Dust clouded the air behind the van as it pulled off the street in front of the worn gas station on the edge of Robinsonville, Mississippi. The die door slide open and three young men wearing the stereotypical uniform of wanna-be rock stars stepped out and stretched their legs. The driver started pumping gas as the others walk into the store, one holding a guitar without a case.
“You boys on your way to New Orleans for the festival?” ask the attendant, an elderly black man whose name tag identified him as Dusty.
“Actually we’re looking for a cemetery that’s supposed to be around here. You know the one I’m talking about?” asked the one with a guitar.
Dusty studied him for a minute. The kid was about 6’3” with spiky black hair, a sleeveless black band shirt and dirty jeans that look like it was only pair. Could’ve been any one of the musicians making their way to Louisiana for the big festival, except for those eyes, those coal black eyes, so filled with pain and hate. Dusty knew those eyes and knew what he was looking for.
“Ain’t no cemetery around here. Go home kid.”
The guitarist smirked. This one was hell bound. Most who come looking here are, that’s why their here. Any other fanboy, would be at Greenwood trying to figure which of the three graves hold their idol. But every now and then, someone comes down here, not out of respect for the late great blues singer who supposedly honed his skills at a cemetery outside of town here, but to find the devil himself. Robert Johnson’s Devil.
The kid started picking at his guitar, a nervous habit, but this time with a purpose. He picked his way through most of “Me and the Devil,” when Dusty spoke up. “Not like that boy, like this.” Dusty took the guitar from him and started playing the same song only much better. All of the notes were the same, but the feel of them carried a much more menacing tone. The two musicians stared in wide open shock. They had traveled throughout all of the United States, Europe and Japan, barely escaping fame. Had made a name for themselves as the hardest most musically adept metal band, not signed to a major label. Had opened for the greats of the genre. But, never had either of them seen anybody play like this before. It was as if they had been transported to another dimension by supernatural means. A realm of pain and anger not of this earth. In this old man’s music they had found the true meaning of fear.
And just for a moment, Dusty wasn’t Dusty anymore. What once was an old black man was a shining being of pure light, except the light gave off no warmth. The being didn’t speak because it didn’t have to. But, it wasn’t so much the hate or rage that effected them, it was the over powering feeling of loss. Whatever this being may have been, it knew pain. Pain not in the physical sense, one got the impression that nothing ever come close to actually harming this thing. No, this was a pain that was known though out the universe. The pain of someone that loved another with all it’s being. True love. Completely and honestly loved someone else that it hurt an infinite time more than any physical pain ever could. To love so completely and be tossed aside. They say Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but hearing this being’s story you understood, knew with a terrifying certainty that Hell’s fury was that of a lover scorn.
And as quickly as it started it was gone. No more than a few minutes had passed, but the effect was as if it and eternity had passed. The two boys standing in that gas station were forever changed, tears flowing freely down their respective faces. Dusty looked hard into the eyes of the guitarist and found what he was looking for, compassion. This mortal child understood and actually sympathized with that unholy being that even now was fading from they’re memories.
Dusty handed the guitar back. “Go to a crossroad near Dockery Plantation at midnight. Go by yourself and bring your guitar.”
The boys left without saying a word. They got into the van and simply stared ahead. The dumb founded driver who had been outside the whole time got in the car and very confused drove off down the street.
Dusty sat back down in his chair and picked up his Field and Stream and looked at his watch, 3:30, those boys would need to hurry if they wanted to make it on time. But, Dusty wasn’t worried, they’d get there. They always do.
