Gossamer Axe (23 page)

For the first time since Devi had come to a sense of memory that was something more than the hazy and unsequenced recollections of childhood, she awoke in the middle of the night without an instinctive sense of panic. Her bed was no longer a reminder of times past, of plastic clothesline knotted about her wrists, of her pajamas pulled up over her face. It was merely a bed, a place to sleep; and if she had curled herself into a soft ball beneath the covers, she had, apparently, done so because it felt good.

Drowsy, she shook some of her curly hair out of her face and drifted back among the luminous images of her dreams. Christa was there, garbed in a mantle of sky blue, and behind her was an arch of unhewn stone that rose up from a green lawn to frame, precisely, a still lake. She held a cup, and beside her was an ornate harp, carved and gilded and begemmed.

“I’m here, Devi,” she said. “I’ve always been here.”

“Chris…”

“Take the cup, Devi. You’re grown up now, and it’s time for you to know that. Take the cup. Take yourself.”

Devi opened her eyes, turned over, and was again awake. Rubbing her face, she got up and used the bathroom; and she drank a glass of water as she stood before the mirror, eyeing herself, squinting in the glare from the white tile.

It seemed quite strange to her that she could feel so markedly different without there being, at the same time, a visible manifestation to reflect the inward change. But then again, that she had achieved such a profound alteration by drinking a cup of cider seemed more than strange: it seemed utterly ridiculous.

A part of her wanted to rebel at the thought, for the openness and irrationality into which she had thrust herself at dinner was both uncharacteristic and terrifying. But Christa had not hurt her. In fact, she had done her nothing but good; and when Devi turned around and faced the dark doorway that led into her bedroom, the shadows looked restful. She was not afraid. Her father was… someplace else. She could go back to bed.

As she settled herself under the covers, the memory of the harper was a warm presence that blanketed her like a down comforter. She saw the arch of stone again, saw Christa.

“I’m here, Devi. You’re grown up now.” Devi curled up, drifting into quiet memories of a land she did not know. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Somewhere, downstairs in the kitchen, a floorboard creaked. Or maybe the stove, cooling now after a day of cooking for the Sanchez and Lucero clans, gave up some of its accumulated heat of a sudden, metal sliding against metal: an abrupt, hollow clank.

Monica’s eyes flew open, and she was already sitting up in bed before she was aware of herself. “Ron?”

But no, the house was again inhabited only by the customary night sounds: her father snoring, the
tik-tik-tik
of a cooling water pipe, the rumbling of trucks on Speer Boulevard. Ron was…

She shuddered and clutched the blanket about her shoulders. Ron was somewhere. Earlier that evening, he had been at the front door, but Angel had promised him a broken arm if he did not leave. Strong and military, Monica’s brother was quite capable of carrying out the threat, and Ron had left.

But Ron had found her parents’ house, and so that was yet another haven denied her. He did not appear often these days, but when he did, it was obvious that he was now blaming her for everything from the disintegration of his band to his growing drug habit. He was still angry, and Angel could not be around all the time.

She put her head back down on the pillow and tried to sleep, but her ears were straining and she dozed fitfully, mouth dry, eyes burning. That window by the front door: was it really locked tight? The back door: was the chain on?

She might have left town, fleeing to Los Angeles or to Chicago to stay with relatives. There were other bands in the world. But what she had in Denver was more than an assemblage of musicians out to make a few dollars. It was even more than a family. Christa had given her respect and honor; and, singing with Gossamer Axe, Monica was not just pretty meat, she was a woman—something important, something powerful.

Titty band? Someone had called them that during their very first set. Christa had smiled ironically at the term and had blistered out a lead break that had rooted the dancers to the parquetry and turned them around to watch the woman who was making such music.

Monica’s response to the guitarist had gone beyond gratitude. It had become a matter of loyalty and of love. No, she would not leave. Ron had driven her away from music before. She would not let him do that again.

Towards dawn she fell asleep, and she dreamed of clubs, of concerts and stardom. And if there was a dark, shadowed figure lurking up in the balcony, she felt that, somehow, Christa was guarding her just as much as had Angel.

Melinda had finally cleared out the spare bedroom, and Lisa had moved in as a resident. After months on the road, the drummer found it utter luxury to have her own bed, her own dresser, and a room to herself. Without crabs.

But the apartment seemed a little too quiet tonight, for Melinda had gone out early in the afternoon—she had not said where—and she had not come home. True, she was a grown-up girl, and if she kept late hours, it was none of Lisa’s business. But Lisa considered her a friend, and she worried about her. Particularly after her rather addled performance on the first Friday of the InsideOut gig.

Coke? But Melinda had given that up a long time ago. Drugs were out. A little beer, maybe, but hard stuff? Forget it. Until recently.

Lisa got out of bed, stumped across the room, and opened her bedroom door. The light in the living room was still on. Melinda was still out. If she was doing coke—and she seemed to be doing a lot of it—then she had to have some fairly well-off friends, because no one made enough money in office supplies to suck up that much nose candy and still pay the rent.

Steps, a key in the lock. Lisa glanced at the clock: three in the morning. Quietly, she closed her door and crawled back into bed. She heard Melinda moving clumsily in the living room, crashing glasses in the kitchen, talking to herself.

The crashes gave Lisa an excuse. She cracked the door. “Hey, Mel.”

“Hey yourself.”

“You okay?”

“Jes’ fine.”

Lisa pulled on a robe and tottered into the kitchen. Melinda was stuffing a cold hot dog into her mouth. “Is that Christmas dinner?”

“Nuh…” Melinda chewed, swallowed, her movements choppy and quick. “Had that earlier.” Her makeup, thicker than usual, had smeared. Her lips were a red slash. “Got hungry again. Was I making noise?”

“Uh…” Lisa stuck her hands in her pockets, shrugged. “I think I just had to go pee. I’ll remember in a minute.”

Melinda nodded, lifted the hot dog again. “What’d you do today?”

“Saw my cousin and her kids. They filled me up with pasta and turkey. Shit, she’s younger than I am and she’s got a family already.” She broke off, stared. “What’s wrong with your wrists?”

“Huh?”

“You’re all bruised.”

Melinda examined the purple abrasions. “Jeez… I guess I must have jerked a little.” She laughed, and the sound was harsh. “He likes to tie me up. I go along with it.”

“Uh… sure.” Lisa started toward the bathroom, stopped, turned around. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Oh… someone…”

“Anyone I know?”

Melinda whirled on her suddenly, eyes hot. “Why the fuck do you want to know?”

Lisa blinked. “Sorry:”

“Just don’t push me, okay? I’m doing this for you.”

“For me?”

“Don’t fucking push me.”

Lisa retreated to the bathroom. She heard Melinda slam the refrigerator door, then the door to her room.

She rubbed at her face, sighed. “Hey, God,” she whispered. “You there?”

Conjoined with Christa, Kevin felt himself to be embracing the world, and the look in her eyes that took him back to his inner vision—now reified in tender caress, in passionate climax—was but a confirmation of what he had known since he had felt himself grasped by a divinity that was one with the touch of her hand: that this union, this bond of flesh and spirit, was not simply with a girl of Ireland, nor even with the woman that Christa had come to be to him. No, he had seen her as Goddess, and Goddess she was.

Come
, she had said.
Come to the altar
. And he had taken her hands, and she had led him to a place of safety and of hope, had taken him into herself and birthed him anew.

But, Goddess though she was, she was, nonetheless, still Christa, fragrant and soft, her hair spilling across the sheets and pillows in waves of sunset. Human and mortal as ever, she moved beneath him, sought his lips, wrapped her arms about him, gasped in the sudden rush of joy. Outside, in the night, frost crept along the windows, and the crystalline air seemed poised upon fracturing with the cold. But inside, in his bed, enfolding him, the warmth triumphed like a sunrise after a long night.

Spent then, floating upon the tenderness that had found him, he drifted into dreams that, even as he lived them, he knew to flow from her memories. A green land, wide and fertile under a blue sky, unrolled to meet him. The sun was yellow, the lakes shone like mirrors, and the forests lay dark with the mystery of their holy leaves.

Had she told him in words what she was and from where, his belief might have flickered in and out, his reason battling with his trust. But these dreams, he knew, were truth, and no doubt crossed his mind as, with Christa—Chairiste—he walked the meadows and forests of Eriu, called music forth from harps, touched Siudb with gentle hands in the moonlit brilliance of the Midsummer night, journeyed to the foot of the Sidh mound…

With her he saw France boil into a cauldron of revolution and blood, the burning chateaux of the land streaking the summer sky with black plumes. With her he fled to England, wandered Ireland, journeyed to America, discovered rock and roll…

… met Kevin Larkin… and healed him.

He opened his eyes and found that the windows were gray with dawn, the windows opalescent with new light. Christa slept, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Gently, he touched her hair. An Irish girl. But more. Much, much more.

Silently, joyfully, he wept. Pledged, devoted to another, she had given him this night because she loved him, because he was worthy. There was no question of possession or of jealousy: she had already given him everything. He could not but give in return.

Christa stirred, murmured in her sleep, and her hand on his chest clenched, relaxed, lay quietly. He stared at her hand, at the long harper-nails that glowed pink with polish in the rising light. How old was her hand? How many years had it seen? How many harpstrings had it touched?

Meaningless maunderings. Covering her hand with his own, he kissed her head, slid back into her dreams, and awoke to morning and the sound of a harp in the next room.

His memory of the evening and of the night slowly returned, and he was at peace. If he had awakened with Christa by his side, the morning would have been perfect. But nothing was ever perfect, and in any case he was glad of the chance to hear her play, so the imperfection was good, too. The harp chimed on, and in its song he heard more songs, and those in turn led on to others. It was very simple. It was very good.

Rising, he stretched the stiffness out of his body and wrapped himself in a robe. He smelled coffee and the scent of burning pine, and when he went to the door, he saw a woman in a white robe playing a harp strung with gold. Her hair was red and flowing, freshly washed and lustrous, drying in the shimmering heat from the wood stove.

She did not notice him. She was occupied with her music; occupied also with the battered old harp that lay on the floor at her feet. The song wove in and out, and Kevin sensed that she was trying to comfort the instrument.

Magic. He smiled. She had told him about that. He understood now.

She finished the song, bent, and touched the old harp. The brass was still corroded, the wood was still cracked and rotten, but it seemed more alive now, as though its spirit had returned.

“Chairiste,” said Kevin softly.

At the name, she looked up; and then she gasped when she realized what he had called her. Slowly, she nodded to him. “Good morning, Kevin. Brigit bless.”

She was lovely. She might have stepped out of his dreams that night. “Good morning. Brigit…”
Take my Gods
. He smiled self-consciously, ran a hand back through his hair, scratched at the stubble on his face. Why not? “Brigit bless.”

“I made coffee.”

“Thanks.”

He filled two mugs and sat down with her by the stove. The heat was friendly and warm, and the pine logs crackled and snapped. From outside came the wet sound of melting snow. “That’s my grandfather’s harp,” he said.

“A sad harp it is,” she said, touching it again. She had apparently cleaned it up a little before she had played, and with the dust and dirt and broken strings removed, he could see carving along the side of the soundbox:

In the time of Noah I was green,

After his flood I was not seen,

Until 17 hundred 07—then I was found

By Cormac Kelly, under ground:

He raised me up to that degree,

Queen of music you may call me.

“1707,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s an old harp.”

“Old, Chairiste?”

She dropped her eyes, bit at her lip.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She set her harp across her lap and picked up her coffee. Her hand was shaking as she sipped. “Would you have believed me?”

“I might have.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Hey, anything’s possible. I’m one of those crazy Irish boys, remember?”

Christa smiled. Her eyes were, he thought, even bluer than in his dreams. “I remember. And it’s glad I am that you know. It’s been a long time since… since…” She gave up. But her hand was steady again.

The silence lengthened. The harp was old. Christa was older still. He was a child in comparison. “My history isn’t too good,” he said. “Those houses, the school— when was that?”

“The sixth century.” Her hand strayed to the jeweled harp. “As far as I can tell, I was born about 551.”

“And Si—” He stumbled over the Gaeidelg name. “And Judith is…”

“She’s still in the Realm. It’s been about two centuries— our time—since I left. I don’t know what it’s been for her. Time doesn’t really exist there.”

“And you’re going to use metal to get her out.”

Christa nodded. She ran her hand along her harp’s forepillar. “I can only do so much with Ceis. I have to make up for my lacks with sheer power. By his nature, Orfide can learn nothing new. He will neither understand the music nor be able to fight the volume.”

Kevin laughed softly. “You’re going to blow his socks off, Chris.”

“He’s subtle. He’s won before. He might be able to match even the volume with his skill.” For an instant, the razor flashed in her eyes. “But he’d best be on his guard, for it’s no simple harper he’ll face this time.”

“Can I help?”

“You’ve helped already, Kevin,” she said. “You gave me my tools. And more.” The expression on her face was that of the Goddess he had seen. “It’s up to me to use them.”

In the morning light, Christa and her harp shone like a stained-glass window, at once distant and close, antique and immanent. But Kevin thought now that it was silly to draw such distinctions. The sacred, the holy, was immediate, perceptible. If he perceived distance, it was something of his own creation, something he could, with effort, see beyond. As he had last night.

He felt strong, complete. “I owe you, Chris,” he said. “I owe you, and Judith, and your teachers. And your Gods, too. You turned me around last night. I want to help.” He started to reach out, hesitated, then hugged her and felt her lips against his cheek. “You’re not alone anymore, Chairiste. There’s two of us.”

*three*

He heard the voice within him, blinked, shook his head. He realized that it belonged to Ceis. “It can talk?”

She leaned the harp against her left shoulder and struck a soft chord. “It’s a different world you’ve come into, Kevin. Ceis is a Sidh harp. Of course it can talk.”