He reeled in the line. Nothing left but the barracuda’s head.
“Five-footer, you think?” Wilson had done some saltwater fishing.
“A little over four maybe. Big.”
I showed him the drop-off where I’d caught the snook.
“The barracuda was using it as an ambush point. The shark was doing the same thing. It’s possible the barracuda didn’t know.”
“One predator using another predator as bait.”
“Yeah.”
That meant something to Wilson. I wasn’t sure why but I could guess.
“Good,” he said. “ Another good omen.”
As the man turned down the beach, though, I noticed a purple hematoma on his thigh and a smaller bruise on his calf.
Bad omens.
I stood at the edge of the drum circle observing as a lone drummer started, offering a baseline rhythm. Others joined. As the noise grew, some added solo riffs and counterbeats. After a few minutes, the chorus broke down and a new tempo emerged.
The objective, Tomlinson once explained, was to connect with the Tribal Mind. If you found that magic zone, he said, you vanished into the sensation that your body was being played by the drum circle, not your drum.
Tomlinson looked as if he’d found the zone.
As I approached the circle, I saw people I recognized. There was a fishing guide, a couple of nurses, several restaurant people, even a Sanibel cop. Mizzen, the nautical setter, was there with Dr. Bill and Sherry Welch. We exchanged waves. But Tomlinson was too lost in drumming to notice. He didn’t recognize my voice, either, when I came up behind him and said, “Do you take requests? Or only original material?”
The man’s eyes weren’t just dreamy, they were glassy, but opened wide, like miniature TVs reflecting images of painted figures dancing by the fire.
Without looking, he replied, “I can’t take verbal requests, man. But if you feel what you want, I might tune to the vibe. Comprendo? ” His head bobbed, hands blurred, as he added a triple-time riff. “Reason I don’t take requests is… rhythm, it’s the mother tongue. Earth’s first language. Words, man”-he motioned vaguely, somehow without missing a beat-“they’re pointless here. You gotta feel it to communicate. So far, though”-he inserted another flourish-“you’re not putting out a signal. It’s like you got no soul, dude.”
I didn’t answer. Stood looking over his shoulder until he got curious and turned. “Why… it’s you, Doc?” His expression was theatrical. “ That explains it.”
When he grinned, I realized I’d been set up.
“How long have you known we’re here?”
“Since before you landed, man.”
“Uh-huh.”
His hands slowed on the drum, then stopped, but he continued keeping time with his left hand. “Seriously. I went down the beach to take a whiz and saw you riding that track of moonlight. You’re the only guy I know who paddles a canoe like he’s harvesting potatoes. And he’s with you.”
“Surprised?”
“Nope. I was expecting him.”
“I bet your friends are excited.”
“No need to test me, Doc. The man gave me orders. It’s top secret.”
I looked toward the cabin. Wilson was a solitary figure in the dawn light. He was fishing: smooth backcast, a tight loop; doublehauling and making it look easy. Impressive.
I said, “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”
“Going? You mean we’re taking a trip? The three of us? That’s cool
… I guess… despite several troubling issues. Some of his outrageous political positions, for example. Which means I must anticipate conflict. I’ll have to tread lightly to avoid ugly scenes. Unless-” Troubled, Tomlinson paused, now talking to himself. “Unless I’m just imagining this. Which is very possible with a snoot full of hooch, and a head full of conga. Yes, this could be another one of Senor Tequila’s little mind fucks. A potential downer.”
I said softly, “Tomlinson?”
“Yes, Marion.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He focused. “Doc? I’m not imagining you, am I, Doc?” Fire crackled, sparks cometed across his eyes, as he sought reassurance by touching my arm.
I gave his hand a friendly whack. “Knock it off. I’m not Dorothy and you’re no Wizard. We need to talk.”
I searched his expression to see if he was acting. Tough to read. “Are you as drunk as you look?”
He stared at the palm of his hand. I realized he was using it as a mirror. “Drunker,” he said after a moment. “I stopped dancing when I started to slosh. That was about six margaritas ago. But I still look pretty damn good… except for those weird stripes above my eyes.”
Joking. But also drunk. Or stoned. Or both.
“When you’re done with orchestra practice, can you sober up enough to talk?”
“Not a problem. I always back off the accelerator a notch or two come dawn. Besides”-he looked west, where the moon was dissolving into a blue and animated darkness-“it’s time to split. Tradition, man. We gotta dance the moon into the sea.”
Huh?
He motioned with his head -Follow me- as he stood. “Drumming ends at sunrise, man. All Hallows’ Eve becomes All Saints’ Day. The ceremony dates back to the Druids, so it’s gotta be done right.” He held up a bony finger. “Just one more bit of business before I can grab my lunch bucket and punch the clock. Be patient, okay?”
Before I could respond, he turned, calling, “Conga line! Conga time! Listen up, heathens.” Yelled it a few more times, adding, “Keep in mind, kiddies, we didn’t come here to have fun. ”
I have watched Tomlinson rally many conga lines. The jokes don’t vary much, but the results often do. I stepped back to watch.
He tucked the drum under his arm and looped the strap over his shoulder, waiting as others stood, dusting sand off their butts. Then he began to drum, as he instructed, “We must play the sacred hymn. Find the beat, comrades. Be the drum. The ancient mantra passed down to us from on high… from the king’s men of king’s men. Please join me in this grooviest of liturgies.”
Drummers parroted Tomlinson’s tempo: Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.
It was distinctive. Simple. Oddly familiar.
“Feel the love, brothers and sisters, as we march to the Holy Church of Waves Without Walls. There we will wash our sins away. Afterward, I suggest we retreat to whatever bedrooms are available.. . in groups of two… or three… where I beseech ye to go-go and sin some more.”
There were bawdy hoots as a loose line formed behind Tomlinson. Hands on hips or drumming, they began a snaking dance toward the Gulf.
Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.
Catchy. I was tempted to join when two waitresses from the Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille, Milita and Liz, tried to pull me into the line. Both were dressed as angels, although they’d jettisoned their wings.
Milita pleaded, “Come on, Doc. Relax a little… shallow up, man.”
Shallow up. A new Tomlinson line. It meant stop being serious; leave the burdens of depth behind.
I respect Tomlinson’s spirituality, but I don’t envy the emotional toll of its uncertainties. There are times, though, when I wish I could just let go, the way Tomlinson does. Like now.
Drums throbbed as dancers created a moving wave, some bowing while others stood.
Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom.
When they began to sing, I understood why the beat was familiar: “Louie Louie… oh no… Me gotta go…” Boom-boom-boom… boom-boom. “Louie Louie… oh no…”
Tomlinson had said, “Kingsmen,” not “king’s men.”
“Please, Doc?” Liz was pulling at my elbow.
Milita said, “We don’t have to be at work until four. And we have that big house rented. There’re lots of rooms.”
But I have forever been, and will always be, an observer. And focus requires distance. As with a microscope, the degree of distance varies, but spatial separations, like walls, always stand between.
I gently disentangled myself from the ladies, promising to meet them later. Then I watched them hurry to join the conga line, dancing toward the Gulf of Mexico, where, I assumed, the unpainted members of the circle would strip naked and swim.