Gossamer Axe (24 page)

Clesac is Orfide’s second-best harp, and though it is richly adorned with gems and gold and carving, still it is a constant reminder of Ceis, lost to him now. It reminds him, too, of Chairiste, and of her escape.

The Realm does not change. Angry at the cheek of the Gaeidil, humiliated by his loss, Orfide must exist with those emotions forever. He cannot grow beyond them, and therefore his resentment gnaws at him like a canker within the lily.

But if, as he plays for Cumad, he dwells upon his injuries, his face and demeanor show nothing of it. He is a bard, and his king has asked him to play for the queen, to soothe her concerns, to quiet the questioning voices within her.

And so, outwardly impassive, he weaves his spell, the strains of melody and counterpoint twining about the queen, seeking to stem the sudden onslaught of the new and the strange. Since eternity began, since the Realm unfolded into being with all of its past, present, and future contained in an immediate, changeless
now
, Orfide has been its guardian in just this way. The Realm will not change. It cannot change.

As he plays, though, he feels the changes growing about him nonetheless. Rents, tears, the gradual tattering of the fabric of stasis: in his mind’s eye, Orfide sees it all as though a veil were being slowly shredded. Cumad’s ailment (dare he, even to himself, call it madness?) is but a symptom of a more widespread disease.

It is Siudb that is the problem. Lamcrann considers her a toy, an amusement; but Cumad is beginning to look to her for inspiration, and Glasluit has already been hopelessly corrupted. Tears, rents. If Orfide played constantly, filling the Realm with unending, imperishable music, yet would he be unable to contain the contagion that Siudb spreads.

The Gaeidil must be stopped, must be made more of a substance with the Realm before she destroys it. Her nature must be changed.

Orfide has given this thought, and he knows that he can accomplish the desired end. Holding him back, though, is the potential displeasure of his king. Lamcrann actually likes Siudb’s novelty… in small doses.

And so the bard must be patient. Lamcrann will enjoy a nearly successful escape attempt on Siudb’s part no more than a proposed change in her nature; but, faced with the former, he will, most likely, prefer the latter. Better to have a docile Celt than no Celt at all.

On her throne, Cumad sits, hands folded in her lap, eyes closed. Siudb is not with her. Orfide knows where she is. His face a careful mask of calm, he sparkles through the music, through the spell, and the final cadence glows like a double handful of fire strewn upon the palace floor.

Cumad opens her eyes. “My thanks to you, master bard.”

Orfide rises, bows. “It is my honor, O queen.”

But she looks troubled. Her hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve. “But you have played that song before.”

“I have, my queen.”

“It has not changed.”

He stands, speechless, his hand tight on his harp. His second-best harp.

Cumad rises from her throne, eyes wide. “It is the same song.”

“My queen—”

But she has already turned and rushed out of the room. Her footsteps clatter down the stairs, across the courtyard. Orfide goes to the window in time to see her pale figure fade into the shadows that surround the palace.

He passes a hand across his face. Changes. And even if Siudb were altered, that itself would be another change, another tear in the gossamer fabric of the Realm.

And as he stands at the window, staring out at the dim world, a flicker of something bright catches his eye. A twinkling star burns near the zenith of the overarching vault of darkness that encompasses the Realm. It vanishes in a moment, but its afterimage burns in his brain. A star.

The night wind turns cold.

Bill Sarah’s word was good, and Gossamer Axe was back at InsideOut immediately after the holidays. Attendance at the club was growing steadily, and Bill used that fact to good advantage, securing both an article about the band in the entertainment section of the
Rocky Mountain News
and an interview with Christa in one of the local music tabloids.

“Cindy Holmes from
Rockbeat
is coming out to talk to you, Chris,” he said when he phoned with the news. “She’s an okay gal. Polite and all that. You know, some of these people get sort of pushy when they’ve been in the business for a while.”

“Pushy, Bill?” Christa laughed.

He laughed also. “Come on, Chris, you know me. Anyway, she’s going to talk to you about your style. She’s been out at the club a few times, and she thinks you’re hot. Of course, that’s to be expected. But try not to scare her.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Well… you’ve said a few things about music that curled my hair. What I’ve got left of it. But… wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.” He deliberated, humming tunelessly. “On second thought, tell her whatever you want. Everyone’s always turning metal into satanism, but you’ve definitely got something else going. And it’s healthy: it makes people feel good. Go on, weird her out. Good promo. Keep ’em guessing.”

“All right, Bill.” Good promo. Was that what her religion had become? “Is everyone happy at InsideOut?”

“You really need to ask? You’re blowing them away. Carl should be pretty excited. It isn’t every club owner who gets to start the next Van Halen.”

“I’m not Eddie Van Halen!”

“I know. You’re much prettier, especially since he cut his hair. Oh yeah: Bangles wants you in two weeks. I told them yes so they could make their ad deadlines.”

“Oh, Brigit…”

“Relax, Chris. Enjoy the ride. And… loosen up, will you? This is rock and roll. This is fun, remember?”

“Ah… thanks, Bill.”

She hung up and stood by the phone for a minute, feeling torn. She was a harper. Rock and roll was something that was going to rescue Judith, no more. To keep her band together, though, she had to allow her guitar to influence ever-larger portions of her life, and she found herself confronted by a growing list of club dates and small concerts. It was unnerving, unsettling.

But as the days lengthened toward spring, it became more than that, for many of Christa’s harp students began to cancel their lessons. Their excuses were varied and somewhat predictable—time, money, commitments—but she could sense the real reason: harp and heavy metal did not mix. A harper who suddenly espoused a more violent and modern music, who showed a growing preference for leather pants and boots, for streaks of crimson and purple in her hair, for metallic blouses and barbaric jewelry, could expect nothing else than to lose students.

A bitter taste came to be in her mouth when she donned her stage clothes and prepared for a show. By their actions, her students were as much as telling her that her work with them had been wasted. She had loved them as her children, had tried to share with them the joy and fire that she found not only among harpstrings, but in all music, and they had rejected her.

Kevin met her backstage as she warmed up one evening. Lisa was changing the head on her much-hated snare while Devi was helping Monica with her microphone stand. Melinda was missing, but that was not unusual: she was making a habit of showing up at the last minute with a vagueness about the edges of her eyes that worried her bandmates.

Kevin’s grin was reassuring. “How’s my Celt?”

She wrinkled her nose. Two more students had canceled that afternoon, and one had been quite frank about his reasons. “I’m after finding out that the more metalheads I get for fans, the fewer harp students I’ll have.” She told him what was happening. “Dear Goddess, Kevin, it’s just music!”

He shook his head. “I guess I should have warned you that first day at the school. A lot of people out there want rock and roll to go away. It’s been that way from the beginning. You’ve thrown in with a pretty scruffy bunch.”

She snorted and banged out an unamplified chord. “They’d think our whole people was a pretty scruffy bunch. At least these days we only spike out our hair with lacquer.”

“What’d we use back when?”

“Lime.” She smiled at the thought. “Like cement. And some of us went into battle naked.”

“Be a hell of a show, wouldn’t it?”

He made her laugh; but on stage, with the music and the energy flaring around her, she brooded on the matter. Her solos took a darker, more reflective turn, and during the first break, when she paused in the dressing room to fix her makeup and hair, her reflection disturbed her. Where was the quiet Christa Cruitaire of the crepe de Chine blouses and the khaki slacks? Gone. Her place had been usurped by this figure in tight leather and boots, a woman hardly out of girlhood with deep-shadowed eyes, a mane of red hair, and breasts that strained against barely concealing spandex and lace.

Beside her, Monica was applying a lipstick that turned her mouth the color of an open wound. “You’re looking good, Chris,” she said with a wink. “What happened? You get yourself laid?”

Pale, Celtic skin showed blushes better than any other complexion. “Why… why do you ask?”

“Because ever since the holidays, you’ve been practically glowing. And the way you’re playing just about gives me wet pants.” Monica finished with the lipstick, picked a bit of fuzz out of her mascara. “That’s pretty neat. Good for you.”

Monica went toward the door to the club, paused with her hand on the knob, came back. “Would you… uh… mind if I sort of stuck with you during break?”

Christa heard the tone. “Ron?”

Monica lowered her voice. “Yeah. He was hanging around my car this afternoon when I got off work. He took off when he saw me, but I’ve kind of wondered…”

Beneath her makeup, Monica’s face was haggard. Christa knew that, unable to change her work schedule to accommodate late nights, she shorted herself on sleep and slept in on weekends, eking out her stamina with an occasional amphetamine. Ron was something extra that she did not need on her mind. “Surely.” Christa slipped an arm about her waist. “Stay with me. And if he shows up, I’ll give everyone a good show.”

“You crazy dyke. You’d do it too, wouldn’t you?”

Out in the main room, the patrons seemed fascinated by Christa. Strangers shook her hand and wanted to talk to her. Napkins and pens were pressed on her for autographs. A girl—underage by the look of her—with hair dyed black and eyes that were all liner and shadow, just stared. On her T-shirt was painted
Christa is God
.

Christa noticed that she kept her nails short, and that her hands looked stronger than was usual for girls her age. “You play guitar?”

The girl looked almost frightened, but she forced herself to nod. “Yeah. I… uh… I got a Charvel.”

“I’ve seen them. They’re nice.”

“Oh… wow…”

“Do you have a band?”

“Just… uh… oh, jeez… We’re just starting out. We don’t sound too good right now.”

Christa smiled. She had failed as a harp teacher, but perhaps she could make a difference here. “Keep at it. Just play. That’s the important thing. And remember that you can do almost anything with music.” She looked at her earnestly. “Almost anything. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah. I’ve heard you do it.”

Christa clasped her hand for a moment. “Brigit bless,” she said, the girl broke out in a smile and scuttled away to her friends.

“You’ve arrived, Chris.” Monica was shouting in her ear to be heard above the recorded music. “
Christa is God
. How about that?”

Christa saw Kevin at a table on an upper level and steered Monica in his direction. “Shouldn’t that be
Goddess
?”

Monica laughed. “You’re wild.”

“Honestly, don’t you think so?”

“I think it would be hot to be a Goddess,” said Monica as they climbed the stairs. “Instead of a slut.”

Christa stopped her halfway up. “So be one.”

The canned music surged around them, the flashing lights speckled Monica’s hair with gold. “What?”

“
Be
a Goddess.”

Monica shook her head wonderingly. “Chris, you’re wild.”

Kevin had left his family, left his religion, left all but the roots of his heritage in the pursuit of a vision of Divinity that he had at last attained through the intercession of a young woman from another time and place. He had been a boy before, but now he was a man. He did not question that, did not feel the slightest need to prove it, and with wide arms he embraced his new life.

Come Imbolc, the beginning of Spring, the weather was mild, as though the waxing light were indeed making inroads on the cold season. Kevin joined Christa at dawn for the simple rite, and though he did not understand the ancient language, he knew he belonged there. Christa blessed a cup of wine, offered it to him, and once again he looked into the eyes of the Goddess to whom poets and healers and smiths and harpers owed homage.

But afterward, over breakfast, he was quiet. “Old memories?” said Christa.

“Kinda.” He spooned his oatmeal around in his bowl. “I’ve been trying to find Danny. He needs a family, and I’m all he’s got left. No luck. My relatives don’t know or won’t tell, and I’m out of ideas. It’s a big world. He could be anywhere. He could have changed his name. He could…” His voice broke for an instant. “He could be dead already. He needs to know that someone cares.”

“Did you try calling his seminary?”

“Are you kidding? They’d probably prefer him dead.”

Christa poured milk into her coffee. “Today is traditionally a time of purification,” she said, “a time to get rid of all the dross and impurity in our souls. I’ve brooded on the fact that the Christians more or less destroyed my culture. You’ve spent your life angry at Father Lynch and his Church. But maybe all of that is blinding us and making us forget that there are some sincere people out there who just happen to worship a foreign God.”

Kevin shrugged. “I’ll grant that.”

“All right, then what about Danny’s school? Maybe someone there knows and cares. Let’s forgive what’s gone before and get ready for Spring.”

The task was nonetheless difficult. Kevin did not know where Danny had studied. A visit to the offices of the Denver archdiocese produced a long list of seminaries in the United States, and there was nothing for Kevin and Christa to do but work their way through it.

More waiting, more frustration. But finally, as Christa— guitar in hand, garbed in the black leather and sensuality of rock and roll—was heading out the door to yet another performance, a return call came in from a Father Paul Lennox. Yes, he said in a soft Southern accent, he had known Danny Larkin. And he knew where he was.