Gossamer Axe (2 page)

As she parked in front of Christa’s house and switched off the ignition, Melinda noticed that her hands were still shaking. She was not surprised. It had been a bad day all around, started by a sleepless night, sustained by morning traffic and heat, climaxed by the office manager’s complaints about the way she dressed. She decided for the fifth time that week to quit the damned job and get back into a band.

Her stomach was knotted, her head ached, and she knew that the insomnia was going to be back tonight. Tomorrow would doubtless be a wretched affair. She rubbed at her stinging eyes, debating whether or not to give away her two tickets for the Malmsteen concert. It did not look as though she would be in any shape for it.

After a final rub, she got out of the Mustang with her harp and crossed the grass to the house. Christa was waiting for her at the door. “Yon look tired,” she said, waving her in. “Is it the insomnia come back?”

“Bad night, bad day,” said Melinda. She followed Christa back to the studio. “Would you believe they’re bitching about my clothes again?”

Christa was pulling up a chair and a music stand, but she stopped. She looked at Melinda, lips pursed.

“Okay,” Melinda admitted, “so maybe spandex pants aren’t the thing for an office-supply company. I’m being rebellious.”

“Oh, it was the hair and the handcuff belt I noticed more.”

“I miss the rock and roll. I hate my job.”

“And you’ve the shakes again.”

“Yeah.”

Christa gestured at the chair. “Sit down and tune up, Melinda. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Melinda uncased her harp as Christa went into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open, the clink of ice cubes in a glass. Sighing, she set the harp on her lap, grabbed it as it nearly slid off the slick spandex, repositioned it, and gingerly plucked at the bronze strings to check the tuning.

It felt good to be in Christa’s house. The studio faced the backyard, and its large windows were shaded by tall willow and cottonwood trees. The sashes were raised because of the heat, and birdsong and the whine of a cicada drifted in from the garden.

About the room, lying on shelves and tables, were Christa’s harps, modest-looking instruments of various sizes and woods—willow and oak and mahogany and cherry—wire strung and gut strung. They were uniformly small, meant to be held on the lap or set on a stool, for Christa taught the older styles of harping that had evolved before the instrument grew from a slender maid into a grand lady of gilt wood and corinthian pillars.

One harp, though, Melinda had never seen, for it was covered with a blue velvet drape. It stood alone and upright on a low table in front of an open window; and now, looking past it, she noticed that it was exactly framed by two trees in the garden. The arrangement was too symmetrical to be anything but deliberate.

Christa reentered with two glasses. Melinda took one and sipped. “What is this?”

“Medeclin,” said Christa, taking the other chair. “Honey and water and some mint from the garden. Will it do?”

“Uh… fine.” Melinda’s stomach was settling, and the calm atmosphere of the room was easing the trembling in her hands. She laughed a little. “I might actually be able to play.”

“Hmmm.” Christa thought for a minute, then reached to a shelf and picked up a harp. She felt the side of the soundbox carefully. “Good. It’s dry. Let’s see if we can’t do something about the shakes today, Melinda. After all, that’s why you’ve been coming for lessons.”

“I knew it’d be a shot in the dark.”

Christa adjusted the pitch of two strings. “I think your aim might be better than you think. There’s an old tune I’m thinking of. It’s called a
sian
. Mothers used to sing their babies to sleep with it. I’ll teach it to you today, and you can see if it helps tonight.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to play it that soon.”

“It’s best on harpstrings, but I’ll write it out for you, and you can play it on your bass guitar for now if that will work better. Do promise me, though, that you won’t rock it up: the rhythm is important for the effect.”

The harper sounded a chord, the bronze strings sweet and bell-like. The melody she played was simple and short: a theme, an answer that was almost questioning, and then the theme again. By the end of the third repetition, Melinda’s hands had stopped shaking, her headache had fled, and she was drifting off into vague daydreams about Christa—so familiar now, as though she had known the woman for years—and a forest, and a cluster of houses that looked like overturned baskets by the side of a still lake…

“Melinda?”

The room came back, but the headache and the shaking did not. Her head was clear, without a trace of pain. “How did you do that?”

“I’m a harper,” said Christa. “That’s part of what harping is.”

Christa wrote out the
sian
, pointing out fingerings and stresses within the rhythm, suggesting interpretations.

Melinda had only studied harp for a few months, and some of what her teacher said was technically beyond her. But she was enough of a musician to know what Christa meant even if she could not herself play it.

“This isn’t coming,” she muttered as her left hand struggled with the second section.

“It’s a little grace followed by a turn,” said Christa. Her voice was quiet, reassuring. “Break it down. Put your right hand in your lap, and just play the upper-hand notes slowly.”

With concentration, Melinda stumbled through the phrase.

“Now, pick it up little by little. Not until you have your left hand do you add the right: a woman is free unless she gives herself willingly. Treat the turn as an independent section. You’ll find you can use the same figure elsewhere, in other pieces.”

Melinda brightened. “Like a guitar lick?”

“What is that?”

“A set bunch of notes that you can fire off without thinking,” Melinda explained. “That’s how some of those guitar heroes play their leads so fast. There’s actually not much original stuff in what they’re doing. It’s mostly just licks strung together. You’ve heard it done, haven’t you?”

Christa shook her head slightly.

“You haven’t? But—”

“I have my harps, and my music,” Christa explained in her soft voice.

“But… don’t you ever go out or anything? Rock it up a little?”

“Really, Melinda. Could you see me in the outfit you’re wearing now?”

“Well…” Melinda examined Christa. “As a matter of fact, I could. Someday, I’ll take you out to one of the metal clubs in town. And one of these days I’ll get back in a band, and you can come see us play. Sound good?”

“Someday.” Christa smiled. “But you’re quite right: it’s very like a guitar lick.”

They spent the rest of the lesson working on the piece, and by the time Melinda cased her harp, she could falter through it slowly. “You know… I think I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“Good,” said Christa. “But as I said, try not to turn it into rock and roll.”

“Don’t worry.” Melinda’s eye fell on the shrouded harp again. “Is that special?”

Christa nodded, but made no move to uncover the harp.

“When I was sitting down, I noticed the trees out there. Did you plant those so that—”

“The apple and the yew?” Christa’s voice was only a little above a whisper, and her face was troubled. “I did.”

Melinda noticed the change immediately. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal.”

The harper wiped at her eyes. “I’m well, Melinda.”

Melinda felt a pang. Christa had been helping her for months, not only as a harp teacher, but as a friend. Though Melinda hardly knew this quiet woman, she cared for her. “Can I… can I do something?”

“I’m all right.”

“No you’re not. You’re upset.” The strap of the harp case was sliding off her shoulder, and she hitched it back up as she tried to think of something with which to make amends. “Tell you what. I’ve got two tickets for the Malmsteen concert tomorrow night, and I was thinking about giving them away, but I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll get you out of the house.”

“Who is this person?”

“Yngwie Malmsteen. Swedish boy. One of those crazy metal gods. You’ve got to see him play the guitar. You’ll like it: he uses a lot of classical stuff in what he does. Paganini.”

Christa had been looking out at the two trees. “You want me to go to a rock concert?”

“Sure. You helped me with that lullaby. I think I can help you with rock and roll.” Melinda felt her own enthusiasm building. Christa seemed too quiet, too introspective. She needed something that was as close to pure, mindless fun as was possible. “Come on. It’ll be a blast.”

The harper was still looking out at the trees. “It’s… Midsummer. To the day.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Well?”

Christa smiled, tiredly. “Why not? Sruitmor always said that if one could not learn from one’s students, one had no business teaching them.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Christa nodded.

Melinda headed for the front door. “Pick you up at six tomorrow night. And don’t worry: I’ll bring the earplugs!”

The door closed behind her. A meadowlark scattered an arpeggio across the backyard.

Christa sat down slowly on the chair, staring out at the apple and the yew that framed the shrouded harp. “To the day, Judith,” she said. “I’m still here. And I won’t give up. By all the Gods of Eriu, I won’t give up.”

Under the dark, starless sky, the palace of the Sidh stands as if carved out of glass, its milky pinnacles illuminated by torchlight and firelight. Gossamer banners float in the ebony wind. A pale oriflamme drifts leisurely from a spire far above the polished tile of the courtyard: a wraith proclaiming the dominion of wraiths.

Orfide, the bard, is playing for the king and the court this endless evening, and his thin fingers caress the golden strings of his second-best harp. He has played this melody countless times before in this same way, and the crystalline, petrified beauty of the performance repeated exactly—note for note, nuance for nuance—is a tribute to his immense skill. He is immortal. He is a consummate bard. He cannot improve upon the performance he gave at the beginning of time. Like himself, like his people, like this entire Realm of twilight and gossamer, it is changeless.

About him, the Sidh are silent, listening. Orfide plays. The dark sky weighs down from above. Fingernails that gleam like mother-of-pearl strike strings, ripple chords and arpeggios into the perfumed air as he weaves a spell of timelessness and eternity. The sounds glance from polished stone, reverberate from pillar and pinnacle, caress the opalescent skin of his listeners.

The last note shimmers, fades, falls into silence. The court stirs. Fragile garments sigh as the Sidh rise from their seats. Pale, elfin faces nod approvingly. White hands applaud the bard.

Lamcrann, the king, stands beside his queen. “We are honored, master bard, by your song.”

Orfide bows, his silver hair glimmering in the half light. “As I am honored by you, O king.” He bows also to Cumad, the queen, and ignores the mortal woman who stands behind them with a clenched jaw.

Lamcrann turns and takes the hand of the woman. “Do you not agree, Siudb? Does not our bard exceed himself with each performance?”

Siudb starts to turn away, but the king’s grasp detains her. “Very nice,” she says. “Nice it was the last time, too. And the time before that. And the time—”

Cumad steps between Siudb and Lamcrann. “Leave her be. I beg you.” Her voice catches. “She is a… child.”

Lamcrann does not seem to notice his queen. “Ah, my lovely mortal maiden. You could be happy among us. Why not give up your stubborn ways? At my word, Orfide could—”

“At your word, Orfide could allow me to return to my own people. I am a free woman of the Gaeidil. You have no right to keep me here against my will.”

A purring edge of steel gleams in Orfide’s soft, dulcet voice. “As I recall, free woman of the Gaeidil, you and your friend Chairiste sought out our realm of your own free will.”

She turns on him. “We did not seek to enter.”

“You came to listen to my harp, mortal. What complaint do you have now? I play for you often. You may listen to the music of the Sidh as much as you like.”

“Your music is the music of death.” Siudb’s brown eyes are bright. “It neither lives nor grows. You have not changed one note of any of your songs since first I heard you, because you cannot. The clumsiest novice of the Corca Duibne school could best you there.”

“Please.” Cumad looks restlessly this way and that. Her frost-white hair rustles across her silken gown. “Please…”

Casually, Orfide takes his tuning key from a pouch at his side, sits, and softly sounds a few strings, listening. “Ah, novice harper… and so how is it that you have not departed from our hospitality on your own?”

His words are meant to wound, but Siudb stands straight. She knows Orfide’s pride as well as she knows her own. “Chairiste did. And your best harp she took with her.”

The tuning key falls to the tiled floor and rings shrilly for an instant. Orfide’s mouth is suddenly set.

Lamcrann lifts a hand. “Gentle Siudb, pray give up these thoughts you have of returning to the Gaeidil. You cannot return. Your people are no more. Years and centuries have passed outside the Realm since you came here, and you would fall into dust and ashes the moment you set foot outside.”

“Chairiste did it. She survived.”

Orfide cannot restrain himself. “But she left you behind. Does Chairiste Ní Cummen not care for her woman lover? And where is Chairiste now? Can a mortal live forever, my little
timpanach
?”

“Shut up.”

“Chairiste is dead, mortal. She has been dead for centuries now. She lies rotted in the ground and shares the customary fate of your race.”

Siudb is white-faced, but she has learned to brave the taunts of this Sidh bard. “If Chairiste is dead, then it is in the Summerland that I will find her, and the Goddess Herself will bring our hands together that we may be reborn, and meet, and remember, and love again. But you, Orfide, will fade, and it is a misty hand you will lift to your harp one day, and your bloodless voice will be unheard—”

“Enough.” Lamcrann takes Siudb’s arm, leads her away toward the open doors of the palace. Cumad toys fitfully with the lacy hem of her sleeve. Orfide watches for a moment, then bends over and retrieves his tuning key as Siudb breaks away from the king and runs off into the twilight meadows that surround the palace.

When Orfide looks up again, Cumad is still there. She meets his eyes, and her lips work soundlessly for a moment before she turns and follows after the king.