Gossamer Axe (28 page)

That’s the problem, Jessica,” said Dennis. “The only well-respected source we’ve got in Denver is Carl Taylor, and he’s not talking. I had a devil of a time just getting a copy of the demo out of him.”

Jessica started on her third cup of coffee that morning. The brackish fluid smacked of an unscrubbed pot, but she hardly noticed. “What’s in it for him?”

“He’s screwing one of the girls in the band.”

“So, out of gratitude, he keeps her in two-bit bars?”

Dennis pulled a chair up to her desk, sat, hooked one leg over its arm. “I’ve been skiing in Colorado for a few years, and Carl’s always been there. He likes his women compliant, and he always has a hard time finding one who’ll do what he wants. When he gets someone, he keeps her as long as he can.”

“What does he do?”

Dennis shifted uncomfortably. “Well… he’s a bit of a dealer.”

“Is it even worthwhile to push this with Harry, then?” Jessica sipped at the coffee, became aware of its flavor, shoved it away. “If we finally get him to take the time and listen to the demo, and the band turns out to be a bunch of dopers, we’ve got nothing.”

“Well… we’d have an expensive contract.”

“And maybe a record, and maybe not.”

“And maybe not.” Dennis set fire to a cigarette. “But once you get the girl away from Carl, she’ll probably do all right. A lot of metal bands are coming out against pharmaceuticals these days. Some counseling and a move to L.A. might do the trick.”

Jessica picked up a cassette that lay on the corner of her desk. On the red label, neatly lettered in dot-matrix print, was the legend:

Christa Cruitaire, Melinda Moore, Lisa Donnatelli, Devica Anderson, Monica Sanchez

For months now, the music she had heard at the Denver club had been haunting her, intruding into her dreams with unlooked-for images, into her voice with snatches of melody she eventually realized had come from a Gossamer Axe original, into her thoughts with a paradoxical sense of peace and fulfillment.

Ever since she had gotten possession of the demo tape, she had been shoving it under the nose of the head of Artists and Repertoire. And he had been patiently shoving it back at her. Harry Veltmann was not interested in titty bands—he had genuine hits to coax into existence— and nothing Jessica or Dennis had said had convinced him that the only factors that Gossamer Axe had in common with a titty band were instruments and reproductive plumbing.

“I want this band as much as you do, Jess,” Dennis said. “But I can understand Harry, too. There’s been a big crunch in the market. We’ve got to be real careful about where we put our money.

“You sound like one of those assholes down in accounting.”

He thought, blew smoke at the ceiling. “Goddam. I do.”

Still holding the cassette, Jessica stood up and went to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, Hollywood stretched off south and east, trickling gradually into the cluttered Los Angeles skyline. Below, the bestarred streets were dusty with age, shabby with the refuse of past wealth, trodden upon by the well-dressed and the derelict.

“The problem is,” Dennis continued behind her, “we’ve cut back so much that we’re depending too heavily on the respected-source rule. A&R isn’t trusting A&R anymore. And Carl’s got the Axe bottled up in Denver.”

“What about Bill Sarah?”

“He’s their manager. Of course he’s going to say they’re great.”

“Kevin Larkin?”

“Dating the guitarist.”

The music, angry and yet haunting, white-hot and yet flavored with something warmer than Jessica had ever heard from a metal band, drifted in the back of her mind. She had only heard it once, and it had become a part of her. Only once.

“Hang on,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Let’s pull a fast one.” She turned around from the window, held up the cassette. “Let’s run off a copy of this, stick on a label that just says
see Jessica and Dennis
or something stupid like that, and leave it on Harry’s desk. He’s bound to plug it into his deck eventually.”

“Yeah, but what will that do?”

“Think back to when you first heard the Axe.”

He thought, started to laugh. “Far fucking out.”

Devi stood amid her equipment in Christa’s basement, programming, discarding, altering the sounds she used during performances. Christa was pushing her guitar, pushing the band, attempting emotions and expressions that were usually ignored in heavy metal; and Devi felt compelled to match her, emotion for emotion, energy for energy. Struggling with sounds that began only as unheard ideas, she shifted waveforms, altered decay and attack rates, searched for and slowly found what she needed, what Christa needed.

She straightened up from her microcomputer and squinted with bleary eyes at her watch. Nearly eleven. It was a weeknight, and Christa’s neighbors would be trying to get to sleep. She would have to finish up soon.

The upstairs door opened. “Devi? Do you want some coffee?”

“No thanks, Chris. I’m going to go home and crash in a few. Wait’ll you hear this stuff tomorrow night at the club.”

“It’s good, then?”

“I think so.”

She heard the warmth in Christa’s voice. “Then it must be, indeed.”

Since Christmas Day, when the harper had offered her a new life in the form of a cup of cider, Devi’s respect for her, already great, had been growing. Christa had offered a hand and had pulled her out of the whirling montage of childhood abuse and bitter images, and it no longer mattered to Devi that what the guitarist had done was founded upon so ephemeral a rock as magic. The results were concrete enough: no nightmares disturbed her sleep now, and with a feeling of strength she went about her work, both at the music store and on stage.

Magic? Perhaps the magic was all in her head, a complex constellation of trust, belief, and desire. But then, that was perfectly all right with Devi, since her memories were all in her head, too, along with (she assumed) the temporary and unconfirmable thinnings of reality she had witnessed when Christa had played.

She changed disks in the computer and called up a set of parameters that she had, long ago, memorized. In the late ’60s, the Doors had needed four musicians to perform “Light My Fire.” Twenty years later, Devi could control the necessary instrumental forces from two keyboards.

Even after two decades, she still returned to the song, for to her it represented escape and freedom. She had sought solace in the organ solo when she was nine. Now she came back to it for relaxation, for the savoring of the transformation that allowed her to look back at the nine-year-old girl who was Devi and reassure her that everything would, in the end, be all right.

The computer sent exact duplicates of John Densmore’s drums and Robby Krieger’s guitar pouring out of the PA; and with a synthesizer patch that was a perfect clone of Ray Manzarek’s dispassionate organ, Devi allowed herself the joy of escaping once again into the land she had discovered when she was nine. She might have been listening to the song in her parents’ house, the big Zenith Radio sitting on the kitchen counter, its tubes—remnants of a dying technology for which Devi now had no use—glowing red and flickering blue. The sun-bleached curtains fluttered above the kitchen sink; and the plastic fruit in the bowl was frosted with the grease of too many hastily fried hamburgers.

But the memories were suddenly a little too real. Devi’s hands moved of their own, recreating the music she had heard, but her thoughts took a disturbing turn. Her father stood before her again. “Devica…”

This time, however, Devi stood beside herself and took her own chubby hand. “Go away.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Devica. I’m your father.”

“You’re a fucking pervert,” she snapped. “Get away from me or I’ll fix you good.

Instinctively, she was altering notes in the organ solo—prolonging dissonances, swelling volume, and heating up overtones more than the ’60s had ever heard. The song was “Light My Fire,” but the keyboardist was Devi Anderson of Gossamer Axe.

Her father stepped forward, tall—still taller than she, even though she was grown—reaching.

A fullness rose up within her, and she stomped on the volume pedal and smashed a wave of sound through the basement. Her father’s outstretched hand turned abruptly into a charred ruin: shreds of flesh hanging in black tangles, bones splintered and seared.

Christa was calling. “Devi!”

With an effort, Devi pulled away from the keyboard and killed the programs. The speakers fell into silence. Christa’s steps on the stairs sounded unnaturally distinct. “Are you—” Christa stopped at the bottom of the flight.

The air in the basement was strangely warm. Devi looked at the far wall, rubbed her eyes, looked again. In an area about the size of a man, the carpet that covered the sheetrock had been burnt black.

Christa reached out, touched the burn, drew her hand back quickly. “Your father?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah… I…” Devi tottered out from behind the synths, joined her at the burn. It radiated heat like a furnace. “How…?”

“I told you about magic once. You’re a musician. You don’t understand it logically, but your intuition knows how it works.”

“
I
did this?” Thinking back, Devi recalled the rush of power that had enveloped her. Rage, wrath, righteous anger… all had blended together in the music, and she had lashed out at her father with the only weapon she had. “I…”

“Now you know why the Axe sounds like it does.”

“Magic?”

“Indeed.”

The convenient pigeonhole into which Devi had thrust the idea burst apart. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” said Christa quietly. “Gossamer Axe doesn’t make sense. For that matter, music doesn’t make sense.”

Years of habitual self-control stifled Devi’s shakes, and Christa took her upstairs and poured her a cup of strong mead that moistened her lips and glowed at the back of her throat like an old friendship. She coughed. “Okay, Chris. Level with me. What’s going on?”

Christa sat back in a kitchen chair, unconsciously biting at her lip. Her red hair, spiked and backcombed in deference to rock and roll, seemed out of place now. Devi had a sudden intuition that Christa was old. Very old. Older than she really wanted to think about.

“ ’Tis real, Devi. What I did last Christmas and what you did just now are a part of the same thing. You can use your mind to work magic, but you can amplify that power with music.”

Only the fact that she had learned to trust Christa kept Devi from pushing back her hair and running for the front door. “That’s what you do, right?”

“It is.”

“And…” Devi did not want to ask, but she was proud: she wanted to be a part of Christa’s work—not in ignorance, but with full knowledge. “And the band… something’s going on there, too, right?”

Christa was looking past Devi. Into the future? Into the past? “I’m going to need your help in a battle.”

“Battle?”

“Of magic. Of music. First for Melinda—because I need her, because I love her—and then… for someone else I love.”

Devi sat, unmoving. The mead burned in her stomach. “Chris…” Christa had given her everything. Even, indirectly, this new-found power. She set the mead aside. “You let me know what you need, whenever,” she said. “You were here for me; I’m here for you.”

“You’re sure?”

Devi’s certainly was as warm as the mead she had drunk. “Yeah, I’m sure. Goddam, lady, you scare the piss out of me, but I’m sure.”

“Fire her, Chris.”

Bill’s voice was flat, definite, uncompromising. Christa fought the impulse to curse him in Gaeidelg and hang up. She was holding the band together in a net of spiderweb, and he insisted on throwing his whole weight into the meshes. “I will not.”

“Chris, you’ve got to understand: things like this happen. You’ve got to replace Melinda. I saw the show last night, and she’s killing you. And now you tell me that you don’t even know where she lives anymore…”

She passed a hand over her face. In fact, she knew quite well where Melinda had gone when she had moved out of the apartment she had been sharing with Lisa. But she would not tell Bill. “She comes to rehearsals,” she said.

“Then what the hell are you doing with her?” He was angry. “You can’t possibly be practicing.”

“Give me time.”

“She’s not worth it, Chris. Dump her. I know a number of female bass players, and any one of them would die for a chance to work with you.”

But Melinda was family. Melinda was a friend. “Give me time.”

“Dammit, Chris—”

“Give
her
time. By all the Gods, Bill, if you want to turn white-livered and run when the band’s having some problems, go right ahead. But I’m seeing it through. The Axe played the way it did because we stuck together. Do you want to destroy that?”

Silence. When Bill spoke again, his tone was conciliatory. “I’m afraid that Melinda’s already destroyed it.”

“That’s a possibility. Give me some time. Cut back on our bookings if you want, but just give me some time.”

He was fighting his instincts, she knew. “How much time do you need?”

“Until Beltaine.”

“Until what?”

“Give me until the first of May. That’s…” She flipped the page of the wall calendar. “That’s a Friday. Get us something for that weekend, starting that night. I promise you people won’t forget the show.”

He said nothing for a moment. Christa heard papers being shuffled.

“Bill?”

“I got a call from InsideOut,” he said. “Carl Taylor wants you.”

Christa smiled grimly at the irony and wondered what price Melinda had paid for the request. “That will do very well.”

“You…” he sighed. “You won’t let me down, will you?”

“On my word as a harper, Bill.”

“You know, I believe you?”

She said good-bye and hung up feeling drained. For magic of the magnitude necessary to transfer Ceis into the body of the new guitar, she had to wait until Beltaine, the seam between the great seasons of winter and summer. But until then she had to hold the band together, and that was turning into a complicated proposition indeed. Devi seemed willing to support Christa’s decisions; but Lisa, faced with a defecting roommate and a friendship gone sour, was at the point of leaving.

Christa spent the next several days talking to the drummer, both on the phone and over lunch, convincing her to postpone any final decisions about the band until after the first of May.

Lisa was depressed. “It just bums the shit out of me, Chris,” she said. “This is the same kind of stuff I went through up in Montana. Now that Mel’s gone and shacked up with whoever, I just feel like running away. You know she lost her job, too?”

Christa sighed, stared at her plate, shoved peas around aimlessly. “I did not.”

“It’s all going to hell, and I feel lousy because I can’t do anything about it. My grandma said that magic would save my ass someday. Well, I’ll tell you: I sure could use some magic right now.”

“I could too,” said Christa. She thought of Ceis and the task ahead of her. Ceis was saying nothing about the May ritual. Perhaps it was afraid. Christa could not fault the harp: she also was afraid. “Do you want to leave?” she said softly.

Lisa fidgeted with her bright orange work-vest. Aside from bursts of Italian temper, she was usually reticent, unwilling to verbalize conflicts or doubts. “That’s just it. I want to stay. But I want to do something about Mel, too. She’s a friend… and she’s… just ripping me up…” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, swiped at her eyes while she did.

“Can you give me a few weeks?” said Christa. “I’ve a plan, but I’ll need some time. We have a gig May first at InsideOut. My solo during the second set will become rather intense. It might heal Melinda. Will you stay with me and help?”

Lisa frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Magic.”

The drummer chewed over the word for a time. “Yeah… I had a feeling that was it,” she said slowly. “You’ve been doing a lot of stuff that I haven’t understood, but I think you just explained it all.” She considered, then nodded. “Okay. Do your stuff, Chris. I’ll be there. I sure hope it works.”

The knot in Christa’s stomach loosened a little, and she hugged Lisa as they parted at the restaurant door. “Thanks, Boo-boo.”

But that night, the phone rang. Monica. “He’s back again, Chris.” She sounded genuinely frightened.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. It’s just that… well, I’ve moved three times now, and I thought I’d finally lost him. But he was hanging around my door when I got home from work today. The cops say they can’t bust him unless he actually does something that violates the restraining order. I don’t think they take me seriously.”

The worry was draining Christa, but she had to hold the band together. Three weeks to Beltaine, and then, maybe…

“Do you think Boo-boo would let me move in with her?” Monica said. “I’d feel safer that way. I mean… Melinda’s gone, and she could probably use some help with the rent.”

But that would make Melinda’s defection too final, and Christa wanted to leave the door open for her return. “How about…” She looked at Ceis, at the kitchen. She had been living alone for two centuries, and the idea that thrust itself upon her was an uncomfortable one. How much did she have to give up?

Over the last nine months, she had asked herself the same question about many parts of her life—her music, her instrument, the persona with which she met the world—and the same answer had struck her in the face: Judith had given up her singing. Was there any alteration at which Christa could justifiably balk?

“Why don’t you come live with me?” she said to Monica. “My house is large, and you’ve slept here before.”

Monica hesitated. “You’re sure, Chris? I… I don’t want to be any trouble. And you’ve got that ghost you told me about.”

Christa was, in fact, not sure at all. “I’m quite sure. And Ceis is a friend. You can trust Ceis as you trust me.”

Monica dithered for a moment more before she accepted. “Aw… shit, Chris. You’re fantastic. Thanks. I haven’t been sleeping, and—”

“Gather up your things, Monica. I’ll come help you with the station wagon. You’re moving tonight.”

By midnight, most of Monica’s possessions were in Christa’s house. Much was still packed in cardboard boxes in the middle of the living room, but Monica had put enough necessities away in the spare bedroom that she could ready herself for work in the morning. Still a little embarrassed by her sudden intrusion, she joined Christa at the kitchen table for hot chocolate before bed.

“When I showed up on your doorstep last October,” she said, “I didn’t think it would come to this.”

Christa shrugged inside her bathrobe. “I can’t but say that I’m surprised. You didn’t seem to like me when we first met.”

“I was all hung up on—” Monica broke off, unwilling to say the name. “I was a kid. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I still don’t.” She laughed, but tears still threatened to well up in her eyes. Abruptly, she looked around as though fearful of seeing Ron’s face against the window. “Is Ceis on guard?”

“Fear not. Ceis is watching.”

*peace*

The harp’s voice was reassuring, like a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Rock and roll first, and now ghosts,” said Monica. “My family’s never gonna understand me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Nah… not really. They wish I’d be normal, and mama’s sure this is just another phase I’m going through. But… shit, I’ve been going through phases all my life. And so has mama. I think that’s what life is.”

Child, adult; harper, guitarist; woman, priestess—Monica had said it all. “You are wise, Monica,” said Christa.

Monica’s dark skin took on shades of rose. “Dammit, Chris… there you go again.”

“How so?”

“You…” Monica glanced at the window again, then turned back to Christa. “You make me feel as though I rate. Like I’m really someone.”

Christa blinked. “But you are.”

“Yeah, but, like I mean, more than the vocalist for the band, more than the front person…” Monica wrinkled her nose, struggled with words. “Like I’m someone just because I’m me. Monica Sanchez. A woman.”

“But… you are.”

Monica stared at her. “Where the fuck did you grow up, Chris?”

“Ah… in Ireland.”

Monica looked at her patiently, like a precocious child who knew full well that an adult was being less than truthful. “C’mon, Chris. I went to East High and there were a couple girls there from Ireland. Fresh off the boat. Their parents didn’t know what section of town to move into, so the kids wound up in school with a bunch of Chicanos and Blacks. The guys called them ‘white meat’ and were always hitting on them. They sure as hell didn’t act like you. Scared little things, always going to church to say rosaries and stuff like that. Worse than my grandmother. No makeup. Straight hair. Wouldn’t even look at a beer. Couldn’t deal with their own bodies.”

Christa sat, unmoving, unable to think of anything to say.

“You’re just different, Chris,” Monica went on. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but wherever you’re from, it must be a pretty terrific place, cause you’re sure as hell the best person I’ve ever met.” She shrugged, still blushing. “I’m not gay, Chris, but I think I love you.”

“I…” Generous as Monica was, Christa knew that the truth could shatter her. “I hope you’ll remember that in a couple months.”

Monica shook her head, puzzled. “What’s going to happen then?”

Christa’s eyes were as vulnerable as Monica’s. “I’ll need you.”