Beyond Paradise

Mischa turned and lifted the guitar from its place of honor, and laid it carefully on the countertop. His fingertips caressed its shining surface lovingly, adjusting tuning keys and sighting down the neck. Billie watched quietly, admiring the attention to detail and the clear affection the man had for this beautiful instrument.

At last he straightened, and looked up at Billie in satisfaction. "Only two people have ever played this guitar, myself and one other. It is...special, no? Vhat you have inside you, she vill know, and vill reach inside you to bring it out. This is your key, Billie Joe. But it is also a test, so you must take it very seriously. This Stroud, he does not toy with you. Fail, and he will steal from you everything you hold precious."

Billie looked down at the gleaming strings, and a hunger to feel them under his fingers surged through him like lust. Music was what he knew, what he was, and the emptiness without it had been killing him slowly. "It can't be this simple. I mean, this is an incredible guitar, one of a kind, but it's not the guitar that makes the music happen. I used to know what it was like to be able to do that, to move people, shake their souls. But not anymore. "

"This anger ve spoke of last night, you remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." It seemed like ages ago.

"It is like poison. It kills the beauty in you, the passion. Vhen you drink this poison, and you allow nothing to take it out of you, you die slowly inside. Your gift vill leave you, suffocated and withered. So you must--thpa!--spit the anger out of you before it can vork its evil. Only then vill you find that you are able to make the so vonderful music again."

"What did you mean when you said it would be a test?" Billie asked, not sure he wanted to know. It felt as if the last two days had been one test after another, so how bad could one more be?

"Tonight," Mischa said slowly, "you vill play on the stage, in the square. He vill be vatching you, listening, judging. Perhaps he vill taunt you--like vith the jukebox in the bar, no?"

It felt as if he'd been slapped. "How did you know about that?" he asked in amazement.

"To use your own voice against you, to tease you vhen you are veak, it is cruel indeed. It vas nothing more than a vay to make you doubt yourself again, to rub salt in the vound. To allow him to do this again vould be a fatal mistake indeed. This Stroud can and vill take from you all that you love, perhaps for all time."

It sounded like a death sentence. He steeled himself, willing the fear away. "Then what is it that I'm supposed to do to beat him?"

The big man shook his head, laughing without humor. "You cannot beat him. You can only hope to escape him. Like others before you."

Billie swallowed hard. "Jabril?" he said, feeling the chill in his blood.

Mischa nodded gravely. "Like you, he vas young and full of talent. Vhen he touched the strings of the guitar, it vas like a mighty hurricane, lifting the ocean and bending the mountains vith its power. One night as he played, he lost himself in the music, so much so that he did not see the cigarette that fell onto the bed. Poof--the flames were an inferno, and he barely escaped out the vindow vith his life. Not so his mudder, his fadder, his two sisters."

Eyes narrowed in horror, Billie barely breathed as he listened.

"Can you imagine, knowing your own loss of your beloved papa, the anger he carried at himself? He could not vash their blood from his hands, though it vas never his to bear. For a young man of sixteen to carry such a burden, it was...unthinkable. It vas then that Stroud found him, and heartlessly drew him avay from vhat vas left of his home, thinking to steal the boy's gift for his own. He knew the rage vould make him veak, and helpless."

So Jabril had faced this same nightmare, but he had done it at only sixteen, and after the loss of his entire family. It had to have happened recently--the boy couldn't be much older than that now. Billie's mind reeled when he thought of how placid Jabril had been throughout the short time he had known him. How could he have found that kind of peace so soon after such devastation?

"There must be balance in all things," Mischa went on. "Stroud, he is very powerful, very greedy. But his is not the only magic in this place. You have seen it yourself, yes? And so those who had the ability entered into an agreement, of sorts, to give hope to the hopeless. It vas binding upon all, including the so evil Mr Stroud, and remains so to this day. Can you guess?"

The memory of how Mischa had carefully examined his hands, declared him not ready, played through Billie's mind, and slowly it dawned on him. "Those people were playing for their freedom, weren't they?"

"You see, do you not, how it is? He envies, he covets, he tries to take for himself things that are not his to take. But ve make sure that there is a chance, a vay to escape his clutches and deny him vhat he vants. It is the music, you vill not be surprised to know, but not only that. It must be pure, a song that comes from the deepest and most honest place of the heart. This is vhy anger is the enemy--it taints that voice, makes it something poisoned, like he is, so that he may claim it for his own."

"I don't understand. Jabril has this--this self-control that I don't even have at twice his age. If that's what he needs to be free of this place, then why is he still here? He must be ready to kick that bastard's ass. Why doesn't he do it?" It pissed him off to think of someone so young spending months in this hell hole, fucking with all this Kung Fu bullshit, when he should be home playing the music that would heal his spirit.

A shadow of sadness washed over the burly face. "He cannot forgive himself," he said simply. "He has no anger toward the vorld, only to himself. His spirit is broken, and the guilt he bears is his anchor here. To atone for it, he remains, to try to guide others back to vhere they belong."

Billie felt the blood rushing to his face. "It's not right--it's not fair! He's just a boy, and he's giving up his whole life for something that wasn't his fault!" He could feel his hands tightening into fists at his sides, the fury forcing itself upon him.

Mischa raised a thick finger to his lips, closing his eyes solemnly. "This decision, it is his to make. Not yours, though I understand vhy you care about him. He vill do vhat he must to make peace vithin himself."

"You said that you and one other had played this guitar. Was it for the same reason?" His voice was trembling, no matter how hard he tried to control it.

"Yes," the man answered. "I vas given the same chance against Stroud. I did my best, but alas...." He didn't need to finish.

"So, what? You're stuck here forever? Is that what happens when he wins?"

Mischa spread his hands, saying nothing.

"No! I won't accept that! He's not keeping me here! I don't care if I wander around forever and end up in the middle of nowhere, I'm not going to just give up and stay in this godforsaken place! I've got a life to live, and a family to take care of!"

The big man leaned across the counter, his eyes burning into Billie's. "Then you must remember vhere your anger comes from, and you must remember vhat gave you the strength to fight it. Othervise you vill be vith us for a long, long time. The old voman, Odette--you vent to see her?"

Clearly there was nothing hidden from this man, Billie thought.

"Keep her vords in mind. You focus on vhat you have lost, you vill lose even more. Remember that your life comes full circle, Billie Joe. Full circle. Now take this beautiful voman vith you," he lifted the guitar, offering it, "and find the peace vithin you. But do it quickly." He looked over Billie's shoulder and out the window of the shop. "Night vill fall sooner than you vish."