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Whatever Happened to Nightmaster?

by Martin Maenza

On a mountainous road in upstate New York, on a cloudy autumn night with the half moon barely peeking though the clouds, a single pair of headlights pierced through the darkness. The glowing circles shimmered, side to side as they approached, getting larger fast.

They jerked suddenly again with a slight squeal of tires against the asphalt.

Behind the wheel of the vehicle, the driver had removed his hands briefly to fumble for something between the seats. “Where issit…?” he grumbled, his words slurring.

The in-dash radio was pointing to 100.5, an oldies station. From the car’s speakers blared a male rock singer melodically crooning “…oh where oh where can my baby beeee…”

“Got it!” the driver announce victoriously, hoisting up an open bottle of vodka, about a third of the way full. He raised it to his lips, one hand casually on the wheel. And over the edge of the bottle’s glass, he saw it…

…his car crashed through the guard rail with a metal-grinding crunch!

The midnight blue, two door sports car hurled over a cliff’s edge and then plummeted front first down like a falling stone!

It bounced when it hit the sharply sloping ground one hundred feet below. Once, turning over on its end. Then again. Then again. The crunches of metal against rock echoed in the unspoiled valley, no one around at this late hour to hear them.

Finally, the car came to an abrupt stop against a huge rock outcropping, no doubt large stones that had broken off the cliff and fallen in years past. A spark ignited the engine; the gas tank exploded!

The car was quickly engulfed in flames!

The driver, a man near forty with shoulder length black hair, blinked his eyes as he watched the vehicle burn in the night. “What the…?” he wondered aloud as he felt a cool breeze blow about him. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?”

“No, Jim Rook,” a voice behind him said. “You are neither.”

The man turned his head to where the voice came. With bleary bloodshot eyes, he saw a shadowy figure floating in the air. What little light there was in the evening sky highlighted the figure’s long blonde hair and white robes. A dark cape of green billowed gently behind him.

Jim Rook then realized too that he himself were floating in the air, high above the canyon floor and just a bit away from the cliff where his car had just left the road. “You don’t look like Ssuperman…” he slurred.

“Hardly,” the blonde man said with a slight scoff.

Jim frowned to consider. “Then you musst be an angel or ssomethin’ like that…” His voice sort of trailed off.

“Something like that,” the blonde man said with a faint smile. He floated a bit closer to the black haired man.

Jim arched back his shoulders, almost as if startled by the whole situation. “What issit you want from me?” His voice had a trace of panic to it.

The blonde man stopped his advance. “You seem startled.”

“Damn right, I’m startled!” Jim shouted. “One ssecond I’m about to go crassh over a cliff in my car, and the next I’m talkin’ with the likess of you…”

The blonde man nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would be jarring. But I did save your life. You would have been dead in that wreckage had I not happened along when I did.”

Jim glanced down and nodded. “Yeah… I guesss so.”

The blonde man moved a bit closer, more slowly this time. “Tell me, Jim Rook, how did your life end up this way?”

The whole moment seemed so surreal to driver of the car. Here he was floating in the air somehow with another when by all rights he should have been dead in his car below. And his savior, whoever he was, was looking to play ‘this is your life’? It was crazy!

“OK,” Jim said, sobering slightly and wishing he still had the bottle of vodka in his hands, “I’ll play along. But trusst me: it ain’t a pretty tale…”

***

My story’s an odd one to be sure. It started long, long ago in a place far, far away. And, no, I’m not talking about that movie series with all the flashy special effects! This was real, or at least it always seemed to be. There have been times in my life that I really wasn’t sure.

Thousands of years ago, in an other-dimensional kingdom of Myrra, there lived two mighty warriors. One was named Brom and the other Nacht. They both were champions who fought hard for the kingdom.

To reward them, the king of Myrra ordered Farben, his court magician, to create magical weapons for the two. Brom was given the magical Mace of Mists. Nacht received the enchanted Sword of Night. Both were entrusted to use the weapons for the defense and betterment of the kingdom.

Brom, however, plotted with Farben and a band of assassins to murder the king and Nacht. Brom hated that Nacht was so loyal to the king and therefore decided his old ally would die as well in the bid to take over Myrra. The two battled, and Nacht was victorious in the defeat of Brom. But, Nacht didn’t count on the fight being an unfair one. Farben magically transported Nacht to another world, this one – Earth. As Nacht vanished, the Sword of the Night became inserted into a stone pillar where it would remain for centuries.

With no champion to defend her, Myrra was besieged with sorcery by the Warlocks, descendants of Brom. For a thousand years, they lay waste of the land, destroying the magnificent buildings and transforming the people of the land into shriveled, ugly abominations.

Sure, I know, this sounds like something straight out of a Yes song. I know, I felt that way too a number of years back. I actually turned the tale into lyrics for my song Myrra’s Aria. It was on one of my albums from the mid-seventies – Sing A Song Of Sorcery. I put a lot of effort into that whole album, worked on it for a good part of two years, but the critics panned it. Called it a ‘self-indulgent masturbation of a concept album’. Little did they know how personal those songs were, how I was using my music to deal with what had happened to me a half dozen years before.

Anyway, at the time I was just twenty two years old, living fast and loose as the leader and singer of a rock and roll band called the Electrics. Little did I know then that Myrra’s latest king Zolto would contact me and alter the course of my life forever. One psychedelic trip later and I found myself in a land of short, blue skinned people. And that’s when Zolto gave me the quick history lesson.

“Today I detected a change in cosmic force alignment,” the old king later explained, “a breech in the barriers, and I was able to snare you.” When I asked to be sent home, he gestured to the stone pillar. “First, I ask you to lift the sword, the Sword of Night, your ancestor’s mighty weapon. It is written that only one of the family of Nacht can heft this steel.”

Having no recourse, I reached for the hilt. It was then that the weapon began to sing, alerting us that an enemy approached. A patrol of green hooded men were attacking the palace. Instinctively I took the blade and used it to defend myself and Zolto.

Only after defeating the attackers did I learn that my beloved fiancée, Janet Jones, was dragged into this other-world by the same spell. I don’t know if it was just anger or the heat of the battle, but I grasped Zolto about the neck. “What’re you trying to say? Spit it out!”

“The Warlocks interfered with my spell. The young woman was captured by them!” the old man said.

“You creepy, sawed off…”

“It avails naught to vent anger at me,” Zolto pleaded. “Save your fury for the Warlocks. If you would see Janet alive again, you must enter the Warlock fortress.”

I really had little choice in the matter. Before I could return home, I would have to rescue Janet. Even if the whole situation I found myself in was a bit too convenient for Zolto. It was exactly what he needed, someone who could wield the ancient weapon having to go into the den of his enemies to defeat them.

After receiving some ceremonial blue and red garments worn by my supposed ancestor, I was introduced to Boz, a white skinned guide. Together we rode a giant insect of a beast which resembled an Earth grasshopper out across the land. Along the way, we encountered a dread Ice Witch, and made an ally in a barbarian named Tickeytarkapolis Trootrust, whom I soon dubbed Tark to make it easier on myself. Together, we battled our way across the lands, searching for where Janet was being held captive.

Eventually, we managed to find her in the keep of Duke Spearo. The Warlocks had used their powers to disguise her as a dark haired maid named Mizzi and attempted to use her against me. True love must have been enough to overpower their dark magic spells, and my words reached her. By freeing me, Janet was too freed from the spell. The remaining, undefeated Warlocks tried to escape to our world and we gave pursuit.

Cornered inside the shop where Janet and I were first mystically snatched, I threatened the two green robed creeps. “Either go back to Myrra, or stay here and try your luck against the Nightsword!”

The cowards fled, using their magic to retreat back to Myrra and their defeat.

At first, Janet wondered if the whole thing were just some wild dream, a fantasy that we both shared. In truth, it felt that way. It seemed so farfetched. Only then did I realize that the Sword of Night still remained in my possession.

Although we didn’t know for sure at the time, we both assumed that Myrra would begin on its road to recovery, rebuilding and attempting to renew the old ways and the life they once knew. It would be a long while before I knew anything different.

Meanwhile, it was time to get back to what I knew, which was making music. Following the little adventure in Myrra, it was back to the Electrics and performing in clubs around the New York City area. Our usual horde of faithful followers showed up at the gigs, and that helped us appear more popular and marketable.

A record company executive managed to catch some of those later shows, after word of mouth about us reached his offices. From the stage, I could often see Janet in the audience, talking to the man during the sets. Mr. Parker was a portly man, slightly balding. Looked like he stepped down from his office, ditching his tie to at least appear to fit in to the scene. Still, the man knew the business and was fairly discreet; he often used Janet as a go-between for messages and information. He wasn’t interested in the Electrics as a whole. It was a time when music was emphasizing the singer-songwriters, and he felt he could do more with me as a solo artist.

Janet was always my biggest supporter, even from those early days before I became a star. Janet helped with the booking of gigs, would run errands for food and such while we practiced, kept an eye out for important people, and in general acted as my overall public relations person. She truly believed in me.

Not everyone was in my corner, her family especially. They thought I was wasting my time, and that Janet was too, given her devotion to me and my dreams. However, her belief never wavered. She eventually managed to convince her parents that I would amount to something, and her father granted me Janet’s hand in marriage.

By the time we were wed, I had finished recording my first album and my first single was rising up the charts like a shooting star. I was on cloud nine then. And Janet looked so lovely when she walked down the aisle. Her beautiful blonde hair interleaved with white flowers, her white satin dress glistening on that sunny July afternoon down near the brook.

From there, we rushed off to our honeymoon in the tropics. A gift from the record company. And even though the media caught wind of our presence there and chased us all over the beach trying to snap pictures of us, it was still a wonderful time.

By the time we returned home, the pictures were all over the magazines. And my debut album reached the top ten and held there for fourteen weeks. The studio was eager for me to follow it up. And many of the industry big names were interested in meeting me, working with me or just partying with me.

It looked at that point as if nothing could ever bring me down again.

I was wrong.

A touring band to back me up was put together, and we hit the road on a huge bus. We traveled across the country at first, playing as many venues as possible. We opened for a number of bigger bands like the Stones, the Who, CCR, whoever would have us. And you know all those stories you hear about rock stars, about the wild after hour parties and out of control lifestyles – well, they’re pretty much true.

Women were constantly trying to get with me and the band, willing to do or show just about anything to spend time with us. I would just smile and nod but not partake in any of that. I had Janet, and she was more than enough woman for me.

No, my vice wasn’t the groupies – it was alcohol.

There was a lot of time before and after the shows, especially during long stretches of highway. We’d drink to wind down after the show, and that lead to drinking in the afternoons to gear up for the show. I would try to get in some writing along the way, to work on songs for the next album, but it seemed much more fun to pound a few down with the rest of the guys.

Janet continued to stand by me but with a concerned look crossing her face more and more.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see that at the time. And if I did, it wasn’t registering.

I was a rock and roll star, and I was living like one.

And like so many of the folks in the industry that I came to know so well, I was blindly heading for a breakdown, or my first one anyway.

Within a few years, I was headlining my own shows, filling the stadiums with screaming fans. Reporters were constantly wanting to know every aspect of my life. It seemed like I was always ‘on’, giving the people what they wanted. That left little time for me, and little time for Janet.

Finally, after a show outside of Cleveland in the mid-seventies, I stepped off stage and received an envelope from one of the crew. I didn’t think to look at it right away, shoving it inside my jacket pocket. Instead, I did the usual backstage ‘meet and greet’, making the dreams of the fans come true and feeding my own ever growing ego.

Only when I dropped to my dressing room to change and get a quick drink did I run across the envelope again. I sat down on the edge of the table, tore it open and began to read it.

It was from Janet.

She was leaving me.

She said that, after all these years and all the working for the dream, she realized it wasn’t the dream that she loved but me. Unfortunately, as she saw it, I loved the dream much more than her, and she couldn’t bear to be held second or third or fourth best any longer. She asked that I try to not follow her, not to chase after her. She didn’t want anything more from me – I could have it all. All she wanted was to start over again somewhere quiet and perhaps find someone who would center his world around her. Like I used to do when we first met.

I hit the bottle seriously that night! The pain was deep, like a knife through my back and straight into my heart. I drank to kill the pain, to forget the loss!

My binge that night was so severe that I came to my senses a day or so later on the tour bus, no idea where the hell we were or how I got there. We even had to cancel the show that night because I was too out of it to perform.

It didn’t get any better over the next few weeks. The guys made sure I could perform, if nothing else than to keep the promoter for suing the record label and me for breaking contract. But when I wasn’t on stage, I was drowning myself in booze. Even tried some pills that one of the roadies offered.

And I tried to forget Janet by sleeping with a stream of nameless women.

It didn’t help the loss at all, though I tried to delude myself into thinking it did!

Finally, exhausted from a long grueling tour, did we return to New York. And even though we were to be returning to the studio in a few days to get to work on the tracks for my next album, it was good to be back at the Manhattan apartment.

When I opened the door, everything was pretty much as we’d left it. The only obvious clues that anyone had been there during the time on the road was the huge vacant spots in the closet and the empty dresser drawers. Janet had returned here one last time to get her things. There were a few empty places on the book shelves, and a few empty pages in the photo albums. The record collection had been picked through as well. She didn’t even bother to take any of the albums I recorded; she probably considered them painful reminders.

On the coffee table was her key to the apartment, cold to the touch.

A part of me had hoped she would be there waiting for me when I got home; that part of me was always the foolish optimist.

It took awhile for me to get into that next album. Nothing was really working. Songs of love just weren’t ringing true. The studio was getting a bit annoyed with me, but I insisted that I could give them something to put out if they gave me a few more months. They reluctantly agreed.

I struggled to find the creative muse again, often drinking myself into a stupor. It was only when I was rummaging under my bed for something did I run across the Nightsword, which I kept in a special red velvet lined box. The sight of the sword reminded me of something, a grand adventure, of a time when I was a hero albeit for a brief moment. I remembered my passion for Janet and how I worked so hard to find her after she was taken from me.

I couldn’t do that again. She asked me not to.

But I could relive it through music, through song. I had found inspiration and went to work on those tunes that would make up Sing A Song Of Sorcery. As I said before, that album took awhile to come together. In between I did some touring with other acts as well as other appearances. We even took a few of those recordings to mix together as a live album. Anything the studio could do to keep my name and face in the public eye.

Eventually, we put Sing A Song of Sorcery out, but it stalled part way up the charts. It seems only my true hard core fans were willing to give it a listen. Many of the radio stations didn’t touch it. Only the album rock stations would give it a chance, and that was mostly due to the occasional request calls or the late night drive DJs needing to take breaks while the long eight to twelve minute tracks played out.

The studio was pissed with me at this point and weren’t interested in renewing my contract when it expired. My management team had to shop around quite a bit, going through many of the major labels quite a few times before someone was interested in signing me again. During that time, I was living off residuals.

I found I had few friends during that period. But I could always count on Jack Daniels and Jim Beam to see me through. They always seemed happy to see me.

By this point, the disco era was taking the world by storm. It seemed everyone was dabbling into that arena. Even former friends like the Stones and Rod Stewart, and, an even bigger surprise, heavier acts like Kiss. It was everywhere; it seemed unstoppable. I was lucky. I never had to fall into that pit.

Just as that stuff was on the rise and I was supposed to start work on a new album, something intervened. Or more specifically someone – King Zolto! Returning home one night from late hours in the studio, I heard a low hum coming from beneath my bed. The Nightsword was singing. As soon as I touched the hilt of the blade, a force washed over me like a thousand tidal waves. My senses reeled once more as they had nearly a decade ago.

When my head finally cleared, I was back in Myrra again.

“What is it?” I demanded of Zolto. “Why have you brought me here again?”

“Myrra has need once more for her champion,” the old ruler said.

“The Warlocks again?” I asked.

“Nay! Something far more sinister I fear. Word has come from the Eastern continent that a tide of great evil is brewing in the Dread Domain. Tickeytarkopolis volunteered for a mission to investigate four seasons ago but has not been heard from since!”

“Tark!” I exclaimed. “Tark is missing!”

“Aye,” the king said sadly. “I fear he might be dead…”

“Can you get the me there fast?” I asked. “This isn’t the best time for me back home…”

“Nay, I cannot,” the king frowned further. “I fear my magics have been exhausted in bringing you here. The nexus between dimensions remains fairly strong, but the fact that your weapon has its roots here was an added boast to breaching the divide.”

Now I was frowning. “Fine. I’ll go to the Dread Domain, and I’ll find Tark. And once I am through, do you promise to return me home?”

“Aye,” Zolto said.

I spelled out what I would need – supplies, companions and the like Then, reluctantly, I took off. Little did I know that quest would take its toll on my physically and emotionally. In the end, the threat was met and vanquished, but there were losses. After some healing, Zolto was able to return me home.

But, it was nearly five years later!

No one knew what had happened to me. The label was furious with me to say the least. Rumors had spread about my apparent demise, though there was nothing to prove it one way or the other. I was forced to concoct a rather huge lie to explain my absence; surely no one would believe the truth!

My career, my life, was in a total shambles. I had lost everything and needed to start over again, from the ground up.

My latest album, Master of the Night, debuted in April of this year. It was a heavier guitar based sound, likening back to some of my earlier records. After some initial curiosity on the charts, it stalled at number seventy two. A tour was thrown together quickly to try and re-spark the sales.

The alien Invasion over the summer months turned a lot of folks off to going out and doing things; between the panic and the economic stresses, all of the industry suffered. And someone like me was hit even more harder than the bigger guns. The tour was a total bust.

My management team wanted me to get back into the studio, to work on a greatest hits compilation with a couple new tracks. They even negotiated with my older labels to get permission to release tracks that spanned my entire career. Seems hardly anyone cared that much as long as they could make a few bucks off the old catalog. The plan was to do a three disk box set, on the newer CD format.

All the old stuff, though, in revisiting it and re-mastering it, just reminded me of the past and of Janet. It depressed me, and when I was depressed I drank. I was in the studio earlier tonight in fact when I lost it.

“This is crap!” I swore, hurling the headphones across the sound booth.

“What is it now, Jim?” the sound technician asked.

“I…I can’t do this any more!” I said as I came out of the small room. “I need to get out, get some air!”

“Jim, we’re on a tight schedule here,” Frank, the producer of the compilation, reminded me for the tenth time today. “We need to get this done so we can get the masters to production. There’s a set street date.”

“Hell with the street date!” I said. I reached for a small flask that I kept in my jacket pocket. I started to open it to take a drink when Frank knocked it from my hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed as the liquor spilled to the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank countered. “We’ve got a project to finish, and you’re not helping any with your drinking!”

“Yeah?” I replied. “Well, fine, then! If you’re so smart, you finish the goddamn album yourself! I’m out of here!” And I stormed out of the studio and hit the road.

Not long after, I was tearing down the lonely highways, doing the best I could to run away from the problems. I was tired of it. Tired of working so hard only to get knocked down time and time again.

I needed to clear my mind, clear my head.

I turned on the radio and flipped through the channels. I stopped on a classic by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers. I always liked that song.

“…Something warm running in my eyes, but I found my baby somehow that night. I raised her head, and when she smiled, and said, ‘Hold me darling for a little while.’ I held her close. I kissed her our last kiss. I found the love that I knew I would miss. But now she’s gone, even though I hold her tight. I lost my love … my life, that night…”
***

 

“And that,” Jim Rook concluded with some sadness in his voice, “brings us up to the here ‘n’ now.” He frowned deeply as his own tale sank in. The wind whipped about the canyon, sending a cold chill up his spine. “What a waste, huh?”

The blonde man shook his head. “It’s not too late, Jim Rook,” he said. He pointed his long, tapered and neatly manicured finger toward the burning wreckage of the car below. “Clearly, you have been saved for a greater purpose. Would you go the way of your automobile or will you rise again like a proverbial phoenix, reborn with a new purpose?”

Jim was silent, deep in thought and a bit unsure. He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno…”

“It was fate that our paths would cross this night!” the blonde insisted as he reached forward, placing his hand on Jim’s chin and rising it up. He looked into those deep blue eyes and said, “the choice is up to you. I can help you turn your life around. Will you accept my offer to help you get what your heart most desires?”

Jim Rook swallowed and looked down at the remains car on the rocky slope. The chilly autumn wind blew against the dying flames as they slowly burned out, leaving a charred mass of metal behind.

He then turned up again to the man who had plucked him from that terrible fate. “My life’s been a roller coaster ride before,” Jim said. “And like Neil Young said ‘…it’s better to burn out than fade away…’”

“Indeed,” the blonde said, extending his hand. “So…?”

“So…” Jim Rook said with some returning resolve. “…I accept your offer to help.” He took the man’s hand in his own. It was cold to the touch.

“Good,” Neron said with a wide smile. “Very good!”

And with that, the two men floating in thin air vanished into the night sky.

 

 

(to be continued…)