Beyond Paradise

"What the fuck was that?" Billie stammered, backing away. His hands were trembling, heart hammering in his chest. A low growl from under the cot let him know that Snot had seen it, too.

The rest of the boys shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Sabeil's amber eyes, but Jabril stood serenely in front of him, his half-smile never wavering.

"Do you see?" Jabril asked him, as if they had just exchanged handshakes. "Like I told you, these are the guys you want on your side."

"No doubt," Billie said, and his voice was shaky. The other boys chuckled under their breath, exchanging glances, and Sabeil looked up sheepishly. Jabril turned and dropped a friendly hand on the boy's shoulder, and the tension slowly left his face.

"Don't let him scare you. He has a good heart. There are a lot of others here who don't, and they're the ones you have to worry about." His level gaze gave the statement added weight.

Billie was tiring of the warnings and ominous revelations. His mind was far away, lingering over the image of his home, still and peaceful in the lilac light of dawn. Adrienne would be waking up now, making French toast for the boys, and most likely cursing him under her breath for staying out all night.

Again.

"I appreciate your letting me sleep here, and the breakfast and all. But if you don't mind, the only thing I want to do right now is get the fuck out of here. No offense," he said, holding his hand up to show his sincerity.

Jabril shrugged. "The door's open," he said, nodding toward the front of the warehouse. The other boys were slipping off their shoes and clothes, unfolding sleeping bags and blankets.

Billie watched them in confusion. "Do they always go back to bed after breakfast?"

"They just got in," the boy answered. "They've been on watch all night."

"Do I want to know what they were watching for?"

"Probably not," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Come on, you've got things to do." He leaned toward Tabib and mumbled something softly, and then nodded. Hands in his pockets, he headed toward the front door, and Billie had to hustle to keep up with him, Snot trotting along behind.

The sun was just clearing the horizon, and the street seemed eerily quiet without the pulse of the music from the night before. Billie half expected to see trash littering the sidewalks, as it usually was after a concert, but someone had apparently done cleanup detail already. The stage still stood, fully equipped and instruments stored at the ready, but the booths and tents were closed up tight.

Jabril walked briskly toward the square where Billie had first seen him, past Bollocks and down toward a tiny door, set into what looked to be a bricked-in alley between two buildings. He knocked sharply with the back of his knuckles, waiting with his head tilted, listening for an answer. Somewhere in the distance, Billie could hear the sound of an engine revving, slowing, revving again.

Finally, the doorknob turned, and a pale, thin face peered out at them. The woman was tiny, not even five feet tall, and her salt and pepper hair was pulled into a thick braid that fell to her waist. Reading glasses perched at the end of her snipped nose, behind which peered curious grey eyes, kind but cautious.

"Odette," Jabril said, bowing slightly. He bumped Billie with his elbow, to indicate that he should do likewise.

She regarded him with a smile. "Jabril, my boy. Do come in," she said, turning and opening the door wide. "You're up very early this morning, aren't you?"

Billie followed the boy inside, nodding and returning her smile. She waited for them to pass her in the small entryway, and closed the little door. Motioning them into a sitting room off to the right, she disappeared into another room, returning moments later with a tray bearing a steaming teapot and three cups. "I just put the kettle on, so you're right on time!" she beamed, setting the tray down on the table in front of them. "Go on, have a seat," she said, indicating the deep, velvet-cushioned couch.

The room was small, but comfortable, and Billie wondered how the building next door was structured to fit around the space so tightly wedged beside it. His eyes roamed over the unusual collection of things she had arranged on the tables and mantel. Over the fireplace, a small golden stand held a glass ball, and beside it was a pewter bell with a handle carved in the shape of a demon. Candles flanked the big clock in the center, and on the other side was a large, weathered leather book and a silver cup, large rubies embedded in its side.

The coffee table was covered with a silk cloth in colors like water, deep cerulean blue, seafoam green, turquoise, indigo. In the center was a small rectangular box, bearing a medallion in the shape of an eye. More candles were set at each end of the table in brass holders of different sizes.

Odette finished pouring, and set a cup of tea in front of each of them. She sat back in the armchair that seemed to engulf her tiny body, and laced her fingers together in her lap, the smile still twinkling in her eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" she asked Jabril.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Odette, I'd like you to meet Billie. Billie Joe Armstrong. He's a musician."

Her eyebrows raised in amusement. "A musician, is he? Well, that's very nice." Her voice held the pleasant lilt of a beloved grandmother. "And Billie, what brings you to our town?"

"It's nice to meet you..."

"You can call me Odette too, sweetheart."

"Odette." He was relieved at not having to guess the proper way to address her. From Jabril's demeanor, she seemed to be someone important, and he didn't want to offend her. Besides, she was such nice lady, and so hospitable. "Actually, I'm not really sure how I got here at all. It was the strangest thing, I took a walk yesterday afternoon, and the next thing I knew, nothing looked familiar and I couldn't get my bearings. Jabril here was kind enough to give me a place to sleep last night so I could start fresh this morning."

She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, patting and stroking it. Her skin felt tissue thin, but soft, like peachskin, and he watched her eyes examine his fingers as she turned his palm over, remembering how Mischa had done the same thing the night before.

"Tell me, Billie, what is it that you want most in the world?" she asked kindly.

He felt a needle of fear prick his heart. The words were almost the same as Stroud's. He looked over at Jabril, who lowered his eyelids and nodded reassuringly.

"Go ahead, it's okay to tell her," he said.

For a moment, Billie was keenly aware of how alone he really was here. How could he know that Jabril was to be trusted? He had no idea whether anyone he'd met so far might be working with Stroud, and if they were, what could he do about it?

He looked deeply into the old lady's eyes, trying to sense whether there was danger here or not. But there was no trace of deceit, no predatory falseness, and he relaxed his hand in hers.

"I want to be able to write music again. It's what my whole life has been about, and I used to be good at it. And now...I don't know, it's like I forgot how to do it or something. The words just don't flow anymore, and when i write the music, it just sounds like every other mediocre song I've ever heard. Without music, I'm--I--" He broke off. It was hard to put into words just how enormous a void it had left in him.

"You feel as though you're nothing without it, don't you, dear?" she asked soothingly. She let go his hand, laying it gently in his lap, and sat back in her chair again.

He saw the sympathy in her face, and his suspicion faded away like mist in the morning sun. "Yes, like I'm nothing at all."

She took a careful sip of her tea, blinking as the hot liquid touched her lips. "Why do you suppose that's the only thing of value you think you possess?" she asked calmly. "Do you think there's nothing else that makes you special, nothing that you have that gives your life purpose?"

He thought for a moment. "Well, I don't really do anything else well. I'm not good at writing poetry or anything like that, and I wish I could paint or draw, but I'm not very artistic. And forget stuff like computers, or working on cars, or any of the other stuff some people have a knack for. Music is all I've ever had."

"Hmmm... All you've ever had? My goodness, that does put it into perspective, doesn't it? If that's your whole life, then I can certainly imagine that it would be devastating to lose it."

He wondered if she was just humoring him, but her expression was guileless, and the concern in her eyes seemed so sincere. "Odette, can I ask you a favor?"

"Of course, dear!" she exclaimed. She seemed happy that he had asked.

"I want--I need--to get home to my family, and I can't. Please, tell me what I need to do."

Her face softened, filled with pity and concern. "Billie, you need to learn to see with new eyes. As soon as you learn that, the way will be clear."

Again with the riddles, the vague nonsense, the Zen bullshit that was driving him insane. If you won't help me, then just give me a fucking map that has this goddamned place on it and I'll just start walking until I either make it back or fall off the edge of the fucking earth! he thought bitterly. The anger was rising in him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Suddenly the china cup he was gripping so tightly in his hands shattered, spilling hot tea over his shoes and the carpet. He cursed under his breath, reaching for the small towel on the tray to clean up the mess. As he mopped up the liquid, his head tilted to one side, and he stared at the stain it had left. In the faint brown shadow, he could see the outline of a perfect circle, less than an inch in diameter.

He looked up at Odette, and then at Jabril. Neither of them spoke, and they watched his confusion serenely, encouraging smiles on their faces.

Enough. He had played nice, he had been patient, God knows he had tried to keep his sanity. But he couldn't spend another second in this lunatic half-world. He scooped up the broken pieces of porcelain and set them on the tray with a mumbled apology, and rose hastily, turning to head for the door.

Fuck them all. If he couldn't go home, then he was going somewhere. Even if it was to hell...