Free Up Jumps the Devil by Michael Poore

fiddle, which might have been wood or solid gold, depending on the light, and a bow made from the same wood or the same gold, strung with what might have been horsehair, but wasn’t.
    â€œHaven’t needed Ol’ Ripsaw here for a while,” he said, looking the fiddle over from every angle.
    â€œWhat do you need him now for?” asked Memory, even though she thought she knew.
    â€œ You need him,” said the Devil. “Because you need a guitar player.”
    He drew the bow across the strings, and Old Ripsaw groaned like an old, sleepy soul.
    â€œPlease tell me where we’re going,” she asked.
    â€œLouisiana,” he said, drawing sparks with his bow. “To see if old Two-John Spode has been practicing.”
    THE SECOND THEY CROSSED into Louisiana, the radiator blew.
    Memory woke up, saying, “What happened?”
    â€œThis thing’s not even supposed to have a radiator!” complained the Devil, pulling over. “Air-cooled German technology! Who the hell customized this thing?”
    â€œThe studio bought it for us,” said Memory, yawning. “It was cheap.”
    â€œWell,” said the Devil, “go find us some cheap water to keep it running.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just magically make the radiator not leak? Else what’s the point in being the Devil?”
    â€œIt’s hard to explain.”
    â€œTry.”
    The Devil walked around behind the bus, and opened the rear doors to hunt for something like a bucket.
    â€œIt would get boring,” said the Devil, overturning blankets, old food wrappers, and an amplifier. “You’d be surprised how much of your happiness has to do with little problems. Like having to go get toilet paper or having to fetch some water. If you just sat around and ‘magicked’ everything, then you’d wind up just … sitting around.”
    â€œWhy don’t we drive the limo and tow the bus?”
    The Devil looked offended.
    â€œThat car,” he said, “is not a tow truck.”
    â€œHow come I’m the one who’s got to get the water?”
    â€œWhat’s the point of being the Devil if I can’t make people bring me water?”
    He appeared at her window with a bucket.
    There was water in the ditch. She fetched three buckets of ditch water, the Devil plugged the radiator with a piece of black-cherry bubble gum, and they went another fifty miles.
    SWAMP TREES AND KUDZU framed the road at first, then gave way to flat country and fields of green sugarcane.
    The horizon piled high with clouds. Thunder spoke, far away.
    The second time they needed water, they happened on a gas station. After they had filled the radiator, Memory climbed behind the wheel.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asked the Devil.
    â€œDriving. If I gotta fetch the water, I should at least get to drive some.”
    â€œDo you have a license?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    But she didn’t move, except to turn the key and start the engine.
    The Devil walked around to the passenger side, and they rolled on south. Before long, the cane fields gave way to swamp forest again, and not long after that, it came down raining.
    MEMORY TRIED TO get the Devil to tell her what was so special about Two-John Spode.
    â€œYou heard what the boys said,” he reminded her.
    â€œThey made him sound about half real.”
    â€œHe’s real.”
    â€œThen—”
    â€œWatch the road.”
    Rain slathered the windshield. Not far ahead, red taillights glowed, and Memory slowed to follow an old farm truck.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you tell me where we were going when I asked?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t have come. I had to wait till we were too far down the road.”
    He closed his eyes and tried to catch some sleep.
    â€œThat’s some devious shit,” said Memory, “for somebody who wants to be trusted.”
    â€œI suppose it is,” said the Devil, without