Last Chants (18 page)

I was tired of discussing it. “Let's just do it, Edward. Lie there and think about naked women, for all I care, okay? If we're going to try this, let's try it.”

For all my practical and modern notions, for all my doubts, I found I was scared. I felt a kid's thrill that it might work and an adult's fear of what that would mean.

Not without wisecracks, Edward unrolled the sleeping bags and turned out the lights. We lay down.

The drumming instantly changed the mood. It wasn't just an auditory experience: I could feel the vibrations through the floor, throughout my body. They were stronger than I'd expected. As they rumbled through every inch of me, I became more willing to believe they affected my brain hemispheres.

I tried to do as I'd been instructed. All the while Arthur's
drumming reverberated through the floor, filling my ears and striking my bones like a tuning fork.

I lay there a long time, squelching mental noise (especially the Beach Boys' hit, “Good Vibrations”) and trying—very sheepishly—to jump into holes. Just when I'd decided it would be more fruitful to sleep, my mind's eye gave me a tunnel.

I never for a moment felt I left my body. I never lost awareness of being in a room listening to a drum being beaten. But I did feel as if finally, half dozing, I unhooked conscious control of my imagination, that it ranged freely because I'd dropped the reins. I felt as if I were allowing myself to dream while still awake.

When the drumming stopped, I was pulled out of a fantasy so colorful and, well, other-dimensional, that I didn't want to go.

“Wow,” I said groggily. “It was like I saw—”

“No,” Arthur warned. “Don't tell us. The animal you saw is your guide, yours alone. What's important is that you experienced something. You did, didn't you?”

“Well . . . ” I wasn't quite sure. “I wouldn't call it a trance. It wasn't as real as a drug trip or as visual as a dream. But I imagined some places, yes.”

“You didn't imagine them. When you go back, you'll find them as you saw them now. You'll begin making a map, as with any place you visit.”

I was afraid to hear Edward's take on this.

“Edward?” Arthur asked. “Have we put the smallest chink in your skepticism?”

He didn't answer immediately. Then he said, “Yes and no.” I heard him rise.

A moment later, the naked bulb glared above us.

“I guess I've got a better idea,” he conceded, “of what shamans are up to. But I didn't trip out, myself.”

“It's more difficult for some,” Arthur said, shading his eyes. “We see video footage of tribal dances, the mask wearing, the trancelike movements, and we assume it's a ritual much like the consecration of the host in Catholic mass. But it isn't. You'll notice there's always someone drumming or shaking a rattle or rhythmically clapping sticks. The shamans in the circle aren't dancing, they're in nonordinary states, in another dimension entirely. Until our anthropologists understand this, their analyses
will continue to be superficial. These people aren't in some mumbo jumbo discotheque—they've gone someplace very real. We're the ones who've traded the universe away for one unremarkable myth.”

Edward looked troubled . . . for someone who'd supposedly been lying there as sober as a judge.

“Billy Seawuit taught me so much.” Arthur's voice cracked. “He took me places other shamans couldn't even imagine. He'd journeyed so extensively and returned with so much wisdom, so many answers.”

“Including how to turn all this into a computer program?” I explained what Toni Nelson had said about computers journeying for us, bringing us the answers directly.

“It can't be done.” Arthur looked aghast. “It's the soul itself—whatever you may think that is, whether the subconscious mind or the collective unconscious or the holy spirit—it's the soul that journeys. How can one send computer electrons out to do the soul's work?”

“You think Toni was lying? You don't think Seawuit signed on to help with this program?”

“Billy may have agreed to consult with them about TechnoShaman.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as if the thought were painful to him.

“But he didn't think it would work?”

“He had accepted the Nelsons' hospitality. He may have felt it necessary to answer their questions about journeying and, perhaps, even share his personal map. But when I visited him here”—tears welled up in his eyes—“it was to explore the potential new Sun Dagger. Or to discuss the sightings of Pan. Or to take care of mundane matters, the plans and correspondence Billy took it upon himself to help me organize. I am computer literate, certainly. But I am no computer mystic; I don't equate cyberspace with nonordinary reality. And I don't believe Billy did. Because they are not the same. It's the difference between Chartres and Heaven, between what we are able to create and the far greater thing we seek.”

Edward sat at the table, beer bottle in hand. I lay on my side on the smelly sleeping bag, too tired to get up.

“He was a good-looking guy, Seawuit?” Edward wondered.

Arthur nodded.

“And he wasn't convinced this computer stuff was going to work.” Edward waited for another nod. When he didn't get one, he continued. “Maybe he stuck around the Nelsons' for another reason. Maybe he was bonking Toni Nelson.”

Arthur scooted his chair back, putting a few more inches between himself and Edward.

“Maybe Galen got jealous,” Edward continued, “and knifed him.”

“Or maybe her ex-husband did. Arthur,” I said gently, “I know this isn't how you want to remember Billy, but . . . Did he ever mention having feelings for Toni?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “He mentioned her in passing, of course. But she's a person of little apparent wisdom; I wouldn't guess her to be his type.”

“But opposites do attract.” Edward flashed me a broad smile. “Right, Willa?”

I wasn't sure if he referred to our years-ago affair or to my feelings about Surgelato. Either way, he was damned obnoxious.

“Did Billy ever talk about someone named Stu?” I wondered. “Toni's ex-husband. We heard he picked a fight with Billy.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head slowly. “No, I don't recall the name. And I certainly didn't hear about a fight.” Again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Except within the context of his journeys.”

“Maybe you assumed he was talking about a journey when he wasn't.”

Arthur looked amused. “Struggles within journeys tend to be rather . . . titanic. So no, I don't think so.”

“You know, we've got time enough tonight to go hang with the Nelsons,” Edward pointed out. “Maybe get some details. Where to find Stu.”

Since he seemed to be talking to me, I replied. “I don't want to see them. And I don't want them to see Arthur.”

“You don't mind if we leave you here for a half hour or so, do you?” Edward asked him.

Arthur looked a little taken aback. “No.”

“Well, I don't want to go,” I repeated. “What would we possibly say to them when we got there?”

Edward guzzled the remainder of his beer. “We'll think of something. I want to see this place. See the famous dryadic Toni for myself.”

“We don't have the slightest pretext, Edward.”

“We'll tell them you saw this Pan character. You can go on about him. We'll say we wanted to warn them or something.” He stood, looking cheerful. “It'll work. We'll make it work.”

I almost expected him to add, It'll be fun.

I looked up at Edward, bursting with energy and cheer, a little tanked on beer. I felt wrung out, exhausted. Left to my own devices, I'd have lain down and mulled the waking dream Arthur's drumming had produced.

But it's useless to argue with someone whose energy far exceeds your own.

Before I could even try, Edward had taken my hand and yanked me to my feet.

“Good thing we bought you that party dress.” He referred to the thrift-store jeans and T-shirt I'd changed into.

“I don't want to go,” I repeated for the record.

But the record didn't do a thing to help me. Edward pushed me toward the door.

E
dward grinned at me when he rang the Nelsons' bell. I made sure my face told him I hadn't changed my mind about being here.

When Galen Nelson opened the door, his face mirrored mine. He pulled himself straighter, inhaling in a give-me-patience way.

Edward stuck his hand out for shaking. “Something's up. Do you mind if we come in and talk to you about it?”

Nelson might have said no to phony friendliness or a purported social call, but this left him at a loss. He shook Edward's hand.

Toni Nelson appeared behind him. “Who is it?” Her voice was soft with alarm.

Standing behind Galen, she looked enormous, taller and broader than him, almost flouncy in a multicolored caftan. She whispered something to Galen.

He muttered, “They say something's happened.” To us: “Is that right?”

Edward said, “Yes. We're sorry to bother you. But, Wil—Alice here had a hell of a scare, and we thought we'd better talk to you. Warn you.”

In response to his nudge, I nodded.

Toni hugged herself, her expression guarded. Galen's was always guarded. It wasn't difficult to conclude we weren't welcome.

“Can we come in?” Edward asked. “It's important.”

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. Important to whom? Basically, Edward was bored tonight, and the Nelsons were our entertainment.

Galen shrugged, stepping aside to allow us in. Edward, his hand on the small of my back, gave me a push. Because Toni was slow to back up, I nearly collided with her. I offered a lame smile of apology.

Edward skirted past her.

It was a joy to sit in a warm room full of soft furniture. I sank into an armchair, wishing I could sleep in it tonight. The carpet was yellow-white, the furniture dark blue; it was cheerful. The walls were oiled wood with so many shuttered windows there was little room for art. I noticed a few small, precise drawings that looked more like symbols than scenes. I wondered if they were Toni's work.

Edward sat on a fat love seat, looking around the room. He seemed to focus on coffee-table objects—papers and books and a few remote control devices, though I saw no television in the room.

“Well,” he said cheerfully. He watched the Nelsons sit opposite him on a sofa, two cushions between them. “Remember we were talking about this Pan character running around the woods here?”

“I wouldn't take Jonathan too seriously,” Galen advised.

“Alice bumped into him tonight—Pan, I mean. I saw him, too. He's real, all right.”

Galen looked at Toni. But the glance lacked warmth; it struck me as a quick check to see if she cared.

“You're not going tell us he's a goat man?” Galen said sourly.

“Who are we talking about? What about Jon?” Toni demanded.

“Pan.” Galen's tone was arch. “Jon says he saw him, goat legs and all.”

Toni stiffened. “Who's Pan?”

“The Greek god with the goat legs.”

“Galen!” Her tone carried a warning. “Come on. Who are we talking about?”

“No, he's right.” Edward sounded apologetic. “We were having a conversation over lunch about Pan, from Greek mythology. Alice was asking if anybody'd sighted him here. She thought she heard him playing pipes, thought she saw him the other day.”

Toni's expression said, Lie to me some more.

“I didn't say he had goat legs,” I hastened to add.

Galen seemed nonplused. “Are you mostly interested in the myth or in this person?”

“The person,” I assured him. I tried to imagine myself dropping in just to chat about demigods. “I was taking a walk in the woods and there he was. He has a British accent. But he thinks he's Pan. He thinks he was banished here by the goddess Diana.”

Galen shrugged. “Making him mountain nut case number two hundred and six?” He gestured toward the shuttered windows. “There are homeless people everywhere, and just as we tend to be more eccentric up in BC, our homeless are probably more colorful, too.”

I looked at Edward. We'd pretty much exhausted our pretext.

Not as far as Edward was concerned. “He could be dangerous. You should take precautions.”

“Did he threaten you in some way?”

“No,” I admitted.

Again, Edward took the reins. “He mentioned seeing a lady here in the woods that he thought was his long-lost love from mythology. We're worried he meant you, Mrs. Nelson.”

And indeed, sitting there in her colorful robe, hair tumbling almost into her lap, she certainly seemed a grander creature than my mortal self. I felt my hand stray to my hair. It had been as long and as blond as Toni Nelson's, but it had never made me look like Botticelli's Venus, not even close.

“Why would he think my wife was somebody in a myth?” Galen asked unchivalrously.

“We don't know that he does.” I didn't want to scare them just because we'd needed an excuse to visit. “It's just that he said he'd seen Syrinx in the woods—”

“Syrinx being his mythological mate?” Galen wondered.

“Yes. And it occurred to us that she looks, you look, sort of like a Greek statue.”

Toni Nelson didn't seem pleased.

Edward hastened to explain, “We thought we'd better mention it. In case it was a stalker situation.”

I thought he'd gone too far. Nobody should have to worry about being stalked, not without evidence. And we were just blowing smoke.

Galen chewed the inside of his lean cheek, looking at his wife. He turned back to us. “Anything else?”

I glanced at Edward. Did he want me to bring up the knife?