Changer (Athanor) (69 page)

“Oh.”

“And there may be a
pooka
or two,” Bronson hastens to add.  “I’m not certain about the details.  I do know that the trolls couldn’t be convinced.  They were worried about the intensity of the sunlight out there.”

“Oh.”  Arthur swallows hard.  “Is that all?”

“I’m really not certain.  Apparently the Moderator has had the most luck recruiting from first world countries where there is a developed computer network.”

“I can understand that.  Even I have trouble reaching those athanor who reside elsewhere without magic.”  Arthur is pleased with his matter-of-fact tone.  He decides to essay a more awkward issue.  “May I ask why you are coming?”

Bronson says, “Well, Rebecca really wanted to go.  When I realized that she’d be brokenhearted if I forbad her—never a good idea in any case if you want a healthy marriage—I decided to accompany her.”

“No, no…  I mean, that’s very interesting and very responsible of you, Bronson.  What I was wondering is why is this convocation coming to call on me?”

“Oh,” Bronson can be heard swallowing hard.  “Well, most of them aren’t very happy with how you’ve been administering the theriomorphs, most particularly those of us who aren’t of animal nature.  Isolation works fine for a rabbit or bird…”

Arthur recalls the Changer, raven-form croaking “Nevermore.”

“Yes.”

“But many of the others feel as Rebecca does, that we must make ourselves known to the world at large.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Arthur moans softly.  “That again!”

“That again,” Bronson says apologetically.  “I’m happy with the current situation, but the younger ones are more ambitious.”

“So, when can I expect you?”

Bronson sounds relieved to leave the philosophical issues alone.  “The Moderator is sending in a small plane to pick us up.  I believe one of the
tengu
is piloting.  We’re arriving at an airstrip in Albuquerque.”

“Not Albuquerque International!”

“No, I have the impression it’s a smaller place, maybe a private landing field.”

Arthur exchanges worried glances with Eddie.  Even at a small strip there will be humans who may see more than is wise.

“And will you be availing yourself of the facilities of my hacienda?” he says hopefully.  “Your dues do go toward its upkeep against such need.”

“I think the Moderator has arranged for all of us to stay at a hotel,” Bronson says, the note of apology back in his voice.  “That’s part of the issue, you see.  Being permitted out in public.”

“Oh, quite right.  If you change your mind…”

“I’ll mention it to Rebecca, but I think she has her heart set on visiting with some of her Net friends in the flesh.”

“She could do that here,” Arthur reminds him.

“Only if all of them were convinced to stay at your hacienda,” Bronson explains.

“Right.”  Arthur swallows another sigh.  “I say, Bronson, who is this Moderator you’ve mentioned?”

“I don’t really know,” Bronson admits.  “Rebecca just calls him the Moderator.  He set up the chatroom and now has arranged for this trip.  My guess is that he is a shapeshifter, since he doesn’t seem worried about his mixing with the humans.  Maybe he’s a
tengu
.  They seem pretty active in this.”

“But you have no idea who he is?”

“None at all.  I don’t even know if it’s a male.  I’ve just gathered that.  I can’t say I haven’t wondered, but, honestly, I don’t think Rebecca’s fervor for the issues would change if she learned it was Satan himself.”

Satan,
Arthur thinks,
doesn’t exist, but I know someone as mischievous who does.  I wonder if this is how Sven’s been spending his spare time since his meeting with the Changer?

Eddie holds up a note that reads: “‘Get the website address for this chatroom.’”

“Do you have the address for the chatroom?” Arthur asks casually.  “I might as well send along an invitation myself for folks to stay here.”

“Sorry, that’s Rebecca’s bailiwick.  I don’t care for computers myself.  My hands don’t keyboard comfortably.”

“Ah.  Could you ask her?”

Bronson sounds uncomfortable.  “I’ll try.  She’s out now.”

“How sweet,” Arthur says dryly.  “Well, if you get an opportunity…”

“Yes.  I’ll send it on.”

“I hear Rebecca coming in,” Bronson says, his voice suddenly soft.  “She only went out to the henhouses.  I’d better go.”

“Thanks for calling, then,” Arthur says.

“And I’ll get that order to you directly,” Bronson says, his tone firm and businesslike.  “Thank you for calling.”

“Good-bye,” Arthur says, fully aware of the implication of his own words.  “I’ll be seeing you.”

25

Das Ewig-Weibliche/ zieht uns hinan.
(The eternal feminine/ draws us up and on.)

–Goethe

B
y the first week of September, Tommy Thunderburst has completed his composition for Sven Trout.  It is beautiful and, despite the primitive simplicity of the instruments, curiously compact.  Rich and vibrant, owing something to classical orchestral composition, something to the “wall of sound” approach, and something to a cappella harmonies, it is none and all of these things.

Lil Prima, draped elegantly in a heap of pillows on the floor of Tommy’s studio, listens to the final work and shakes her head in amazement.

“I take it all back, Tommy.  That’s one of the best things you’ve ever done.  I don’t know whether it makes me want to laugh or cry.”  Her lips frown, but the bliss doesn’t leave her eyes.  “Or dance.  Or none of that.  What contract did you give Sven?”

Tommy blinks.  “I don’t know.  One of the release things.”

Lil’s blissful expression becomes calculating.  “Good.  I’ll make certain we review the terms before Sven gets his CD.  I think this would make a great radio release.”

“Cool.”  Tommy imagines concert arenas filled with gently grooving souls, all those eyes turned up to him like he’s a priest of some lost mystery.  “Really cool.”

“Do you have a number where you can reach Sven?”

“Nah.  He said he’d be in touch.”

“We give him no more than a month, then we tell him that his piece is something else and take this one,” Lil says decisively.  “He won’t know the difference, and I’ll want a month to build momentum for this release anyhow.”

“Cool,” Tommy says, somewhat saddened that he might need to wait a month to see the effect of his composition on the multitudes.  “What if Sven doesn’t want it released?”

“If you gave him the standard contract,” Lil assures him, “he can’t stop us.  Underneath all the doubletalk, it doesn’t sell him anything but the right to pay us for first use.  Can you put something else together for us to toss him in case he shows up after we have this one in production?”

Tommy nods.  His mind is still buzzing with all the music he didn’t use for this opus.  “Sure.  I can do something.  It won’t be
this
, but it will be good.”

Lil unfolds herself from the pillows, eager to get to work on the promotional aspects.  For a moment, she considers not letting Sven have this composition at all.  Then she shrugs.  If he wants to pay them for something that will ultimately resound to Tommy’s glory—and indirectly to her own—then let him.  

“Tommy, can I have a copy to listen to while I work?”

“Want to work on the release copy?”

“Well”—she reaches out and touches the side of his face—“that, and I just want to listen to it.  It makes me feel good.”

He grins, almost blushes.  Hard-edged Lil doesn’t usually admit such an emotional attraction to a piece.

Music to soothe even the savage breast.

Feet that have never before touched a floor prove to be difficult things to manage.  So learns the Head—now possessed of a body—the first day he tries to walk.

“Put the entire foot down,” Sven urges impatiently, “flat against the floor.  Don’t walk on your toes!”

“That’s how babies walk at first,” Louhi says more patiently.  “They test their balance while leaning forward.  It takes them longer to shift balance onto the entire foot.”

Sven sighs gustily.  “But we don’t want a baby!”

The Head disciplines himself to put all of his left foot flat against the carpeted floor.  Although he is angered by Sven’s impatience, he knows that he only has himself to blame.  Louhi had suggested that he begin by crawling.  He had been the one to refuse such an undignified method of locomotion.

“Now the other one,” Sven says, steadying the wheeled walker he had brought in the afternoon before.  

The Head holds the metal rail, hoping they cannot see how tightly he clutches with his new hands.  These he trusts somewhat more than he does his feet, for they had formed earlier.  During all his waking hours he has striven to strengthen them, first with a rubber ball, then by pulling against a series of weights.

The body that Louhi has grown for him outwardly appears that of a hale man in his mid-thirties.  He is moderately tall, neither lean nor heavy, built to suggest strength without advertising his potential.  The Head has surreptitiously compared his new appearance with those of the men he sees on the television and has decided that he is attractive without being overtly handsome.  Except for his silvery grey hair (something he plans to remedy by means of dye or magic when present needs are past), he does not bear any marked resemblance to Lovern—something he alternately regards with pleasure and concern.

His new body does not possess an invalid’s flaccid muscles— indeed, superficially, he is in fine shape.  His calves are cabled with muscle, his torso and arms suggest regular exercise—nothing as distorting as weight training, rather something like swimming several times a week.

However, just as owning a racehorse does not make one a jockey, possession of this body does not make the Head confident in its use.  He has only had soles to his feet for a day—these being the last things to form—but the time for their long-anticipated confrontation with Arthur is growing close.  Thus, he cannot dawdle in learning how to use his new equipment.

Taking a deep breath, the Head sets both feet flat on the floor.  Motioning Sven to one side, he lifts his right foot and moves it forward about six inches.  Then he does the same with the left.  The walker against which he leans rolls forward.

“I’m holding it so that it won’t roll too far, too fast,” Sven assures him.

The Head wonders if to trust him, decides that he must.  Sven has little to gain by damaging his new ally and, surely, he must realize the vengeance the Head would wreak.

Louhi crosses so that she is standing about six feet in front of him.  “Come,
kultani
,” she says sweetly.  “Come to me.  Walk as you have dreamed.”

He shuffles forth, fired by dreams of other than walking.  When he reaches her, Louhi strokes his cheek before stepping out of range again.

Obediently, the Head shuffles forward, an idea forming, one he cannot undertake until Sven is gone and Sven will not leave until he is assured that the Head is practicing.