Only Ten Toes
by Amanda Zila
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Thomas enrolled in lessons at a music school, but from the beginning he felt awkward with the guitar. He had hoped it would make him feel closer to his father. Instead it created an even larger rift. He practiced every day, went through all of the primer books, listened to recordings of all the greats. But his fingers constantly fumbled, tripping over themselves and landing in the wrong position.
Gus did not appreciate his new hobby. Usually the creature hid in the closet and stuffed dirty socks into its earholes. One day, the door to his closet flew open, banging into the wall and creating a new hole in the spackling Thomas had applied a few days ago.
“If you insist on playing that horrible wooden thing, can’t you at least make it sound bearable?”
“I don’t know how,” Thomas replied sullenly. “I practice and practice, and this is as good as it gets. I’ll never be as good as my dad.”
Gus rolled its eyes and asked Thomas a question that, for once, didn’t sound sarcastic. “Do you have anything else of your father’s?”
Thomas scrunched his forehead. “No, just the guitar... Wait! I do have something else: his boots.” Thomas had forgotten all about them with the distraction of the guitar. “But they don’t fit me. My feet aren’t big enough yet.”
“Whatever. That will do. Go fetch them,” commanded Gus.
Thomas went up to the attic again, this time returning with two large, black, dusty boots hanging from his neck by knotted shoelaces. Gus handed him a list of items that it needed Thomas to get.
First on the list was a pinecone. The list didn’t specify anything about the pinecone, so he chose the largest one he could find. A chocolate bar, shoe polish, a chicken leg, formable metal wire, five brussel sprouts, and a candle were at the local all-in-one supermarket.
Last was water. Specifically, Gus wanted water from the pond in the cemetery where Thomas’s father was buried. His mother went to visit the grave regularly, returning home with red eyes and a palpable air of sorrow and loss. Thomas was grateful she rarely made him go with her.
He pedaled his bike to the only cemetery in town. He walked into the graveyard, jumping as the gate slammed shut with a clang behind him, then slowly walked to his father’s grave. The gray and black mottled rock was carved with an inscription:
Patrick Judkins
Loving Husband and Father
1959-1992
Shivering from the chilly wind, Thomas zipped up his oversized puffy coat and shoved his hands into his pant pockets. The weight of guilt and responsibility made his thin shoulders hunch. Maybe if his guitar playing wasn’t such an embarrassment, it would honor his father’s memory and he could escape the strangling grip of remorse.
He turned away from his father’s headstone and walked over to the small pond in the back corner of the field, which was full of water from last week’s rain storms. Gus hadn’t specified what kind of sample it wanted or how much, so Thomas filled his thermos to the top with the murky water. After a moment of hesitation, he also scooped up a bit of algae, just in case. He did not want to have to return here for a long time.
Back in his room, he emptied his backpack onto the floor in front of Gus. Gus took the chocolate bar first, unwrapping it and setting it back down. Next was the shoe polish, which it handed to Thomas so he could pop open the lid. Gus placed it beside the chocolate, lining up the rest of the items in a row next to it.
Thomas held his breath as Gus snapped off a piece of the chocolate, dipping it into the shoe polish. In his head, Thomas imagined Gus putting everything into a big, rusty cauldron of water, boiling it all together until it created a magical elixir that Thomas could drink. Instead, the creature popped the chocolate-polish into his mouth, closing its eyes in pleasure while chewing gratuitously.
“That is super gross!” exclaimed Thomas in disbelief.
“Shut up and go get me an empty jar,” Gus muttered around a mouthful of what looked like black poop.
Thomas found a clean mason jar in a kitchen cupboard. When he returned, he saw that Gus had used the metal wire to fashion a scaffold. It snatched the jar from Thomas’s outstretched hand and set it on top of the wire frame. Into the jar went the remainder of the chocolate, some of the cemetery water, and the rest of the items. Under the jar, Gus had formed the wire to create a holder for the candle, which he lit with a match.
“Get out,” said Gus, with no room for negotiation. “And close the door.”
Thomas did as instructed, but he kneeled on the hardwood floor outside and pressed his ear to the door. A low chanting came through the door. He looked down and saw colored light coming from underneath the door, increasing in brightness. As if driving the light, Gus’s voice escalated.
Suddenly, the air in the house thickened until Thomas found it difficult to breathe. Then, with a blinding flash and a loud pop, the pressure eased. He turned the doorknob and pushed open the door to reveal a wilted Gus and a jar full of a questionable black liquid.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Gus said. “Just rub a little into the boots before you play and, voilà, you’re Eric Clapton.”
Using an old t-shirt, Thomas carefully applied it to his father’s worn boots, watching as it pooled and soaked into the crevices where the leather was so worn it cracked. After they were dry enough, he slipped them on and tightened the laces as far as they would go. Since they were still huge on him, he sat on his bed with his feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. He picked up his father’s guitar, tested the strings, and started playing a song that he was having particular difficulty learning. In disbelief, he watched as his fingers danced across the strings, perfectly plucking and strumming with no mistakes in notes, fingerings, rhythm, nothing.
“Gus! It works! I mean, it really really works!” Thomas yelled and jumped off his bed.
“Of course it does, idiot,” snapped Gus. “But the stuff doesn’t last forever. You have to keep applying it, or your guitar playing will go back to the miserable incompetency it was before. And it will only work on those boots, which you have to be wearing when you play.”
“Got it,” said Thomas, nodding vigorously. “And Gus? Thank you.”
In response, Gus let out a noxious fart, went to the closet, and slammed the door shut.
* * *
Once he was old enough, Thomas began earning a little money playing the guitar at local restaurants during their busiest hours. After a few years, he moved out of his mother’s house into a small apartment. She still came to watch his every performance.
He got a job as manager of the local bar. An open mic was hosted every Wednesday and, whenever there weren’t enough participants, Thomas would slip on his father’s boots and take the stage. The boots smelled constantly of overcooked brussel sprouts, so he kept them in a sealed duffel bag and wore them only while on stage.
Everyone in the small town knew him and probably would have applauded regardless of the quality of his playing, but the cheering was genuine. They loved his playing. He still had to practice to learn the songs, but he otherwise let the potion do its job. His hand fairly flew across the guitar neck, fingers moving so quickly they became a blur.
Thomas became something of a local celebrity. Eventually he split his time between managing the bar and playing his own shows, or going on tour with bands that needed an extra guitar. It felt like a dream, the applause and fame making him feel like he was someone special.
His mother still beamed in pride every time she saw him play. When he took her out to dinner every week, she would share stories about her late husband. It was like the music had brought his father back to life for her. For Thomas, it was a constant reminder of how his mistake had shattered their idyllic family life. But he never asked her to stop, because he knew he deserved the pain. It was his form of contrition.
Over the years, the fluid in his mason jar was steadily depleted. With only about half an inch left in the bottom of the container, Thomas decided to ask Gus to make more. The creature had been living happily in Thomas’s apartment. It had its run of the place, and they had reached a point in their relationship where they tenuously but cordially cohabitated. Thomas had even developed a taste for stinky blue cheese and horror movies.
Thomas sidled up to Gus one evening as it was watching a slasher film. “Hey, Gus? You remember that black potion you made me all those years ago? Well, I’ve used most of it. Can you make more? I still remember the ingredients you used; I went ahead and got them.”
This time Thomas had skirted his father’s grave altogether, attempting to distance himself from the physical source of his constant regret.
Gus, without taking its eyes off of the television, shrugged. “Sure, whatever,” Gus grumbled. “Saturday night. I’ll pencil you in before the ghoul movie fest is supposed to air”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Gus.”
Thomas took that Saturday night off from the bar, confident his employees could handle the busiest night of the week. After dinner, he pulled out the potion ingredients and set them on the tile floor.
Gus slid off its chair and said, “Look, the last time I did this, you were just a kid, and that’s why I didn’t let you watch. Because this is serious, dark magic.”
Thomas started. “Dark magic?” He mentally flipped through all of the wizard fantasy books he had read. “Dark magic is bad, isn’t it? I mean, doesn’t it have consequences? Like pledging my soul after I die or something like that?”
“Magic is not black and white,” Gus said sharply. “All magic has consequences. It’s mostly the starting material that differentiates ‘good’ and ‘bad’. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’ve used it all this time with no problems, right? Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Just like before, Gus formed the wire into a support structure, setting the jar on top and the candle underneath. Then it dumped the remaining items in, gave the sludge a stir with its finger, and lit the candle. The black water roiled and churned, close to a full boil.
Gus gave him a sideways glance. “Okay, here’s where it’s different this time. The first potion was a freebie. You have to pay for this one.”
Copyright © 2023 by Amanda Zila
