by Ursula
Unshaven, bare of foot, naked chest, jeans unzipped, Walter stumbled to the door
of his uncle's Georgia cabin. He hoped the knock at the door was the clerk from
the store, delivering a few groceries and a lot of liquor. He had a burning void
within that he wanted to fill up with booze. He didn't really think there was
enough whiskey in the world to make the pain go away, but the blessed relief of
oblivion would do if he could achieve that numb state.
Blinking in the weak light of the fall day, Walter saw the tidy brown uniform of
an UPS man. "What? You must have the wrong place. I didn't order anything."
"Walter Skinner?" the man asked.
"Yes, I'm Skinner, but no one is even supposed to know I'm here," Walter said.
"Some one does. Here, sign for this," the man said, holding out one of those
electronic pads that reminded Walter of the Etch-A-Sketch of his youth.
Following habit, Walter signed. The man carted in a box repeatedly stamped,
'delicate' 'breakable'.
An examination of the address label indicated Washington DC as the sending
point. According to the box, Walter had mailed this to himself.
If he had any caution left or any desire for life, Walter wouldn't have opened
the box, but his will to go on was as dead as...
Krycek...
It was Alex's guitar. His Acoustic Martin. His beloved.
Walter remembered sweet summer nights, bare feet, battered jeans, guitars picked
until dawn or until they put the instruments aside to make different music in
the big bed with the blue patchwork quilt.
When Alex had fled, he had left the guitar.
When Walter found it, heat had suffused him. His face red in rage, Walter had
held the guitar high to smash to the ground. Something stopped him. He had taken
the guitar to Helmer's and placed it in the climate-controlled storage. Every
month he had paid the bill without thinking about it until Alex had died. Until
he had killed him. So that explained it. He had arranged for Kim Cook to forward
his mail.
Helmer's must have shipped the instrument back to him with the prepaid deposit.
Kim would not have known that the box held a Pandora's box of bad memories.
Walter laid the guitar on the table and decided he was sober enough to drive to
the store.
The guitar in its battered case still waited on the table when Walter returned.
He made some soup, ate it, took a shower, shot back a few slugs of Southern
Comfort, and found the instrument in his hands without thinking about it. He
picked out a tune, finding the instrument as mellow and deep-voiced as he
remembered it. The smooth wood felt warm in his hands, smooth, silken as Alex's
skin.
It sounded good. Walter shrugged. He hadn't brought his guitar. He hadn't played
since Alex left. He had put aside his childish things when his life had fallen
in the ashes. His hands still knew their way about the strings. He was surprised
at how good he sounded.
Walter played 'The Hanging Tree', 'The House Carpenter', 'Two Sisters', 'House
of the Rising Sun'.
How it all came back to him! He played until he fell asleep and woke catching
the guitar before it could fall.
The next week was spent drinking and picking. He had never sounded as good as he
did on Alex's guitar. It wasn't just his ears. The delivery boy stayed and
listened for hours; brought back his dad to hear Sergei's nephew play the
guitar.
Locals, who dropped by to hear him play, interrupted Walter's solitude. At
first, it annoyed him. How was a man to drink himself to death with all this
company? Gradually, Walter found a peace in the company of these people who
asked nothing of him but music. They liked him. They didn't ask for much, just a
song or two, and they brought him food. Walter found he hardly needed to shop or
even to cook. He never asked them for anything and would have refused the gifts
if they were not left anonymously on his doorstep.
As fall grew colder even in Georgia, Walter looked at the kudzu covering the
hillside and thought that maybe he wanted to live. He couldn't envision going
back to his job, but he could see continuing in this quiet life, living on his
retirement.
Looking up from chopping wood, Walter found Mr. Fitch standing watching him.
Walter said, "Hello."
Old Man Fitch, whose real first name was never used...if he ever had another,
was old as the hills. His beard curled down to his chest. His hazel eyes
contrasted with a face the color of burnt oak. He was a good part Cherokee,
people said. Maybe a little African blood in the mix. He was tall, lean, with
jagged features as if life had eroded him to the bedrock of his body.
"I came to sit a spell with you," Old Man Fitch said.
"Let me stack this wood," Walter said, "And I'll be glad to do that."
After finishing with the wood, Walter led his guest inside the cabin. Fitch
hadn't said a word as he waited, just stood there with his soldier-straight
carriage and watched until Walter had finished chopping. He helped stack the
wood with his smooth economical motions. Now he sat with his hands placidly in
his lap.
"Have some of this chocolate cake?" Walter said.
"Don't mind if I do," Old Man Fitch said.
"Whiskey or coffee?" Walter asked.
"I'd like some tea," the man said.
"Tea it is," Walter agreed. He put the kettle on and cut a slice of the rich
chocolate cake that had appeared in a basket by the door. Walter had found if he
put the containers and the plates back out there that they would disappear as
neatly as they had appeared.
"You want to hear something?" Walter asked, the guitar coming naturally into his
hands.
"Not today, I came to tell you something," Old Man Fitch said.
Walter glanced at the stern face and waited politely, but the old man merely sat
there with his gnarled hands folded in his lap. He sat very stiffly in his worn,
but neatly pressed suit. He obviously regarded this as nearly church-serious
business. Realizing that the man would not speak until the polite gestures had
been made, Walter put a napkin and plate in front of the man. He took down a
pair of teacups that were a cream-colored, sturdy old mail order china pattern
that had been left in the cupboard when Uncle Sergei had died.
Old Man Fitch said, "I remember these cups. Your Uncle Sergei was a fine man.
You take after him more than you look like your father."
"I've been told," Walter agreed. He sat down, idling over his own teacup until
Old Man Fitch had finished tea and cake.
"It's a full moon tonight," Fitch said.
"Yes, I read that in the farmer's almanac," Walter agreed. He knew better than
to push. These old Georgia mountain folk were on their own time zone.
"Hallows Eve, not a good time of the year for a full moon," Fitch said. "What
are you planning to do tonight?"
This was unusual. One of the reasons Walter liked it here was that no one minded
his business. After years of being spied upon, fearful of the FBI moral code and
Spender's willingness to blackmail him, Walter preferred a place where good
folks didn't inquire into your life without an invitation.
Old Man Fitch blinked his eyes slowly, as good as a nervous shudder from someone
else. He said, "I'm not meaning to pry, but I came to ask you not to play your
guitar tonight. Bad things happen on this mountain when a master guitarist plays
on the full moon if it falls on All Hallows Eve."
A strangled laugh ripped from Walter before he could stop himself. This made him
miss Mulder all the more.
The Old Man said, "That song was not just a modern foolery. The old songs were
all meant to teach and to remember important events. The Devil walks these hills
on Halloween night."
Long practice with keeping a poker face when confronted with the improbable
helped Walter regain his composure. He said, "I'm sure I can keep from playing
the guitar for one night, Mr. Fitch."
The old man said, "Let me take it with me so you won't be tempted. The Devil is
looking for a soul to steal and I sense that yours is at risk."
Before the hand could profane Alex's guitar, Walter snatched it away. He said,
"No one touches this but me. Thank you kindly for your advice. Now you should
start on your way. These roads are treacherous even in strong moon light."
The old man said, "I meant no offense, Mr. Skinner. You look like a haunted man
and I know that the Devil tempts those who have lost the most."
Walter laughed now and said, "No offense taken, but I do have things to do..."
After bringing in enough firewood to keep the wood stove happy, Walter sat and
wrote a few letters to relatives and to his few remaining friends. He missed the
world he had left behind, but not the memories. He would gladly have given them
all to the wind and forgotten even Sharon and especially, he would have
forgotten Alex.
Still feeling cold, Walter built a roaring fire and pulled his chair close to
it. Automatically, he brought the guitar and the Southern Comfort.
Without thinking, Walter found himself strumming the guitar. Ah, fuck it. His
fingers found the chords for "The Devil Went Down To Georgia."
Let the devil show his face...Walter had a few things to say to him.
The sounds died away as Walter tossed back the remaining whiskey. It was a full
two fingers, but he didn't even feel it. He did feel the warmth now and reached
for the poker to rearrange the logs in preparation to dampen the fire. As the
poker touched the logs, a sudden roar came from the flames. Walter jumped back
as a ball of fire danced forth and then he held his breath as the shape of Alex
Krycek formed out of the smoke and fire.
The scent of brimstone clung to the dapper figure, which resembled his old
lover, and enemy...if Alex had ever sported red wings, neat goat horns, and had
crimson eyes.
"Alex?" Walter asked.
"Sorry, not quite," the man said cheerfully. "My name is Maximillian, a close
associate of Lucifer and some say the angel that could give him the running for
most beautiful celestial spirit."
"You don't look very celestial to me," Walter observed.
"Ah, well, in the long run, there are many changes in fortune," Maximillian
said.
Walter noticed that the demon was carrying a briefcase and a fiddle case. He
said, "Don't tell me that you came to reenact that song?"
"Tradition has its uses," Maximillian said. "Of course, if you'd like to yield
your soul promptly, I could make it very enjoyable. I started on the bottom rung
as a succubi as dear old dad did not believe in nepotism. I made many excellent
bargains in that role. Looked great on my resume."
"Not remotely tempted," Walter lied.
"Unfortunate," Maximillian said, "you look as if you have stamina. I do
appreciate a human with stamina."
"You have nothing to offer me," Walter said. "A human devil showed me how
bargains with devils go."
"Nothing? Oh my, that sounds so sad," Maximillian said, his handsome features
contorting in a mockery of Alex's contrite expression. He set the briefcase on
the table, opened it and took out a laptop. He booted up and fumed as the thing
buzzed and grated endlessly. "Pardon me, AOHELL is my father's idea of
continuing torment...the network that never connects. I'll be damned if I'm not
kicked off as soon as I connect."
After a few attempts, Maximillian managed to download whatever information he
needed. He said, "Hmm, it seems you do have a deadly regret. I think we can make
a bargain, Mr. Skinner. There is a certain lost soul close to your heart. Play
against me and Alex Krycek could be restored to your side, human, warm, loving,
and grateful. He would be everything you wanted him to be."
"He's in hell?" Walter asked.
"Not exactly, after all even Agent Mulder didn't think his moral dipstick was
bone dry," the devil said. "He's in Purgatory, unable to go either way. As such,
he can be brought back to life to finish the balance."
"No," Walter said. Then he had a thought. He said, "If I played and won, could
Alex go to heaven? Could you issue a quit-claim on his soul?"
"Certainly, a bit irregular, but do-able," Maximillian said. He sat down at the
kitchen table and tapped out a contract. He printed the document and handed it
to Walter.
"Shouldn't this be signed in blood?" Skinner said.
"Oh my, no, that's so unsanitary," Maximillian said, "Didn't you take AIDS
awareness classes?"
"Yes, but..." Walter started before giving up arguing with the devil as a bad
cause. He took the monogrammed pen and signed the contract after making a few
changes in the small print.
Maximillian grumbled and said, "I forgot that you had a law degree. I don't know
why my father thought a lawyer had a soul to steal. It must be punishment for my
Oedipal complex."
"You wanted to sleep with your mother?" Walter said.
"Don't be foolish. Certainly, I didn't want to sleep with my mother. Angels
don't have mothers. No, I wanted to sleep with my father's main squeeze,
Oedipus. Greek love is so invigorating."
Walter wondered if the demon was joking, but Maximillian didn't even have a
twinkle in his ruby-red eyes.
"Who is to be the judge?" Walter asked belatedly.
"Musicians, of course," Maximillian said. "By ancient agreement, they all go to
heaven. The devil can not keep them in hell. They cheer up the inmates and know
too many revolutionary songs. However, they are fair judges. They can not lie
about music even to save a soul."
With a snap of his fingers, the jury appeared. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim
Morrison, Beethoven, Mozart, Johnny Be Good, Elvis, Django, Pops Stables, Joe
Williams, and Freddie Mercury. Buddy Holly wore the judge's robes.
Walter drew a deep breath and picked up Alex's guitar. He closed his eyes and
remembered the way his lover looked in the middle of an earth shaking orgasm. He
remembered the beauty of his lover's eyes and the sweetness of his kisses.
"Forgive me," Walter said as his fingers stroked the strings with the pick.
The door blew open and the fire blew out as Alex appeared in a cloud of mist. He
stood, his hand held out beseechingly to Walter.
"I'll save you, my love," Walter said. He didn't expect to go to heaven. He had
killed the person he loved best. He was in hell right now.
His fingers stroked out a love song, full of yearning, but the devil replied
with a wild song of love betrayed, of lovers cheated.
For every song that Walter played, the violin begged and whimpered like a needy
lover. It cried like a baby and sang like a nightingale. The devil played on,
riding the crest of his own joy.
As Walter beheld his lover's wraith, he cared nothing for the contest. He sang
to Alex, only to Alex,
"O fare you well, I must be gone And leave you for a while: But wherever I go, I
will return, If I go ten thousand mile, my dear, If I go ten thousand mile.
Ten thousand miles it is so far To leave me here alone, Whilst I may lie, lament
and cry, And you will not hear my moan, my dear, And you will not hear my moan.
The crow that is so black, my dear, Shall change his colour white; And if ever I
prove false to thee, The day shall turn to night, my dear, The day shall turn to
night."
As his fingers found the chords and his voice a true deep timbre, he saw the
wraith smile and Alex whispered, "Forgive you, love, forgive you."
And Walter was happy. He didn't care if the devil won.
The first laurel wreath fell at his feet and another. Finally all twelve were
piled at Walter's feet. He had won.
Maximillian said, a sulk on his handsome face, "Damn! I knew I should have
picked Sid Vicious as the judge!"
Looking disdainfully at Walter, Maximillian said, "You fool, you chose heaven
when you could have chosen to have him back!"
With a furious flaunting of flame, Maximillian snapped his fingers and the cabin
lit with white heat. He walked back into the fire as the musicians held an
impromptu jam session.
Walter listened, smiling, and joined in. He closed his eyes as he heard the
music fade back to heaven. He felt in his heart that the devil had no choice but
to keep his bargain. Alex's soul was saved. He would find heaven.
Warm, real flesh touched his hand. Walter opened his eyes and saw Alex standing
with him. He said, "Maximillian?", but it was his lover. There were his eyes,
green, softly-glowing eyes, full of love for him.
"Walter, I've come back," Alex said.
"But you were supposed to go to paradise," Walter cried, thinking his lover had
been cheated.
"I am. Here with you...what other heaven would I choose?" Alex said.
As Walter drew his beloved close, the guitar slipped from his hand unnoticed.
They needed no other music but lips meeting lips. Hands touching hands. Never
parted...never.
The devil went down to Georgia, he was lookin' for a soul to steal.
And the devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said, "Boy, let me tell you what."
I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player, too.
The boy said, "My name's Johnny" and it might be a sin
Johnny, rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard,
The devil opened up his case and he said I'll start this show.
When the devil finished, Johnny said "Well, you're pretty good, ol' son,
Fire on the mountain run, boys, run
The devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd beat.
And Johnny said, "Devil, just come on back if you ever wanna try again."
He played....
Fire on the mountain run, boys, run
hree day drunk...
He was in a bind 'cuz he was way behind and he was willin' to make a deal.
When he came across this young man sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot.
And if you care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you.
Now, you play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the devil his due.
I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cuz I think I'm better than you.
but I'll take your bet; you're gonna regret,
'cause I'm the best that's ever been.
'Cause Hell's broke loose in Georgia, and the devil deals the cards.
And if you win, you'll get this shiny fiddle made of gold,
but if you lose, the devil gets your soul...
And fire blew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow.
And he pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss.
Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this...
but sit down in that chair right there, and let me show you how it's done."
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun
Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough
Granny, does your dog bite? No, child, no
And he laid that golden fiddle on the ground by Johnny's feet.
I done told you once, you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been.
The devil's in the house of the risin' sun
Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough
Granny, will your dog bite? No, child, no
