“No, I can’t forget that feeling

It was late as I was leaving

And I stepped out in the street to brave the night

It was calm but in the dark, bright eyes alight

Yes, they alight”

His keyboard playing wasn’t skillful, but the simple progression, moving back and forth between a few triads on the white keys, and the arpeggiator filling out the rhythm, gave the accompaniment a melodic and undulating effect.

“Though I long to face you

I still fear I can’t outpace you

Though I want to let you come in from the cold

I can’t bear the terror building in my soul

It’s in my soul”

“Ah, it’s about strength in times of darkness,” someone murmured.

“Yes,” said Evelyn. “It’s about facing your fears.”

“It’s about trying to make art!” whispered the woman beside her.

“It’s the same thing,” said Evelyn.

“And I can’t live

Not knowing if you’re out there

I can’t live

I don’t know what’s in store

I can’t live

Knowing that you’re out there

I can’t live

Can’t walk through that door”

He had a sweet voice—Jaymie’s voice without the sharp edges, softer and less certain. He’d grown paler… or did he always look that way? It was actually hard to tell whether or not Aaron was beginning to languish and wither.

The group ceased chanting and listened to the results of their incantation.

“And I fear that once you’ve woken

You will rise and leave me broken

Though you howl with the promise of a thrill

You’ll take me from this life still unfulfilled

It’s unfulfilled”

“It’s about taking risks without knowing what the future holds!” an awestruck man suggested.

“It’s about the terror of becoming what you’re meant to be, and not knowing if you can handle it,” someone else quietly conjectured.

“And I wake to feel you near

A soft breath that I can hear

And a warmth that promises to sooth my pain

But then your teeth are in my skin, and I wake again

I wake again”

“It’s about… the fickleness of fame?”

“Addiction, maybe?”

“And I can’t live

Not knowing if you’re out there”

“It’s about self-sacrifice.”

“I can’t live

Don’t know what’s in store”

“But does it sound a little like that song…?”

Aaron’s voice moved up the octave, wavering into a stupid falsetto that nearly caused Jaymie to groan aloud.

“I can’t live

Knowing that you’re out there”

“Yeah, the music is a little different, but it sounds like…what’s it called?”

“I can’t live

Can’t walk through that door”

Aaron moved through the chord progression twice more, easing the volume slider down as he went. The final notes of the synth faded. He looked up, his masterwork complete—still very much alive.

“It’s about finding your own way,” said Juniper.

Jaymie had removed the tape from his face. “No,” he said, so quietly that only Rex could hear. “It’s about dogs.”

***

Aaron’s audience didn’t know what to make of the song. They couldn’t even tell whether it was any good. A few of them were still discussing the meaning of the lyrics. Others had grown suspicious because he hadn’t expired in the process. A few music lovers had begun to question the originality of the piece.

“Is it… is the tune kind of the same as ‘I Can’t Live?’ By Harry—”

“It’s called ‘Without You,’” said Miranda, who knew a thing or two about popular music. “And yes, it is.”

Aaron cleared his throat. “My name is Aaron Bukowski-Nilsson, and on January fifteenth, nineteen ninety-four, the same day the great singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson suffered a fatal heart attack, I came into this world…” He looked straight at Jaymie and finished, “Seven weeks premature.”

Miranda turned to Jaymie, her expression wavering between awe and accusation.

“How did you do it?” she demanded. “Can you have one premature twin? Steve, you get data out here, right? Check when Harry Nilsson died!” She looked around. “Steve?”

But Steve was unable to respond. He lay prone on the platform, his body stiff beside the stool he’d claimed moments after Rex had vacated it. He’d perched there, a trance overtaking him as the group chanted at Aaron, and made broad, black strokes on the canvas, bold gashes of movement attacking the white emptiness, striking against the vapidity of Rex’s sad smiley.

He’d always wanted to be a painter; he hadn’t been able to resist.

The body on the platform barely resembled him. Years older than the Steve they knew, brittle and ghostly white, hands curling into petrified claws on either side of his head. One clouded blue eye leered sightlessly from under his hair. Fortunately, no more of his face was visible. The group gathered around, eyeing up the painting. It was striking.

“It looks… Japanese?”

“Can we still put it out there? I mean, he’s a white guy.”

“Was a white guy.”

“It looks authentic, though. It’s perfect, the juxtaposition between the soullessness of our culture of emoji-communication, and the simplicity of Eastern spirituality. The ghost knew what it was doing.”

“But is that racist, though?” asked Ronan.

“It’s certainly appropriative,” said Evelyn.

“He’s, like, very white.”

While the group discussed the piece and checked Steve for a pulse that was not there, Rex un-taped Jo.

“There’s a highway on the other side of this field,” Aaron said quietly.

“You know Nilsson only covered that song, right?” Jaymie whispered back. Aaron didn’t respond.

“I say we release it under a Japanese name and just never show any pictures of him,” someone suggested.

“Is that wrong?”

“The man gave his life for this painting, for God’s sake!”

“I suppose we do have to pay the bills.”

“Hey, is someone checking on that Harry Nilsson date? Ronan!”

“On it!” said Ronan, looking somewhat dazed.

“Wait, so, that song—is the secret that we just have to know what talented person died the same day we were born?” asked Evelyn.

“I don’t know,” said Miranda. “Jaymie?”

But the four Bukowskis had long since fled, pelting across the field to the highway, where they stood screaming and jumping up and down and waving their arms, hoping for rescue.

***

Maggie and Shahla had been disturbed when their favourite band went on a two-day tour and never returned. Rex didn’t show up at school on Monday, and only responded to their messages with a brief, “Having a gr8 time, staying a few extra days!” and they’d immediately gotten together for a meeting to discuss the ‘8’ in the message, which was obviously not a Rex-ism, as well as the information they’d gained from the woman at the tech convention.

The friendly woman had elaborated on the “I wouldn’t stay too long” warning the Bukowskis had gotten from the bartender, telling them the legend of the artist enclave that had produced as much nationally acclaimed art and music as all the other working artists in the province combined, and yet no one who joined them ever left once they’d achieved success—or were ever seen again, in many cases. Some members were occasionally sighted at the grocery store, and almost all were consistent in answering their messages or fan mail, even if they hadn’t emerged in years, and so the disappearances were merely rumours and, so far, hadn’t been seriously investigated.

Maggie and Shahla were not going to let Rex’s disappearance lapse into the status of rumour and legend. The thing was, you couldn’t file a missing person report over a Brzezinski; they were simply too often AWOL. Rex was the most reliable of the three, but if they were with their brothers, there was no saying when they’d reappear with fun anecdotes about how Jaymie had scored them all dirt cheap last-minute seats on a flight to Las Vegas to see their mom for the week and they hadn’t wanted to get roaming charges, or they’d been at home and Jaymie was high as a kite and had them practicing non-stop for three days for a showcase they might or might not actually be playing. So finally, after days of mild concern, they’d enlisted the Bukowskis’ reliable Stan, who was actually named Stan, to drive back to Saskatchewan and check out the situation.

Drawing near to his destination, Stan strayed from the TransCanada to hit up a classic small town hot-dogs-and-ice-cream shack he liked, and then took a side route into the city, and that’s where he was, a hot dog-wielding deus ex, going ninety kilometres on the dot and listening to 104.9 The Wolf, when he came across the four desperate Bukowskis at the side of the highway.

***

In the car, the bandmates breathlessly related the main points of the story, in muddled fragments, to their rescuer. Stan nodded knowledgeably, told them about how something like that had happened to his buddy’s band in Northern Ontario a while back, and graciously loaned them his phone to call the police.

They stopped at a café for warm drinks, and the Bukowskis calmed down enough to make a plan. They’d give the police plenty of time to get to the house and deal with the rogue artists, then meet them there, once they were sure it was safe, for their gear and van. They began to gradually feel at ease.

“Well, that was an adventure!” said Jaymie.

“I’m never touring again,” said Rex, sipping their hot chocolate.

“We’ll certainly wait at least a month or two before the next one,” Jaymie agreed.

“Touring isn’t usually like this,” said Jo. She was still a little shaken from her skirmish, but had come out unharmed except for a few sore knuckles. “We got bad luck this time.”

“Never again,” said Aaron.

“By the way, I have to congratulate you on your skillful employment of a dog song in a stressful situation, Aar,” said Jaymie.

“And I have to commend you on managing to be in the presence of a dozen women who worship you for two weeks and not sleeping with any of them,” said Aaron.

“Mhmm,” said Jaymie, and there was a brief silence.

“…You did, didn’t you.”

“Not all dozen! Perhaps one or two...”

“Christ,” said Aaron. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Jaymie, you were their leader. That’s just so… problematic,” said Rex.

“Hey, they propositioned me. I explained that I would be leaving before long, and the short-term nature of the arrangement—”

“Tell me it wasn’t Juniper,” groaned Jo. “That sweet girl.”

“Do you think I’m an animal?”

“He likes them older,” said Aaron. “Then he can feel like less of a terrible person when he inevitably breaks their hearts.”

Jaymie was indignant. “Before you make me out as some kind of predator, I will remind you that those people would have arranged ceremonious deaths for us, one by one, and profited greatly off of them.”

“Oh, so now you’re the victim,” said Rex.

“Two words, Jay,” said Aaron. “Power dynamics.”

The band bickered while their contented fan surreptitiously recorded the conversation on his phone, knowing Maggie and Shahla would appreciate having it for their files. They went back to the cult house, met with the police, gave statements, collected their gear, and called a mechanic who repaired the disconnected wire in the van in about five minutes. Then they were back on the road, aimed for home.

During this time, the members of the arts collective had wisely stayed away. From the field they’d walked to a Tim Horton’s, where they ordered twenty-four decafs and tried to formulate a plan for dealing with the police. Most new, deep down, that without their fearless leader, their campaign couldn’t continue much longer, whether or not they were able to avoid the cops.

In the van, Jaymie was back at the wheel.

“Time to shave that rat-stache, Aar, we’re headed back to the real world! Fortunately, we don’t need to be on the road again for a while, because we’ll have lots going on at home!” he informed his exhausted bandmates. “I just checked my email, finally, and we’ve been asked to do a tribute show in two weeks, and we get to pick what band to be!”

“Well, we’ve got six hours free to brainstorm,” said Jo serenely. She’d just discovered her magazine collection and the remainder of her stash under the back seat, and was settling in for a nice ride.

“Not only that, BUT—sorry Jo, I’m afraid this doesn’t concern you—grandma and grandpa will be in town and we have a family dinner on the same day!”

“Great,” said Rex drily. “G and G will sure approve of that…”

“We’re going to have to run speedily back and forth from the dinner, to load-in, to dinner, to line check—we’ll swap out, of course, making fun excuses for each other’s disappearances, and Aaron and I will take turns being both of us at once—back to dinner again, á la Katherine Heigl in the opening of Twenty-Seven Dresses, which is among my favourite rom-coms.”

“Delightful,” said Rex.

“It’s gonna be a doozy, folks!” Jaymie said happily.

“It sounds bonkers,” said Aaron. “But I think we can manage it…”

“I appreciate that uncharacteristic optimism, Aar!” said Jaymie.

“…As long as something completely awful doesn’t happen to one of us,” he finished.

“That’s the spirit!” said Jaymie.

“Don’t talk to me about spirits,” said Rex.

The November sun elbowed its way through the remaining clouds and retched its weak light over the prairies, which unfurled dirtily before them like your living room carpet the morning after you’ve gotten very drunk and decided to give a haircut to your fluffy brown cat or your unconscious twin.

“One more exciting piece of news,” said Jaymie. “Our home will soon be graced, for a short time, by the presence of Leonora McLeod.” His announcement was met with skepticism.

“The Leonora McLeod?” asked Aaron.

“You mean the acclaimed saxophonist and composer?” said Rex.

“It would appear she has taken an interest in our artistic endeavours…” said Jaymie.

“And has deigned to grant us an interview?” said Aaron.

“Perhaps she’ll hire us as session guys,” said Rex.

“One must never get one’s hopes too high,” Aaron cautioned.

“I kind of miss her though, don’t you?” said Jaymie.

“I kind of do,” Aaron admitted.

“I don’t,” said Rex. “I’m entitled to a few more years of resenting her for her poor parenting before I have to… I don’t know...”

“Start appreciating her for following her dreams and being an inspiration to us all?” suggested Jaymie.

“Yeah, all that stuff you’re supposed to do instead of having kids, not in addition to,” said Rex.

“Well, you have to be happy she picked both, or you wouldn’t exist, right?” said Jaymie.

“I’m seventeen. Existence is torment.”

"Something on your mind, Rexy? Besides nearly being sacrificed for some ugly pseudo-Buddhist art a few hours ago—and I am truly sorry about that." Jaymie nudged the volume dial on the dash and a rich female voice eased its way soothingly into the conversation. Their last rotation all those days ago had landed them back on the Daffodile CD.

“I think I almost had a boyfriend,” said Rex dejectedly.

“Well, some boyfriend he was,” said Aaron.

“Yeah, I hope you told him you weren’t interested in exploring your ‘we/us’ pronouns,” said Jaymie.

Rex did not laugh.

“You’re too young for that stuff anyway,” said Aaron.

“I am not, I’m practically an adult!” Rex protested. “Jaymie did it when he was fourteen.”

“Rex! You know better than to believe those stories about him! He was nineteen. We both were.”

“Same girl, too!” Jaymie piped up.

“It was not the same girl!” said Aaron.

“She sure sounded the same when you described her to me—”

“Look, just because we have similar taste in women—”

“Ok, whatever you say…”

“If you’d bothered to remember the name of yours, maybe we wouldn’t still be having this argument six years later—”

“It’s not my fault you got your cherry popped by a Kaitlyn and there are fifty million Kaitlyns on Facebook and there are a hundred different spellings and we could never manage to look her up…”

Rex had stopped listening. They stared out the window, lips pressed tightly together, and Jo remembered what it was like to be a teenager, and for there to be so many things you were suddenly supposed to have already done, and now you had to try to do all of them as quickly as possible.

“Rex, you’ll be fine,” she said. “You’re much cooler than any of those people we just stayed with.”

“What if the only people who are ever into me are weirdos in cults?” Rex said quietly.

“There are much better weirdos out there who will be into you,” Jo smiled.

“Nobody takes me seriously,” said Rex.

“Rex, you’re smart and you have excellent ideas,” said Aaron, who’d finally taken notice of Rex’s distress. “And you always make the right choice, and you take good care of yourself, and you do things that cause others to respect you, and you always act responsibly, but not in a boring way.” He told them this even though not all of it was completely true yet, because somehow he instinctively understood that you have to tell young people that whatever thing it is you’re trying to get them to be, they already are, or else they’ll be crushed by the weight of trying to become it all at once.

Rex looked doubtful.

“You’re going to get laid,” said Jo.

This seemed to put them at ease, and they settled back into their seat and pulled out their laptop to message their friends and put finishing touches on their essay.

“No rush to let mom off the hook, either,” Jaymie added. “Revel in your angst! We sure did. Aar-bear still does!” He paused for a few minutes to watch the road, taking in the beauty of the cloud shadows traversing the one valley they would encounter in the entire flat drive. “Jo!” he said. “You have to meet our mom. You’ll love her.”

But Jo had fallen fast asleep in the back seat, a Rolling Stone easing its way from her lap to the floor, and Rex soon followed her lead. Jaymie and Aaron swapped out Daffodile for Gunt and spent the remainder of the road trip listening to local legend Casio Jonny put his guitars and synthesizers to appalling misuse, eating ketchup chips they found in the back of the van, and discussing which band they should be for the upcoming show.

***

Investigations into the disappearances of eighteen former members of the cult eventually led to a number of bodies being dug up in the fields behind the blue house. However, all of the bodies were aged beyond identification, and only one, whose DNA was on record, could be confirmed to match a disappeared person; most were never officially located and the cases went cold. All of them turned out to have received some kind of recognition for a great work.

Still, the citizens of the city recognized that there had been foul play, and they were not about to let such an organization continue. The group was broken up and Miranda was arrested for invented fraud charges and sentenced to jail time. The remaining members dispersed back to home cities, and to jobs or families or to other cults, depending on their next calling.

Ronan went home. In the time since he’d disappeared, both his sisters had become investigative journalists and devoted most of their time to tracking him down. The elder became a specialist in human trafficking and worked for the government breaking up criminal organizations; the younger went back to raising her two children and taking on the odd PI case. Both made it a side mission to keep Regina free of any dangerous cults.

Miranda, following her bliss, took courses in accounting and management while in prison. She was an entrepreneurial woman who didn’t believe in burned bridges, and she decided to pursue a career managing bands, beginning with her very favourite one. Her first client, recognizing skill when he saw it, took her up on her offer provided that he didn’t have to pay her until his band saw financial success, and that she remain in her jail cell, “way the hell away from me and my family,” for the entirety of their time working together.

The collaboration between Jo and Juniper made it onto a Spotify playlist called “Dreamy Piano Vibe,” and then became the main soundtrack to a sensitive indie film about a bipolar teenager on a pilgrimage to Portland, Oregon, which won two awards at the Sundance Festival. Jo graciously relinquished any credit for this composition so that all royalties could go toward funding Juniper’s foray back into the real world, and also because she was embarrassed at having composed Muzak with an undead entity.

Juniper could hardly remember a time when she’d been free from the hive mentality and not guided by a creative leader. She found herself unequipped for independence. Fortunately, having moved provinces to start fresh, she soon found the support and community she needed in her new home city. She made a complete recovery from her near-death experience and enthusiastically joined the ranks of the Bukowskiphiles. She continued, all the while, to believe Jaymie Brzezinski was possessed by the true creative spirit, i.e., Charles Bukowski.