This guy has got to be tired. Damn, we been doing this for the past few hours now. I can’t even see the trees no more, and my lips are getting sore. Blowing on Sally Sue all this time, at this altitude, and I’m surprised my nose hasn’t sprung a leak. I used to get nose bleeds from just being up on the stage at the Brigadier. Now I must be a mile or two above the Forest, the stones from space stacking up one on top of the other.
He’s out of breath, this Thurmond guy, slapping and popping on his bass-saber. These low notes are deep, man. Can cut right through anything. He’s a pretty stellar player though, I have to hand it to him. Guy has a good sense of groove, which most bassists abandon once they start getting flashy. You always need a groove, man. These space rocks, man, they love a good groove. They come all the way from way up in the black, just to fly through the air and crash on the two and the four, like snare hits, and I really dig it. This Thurmond guy, I think he’s even started to dig it. He knows when the rocks are going to hit. We even got into this jam, bobbing our heads to it, the smashing rocks that in-the-pocket drummer you always need. Thurmond just steps aside on the ‘and’ of the one and the three.
“Hey man, let’s take a breather,” I say. He’s about to slap his bass, but then stops, when he sees I mean it. He lets out a sigh and starts nodding his head.
“That was a nice one, old man.”
“Old? I haven’t even three millennia under my belt. Or is that four? No matter, I’m still young enough to keep up with the likes of you.”
“Yes, you’re right.” He looks off, into the sky hanging around us. The pile of stones disappears below us in a cloud which goes from one side of the world to the other. Above, the blue of the sky meets the black of space, filled with more stars than I’d ever seen from down below. “Looks like we’ve climbed pretty high.”
“I’m for going back down if you are,” I say. He takes his bass-saber and straps it back behind him. He nods in ascension, and we start back to the ground.
“You know I’m going to have to take you prisoner once we get down to the ground again, Vindler. If you go along quietly, I’ll make sure you’re treated fairly.”
“Man, the only one who’s going to be taking any prisoners is me.” I hear him chuckle. A voice in my head, maybe Sally Sue, says, turn around, old man. I look up from the rock I just jumped to, and Thurmond has his bass-saber arching down towards me, the neck in his hands and the blade on the side of its body aimed for my head. I move just in time, the blade dinging off the boulder-sized space rock behind me.
“Hey, I thought we were done with this,” I say. I feel the wisp of clouds on my feet. I’ve got to try and hide from this guy. Just another rock or two to descend, and Thurmond’s gonna lose me in the mist.
“I have my orders. You’re to be taken alive if possible, but killed if need be.” I can’t see an inch in front of me, the cloud cover is so thick. I inch back behind the rock I’m on, the footing extremely narrow. I can hear Thurmond coming down, can see the blue lightning from his gauntlets reflecting off the clouds. He passes by me without pause, thinking I’m still below him.
“Just surrender, old man. You don’t have to die like this.” I pull my knife from its sheath on my back and slink down the stones as silent as a tom-cat. I’m descending down the one side of the pillar and he the other. His steel-tipped boots clatter with each of his steps, so that I know when we’re on the same rock. “Where’d you go?” He says, maybe catching a whiff of me.
“Right here.” The blade goes up and under his rib. I jump back quick, just as his fist crashes into the stone where my head used to be. That blue lightning crackles, rubble and dust raining down upon my derby brim. He’s at an awkward angle, and most likely in shock at having been stabbed. One kick, and his knee crumbles under my heel. All that armor, and for what? You leave your ribs exposed like that, you in for a hard lesson, boy. The clouds part for him as he falls, and I can see how wide his eyes are, the gold caps on his teeth. His wrist cracks on the stone pillar, the gauntlet coming off in broken pieces which fall through the clouds like blue comets before disappearing completely. Too bad, because the guy was starting to grow on me. Dummy had to start talking business. Isn’t that what always does the band in?
Nothing I hate more than killing, maybe except one of them guitarists with all the effects pedals and no chops. Those guys need to spend a month out in the wilderness with nothing more than an acoustic guitar and just jam, man, none of this kid stuff. Makes me happy I got to blowing Sally Sue and never had an affinity for strings. This is what I’m thinking as I’m climbing down when I swear I hear a splash. Strange, the Snakewater, that old angry river in Qani Dariel, must be a mile below. I don’t care how big Thurmond was, how’s it possible I’m hearing his body splash into the river this high up?
The clouds are starting to clear, and the air is sticky and warm. Qani Dariel isn’t even like this in high summer. No, something is off. The sound of splashing has become persistent, and with it comes the unmistakable smell of the briny sea. Another rock down, and I see waves lapping against the pillar of rocks I called from space with Sally Sue. It’s a wide open expanse of ocean where there should still be sky.
Thurmond is nowhere to be seen. He and his bass-saber have been guzzled up by the waves. The sun is setting, its red noggin peeking just over the horizon. The sky is a light pink where it isn’t covered in cloud. To the northwest is an island, an indistinct silhouette in the twilight of the day.
I must have crossed a bridge. How I did that, though, I’ll never know. I’d only ever been over the bridge to Arcadia, and that was only because Magdala showed me the way. Up the Lover’s Tree, through the valley pass, and then boom, Arcadia. Of course ,there was the time I wandered into Qani Dariel on the back of a forgotten melody, but I didn’t even remember that.
Since there’s nothing much else to do but sit here, I bring Sally Sue up to my lips, and start in on a quiet little number I penned, appropriately called Wishing on a Sunset. “Now that’s a nice little tune.” It’s a woman’s voice, calling to me over the waves. A boat slinks up from around the back of the pillar, a small job, with just two oars and a lantern hanging from its prow. The woman manning the tiller is thin and tan of skin, with loose slacks and a vest of rough-spun wool. A heavy leather belt is strapped loosely across her waist, with pouches attached to it all the way around. On her left hip is a pistol, its grip studded with rubies. Intricate designs cover her entire body, tattoos of brown ink, from her hair line to the tips of her fingers.
“Hello there,” I say. “Do you know what world this is?”
“What world?” The woman sounds incredulous, and begins to laugh. “You’ve come quite a long ways to not know where you are. These are the Coral Islands. My name is Kenan, of the Pyronic Guild. I was sent to meet you.” She drags one of the oars behind her in the water, making the boat slow and turn so that the starboard side turns to face me.
“You were sent to meet me? By whom?”
“Captain Lacko,” Kenan says. “He would have come himself, but he’s getting on in years, and can’t do much walking as it is. Besides, he pays well for small errands such as this,” She smiles, her canines especially large. She waves to the boat. “He wants you to come to his home on the main island.”
“I don’t know a Captain Lacko,” I say, “but as I don’t rightly know what else I’ll do stranded all the way out here, I think I’ll take you up on your offer.” I step aboard the modest row boat, keeping my eyes on Kenan all the while. “My name is Vindler.”
“You don’t have to worry about anything, Vindler. I won’t hurt you.”
“Oh, I know that well enough. I’d just rather have you not even try. My knife is hilt deep in some unlucky bass-player at the bottom of the ocean, and I wouldn’t want to have to dent Sally Sue here by smashing your brains in.”
She smiles her wolfish smile again. “Fair enough,” She says, and turns us towards the Coral Islands.
It’s full dark by the time the boat runs up o
n sand. The light from Kenan’s torch touches upon a rocky shore, gnarled trees growing from the steep hillside beyond the beach. There are lights that peer down at us from high atop the hill, and it is towards these that Kenan starts our march. “Come,” She says, donning a hooded shirt with long sleeves, the hem only coming down to her highest rib. “There is no time to dally. The next ink ship leaves when the moon is at its apex, and I mean to be on it. It’s to be a full moon tonight, which will put the barkskins in a fever.”
Brambles and branches snap at me as we go up the hillside. I can feel the rough terrain scuffing up the polish on my shoes, know the sap from the trees is ruining my shirt. There’s a fire down below us, with a circle of people around it. “What is that?” I whisper to Kenan.
“It’s a fire. What does it look like?”
“Very funny. But what are they doing?”
“They’re barkskins. They drink pyronic so they can see their sleeping god. They don’t want him to wake, or he’ll stop dreaming of the Islands and they’ll disappear. Come, we’re almost there,” She goes ahead while I hang back, letting the shadows consume me. The people around the fire all have white hair, and watch as a man in a set of dapper threads marches about. Yet, it’s not so much the man as what he is waving to above that has me buzzing. The stars in the sky, they’re changing. New constellations are forming from the older. I see what looks to be the shape of a sleeping giant, bigger than all the rest. As Dapper Threads gestures to the sky, smaller constellations move towards the giant’s chest. They’re going to burrow right inside of him, by the looks of it. “Are you coming or what?” Kenan hisses from the dark.
When I catch up to her, we’ve waded out of the thick brush and come upon a flattened clearing, the grass green and knee high.
“You saw what the scholar was doing with the stars, hm?” She asks.
“Yeah, I saw it. What sort of magic is that?”
“Old,” She says. A squat house is ahead of us, the source of the lights from before, a golden sunshine emanating from its windows. It’s only one story tall except for the cylindrical tower that rises from its center, which is double the height of the first floor. “This where we going, Kenan?” She doesn’t answer or even look back, though I know she hears. There’s not any sound except the waves crashing down below and the sound of our pants swishing through the grass.
The house is made of the same gnarled wood that grew by the beach, the boards well measured and tightly fitted together. It looks much like the Mad Brigadier, though my old alehouse was built of knotted pine and drunken hands. Flowers with trumpet tops and furry paws line the walls, around which lazily flitter some lantern bugs. Kenan raps on the rounded green door with her knuckles three times. We hear a muffled voice, old and creaky by the sound of it, and steps coming towards the door. When it opens, I can’t believe my eyes.
“Thurmond?”
“Vindler, Kenan. Welcome.” He has traded in his armor for a long sleeved cotton shirt open at the collar and a set of tight slacks. His feet are bare, and his long white hair loose. “Captain Lacko is expecting you.”
He motions us in to the house, but I’m not ready to fall into some trap. “What’s going on here?” I say, swinging Sally Sue around so that she’s in my hands, ready to blow if need be. “I didn’t come here so you could get your revenge on me, bass man.” Thurmond’s mouth is set in a line, but he doesn’t make a move. He keeps his back to the door, while Kenan only looks at me with her deep set purple eyes. I’m about ready to turn around and run back towards the beach when that old creaky voice I heard through the door calls out to me from within the house.
“Now, now, Vindler. I know you and Thurmond had your little disagreement, but we’re all friends here. Please, come in. We mean you no harm.” Kenan smirks at my trepidation, while Thurmond keeps his eyes on the floor. An old man shuffles into view from behind a floor to ceiling bookcase. He uses two canes to move, and has on an outfit very similar to Thurmond’s, only with a heavy burgundy coat over it, despite the heat. Every stitch he wears is covered in paint. His skin is pale, and his scalp completely bald. Thin tufts of hair hang from the side of his head, which is long like a horse’s and fat in the cheeks.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Theodore Lacko. You may call me Theo if you’d like, or Lacko. The Ma’atha call me Old Cappy, which you may call me too, if it suits you. I’ve been stationed here on the Coral Islands for many years now. Some would say I’m retired, but I feel as if my real life’s work has just begun. Come,” He gestures with his head, “We should discuss this in the safety of the house. You never know who is listening out here. Especially with the full moon.” I keep my eyes on Thurmond as I pass through the doorway, but he only gives me a small smile.
“I saw you fall,” I say, walking after Kenan and Lacko as they make their way further into the house.
“Yeah, you got me good.” He lifts up his vest and shows me the bandages wrapped around his ribs. “The ma’atha found me on the beach, barely alive. They took me here, and Lacko helped patch me up.”
“That all happened in the past hour?”
“Past hour? I’ve been here for weeks now, almost two months.”
“Two months?! How is that possible? I came down the stone right after you. It couldn’t have been ten minutes from when you fell to when I got into Kenan’s boat.” The house is all stained wood and plush cushions. Book cases line the wall of the room we’re passing through, leading to an open arched doorway.
“Time has an interesting way of flowing under the bridges that connect the worlds together,” Lacko says. “Sometimes it flows fast, sometimes slow. For you, it would seem that time was moving much faster here than it was on your bridge.” We pass under the arch, into a cluttered room with canvasses and easels scattered about. There are wide windows lining the walls, through which a man could get a vast amount of sunlight to paint by. Lacko stops at a canvas in the center of the room. It shows a man in a waistcoat and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his shoes polished to a moonbeam shine. A saxophone is at his lips, his derby hat pulled down to his eyebrows. He stands on the edge of a large boulder, which has more huge rocks stacked above it. Green and gold lights swirl about him.
“That’s me,” I say. “Now wait a minute. How did you paint a picture of me like that? You told him, didn’t you, bass man? You told him what I looked like.”
“He told me about you, Vindler, but that’s not how I painted this picture. I made this long ago, when I was still a young man. It was one of my first works, actually. One of my first experiences with the pyronic of the guild.” Lacko moves to another painting he has hanging on the wall. It’s the Lady Magdala, her suit of armor lying on the ground and covered in blood. A man who looks much like Thurmond stands over her body with the sword of Magdala in one hand, her head in the other.
“You recognize this one too, eh?”
“I recognize the Lady Magdala in it, if that’s what you mean. But that never happened. Nice technique, though. Abstract enough, but still familiar. Thurmond could have told you about her too. If you’re trying to tell me that you see things and are then able to paint them, well, sorry mister. I’ve been around for a long time, seen a lot of things, and I don’t buy it.”
“I didn’t either,” Thurmond says. “But then he showed me the painting of Yama Dempuur, of the members of the parliament I killed with my bare hands. He knew the details of their faces down to the last freckle. How could he have known that, Vindler?”
“Pyronic visions,” Kenan says. “They happen in most who drink the elixir. Most are nothing more than hallucinations. Then there are those who drink and actually see, who actually know.”
Lacko’s head and hands tremble, but he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles sadly at me, then turns his head towards the spiral staircase at the back of the room. “Do you want to see the painting that will prove my visions are real to you?”
“By all means, Cappy. Lead the way.” Lacko
props one of his canes up against his body, then lifts a shaking hand up by his face. He draws a square in the air, and a screen thinner than paper appears. He types a few things on it with his fingers, after which there is a ding. The canes he was using contort to new shapes, floating down to his legs and wrapping around them. In a matter of seconds, they’ve transformed into leg armor, similar to the Lady Magdala’s.
“They help me get up the stairs,” Lacko says, noticing my look. He turns and starts up the spiral staircase, moving more lithely than any of the rest of us. The room at the top of the stairs is rounded, the ceiling a dome. In the middle of the room is a platform, atop which is a large telescope and a chair by its eyepiece.
“That’s some piece of hardware you got there, Cappy.”
“Yes, yes. Quite expensive to get here all the way from Yama Dempuur, and even more expensive to have it set up, if you can believe it. Not many people know how a telescope should work. Those who do can run up the price on their knowledge. Supply and demand, don’t you know. That’ll do for now, canes.” He opens the screen back up, types a code, and then the leg armor transforms back into the canes he was using.
“Never seen magic like that, Cappy.”
“It’s not magic,” Thurmond scoffs. “It’s science. Technology.”
“What’s the difference, Thurmond?” Lacko asks, shuffling towards the back of the room, away from the staircase. “Both magic and science rely on faith, do they not?”
“Yes, but science you can prove.”
“Ah, and therein lies the quandary. For proof requires perception, and perception is a fickle thing. Have you not learned anything since being here, friend?” Thurmond blushes at Lacko’s scolding, and I can see Kenan grin despite herself. “Here, Vindler. This is one of my most prized paintings. I don’t just show it to anyone. Look.”
There’s but one painting on the entire wall, and one light above it, which shines a soft orange upon the canvas. The painting is a departure from Lacko’s other vibrant works. Ink and watercolor. The colors are more pastel, and the characters he depicts seem to melt into the soft gray background. They are a man and a boy, a father and son. The older man has the younger in his arms. They both are smiling. The boy holds a basket full of eggs, held at a precarious angle. In fact, one egg has already slipped out, but has faded to nothing more than a faint curve of the pen at the edge of the painting. I look closer at the faces of the man and the child, see the faint brushes of color emanating from their mouths. It’s green and gold. My stomach goes up into my stomach when I finally recognize what I’m seeing.
“It’s...”
“It’s us,” Thurmond says. “You, me, and Kenan.” It’s the song I rode into Qani Dariel on, the music I forgot.
“This is the song of the father,” I say, moving old Sally Sue to my mouth, and giving the reed a lick. I can see the notes in the swirls of color, can see Kenan, Thurmond and myself grooving in that delicate watercolor. As I start in on the song, that which I had forgotten for so long, Kenan begins to sing. Her voice is high and raspy, but as beautiful as anything I’ve ever heard at the Brigadier. It melts into Sally Sue’s melody like butter on sweet corn.
“Thurmond, please, get your bass-saber,” Lacko whispers. Thurmond hurries down and up the stairs, immediately getting into the song with a walking bass line once he’s back by the painting. “Oh, that is splendid. Splendid,” Lacko says. The tears are hot as they drip down my face. The song is beautiful. Man, I couldn’t even tell you the last time I cried. Then again, my memory isn’t my strong suit, as I’ve proved through forgetting the song I came in on, the song I was made from.
By the time we’ve stopped, the room is alight with the pink of dawn. We’ve been playing all night. “Do you see now, Vindler?” Lacko asks me.
“I see it alright, Cappy. But more importantly, I hear.” I look to Thurmond, his fretting hand resting casually on the neck of his bass, and grin. “No wonder you’re chiller than an icebox, bass man. You hear it too. And baby, damn, I never knew you could sing like that.”
“Thank you,” Kenan says. “You were alright yourself.”
“This song, Cappy. It’s the Song of the Father. It’s the key that moves the groove along, that makes the bridges appear. We’re moving the gods along, aren’t we? I can’t believe I ever forgot.”
“They all forgot it, Vindler.” Lacko says, his voice tired. “Kenan and Thurmond here, they are nowhere near as long lived as you. They’ve lived in this world in different forms, as far as I can surmise. It was only through my painting that I was able to find you all, though it was only by luck that you all were brought together.”
“It wasn’t luck,” Kenan says. “Things have been set in motion by a greater power. We were brought together for a reason. You’ve told me as much before, from those books you have.”
“True, true, Kenan. Come, Vindler. I must show you one final thing. Then we all shall get some rest. Come.” The canes transform into the leg armor again, and Lacko leads us back down the stairway, to a study deeper in the house. The shelves are dusty, and there is only one window in the entire room. “These are old books,” Lacko says. “Some as old as the Great Schism, I believe. They must be handled with care.”
He takes an old volume down from the shelf, and with as delicate a touch as his liverspotted hands will allow, he begins to turn the pages. Once satisfied, he gingerly places the book on the cluttered desk by the wall, and begins to read. “This is from the journals of Baranda Ur, a royal in Vega Marduur, before the city was consumed by the Fade. Ahem.
“‘Following the Great Schism, the Fade was released on the spiral, and all was feared lost. It was only the music that lulled the great god Hyperion to sleep which kept the Fade from consuming all, as it allowed him to dream.’ Cryptic, yes, but I believe that Baranda is writing about your song. It was what put Hyperion to sleep and gave him the power to dream.”
“Put him to sleep?” I say. “Never in all my days have I ever put someone to sleep with my playing. I think you got me and Sally Sue here confused with someone else, Cappy.”
Lacko smiles. “I believe Baranda Ur uses the word ‘sleep’ for lack of a better term. I suspect that your music drew Hyperion's attention into himself, made him astounded at his inner life. If that were not done, then all would have been lost long ago, right when the powers of the spiral split. Hyperion would never have held on to any memories of what had been.”
“Interesting theory. Problem is, I don’t remember ever playing that song, or any other that made a bridge pop up for that matter, except for the scene in that painting of yours. There was some words from another language_”
“Nonsense words,” Kenan says. “In the pyronic fugues, many hear the gods speak a series of nonsense words.”
“What’s this pyronic you're all going on about?”
“We’ll talk more about that later,” Lacko says, stifling a yawn. “Now, I think we all need to get some sleep. Thurmond will show you to your room. You will be staying with us for as long as you’d like, Vindler. We have much to discuss, much to learn from each other.” He reaches his hand out, and we shake. His grip is surprisingly strong for a man so old, perhaps from his days in the military. He heads off with Kenan to one side of the house, and I follow Thurmond out the front door. We're walking over to a smaller house several stone’s throws away.
“A lot has changed, hasn’t it, old man?”
“Sure has, except that I’m still not that old, bass man.”
“Four millennia, you said?” He chuckles. “That was some great playing up there.”
“It was. She’s got a set of pipes on her, hasn’t she?”
“She does. She’s beautiful too, in a wild way.” Funny thing, Thurmond saying this. I only really noticed how gorgeous Kenan was when she began to sing. Then, oh boy, I was falling head over heels for her. We get to the small house’s door, and Thurmond opens one of those paper-thin screens in the air again. A few flicks of his fingers, and the door op
ens, without even so much as a push.
“What is that thing, anyway?”
“It’s a floating screen. You don’t have them in Qani Dariel?”
“We barely have electricity, my man. I think the Lady Magdala finds a certain romance in keeping things as simple as possible.” Saying her name brings to mind Lacko’s painting of Drinkwater standing over the Magdala, of the forest being burned to the ground. I suddenly don’t feel like having any more company. Thurmond must sense the change in my mood, as he softly grasps my shoulder.
“Look, Vindler, what happened back in the forest... I’m sorry about all of it. I should have never got so caught up with Drinkwater and the others. I’m sorry for having destroyed so much of Qani Dariel, and for what Drinkwater did to the Lady Magdala. Truly.” He walks over to the dresser by the window and mindlessly starts to fiddle with one of its knobs. “I’ve spoken at great lengths about all of this with Captain Lacko since coming here, have told him how guilty I feel. What has allowed me to sleep at night is the fact that all of this has been set in motion by some higher power. Some hand is guiding our actions. Lacko has confirmed this through the visions he paints. He sees how everything is being put into place, given purpose. I know that none of that makes what I did any more excusable. I don't expect you to forgive me, nor do I think you should. All I ask is that you understand that I did what I did because I thought it was right.”
“It’s alright, Thurmond. I understand." It's hard for me to look the man in the eyes. I want to stab him like I did when we were high up in the sky, over and over again, a jab for each tree he felled in Magdala's kingdom. In my heart of hearts, though, I know he's sincere in what he's saying. "If you don’t mind, I really need to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
"Of course." He trades the knob on the dresser for the neck of his bass, keeping it low to his leg so he doesn't hit it on the door on his way out. He's just about outside, when he turns back to me. He lifts his waistcoat, showing me the dressing over his ribs again. "I thank you for this, Vindler. Truly. It is a reminder of who I was and the wrongs I have done. I deserve far worse. Good night." He turns and walks back to the house, leaving me in the one room house all by myself. Is he to be trusted, I wonder. For that matter, are any of them? An old expat, a mercenary, and a violent revolutionary, all talking of gods and music and the fabric of the cosmos. It's enough to make a jazzman's head spin.
I hang Sally Sue and my hat up on the hooks by the door and kick my shoes under the bed. My head touches down on the feather pillow and I'm drifting off to dreamland faster than a hiccup. The song keeps playing over and over in my head. Lord, that voice. She kept her eyes closed as she sang, her face as smooth as silk as she climbed up and down her scales. Thurmond held down the groove, an embellishment here and there with a slap from his thumb, but it was solid all the way through. Man, I could just take off with this lot, let Sally Sue go wherever she wanted. The painting of the father and son brought me back to that place, the gravel drive connecting the chicken coop to the crooked house with the stovepipe chimney. The father hugged his boy so close. The child laughed at how the beard stubble tickled.
"Da Nava Da Nava Di?"
"Dibayanda Do." I'm in that fuzzy place just north of sleep, with the words still rolling off my tongue. A noise is bringing me out of it, a commotion. I fully come to, and stumble to the window to see what is going on. A handful of men stand around Lacko's house, all shirtless, all armed with spears. A man in full dress is knocking at the door. It takes my sleepy brain a moment to remember, but then I recognize him. He's Dapper Threads, the man I saw at the fire earlier in the evening, the man who had sent the smaller constellations into the larger.
"What are they doing?" I whisper to myself. Lacko and the others could be in trouble. I slide my shoes on, and grab Sally Sue from the hook she's sleeping on. I'll have to take myself a little peek.
I'm like a slinking cat when need be. Though there is only grass between my little house and Lacko's, it's high enough that I can get so that no one sees me. I get close enough to the men that I could let loose a stone and knock one of them out. Which is good, because that's exactly what I intend to do.
The man falls in a heap, quietly enough that none of the other sentries on guard hear a thing. I tiptoe right over the man's body, his hair like silver dew under the proud moon, and gaze into the window, expecting the worst. There's old Lacko, wobbling around just like I left him. He seems no worse for wear, though the pajamas he's wearing don't compliment the shape of his oddly proportioned body any. Dapper Threads, in a tailored blue doublet and linen jacket, sits in a plush chair. He blows at a steaming tea cup, while Lacko speaks to him.
"Did she suffer much, Jonthen?"
"Not any more than she did throughout the pregnancy, Cappy. The Great Mums kept her asleep."
"And the babe is well?"
Jonthen sighs. "As well as can be. The Ma’atha do not know what to make of him. Some see the child as a curse, some as a blessing. Kaiah was Amara's sister, and her death has made our brothers and sisters sick with grief. The moon fever has afflicted them greatly tonight. They all run wild through the forest."
"You're their scholar. You must keep them calm. Make them see the child as the blessing he is, as the bridge between two peoples."
"I will do my best, Cappy, but the moon fever is beyond me. You must keep inside tonight. I can not promise you safety beyond these walls. The guards will keep watch." Jonthen finishes his tea in one gulp, then pushes up from his chair. He nods twice, the last slower than the first, then starts for the door.
"Wait, Jonthen." Lacko's face goes dark. "What of Oblong?"
"What of him?"
"You must not do anything rash. The Parliament of Yama Dempuur will hold a trial, will want_"
"There will be no trial, Lacko." There is an anger in Jonthen that was not there before. Lacko chews on his lips, unsure of what to say. "Ma’atha will decide what to do with the raper yama." Jonthen has the last word, and with one more nod, he turns and leaves through the front door.
"Who are you?" The man comes up from behind me. I barely have time to get Sally Sue in front of me to block his spear. "What you do to Sam?" He speaks in a clipped dialect. He's as big an oaf as Thurmond, and could very well be the bass man's brother. He is quick with the spear, putting all the power in his upper body behind his thrusts. It won't be long now before the other guards hear the commotion, and rush over to help their comrade. Then his eyes go glassy, and he falls in a heap atop his buddy Sam. Standing a dozen or so yards behind him, her pistol still aimed in front of her, is Kenan.
"Well, aren't you a welcome sight for old eyes."
"Come on, let's go." She turns and starts to run back towards my house. She keeps the pistol in her hand, and I can see its tipped with a silencer. No wonder I didn't hear a gunshot.
We bound into the trees. Her footfalls are as silent as a doe's. "Thanks for helping out back there," I whisper to her. "Though you didn't have to kill the guy."
"I didn't kill him. The pistol is loaded with bullet-sized darts. They're poisonous, but non-lethal." There's not much of a path, just exposed tree roots where the mud has slid away. They act as ladder rungs for our upward climb. Just when I think I've no more breath left in me, Kenan pulls herself up between two ledges, which wedge together to make a sort of cave.
"We'll be safe here. By morning, the moon fever should have worn off, and we'll be able to make sense out of all this."
"I overheard them talking," I say, not sure if I should be telling her this or not. "What happened? A girl died?"
"A very special ma’atha girl, yes. She was pregnant, and it was suspected that it was by one of the highest ranking yama leaders on the island. He raped her, or so they say. They didn't have any proof until tonight. The girl delivered the baby, and the child's skin was far too light to be ma’atha. They finally had their proof, but at a cost. The ma’atha girl died giving birth. Now they hold the yama as prisoner, until they de
cide what to do with him. I was supposed to be on an ink ship out of here tonight, but it left without me. The pilot was afraid for his life and left early."
"Island politics, huh?" My trying to make light of the situation does not do much to lighten her mood. "So we're going to be sleeping here tonight?"
"No sleeping," She says, pulling a small flask out of one of the pockets she has on her belt. "We have to figure out where we've been in the song, as well as where we are going."
"What is that? Booze?"
"It's pyronic. It will help us remember. Come, help me make a fire." She takes off her black cloak and hangs it between the two ledges, so we are concealed from view.
"Now, now, girlie. I'm not about to take some drugs with you, especially when the woods are crawling with some angry tribes people who'd love to rip me to pieces."
She spits into the thin crack between the ledges, and starts cracking a large, dried-out branch over her knee. "Are you so content with drifting through life not knowing your purpose? With letting those whom you love die in vain?"
I look at this girl, who speaks so boldly, so bluntly, and have nothing else to say than, "You don't understand anything, girlie."
"Oh no? We have a saying in the Pyronic Guild: 'The only true wisdom is that which proves all else wrong.' There is no more time left to be afraid, Vindler."
"Alright, girlie. Just because you saved my life down there." The dried wood formed into a large enough pile, Kenan reaches into another pouch and produces a vial. She sprinkles a yellow dust from the vial onto the wood, and in seconds, there grows a mighty fire.
"Thanks for the help," She says sarcastically, handing me the flask of pyronic. "Now drink. Every last drop."
"Am I going on this trip alone?"
"Relax. I got mine right here," She says, producing another flask from a pouch at her back. "To the music."
"To the music." We clink flasks, and then back goes the pyronic. Good god, it tastes like fire, no wonder the name. The moon watches from on up high, and the embers from the fire crickle crackle into the cool night air.
"Do you hear that?"
"Howling."
"It's the ma’atha," She says. "Moon fever." I wonder if Thurmond is howling at the moon too, from the safety of Lacko’s home. Suddenly, it's getting a little too hard to breathe.
"I think I need a little air. The smoke is choking me. I... I can't breathe." I'm choking, gods help me. I try to make it through Amara's cloak, into the night air, but my legs have turned to jelly, and I fall face first into the stone ledge. I can hear Kenan yelling, telling me to relax, to go with it, but I can't. I'm panicking, gods, I can't breathe, I can't_
She socks me in the jaw, hard. I can feel the panic leave like a bad dream. "This stuff hits fast," I mutter, getting back up to my feet. The words fall funny from my lips. She nods, and I can see each muscle in her neck, working in tandem. Teeth like a wolf's, through a face of intricate patterns. She's beautiful in a wild way. The line of brown ink is connected, forms a path around from her face to her body that changes shape depending on the angle. She sees my eyes, and begins to remove her shirt so my eyes can keep following the line. She's a map of the worlds, the Grid, as the yama call it. How do I know this? Arcadia, Golgotha, Qani Dariel, Yama Dempuur, the Coral Islands, they are all different points on the map, but they're all connected, all one. The bridges aren't bridges at all, just the way my eyes see things. The bridges are an illusion.
"I can see it now," I say. "The path changes, but is the same."
"Yes, Vindler." Her smile grows larger. "Music is the key to the changes. Follow it to where you need to go." She starts to hum, the flames from the fire crackling with red, green, gold. She takes my hand, leads it over her body. Her heart beats in time with her voice. Our breathing quickens and grows as one.
He was lost in a land of endless parched earth and crisp blue sky. The wasteland. He had crossed a bridge by following the music, the click in his bicycle chain. He had gone with it, had let it take him where it wanted to. He went deeper into the spiral, saw things more clearly.
"We were there, in the wasteland."
"Yes." Her lips brush mine, and her breath tastes of cinnamon and smoke. Her humming has my skin buzzing like those old stage lights in the Brigadier, or those that line the courtyard where the lost man is met by the stranger.
"I'm so confused," I say, but she kisses my perplexities away. The ledge is cool under our naked bodies, the fire and smoke and pyronic making us as hot as Old Veera’s core. I see the courtyard, see where we have to go from here. The lost man must see the bridge, must hear the music, or he will be lost in the nightmare world forever. I tell her this, and she screams in rapture. In the forest around us, the ma’atha howl with moon fever, their voices echoing through the mountains. We both howl back, drunk on love and pyronic and the music of revelation.
Chapter XVI: “Hands of the Father”