Beyond Paradise

"Wait up! I found him!" Aden shouted from down the street, and two sets of slapping footsteps punctuated the announcement as he and Fowler pulled up beside them, panting.

The other four gathered around them, exchanging one-armed hugs and friendly punches as they welcomed their comrades back into the fold. Tabib reached into the depths of his backpack, and pulled out a long-sleeved tee shirt, which he passed to the shirtless boy with a grin. As Fowler slipped it over his head, the others peppered him with questions.

"They followed me almost to the ravine, on the other side of Omega. There were three of them this time, and before I could get to the river, one of them got ahead of me and cut me off--I could hear it, not twenty yards in front of me. There wasn't time to loop around the back side of the hill, so I took my shirt off and threw it onto a branch down the trail to the ravine. I found a rock overhang halfway up the hill big enough for me to slide into, but not enough for them to follow."

"And they thought you'd slid down the cliff, and went looking for you there," Sabeil finished for him."

"Yeah, it bought me some time. I was sure glad to see this guy show up, though," he said, patting Aden's shoulder. "They must have learned their lesson from him, 'cause we didn't see them anymore after that," he grinned, as Aden looked down at his feet sheepishly.

"They came here," Jabril said somberly, and the ripple of laughter faded away. "They'll be back, and there may be more this time. We need to get moving."

Billie watched his back stiffen as he led them toward the bandstand, and was struck once again at the burden he carried for a boy so young. He had taken upon himself the responsibility for the welfare of not only Billie, but his friends, as well. And he wore it like a penance. It was impossible to imagine Joey only a couple of years older, bearing the burdens this boy had taken on himself.

Already the seats were starting to fill up, and the vendors were wandering out of their booths to get a better view of the show. It seemed the whole town wanted to see what would happen tonight. Billie hung back a step, feeling for the first time in years the flutter of nerves in the pit of his stomach. The empty stage lay before him like a gladiator's arena, where his life would hang in the balance as countless pairs of eyes examined the innermost depths of his being. One of those would give him the thumbs up or down that would decide his fate tonight.

"You okay?" Jabril asked, touching his elbow.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I guess so. It doesn't matter much either way now, does it?"

"Yeah, it does. Look, Billie, this isn't some arena show where you run on stage for two hours and then the roadies pack it all up so you can do it again tomorrow night. You're in a fight for your life, for everything you are. You take all the time you need to get your head straight. Remember who you're doing this for." His young eyes burned into Billie's, and the pictures of Adie and the boys in Max's book swam back into Billie's memory with agonizing clarity.

He closed his eyes and focused, and Tabib's earlier ministrations made it easier to let go of the anxiety. He concentrated on the warmth and energy that seemed to radiate from his hands, and on the infinite depth of the love he had felt when he looked into the faces of the people who loved and needed him. When he opened his eyes, he was ready.

Jabril still watched him intently, and Billie nodded to him to let him know it was time. The other boys were already up on the stage setting up the sound equipment, Sabeil's mumbled "Check, check, one two three" booming through the massive speakers. Mischa himself stood beside the steps, his beefy arms folded, looking like nothing so much as a wall that would stand between Billie and anyone who meant him harm. In the front row, a tiny woman with a thick gray braid, now coiled neatly into a bun, sat primly, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"Hello, Odette," Billie said with a small bow as he approached on the way to the stage. He took her hand, covering it with his own. "It means a lot that you're here. Thank you for all you did for me." As he heard himself speak, he wasn't sure if it was an acknowledgment or a farewell, and the enormity of it all rocked him on his heels.

She was on her feet in an instant, steadying him with a strong hand on his arm. "Billie Joe, we're here for you, all of us. Don't forget that--you're not alone. And we'll be doing everything in our power to help you. Just keep focused and do your best."

He lifted his hands toward her shoulders, and then hesitated. Was it proper, given her station, to be so familiar as to hug her? And yet he felt a tremendous affection for this diminutive woman, who possessed such amazing strength and compassion.

His doubts were waved away as she pulled him into the circle of her thin embrace, holding him close to her shoulder and patting his back as if he were her own child. She whispered into his ear softly, so that he had to strain to hear. "It comes full circle tonight. Remember that." And with a papery kiss to his cheek, she released him and returned to her seat.

Jabril still hovered close behind him, and he lifted the guitar from Billie's back, looping the strap around his own shoulders and inclining his head to tune the strings carefully, lovingly. With amazement, Billie listened to the snippets of music that drifted from the instrument under the boy's graceful, tattooed fingers, and the admiration he had felt for Jabril gelled suddenly into something fierce, a determination to help this selfless child to find his way out of this place and back to his own life.

If he survived this himself, of course.

"Sounds good," the boy said with satisfaction, handing the guitar back.

"Yes, it sure did," Billie replied, but the young man looked away, embarrassed. "I owe you my life, Jabril," he said sincerely. "And I won't forget it. I won't forget you."

Jabril shifted uncomfortably, his shoes crunching on the gravel path. "Don't worry about me. You just keep your mind on that guitar tonight, okay? We've got your back, the guys and I." He swept a hand around him, and Billie could see that each of them had taken a place somewhere around the stage, strategically positioning themselves so that one guarded each side. "I'll be watching the street," Jabril said, mercifully not specific what he was watching for. As if Billie didn't already know.

Mischa was climbing the steps now, his big shoulders sagging as he approached the microphone. He cleared his throat into his fist, his eyes drifting over the faces that surrounded him like an ocean, and the buzz of voices settled into quiet.

"My friends," he began, and though his voice was warm and rich, his eyes were heavy with worry. "Tonight is not an ordinary night. Tonight ve come together to show our support for one who has been challenged by the depths of darkness, his very soul the prize. And yet he is only a mortal, like me, like you. How shall ve answer this call from the so evil one?"

Every voice in the crowd rose in unison, a wave of encouragement that lifted Billie almost physically.

"And vhen the creatures who serve him come forth to vork their vile magic, shall we sit idly by and allow him to fight them alone?"

"NO!" came the indignant response.

"I ask you this night, I who have asked nothing of you in these many years, to show your courage in the face of the unspeakable. Do not let this so brave young man face his fate vithout an ally. This night, let our strength be the blow that vill send this Stroud, this abomination, back to the depths from vhich he rose!" His huge fist raised high, he stepped back from the microphone as a deafening roar swept through the square, every throat straining its battle cry, every face the picture of resolve and determination.

Billie's throat worked as he watched, hardly able to believe the show of force these people, many of whom hadn't even met him yet, rallied on his behalf. Mischa extended a hand toward him, and he stepped forward toward the risers, one numb foot after the other ascending the steps. When he reached center stage, Mischa curled a beefy arm around his shoulders, and shouted into the microphone.

"My friends, I give you Mr. Billie Joe Armstrong!"

They sprang to their feet, applauding and screaming, and he stood motionless, helpless to remember what it was like to own the stage, to jump and kick and run, commanding the people who stood before him. It had never felt like this before. There had never been so much at stake.

The cheering began to die down, and he stepped to the microphone. His hands rested familiarly on the guitar strings, and he fixed an image in his mind, one that he was willing to take with him into eternity, if it came to that.

"This is for Adie," he said softly.