Gossamer Axe (35 page)

The caravan proceeded southward along U.S. 285. In her rearview mirror, Christa could see Devi’s white van and, farther back, the big truck they used for transporting their equipment. Immediately behind her Eagle, swaying heavily on its four-wheeled trailer, was the Allison generator, a lumpy bulk beneath its canvas cover.

Their schedule gave them plenty of time, and they stopped at the diner in Fairlay where Christa had once harped. Bobbie was still there; but Christa had altered her hair and her clothing, and so to the waitress she was only another rocker, the band was no more than a band, the journey but a trip that was taking them through the center of the state to… somewhere else. Another gig, another few dollars in a smoky bar in Taos, or in Albuquerque. It was all the same to Bobbie.

She served them hamburgers and asked them about the band with a smile that indicated that she did not believe a word of what they said. But rock and roll was playing on the radio, and the music of Gossamer Axe would one day be sandwiched into the playlists along with the Bon Jovi and the Van Halen and the Loverboy. Maybe, Christa thought as she finished her coffee, maybe Bobbie would someday hear the love and remember that not all tears were shed in sorrow. And maybe that would make a difference. Her harps were gone, replaced for the most part by guitars, but maybe that was for the best.

Kevin went up to pay the bill, and Melinda and Devi vanished into the bathroom. Lisa touched Christa on the shoulder. “Hey, come on, Chris. We’re going to do it. We’re going to get your girlfriend out.”

“Thanks, Boo-boo.”

“I mean it. I feel good about this.” Lisa smiled out at the highway and the trees. “All the shit I put up with in all those other bands, the hassles, the crummy beds—it was all getting me ready to go and do something real. I think I understand what grandma meant now.” But a shadow crossed her face for a moment, the same shadow that, now and again, touched them all. “I just wish Monica was here.”

“And I also.”

Lisa regarded her somberly. “Ron… died in his cell the night after we buried her,” she said softly. “The paper said he killed himself.”

“Monica was family,” Christa said without looking at her. “Murder brings its inevitable penalty.”

Lisa dropped her eyes. “That’s the way you feel about us, huh?”

“It is.”

Lisa was silent. Finally: “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Boo-boo?”

Lisa stood up and pulled on her windbreaker with firm, definite movements. “I feel the same way about you.”

Toward late afternoon, they reached Gunnison National Forest, and Christa turned the Eagle over to Kevin. With Ceis plugged into the little battery amplifier, she sat on the back seat, weaving a spell of unseeing about the three vehicles. A large truck with
GOSSAMER AXE
painted on the side in two-foot, uncial capitals would normally attract a good deal of attention in a national forest, but a ranger looked right at it without noticing.

At the edge of the meadows that surrounded the small lake, they pulled up and cut their engines. The big truck swayed once, then settled in. A meadowlark called, likewise a jay. Swifts streaked through the clear air, fighting for insects.

Lisa swung down from the cab and joined Christa by the shore. “That’s it?”

Christa was examining the gate. In the light of the westering sun it roiled and swirled above the water. Just on the other side, almost within reach, was Judith. “It is,” she said.

“Right. Let’s get started.” Devi and Melinda had already opened the back of the truck, and Kevin was helping them to unload the portable stage. Lisa started off to join them, but turned for a moment back to Christa. “I meant what I said at lunch. You put it all together for me, too.”

“My thanks, Boo-boo.”

Lisa went to help the others. Christa faced the gate, hands on hips. In spite of her worries, she felt unaccountably good. If love and loyalty had anything to say about it, Orfide would have his hands full tomorrow night.

She heard Monica’s words again, whispering as though on the breeze that rippled the surface of the lake.
Give ’em time. There’ll be more
.

The thought was a warm glow. With or without Judith, Christa would welcome them.

Music had given her much: the touch of harpstrings, the blazing fury of electric guitar, a band, and, maybe, Judith. As she had at the Malmsteen concert, she lifted a fist into the air. “
Rock and roll
.” An edge, as of bright metal, glinted within the words.

The stage was in place by twilight, ringing fully a third of the circumference of the lake, a raised aluminum platform covered with nonslip vinyl sheeting. Access stairways led down toward the equipment truck, and Lisa and Kevin had already muscled some of the larger PA speakers into place.

Afterward, Melinda took Christa’s wagon up to Gunnison and returned with what Christa said was enough Kentucky Fried Chicken to feed a band of
Fianna
. But the day had been long, the work hard, and for all the chicken they left they might well have been Gaeidil warriors.

Sprawled on the grass, they watched the last traces of light fade from the sky, marveled at the brilliance of the stars, listened to the sounds of crickets and night birds. Lisa was sitting with her arms wrapped about her drawn-up knees, and she peered off through the darkness. “Should I be seeing something out by the lake?”

“Like what?” said Christa.

“Like the gate or something? What am I supposed to be looking for?”

The gate hung above the water, as faintly luminous in the night as it was shadowy during the day. “Don’t look
for
something,” said Christa. “If you look
for
something magical, you’ll never see it. Just look. Unfocus if you want. It’s not your eyes you want to use, really.”

Silence. “Yeah,” said Lisa at last. “I think I know what you mean.” She caught her breath. “Oh, shit. Now
I’m
seeing this stuff.”

“Well,” said Kevin, “why not? It’s real.”

Another silence. Then: “Yeah. I guess so.”

Melinda shrugged. “We’ll be seeing a lot more tomorrow night, I guess,” she said softly. Devi put an arm about her shoulders.

After dinner, the women prepared to drive back to a hotel in Gunnison, since Kevin was of the firm opinion that sleeping on cold ground did not improve the quality of rock and roll. He himself would camp at the site.

“I’m used to it,” he said as Christa attempted a final protest before she joined the others in Devi’s van. “I do it all the time. Real Colorado boy. Don’t I look like John Denver?”

She laughed. “It’s ashamed I am to sleep in a bed while you have to—”

He shook his head violently. “Someone’s got to stay here and keep an eye on things, and you’ve got to be up to par tomorrow. No screwing around with Gaeidil pride. This is important. You sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s well,” Christa said at last. “A word though: don’t leave the meadow. I’ve ringed it with a spell of confusion so that we won’t be interrupted. If you leave, you won’t be able to find it again.”

“No problem. It’s too dark to find anything even without the spell.”

The van bounced up the faint road, and Kevin waved at the taillights until they winked out amid the bushes and trees. The engine noise faded and left him in the meadow with the sounds of insects and the lap of water.

As when, shortly after he had first met Christa, he had stood outside his mountain home, listening, he heard again the intricate symphony that was the working of the world. He smiled: by the grace of the Gods, and by Brigit’s hand, he had come to consciously participate in this music, adding his own small melodies and ornaments, fitting himself into the score… and occasionally taking a solo of his own.

He had a solo coming up tomorrow night, he was sure. The music that went on around him and the feelings of the world—of the many Worlds—were pointing ahead to it with all the certainty of a twelve-bar blues progression that turned about on the dominant fifth and swept back to the tonic for another round as the Band Leader smiled and nodded to him with all the warmth of a Midsummer sunrise.
Yours, Kev
.

He did not know at present what he would play. But he was a musician—a rocker and a harper both—and when the time came, he was sure that the music would be there.

For an hour or two, he watched the stars, watched the flickering of the gate above the water, listened to the music. And then he crawled into his tent and went to sleep.

A league out, and a foot above a tall man’s head.

Chairiste Ní Cummen stares out at the ocean, wondering if what the storyteller said was true. She hopes that it is, that the Druids’ tales of the Summerland, the Land of Youth,
Tir na nOg
, are also; for she has a friend there that she wants to see again.

She turns around to her father’s house. Wicker-woven and new-thatched, it lies surrounded by the steading and ringed by an earthen bank. Beyond lies the land of Eriu, green and golden in the sunlight, and in the distance a smudge of smoke testifies to the presence of another house, where Siudb dwells with her family.

And on and on. Eriu lies like a velvet comforter spread by the hand of a Goddess, surrounded by seas of water both white and blue. Her land. Her home.

Now the Sidh mound rises up in the Midsummer evening, lit by moonlight and starlight. Chairiste and Siudb can hear the sound of a revel. Music and silvery laughter loft up into the air from the Realm, leading their thoughts into other places, other Worlds, until…

Too late, Chairiste notices the archway of darkness that has opened in the hill. Ron strides toward them, revolver in hand, eyes full of madness, and he aims the gun at Siudb. His finger tightens on the trigger.

But when Chairiste turns, Siudb is not there. Her place has been taken by Monica, who, ignoring the apparition from out of the barrow, takes Christa’s hand and leads her off into a brighter land, sunlit and warm. The singer is clad in her favorite T-shirt and jeans. Her peroxide-blond hair gleams.

They walk together through a copse of silver fir. The path they follow crests a hill and opens out into a broad lawn that sweeps down into a valley. This country is endless, woven of river and mountain, of clear air and sunlight.

This is not Eriu. It is another place, of earthly happiness, dear to the heart of every Gaeidil born… or adopted.

Monica sidles close to Chairiste and wraps an arm about her waist. “I wanted to see you again,” she says. She laughs, embarrassed. “Selfish, huh?”

Chairiste touches Monica’s face. She shakes her head. “Never.”

“I managed to swing this dream. Everyone kinda laughed, but it was nice laughter. You know, like we’d do in the band with each other.”

“Is it well with you?”

Monica nods. “The people here are real good to me. They talk straight, just like you. They don’t seem to mind that my skin’s dark. A Celt’s a Celt, they say.“

“Oh, Monica…”

Monica’s eyes are brimming. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to let you know that I’m okay. We can’t do this real often, but hey, it’s something, isn’t it?”

Chairiste nods, takes Monica’s hands. They are as she knew them in life: small and brown, the nails painted a color that Monica always called
fuck-me red
. Christa kisses them and folds them together between her own. “We’re playing for the Sidh tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s another reason. I left you kinda quick, and I wanted you to know that everything’s all right between us. You gave me some of the best nights I’ve ever had, and you really made me feel good about it all. We’re cool. Don’t let Orfide give you any shit. I love you. And I know that”—Monica smiles through her tears—“that when you get here with Siudb, I’ll love her, too. We’ll probably terrorize the place. They’ll be glad to see us go.”

For another minute, Monica stands before Chairiste, and then she is gone, slipping out of the dream as quickly as she slipped out of life. For an instant, Chairiste is alone in the Summerland. She almost wishes that she could stay, but even in the land of the dead she is as far from Judith as she is in life.

Christa woke to the morning sunlight that glared through the blinds of her hotel room. A knock came to her door. “Hey, Chris,” said Melinda. “We’re going for breakfast. Do you want to come?”

Midsummer Day.

The lights and revelry of the palace are distant and faint. Siudb and Glasluit have penetrated far into the rolling hills and grasslands, farther—again shattering the patterns, the sameness that holds the Realm in thrall—than they have ever traveled before. Here, the groves and streams shift in form even as the eye looks upon them, and the sky, though dark, feels uncertain. Flickers, as of ice or gems or nothingness, blink from the blackness suddenly, and as suddenly vanish.

“Undisturbed we will be here,” says Glasluit.

“Are you afraid?”

He glances about nervously. “This is no longer my land. I do not belong here. I am… disturbed.”

Siudb cannot blame him. Her own heart is beating in fear. There is much that she must do, and opening the gate is the least of the task ahead of her.

Gently, she touches his face. “What you will, my friend,” she says. “I will not be the prideful Gaeidil in this, demanding unquestioning loyalty and valor from my friends. I can speak only for myself. I must go. My love awaits me.”

“My love… stands before me,” he says softly. “If my nature betrays me, I will remember you always… with whatever memory is left me in whatever form I might take.”

“You have a great heart. A great heart creates a soul.”

He takes her hand. “I pray you are right.”

Ahead, a stone outcropping proves fairly substantial. It overlooks a gentle slope that, though it leads down to absolute darkness, is spotted with wildflowers. Siudb sits, leans her harp against her left shoulder.

“Ah, little friend,” she whispers to the willow wood. “Who would have thought it?” She presses her lips to the soundbox. Her harp: humble, inexpertly made, much beloved. Once it was an emblem of her sacrifice to Chairiste. Now it is a symbol of achievement.

Her first chord rings out like a summons to battle. The very rocks appear suddenly to be listening. The darkness ahead of her flickers with violet light.

Swiftly, the music infiltrates the substance of the Realm, rips at it, works it into a loose suspension of realities. Then, straining her shod feet into the ground to anchor herself, Siudb reaches through the appearance of the Realm and feels through the many possibilities that lie beyond it. She finds one that is filled with homely memories and thoughts. Her world.

She cannot see it, for the gate is not yet realized, but she knows it is there. Smiling at the thought of home in whatever guise it might array itself, she strikes up the melody that will blend the two sides of the gate and open it to vision and to feet.

But something is going subtly wrong with the spell. Under her hands, the strings of her harp seem to be moving of themselves, sustaining too long at one time, damping too quickly at another. The gate begins to dissolve even as she strives to make it more real.

She glances up. Glasluit is not in sight.

Stubbornly, she bends her will to the harp once more, battling the recalcitrant strings. But the magic is inexplicably failing.

She smashes out a chord to clear the air, tries again. Now, though, her hands are losing their feeling. Moving her fingers becomes an effort, as though she is fighting infinite fatigue.

Brigit!

And now she hears the sound of another harp, for her own has fallen silent. The veils of magic drift over her, deadening her body, and in another few heartbeats she is frozen in place, her hands still lifted to play, as though she is a statue of a harper.

Footsteps swish through the grass. She cannot even move her eyes to see. Orfide comes into view with a half-dozen guards. His face is much paler than she remembers, and there is a look in his eyes that reminds her of corpse-light and the slitherings of unnamed things.

He does not speak. He gestures to the guards, and as though she is verily a piece of stone, they lift her bodily and bear her back to the palace.