Evolution Device

Chapter 1

Dark currents sucked me from the light into the muck of the here-and-now with no warning and no time to orient myself. I popped into reality in the midst of chaos. Roiling muddled reds of anger and muddy blues of fear oozed from the stage and battered at my awareness. 

The lodestone that drew me sat at a children’s desk in the middle of the stage, oblivious to it all. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. He was entranced by music that only he could hear. The melody that teased his soul had eluded him for years, whereas the drug bust that roiled around him was just another obstacle between him and his goal. The music was all that mattered.

And then there was me. A Muse. His Muse. Up until this moment an invisible product of Eddie’s mind but an entity in my own right. Sort of. I was becoming more visible by the second as his concentration inadvertently solidified my spirit into his reality.

I staggered under the sudden weight of a body. I glanced around me, but no one had noticed. Thank the gods, because I had to figure out how to deal with what was happening to me at the same time I was figuring out what was happening with Eddie to make this happen to me. Because Eddie was my job.

In the eyes of the world Eddie Edmunds was just one more unknown rock musician clawing for recognition. Soon that would change. I would make it happen, because obviously he needed all the help he could get. It didn’t even occur to him that if he got busted with the rest of the band today he wasn’t going to be worrying about music tomorrow.

At the moment the London bobbies and Scotland Yard inspectors were merely noise that Eddie tuned out. The important thing was the riff that so far had yet to become music that others could hear. He was determined to not lose the thread of it, not again. His fingers twitched to the melody, hungering for a guitar.

I had my own hungering.

I was this close and yet as far away as I’d ever been, but close wasn’t good enough. Right now the music was still latent. Right now eyes would slip over me. For all intents and purposes I was invisible. How awkward is that?

Still, I wasn’t without power, unborn or not.

I drifted backstage among the inspectors who interrogated and the bobbies who pawed through musical equipment. I knew it could go bad for Eddie. No one in this band had any loyalty to him. They might drop a dime on him if they thought it’d keep them out of being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Things could go sour in other ways. Eddie wasn’t a particularly naive or stupid person but masters greater than he might not recognize a nexus of vulnerability when they were immersed in it. In ordinary language, a cusp. A moment of potential when everything is possible. A moment of choice that determines a future.

Why else would I be here? Sure, I’m a Muse. So what? I wanted to be here just as much as the next spiritual entity. There’s something about the physical ...well, I’m no angel and even angels are tempted. That’s free will for you. Eddie might have been unaware he was calling, but he was calling. I had been waiting a long time for my chance.

It’s what happens when a Muse is living in someone’s head. My voice was his voice. My desire was his desire. Before now I hadn’t been any more aware of him as a separate entity than he had been of me. Now I was getting a first taste of my own voice and my own desire, so of course the physical was particularly alluring. Please, not that kind. It wasn’t Eddie — or at least not all Eddie. It was physical existence itself that was so luscious.

Not that the man didn’t have appeal. He was tall and lanky and graceful in spite of being uninterested in sports or formal exercise. His strong features, still softened by the remnants of youth, would soon become hard and edgy and would reveal his Native American ancestry. Was he aware he was attractive? Not my job to know, but he did tend to hide behind his unruly, shoulder-length black hair. Make of that what you will.

But okay. Eddie couldn’t help it that people — male, female, didn’t matter — were drawn to him. It wasn’t because of his looks or who he was. Basically he was just a garage band guitarist, one of thousands all over the UK, churning out okay music while waiting for the Big Break.

What drew people to Eddie was the latent power that leaked from the otherwise quiet, self-contained young man and that was another story. People who felt it wanted it or they feared it. That was partly Eddie’s fault, of course. He was open to power in his own way, and power — scary big elemental power — was rushing in... but he didn’t have full control yet. Amend that to any control. Charitably I could say he was just on the edge, but I’m not charitable. That’s not how Muses work.

We speak truth. We are the model for be careful what you wish for...

And look at him. Eddie wasn’t even asking for power, not on purpose. He wasn’t even trying to control what he was invoking, and I don’t mean his dream of becoming a hot rock guitarist.

I don’t even mean me, though I was a symptom. He was invoking pure energy, the power behind music. The elemental power of creation.

Oh yeah, Eddie was no ordinary wannabe rock god.

All creative types lay their necks on the block when they put their work out into the world, of course, but most have more natural self-protection in place than Eddie did. Call it common sense, if you will. My Eddie — well, let’s say that in his insistence on plunging ahead in his own uneducated way, he was plunging down perilous paths. He had no Master hovering over him to correct his course. He just had me.

I’m no Master, either. I’m a Muse. Muses are for inspiration, not edification.

Well and good, but Eddie didn’t know I was here anyway. He was just instinctively invoking powers that he didn’t even believe existed. He might not be consciously doing anything, but his subconscious was screaming.

What a way to be born into the physical.

♪

Not every muse is a Muse, if you get my meaning. Sometimes a muse is just an excuse to keep a bed partner hanging around. Muses don’t have to be physical beings. Most aren’t. Some spiritual entities that get physically manifested aren’t Muses at all but more like, well, demons — things that ride the human soul. The real thing — that would be me, of course — channels artistic creativity.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference one way or another.

Ageless as I am, Eddie had invoked me as a contemporary of his, except younger. Cutely younger. Not my choice, in case anyone cares. Anyway, I had no great amount of control over how I appeared to Eddie or anyone else. Maybe someday — but right now I was a groupie. What fun.

Rats. Muses can’t lie.

Well we can, but... it’s complicated. Okay, I admit part of the groupie look was a teensy bit my own fault. On the one hand I had to be what I was: a Muse. On the other hand I had to fit in with the physical world. And... I wanted Eddie to like me. Eddie liked groupies. See? That’s what physicality does to a soul straight off the starting line. Screws everything up right away.

Meanwhile, my job.

Eddie sat squished in glorious oblivion at a small school desk, one of those with an arm that extends into a writing surface. It was only because the desk was for older kids — and because Eddie was so skinny — that he fit. The desk must have been left over from a play. It was among the other stage props shoved together at stage front. The band’s drug-connection-cum-manager was seated nearby on a dingy overstuffed chair, and the other band members were crowded together on a battered old dirt-brown sofa. Not happily, I might add.

The few roadies (not paid in money, mind you, and therefore as uptight as the rest about where they’d be spending the night) had been hanging out here at the wrong time. They had been directed to sit in the front rows of the audience. They weren’t under arrest or anything, but dispassionate uniformed law enforcement personnel kept an eye on them to make sure they stayed put. A gaggle of unassigned bobbies stood stage right. Between their lust to bust dirty hippies and the band’s drug-enhanced terror we were enveloped in a totally revolting miasma of emotion, though I was the only one who knew it for what it was. To the extent that Eddie noticed anything he thought it was all about tomorrow, the first-ever gig for this band as headliner rather than just an opening act. It was their big break-out. If they blew it they were done.

That was probably why Eddie had invoked my appearance now. Maybe. Odd, I must have known for sure just moments ago but... no matter. It was just logical. A Muse is one form of answer to a plea for help by a creative person — a magical summoning, if you will. Not really magic, of course. I’m not sure a word has been invented for what this power is, at least not any word most would be familiar with. A Muse responds to an on-purpose act of creative will whatever it’s called. Hey, don’t blame me. The Universe doesn’t much care about language.

The Universe also doesn’t interfere. Well, yes it does, but...

Oh, bother. Let me just say that I looked like a groupie and that was that. That made my job harder than it had to be, but it was what it was. I was constrained by how power works in the physical world and would have to make do.

But I digress. Eddie was... not here. Not so much chemically affected as having retreated into himself by focusing on his internal music. In spite of that — or because of it — his power had yanked me into this world and now I had to figure out what to do. Eddie’s efforts were churning up the energy of the moment. If he didn’t quit, if someone — me — didn’t get involved, the whole world would know what Eddie could do. The world wasn’t ready for that.

I eased back over to Eddie, not paying much attention to what I was doing until I realized that the band’s manager was giving me the evil eye. That was interesting, that he could see me. Eddie’s power was doing a good job. Me, not so much. I had allowed myself to be noticed before I was fully present. Still, it wasn’t like the manager could do anything about anything. The gents from Scotland Yard had told him to sit and stay and shut up, just like they had the others.

I used a wee bit of glamour to make it seem to the manager — and anyone else who way able to see me — that I was with Eddie and that it was an okay thing. It was the truth, too. More or less.

My most immediate task at this very moment, in fact, was to get Eddie to pay a little attention to me and to the here and now. So far he was only vaguely aware of me as something odd in his proximity. I was trying my best to not use any glamour with him because if he perceived me doing that he’d just assume I was a hallucination. Then I’d have to come at him another way.

I know, I know — it might seem that straightforward would be best: Hi Eddie, I’m your Muse and...

If only I could. This kind of thing — what I am, what I was doing, what Eddie was doing — is masked for a reason. Think about what always happens to those suspected of using powers not available to the ordinary person. Remember witches being burned at the stake? How Merlin ended up? Plus I was new to this business. I had to help Eddie but he had to help me, too.

I had to get his attention and then an invitation and I had to shape how I did it on the fly. I didn’t care much about how anyone else perceived me, but I didn’t want my boss, so to speak, to shape me with expectations that made my job tougher.

I wasn’t here to have a good time with Eddie Edmunds, after all. I was here to open his mind.

What? You think that a guitarist’s Muse is supposed to whisper musical phrases in his head? Get over it. If it was that easy there wouldn’t be so many creative humans who take their own lives in despair.

A Muse is a conduit to the source of all that is. You can call it God (wrong), the Great Spirit (wrong), the Force (wrong but better), whatever. There are a lot of words for it. It’s the source of everything that is, the energy of being. But the heart and soul of art, of all creativity, lies in an artist’s experiencing as much as can be tolerated and then interpreting it for others.

A Muse’s job is to shove as much down an artist’s soul as that artist can take. I don’t recall anything in the rule book about it being a Muse’s responsibility to know when too much is too much.

No, there’s no such thing as a rule book.

I liked Eddie. Not all Muses liked their artists, but then not all artists liked themselves. At any rate, I had always been ready and willing to nudge Eddie to readiness, to help him learn what he needed to know at the speed he was capable of accepting it, and to stand back and let him get on with his destiny. Now he’d called me to physical existence to do the work and here I was. But...

Right now? I had to get him to become consciously aware of me. Without that I was about as visible to him as, well, a groupie — and who notices a groupie unless there’s a bed around? Till Eddie acknowledged me as a being of merit in my own right, I couldn’t be fully present and my effect on the physical would remain minimal. Meaning if anyone actually tried to touch me — well, imagine how it would go over if a handcuff just fell through the appearance of me. Eddie had to bring me all the way over.

And right quick, too. What if he started yammering on about what he thought was a hallucination if the rest of the world could actually see me perfectly well? I had to get his attention and acknowledgment now.

Yet so far everything about me had been only visual. I’d been trying to get through to Eddie mentally — though up to this point that had been a big flop. I didn’t yet know what the correct volume was to use to get past the block he was putting up against the hallucination he thought me to be. Spirit voices are naturally very, very soft and my voice was still of spirit. There was no such thing as shouting for me, not now. I had to try another route.

I conjured up a physical pencil (with a point on it, even — I was proud of myself for remembering such a detail of reality) and a scrap of what might pass for paper from a grocery sack. I concentrated very, very hard to make my own not-physically-quite-there hand become dense enough to pick up the pencil. The sweat on my brow was not real on this plane but I sure felt it.

Understand, Eddie wasn’t making this hard for me on purpose. He was just pushing aside what he thought was a small but persistent flashback that had begun to interfere with his internal music. His grass inflamed eyes were still directed at the desk top, but the music in his mind was fading as a riot of other issues began to compete for his attention: The uncertainty of the drug bust; this evening’s sound check (if the government boys ever let it happen); the matter of his unhappy wife, Barbara (a low-grade but persistent background whine); a new irritation that would not go away (me).

With all that mental noise, my little voice wasn’t having much of a chance. Hence the pencil and paper.

Spiritual tongue in the corner of my mouth I started to craft the words I wanted on the piece of paper I’d slid under Eddie’s hand. These words amounted to a kind of spell to get a foot into the door of his consciousness. I say kind of, because I don’t need or use spells, of course. They are well below my pay grade.

Once upon a time... I paused, not because I needed to but rather to get Eddie to nibble at the hook. I could feel his eyes glance at the paper and move on. At least he had noticed. A good start.

...the gods sent to earth... Eddie’s eyes checked as those words appeared on the paper. I had to remind myself to make the pencil’s point congruent with the flow of the words as each letter was constructed — it’s amazing the detail necessary for authentic conjuring. A bother, but once my reality was finally cemented by Eddie’s expectations, it would go easier for me.

...a spirit, whose job... There, he’d taken the hook. I twitched it to set it. ...was to bring a message to.... Oops. I pushed too hard and the pencil tip broke. Didn’t matter — I was done with it.

I tugged delicately, reeling him in, not wanting to risk his fighting the hook but not daring to take much time. Eddie’s eyes finally lifted from the paper, swept up my body — giving me the shivers as my reality solidified — and met my own gaze. I had to be careful. He could still spit out the hook and get away.

Who are you? Eddie Edmunds asked.

Gotcha.

The question couldn’t be ignored of course, but the bald truth would be a bit off-putting. The right answer had to be the perfect answer. One that would fit into his expectations, if not anyone else’s. Fortunately there weren’t many in Eddie’s daily life who really knew him well enough to notice a new hanger-on. Still, there was no point in making problems. I simply had to come up with an answer that wouldn’t restrict me so that I’d be forced to start all over some other when/where.

I was also unable to give him anything but truth (since that is the Law for a spiritual entity) but given that I was Eddie’s own Muse and had been summoned by him, I also could only give him truth that he was able to take in, which as we all know is not necessarily the whole truth. (That oath, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Impossible!) So...

I put on a pout. I’m Lilith, of course. Were you expecting someone else?

Confusion — and not a little irritation — flashed across Eddie’s face. I could feel my reality wavering with his doubt. I generated a toothy grin for him. Not quite sexy, not quite sisterly, but definitely knowingly.

Oh please. I rolled my eyes. Was I laying it on too thick? No, I felt all shivery again as Eddie examined me more closely, solidifying my existence. Finally he shrugged and my reality popped into place. Just a little thing but it seemed like the Universe had been holding its infinite breath and now let it go in a rush. All at once time started forward again, but on a new track. I trusted it was the perfect one.

Looks like something’s finally happening. I nodded my head towards the officials on the stage. I snatched the paper from under his fingers, crumpled it into a ball and released it from physical reality and his mind while his attention was elsewhere.

The bobbies who had been standing on the side of the stage began to move towards the band while the roadies were ushered up the aisles to the lobby where other uniformed types awaited them. Busted, apparently.

I put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. It felt hot to me, like an inner furnace was working overtime. It felt like life. My pleasure was dashed when Eddie didn’t react to my touch as he should have. He was instead plugged into the real world now, specifically the bobby who approached us.

You are Mr. Edmunds? the officer asked politely.

Um... yeah.

It seems you are free to go though you should remain available in town for further questioning if necessary, sir.

Eddie blinked at the honorific. What about everybody else? he asked, glancing at the rest of the band and their manager, all of whom were now standing arguing hotly with the bobbies and inspectors who surrounded them.

I don’t know, sir, the officer said. I was not informed about them.

I don’t— Eddie’s reply was interrupted by a shriek. A female bobby in a severe black suit had grabbed the arm of one of the groupies who occasionally filled in as a background singer. Twisting the blonde’s arm just a little, the matron quite effectively frog-marched her away. The lead guitarist was jerked around by another bobby and handcuffed. He, too, was marched off, as was the band’s manager.

"You’ll have to leave now, sir," the bobby repeated.

But we have a rehearsal... wait — what’s going on? Eddie’s focus changed yet again as he tried to move past the officer. The large man easily blocked him.

That bloke is messing with my guitar case! Eddie cried. Hey — put that down!

Sir—

Eddie slipped by the surprised bobby but it was too late. The guitar was gone, along with most of the rest of the band’s instruments. Eddie confronted one of the inspectors who remained on the stage.

That guy took my guitar, Eddie said, his hands on his hips like an angry girl. He might be in his twenties but he was still young enough to forget his manly ways when under stress. He can’t do that!

The inspector carefully closed a spiral bound notebook and tucked it and a pen into an inside pocket of his suit jacket before responding.

Evidence, he said. You’ll get the instrument back eventually... probably. The man eyed Eddie from his sneakers to his long hair, then turned away, dismissing what he saw.

Eddie reached out to grab the suit, but I rested my hand on the inspector’s arm first.

Excuse me, sir, I said in my most polite, most innocent little girl voice, patting the imaginary wrinkles from the inspector’s jacket. This is Eddie Edmunds. He needs his guitar.

The inspector looked at me with mild distaste. I don’t care who he is, or who you are, except that if you don’t both leave now you may find yourself joining the others in front of the magistrate.

I took a step back, purposefully bumping into Eddie, forcing him back as well. The inspector ambled off the stage.

Bugger all! the drummer shouted. He was one of those who had escaped arrest. I can’t believe this.

You can’t believe it? What about me? I’m totally cocked-up now! The venue’s stage manager joined the scraggly group that remained.

We can still play, Eddie said. I can do lead guitar.

You can do lead guitar, the frontman vocalist sneered. He ripped his beaded hair band off his head and considered the greasy object before shoving it in a back pocket. You’re the bloody rhythm guitarist and now you’re going to be the bloody lead guitarist. What d’ya do, shop us to the bobbies to get a promotion?

Cut it out, man, the bass guitarist said. He glumly glanced at Eddie. Doesn’t matter. They took everything — instruments, amps...

At least they left my drum kit, the drummer said.

We could rent equipment? The suggestion sounded stupid to Eddie as soon as it came out of his mouth.

Damn, you are one thick wonk, the vocalist said, his voice heating. What d’you think, we’re the bloody Fab Four? Money in the bloody bank to pay for gear? He kicked at the sofa. Just get out of here. We’re done. Crap. We’re bloody done for good.

He’s right, Eddie, I said. Let’s just leave. I held out my hand for him and, like a trusting child, he took it, letting me thread my fingers through his. I knew I might have to leave him soon. I wasn’t strong enough yet to function continuously in this physical world without more from Eddie. Besides, he should go home. He had a wife waiting for him, didn’t he? And nowhere else to go now anyway.

But no.

Chapter 2

Eddie’s dreams for a band of his own had grown by steady increments ever since the first day his fingers wrapped around the neck of a guitar. He knew what he wanted, but that was where it ended. The quest for musicians who met his standards had been tedious, particularly since he was the only person who thought it was any kind of a good idea. The interminable search had been so numbing that when he’d been invited into the band that he now walked away from, Eddie hadn’t cared that those musicians could never fulfill his musical needs.

The gigs were clubs and schools, small venues with smaller audiences. There was no chemistry between the band members or between the band and the audience. How they kept getting jobs was a wonder.

Even though the band did better with Eddie in it, the vocalist never hid his dislike for Eddie and his big ideas. The group eked out a musical existence, but day after day of feeling he’d lost his way had been draining on Eddie and therefore on me.

Back then — well, before today — Eddie had experienced me as the music of his heart calling to him, the dream always there to taunt him. I wasn’t torturing him, I was doing what he demanded I do. I brought him to that band, for what it was worth. Not much, actually. He couldn’t forget that his real world experience was not part of the inner music that obsessed him. It hurt me that it hurt him, but I had to do what I was made to do.

Now we were quit of that. I was happy to move on but not Eddie. All he saw in front of him was that he’d have to resume the hunt. In the past he had resorted to plastering hand printed notices of auditions anywhere that would let him. Some were still out there on bulletin boards in clubs and music stores, mostly hidden under more recent flyers. Eddie had received hopefuls in the studio he’d built below his and Barbara’s flat. Day after day, vocalists, guitarists, bassists, and drummers, one after another, demonstrated exactly what Eddie wasn’t looking for.

No matter that his adverts had requested original work if possible. No matter that he clearly stated he was looking for people whose skills included familiarity with a broad musical spectrum. Not just rock, but blues, folk, classical, and jazz. No matter that Eddie was looking for musicians with unique approaches to music. Invariably each audition yielded riff after riff, note after note, and beat after beat of the musical flavor of the day. Dreary winter had faded into a wet spring while Eddie churned out standard tunes with the second-rate band he’d settled for. His hope spiraled downward. With this bust, hope had bottomed out.

It was my doing, but I couldn’t not do it. I couldn’t let him settle for less than what his heart demanded. I literally could not.

Dispirited, Eddie left the auditorium with no guitar case in his hand and no gig to play. He’d already forgotten the groupie who’d written him the provocative note.

No matter. I had no choice but to be with him, not that he noticed, as he trudged through the soggy evening, not to his wife but to pay his way into a small basement club on the edge of Soho. He nursed a beer at a table in the corner in the dark while waiting for the band to return for what appeared to be the last set of an early evening. With his long, black-clad legs stretched out in front of him, Eddie studied the people milling around on the dimly lit platform that served as a stage. His mind was empty of expectation and the music in his head was, for once, quiet.

Maybe he had been numb but I could feel the dropping of the emotional barometer. Something was coming. I could only wait and see until Eddie evoked me again.

If the band up there was the band named on the poster outside then there were