a fool, spirit, just like all of the others who have battled these red robes. I have searched your mind and see no plan. Do you even know where the red robe is?”

Lasting, still shaking from pain, said, “Yes, your worship. He is a boy in America.”

The Deceiver again walked up to his throne and stood behind it. The throne’s back was high enough so that only the Deceiver’s head and shoulders were visible. When he lifted his hands and placed them on the back of the throne, they changed to long, razor sharp claws.

“Know this, Lasting the fool: if you fail to defeat this red robe, you will spend eternity cursing the instance you were created. Now, what is his mortal name?”

“Ruben James Barlow.”

Ruben Barlow

Hanford, California - 1966

Dang, thought Ruben, I forgot about the monkey bite.

“Ruben James Barlow!” Mothers always say your whole name when they’re really mad. “What is that thing on your neck? And I want to know right now!” Ruben could usually think of something to tell his mother at times like this. But, what could he say about a hickey to a Jewish mother who had seen it with her own eyes?

It was Saturday morning and he woke up to the smell of bacon frying. What seventeen year old, red-blooded American male could resist bacon on a Saturday morning? So he pulled on some Levis and didn’t bother putting on a shirt. Who could remember a shirt with the smell of bacon in the air? And now his mother had seen what sweet Georgia had given him. He worked hard to suppress a grin when he thought about the night before. Still, there was no lie he could think of to appease his mother. He was caught red-necked, so to speak, and forced to rely to the last resort of the American teenager - he had to tell the truth – well – at least a version of it.

“It’s no big deal, mom. It’s just a girl I saw after the dance last night. She was just having fun.” Ruben braced himself for his mother’s onslaught.

His apron-clad mother, fork in hand and bacon popping before her, assumed the indignation that can only be wielded by Jewish mothers when their perfect sons have been wronged.

“Who is she? I’m going to call her mother!”

Thinkfastthinkfastthinkfast. “Please don’t do that, mom. This only happened because I felt sorry for her.” The opportunity to mix some mitigating untruths with the damning facts presented itself. “She’s this kinda fat, ugly girl. After the dance last night, we were taking down the equipment and she was hanging around and following me everywhere, telling me how great I am and stuff. Her parents are divorced and other kids make fun of her.”

This was all a load of garbage but Ruben told his mother this for her own good. His mother, he knew with small pangs of guilt, believed everything he told her. She was like this pure angel put on earth by mistake and forced to deal with real people.

Ruben’s father, a big good-natured Texan with a great mind and better heart, died in a car accident five years earlier. A California Highway Patrolman ran a stop sign and plowed into him at seventy miles per hour. Three days later, with the whole family standing around Ernest Barlow’s bed, he died from a brain hemorrhage.

Now Ruben, the youngest of the four Barlow children and the only one still at home, was the sole recipient of the motherly talents of Naomi Grossfelt Barlow, daughter of Ruben and Naomi Grossfelt of Boise, Idaho.

Ruben felt bad about lying to his mother. Sweet Georgia Thompson wasn’t fat. She wasn’t ugly. Kids didn’t make fun of her. She was a sleek, red-haired, smoking-hot babe with crystal blue eyes and a dubious reputation. She was five feet, two inches of sex appeal with just the right amount of baby fat and the greatest legs in the tri-county area.

After Ruben’s incorrect description of Georgia, his mother calmed. He knew her so well.

“Well, I can almost understand that - almost. But I will not have my son walking around looking like that. You look terrible! What kind of a mother would raise a daughter who would do that? It probably wouldn’t do any good to talk to the mother anyway.

Thompson, did you say? I don’t know them.”

It was time to switch the subject.

“Boy, that smells sooooo goooood.”

There are two techniques used by Jewish mothers since the beginning of the Hebrew nation: guilt and food. If Ruben was going to get his mother’s mind off one, he had to use the other.

“You’ve got to be the best cook in the world, mom.” Ruben went to his mother; the time was right.

“I’m sorry, Mom (lie). I really wasn’t thinking (truth), and I really didn’t know she would leave a mark (not quite truth). I love you, Mom (truth). Let’s play horsy.” Ruben undid her apron strings and held them like reins. “Giddy-up, Mom.” That always made his mother laugh. She swatted behind her in a vain attempt to hit his hands.

“Stop that and sit down. Your breakfast is ready. And before you go anywhere put on something that will cover that awful mark. I don’t know what people will think if they see that. Remember, you’re a reflection of me. And wash your hands before you eat.”

If his mother had said that “reflection” thing once, she’d said it a thousand times. But, that was mom. She had all these great sayings: “straighten up and fly right” when he was bad, and “you and me are going to Fist City” for the same reason, and “you look like a hog on ice” when he did something clumsy, and “you’ve got your clothes scattered from heck to breakfast” when his room was messy, and “if you had a brain, you’d take it out and play with it” when he did something stupid.

But whenever Ruben came home from school, she was there asking him how it went. Whenever he was sick, she took care of him. Whenever he was sad, she cheered him up. Whenever he had a problem, she helped him. He never took any of his mother’s reprimands to heart because he knew his mother loved him beyond all reason. He also remembered the way she was with his father, and the way his father was with her. Nothing made his father angry like showing disrespect to his wife or daughters. He cherished women, especially his own. The Neverborne could not function in the Barlow household.

And all this was exactly why Ruben felt justified in lying to his mother. She didn’t comprehend Ruben’s position in the Hanford teenage society. Ruben had no misunderstanding about why sweet Georgia was with him last night. They hadn’t gone all the way, Ruben was saving that for marriage – a promise he’d made to his father in the hospital room before he died.

Ruben knew Georgia was with him for one reason, the same reason most girls wanted to be with him and most guys wanted to be like him. Ruben could play the guitar better than anyone.

In the time when all teenage boys dreamed of playing rock and roll, when teenage girls collected autographs of anyone who played in a band, no matter how rotten they sounded, when the Central Californian teenage world revolved around the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, and Paul Revere and the Raiders, Ruben was the king. He could play anybody note for note, chord for chord. Chuck Berry, Keith Richards, George Harrison, Gene Cornish, Brian Wilson, he could play them all. He could double pick, chime, bar-chord, and play for hours without losing skill. He bought record albums and learned the music that sounded good to him. Ruben couldn’t read a note of music; he didn’t need to. His ear was so good that he could listen to a song once, maybe twice or three times if it was complicated, and figure it out.

By the time he was fifteen, he was playing for pretty fair money every weekend with eighteen and nineteen year olds. His mother disapproved and called every group he played with the “damn band,” but thought she might have a genius on her hands and didn’t want to squelch any creative flow. She still pushed classical music and tried to teach him to read notes, but she was duly impressed when professional musicians from miles away came and asked her son to set in on jam sessions or recordings. She could only sigh and shake her head when her talented son chose to play music by Mitch Rider and the Detroit Wheels rather than Bach and Beethoven.

Ruben wasn’t a good student because he always had music in his head. After school, he’d go home and play four to six hours every day. His mother didn’t know quite how to handle the school situation but remembered how proud her husband was of his son who picked up the guitar and in a week could play things without being taught, things the father couldn’t play after being shown many times.

The band he was with, the Mustangs, was good and knew it. They were talented kids doing what they loved. There were five of them: a lead singer, an organ, a bass, a drummer, and Ruben.

A year before, when Ruben was sixteen, a promoter signed them to a contract and booked their gigs. Ruben was earning one hundred to three hundred dollars a weekend. Even at their young age, they were bordering the big-time.

During the school year, they usually played Friday and Saturday nights. During the summer, they played five to seven nights a week. The previous summer they were a house band in Hanford for four straight weeks. The place was packed every night but it got old because the band liked to play at different places. Ruben had plenty of girls who liked him but no one he was serious about. He figured when it was time he’d find a nice Jewish girl like his mother, one who would still fry bacon.

After the usual big breakfast and a quick shower, Ruben was ready for business. He got together some show clothes and put them in a garment bag and laid it on the bed. He picked up two hard-shelled guitar cases and put them on the bed. He opened the newer guitar case and there was his baby, a 1965 Gretch Tennessee Rose - maroon sunburst finish, mother-of-pearl fingerboard inlays, raised metal gray pick guard, Bixsby tremolo bar, and the best pick-ups he’d ever played. She was his baby, and nobody could touch her but him.

He picked up the garment and gym bags with guitars cords, stands, etc., and took them out to the trunk of his other baby, his 1959 Chevy Biscayne. Black, loaded with chrome, custom tuck and roll, a custom four-on-the-floor transmission, powerful V-8, top-of-the-line chrome spinners, and factory air he had installed the past summer.

“Where are you going, son?” asked his mother.

“We’re playing a four-hour dance tonight at The Mag in Fresno. You know, that huge place downtown. We start at eight. I should be home about two in the morning.

She looked approvingly at her son. He had a well-formed, athletic body, clear skin with handsome features, striking light brown eyes and soft, thick brown hair. As far as Naomi Barlow was concerned, there wasn’t a female alive good enough for her son.

“If that girl who gave you that mark is there, I want you to stay away from her. You hear me?”

He answered in the affirmative and went back for his Gretch and the banged-up acoustic he always took with him. He started thinking about last night and sweet Georgia. She had been a near life-changing experience.

The Mustangs had played at Hanford High School’s homecoming dance the night before. Several student organizations had done fundraisers and gotten together enough money to hire the Mustangs. It was fun playing for their homecoming. The gym had been packed. Some senior boys from Tulare and Visalia snuck in to cause some trouble but things never got out of control and everyone had a great time.

After the dance, Ruben was packing up his guitar and gym bag when he heard, “Hey, Ruben.”

It was sweet Georgia in all her glory: short skirt, white boots, and a body that could have tamed the Mongol horde.

“You looked good on stage tonight, Ruben. I mean real good. I love the way you play the guitar.”

“Thanks, Georgia. Glad you liked it,” he said.

Georgia looked away like she was deciding what to do. Finally she turned back. “Hey,” she said, “You got any booze, Mr. Guitar Man?”

Ruben had a drink once in a while but didn’t really like it. But, in this case, he’d go along. What seventeen-year-old boy could pass up a chance to have a drink with Sweet Georgia Thompson?

“Corky,” he yelled.

“What, man? I’m right behind ya.”

Ruben turned around and saw their roady, Corky Kramer, carrying two amplifiers to his van.

“You got any booze, Corky?”

Corky was the Mustangs’ head roady and a good one. Roadies are supposed to have everything anyone could possibly want or need, and Corky always did.

“Brandy, vodka, or wine?”

Ruben turned to Georgia. “Brandy, vodka, or wine?

“Brandy’s good.”

Ruben turned back to Corky. “The lady says brandy.”

Corky put down the amplifiers and went to his van. In less than a minute he was back with half a pint of peach brandy, two sixteen-ounce cokes, and some fair-sized dixie cups. He opened Ruben’s gym bag and put them in.

“Thanks, Cork. Next time I see Del, I’m pushing for a raise for you.” But Corky already had the amps half way to his van.

“Here ya go, Georgia, as ordered.” She picked up the gym bag.

“Where’s that cute little car of yours?”

“Not far at all.” He picked up his guitar and motioned the direction. When they reached the car, he unlocked the door for her. As he opened the trunk and put his guitar in, Georgia reached over and unlocked the driver’s door and put the bag in the back seat. Ruben got in the car and the engine started with the satisfying varuumm of a powerful machine. Ruben didn’t know the first thing about cars, but he had his Chevy checked every other month by the same mechanic and spared no expense in taking care of it.

As he pulled away from the curb, he looked over at Georgia. She looked like she was studying him.

“You’re everyone’s friend, aren’t you? I mean, you’re for real. Most people say you’re a nice guy. Like, you’re not a phony. You’re not nice to people and then talk crap about them. Some people don’t like you, but some people don’t like anybody.”

He switched his eyes between the road and Georgia. “You know, all the guys say you’re the cutest girl in school.”

“What do you say, Ruben?”

Ruben thought about what would sound good and decided on the sincere approach. “I think you are. And you’re nice. All the guys call you Sweet Georgia.”

Georgia smiled and slid over to sit so close to Ruben that he could smell liquor on her breath.

“Let’s go to my house,” she said. “My mom’s gone for the weekend with her boyfriend.” She gave directions and Ruben followed them. He parked in front of the house and turned to Georgia.

“I’ll get the bag and the door. You just sit tight.” Ruben got the bag from the back seat and walked around to Georgia’s side. He opened the door and helped her out. His mother was a fanatic about boys opening doors for girls.

They walked to the door and Georgia unlocked it, stepped in, and turned on a light. “Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get some real glasses.” She took off her coat and threw it on a chair. Ruben watched her as she walked to the kitchen, sex dripping off her like she just climbed out of a pool full of it.

Ruben retrieved the cokes and brandy and put them on the coffee table. As he sat the bag aside, he heard the tinkle of ice in glasses. He got out a bottle opener from a side pocket of the bag and opened the Cokes.

Georgia came in and sat the glasses on the coffee table. The three top buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned. She left the kitchen light on and turned off the light in the living room. Ruben knew he was in the middle of a real live fantasy but he was scared – he couldn’t help it.

Georgia went to the stereo, put on a Burt Bacharach album, and turned it down low. The words and melody fell on Ruben’s ears like a maiden’s touch.

“What do you get when you fall in love….”

She walked over to Ruben, grabbed his lapels, and pulled him gently to his feet. “You don’t need this,” she said, bringing her lips very close to his as she slid the blazer off and put it on the arm of the couch. She pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she said. Georgia kissed him with lips so soft they felt like tiny heated pillows. He tasted her breath and then felt her tongue enter his mouth. Her arms encircled him and urgently pulled his body into hers. He put his arms around her and felt the smallness of her waist. She suddenly broke away and pushed him so he fell back on the couch. Ruben knew he was in way over his head.

“Georgia,” he whispered.

“Shhhhhh,” she said. “Don’t say anything.” She kneeled in front of him and took his left hand. “Let me touch those great hands.” She felt the calluses on the ends of his fingers and kissed each tip. “I love to watch you play.”

Ruben felt like he was floating above the couch, like he was outside of his body looking at what was happening, like he was slowly being electrocuted with sex.

“Ever done this before, Ruben?”

Ruben couldn’t even begin to lie. “No,” he said

“Thought so. It’s OK, I have.”

She moved her lips to his ear and softly whispered, “Let me take care of everything. I really like you, Ruben. Do you like me?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

She laughed, “And you never will again.”

She stood up and, putting one knee on the couch, began to swing the other leg over to straddle him. Ruben jerked forward.

“Wait! I can’t do this. I can’t, Georgia.”

“What?” Her voice changed to a surprised question. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I mean I can’t. I want to. Believe me, I want to. But I can’t.” Georgia sat back with one foot underneath her. Her voice told Ruben she was not happy.

“Why not? I don’t understand.”

The only response that came to Ruben’s mind was the truth. It all came out about twice as fast as normal. “I can’t. I know this sounds crazy, but I promised my father before he died that I’d wait until I was married. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“So, you’re going to stay a virgin until you get married?”

“I promise you, Georgia: if I didn’t give in tonight, I’m never giving in. One day I’ll probably look back at this and hate myself.”

She snorted a short laugh and stood up. She walked over to a drawer and opened it. “You want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks.”

Georgia came back and sat down, put the cigarette in her mouth and gave him the lighter. Ruben lit her cigarette and put the lighter on the table. She inhaled the smoke and flicked the fingernails on her thumb and third finger, making a click-click noise Ruben knew was from aggravation.

“You know,” she said, “I don’t appreciate being built up and then let down like this.” He knew exactly what she meant.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Georgia. I’m sorry. I think you’re great.” Georgia moved until her back was resting against the arm of the couch and her legs were stretched out across Ruben’s knees.

“Pour us some drinks.” Her eyes never left Ruben as he poured the cokes over the ice.

“You want some brandy?” he asked.

“Just a little,” she replied. Ruben poured a little in each cup and handed one to her. She motioned to put it on the table.

“Tell me about your father. I’m curious. No one has ever told me no. I’m the one that usually says that.” She smiled and slowly shook her head. “You’re something else, Mr. Guitar Man. Your Dad was killed by a cop or something, wasn’t he?”

“A CHP plowed into him and he died three days later.”

“My dad left us when I was six for some slut back East. We haven’t seen him since. He never writes or anything. I’d say you’re the lucky one.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“Because you had a great father and he died. But you know he loved you. My father is alive somewhere in New York and doesn’t give a flying fig about me. His accountant sends us a check every month but he never writes or calls or anything.” She took a drag off her cigarette. “I hate him.”

Ruben thought about that. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, Georgia. That has to be tough.”

“Yeah, well, mom and I do alright.” Georgia took another drag and French-inhaled the smoke very slowly. She leaned over and flicked the ashes in the ash tray.

“Why did he want you to stay a virgin until you were married? And don’t tell me this is the first time the issue has come up. With all the girls you must meet? You’ve probably had a thousand chances like this.”

“Actually, this is the first time it’s gone this far. I was never this tempted before. But I think he wanted me to understand how special making love can be between two people who are totally committed to each other. And I mean no offense to you. Believe me, if I hadn’t made that promise, I’d be on you like love on a puppy.”

Again the French inhale. She stared at Ruben like he was under a microscope. “What did your father tell you about girls?”

“He said that there was good news and bad news about women.”

She smiled. “What’s the good news?”

“The good news is there are only two things you need to know about women.”

She let out a short laugh. “And what are those?”

“Well, that’s the bad news. Nobody knows what they are.”

Georgia thought that was the funniest thing she had every heard. She threw her head back and laughed and Ruben laughed with her. They laughed hysterically and when they calmed down, they started again. They talked until three in the morning, laughing and telling each other secrets.

When he finally got ready to leave and was standing by the door, she said, “I want to give you something.” She pulled him down and kissed him long and hard. Then she attached her lips to his neck and sucked until it hurt. “A Georgia trademark,” she called it.

The last thing she said to him was, “I would be your girlfriend in a hot second, but I don’t know if I could live without sex. Let’s talk from time to time, I really enjoyed this.”