by Baen Books
He sighed, lightly, and put his hand over her fingers that were leaving bruises on his arm.
"I'll wait with you," he told her. "And I'll maybe play some while we wait."
Hope flared in those too-bright eyes.
"Thank—"
"No, now, hear me out! There's no fixing involved. Music might put a little courage in you, maybe. Maybe. And not so much as that." When she crossed out of Archers Beach -- well, he didn't know what happened to the music's power, outside of Archers Beach, now did he?
"Courage enough to hold you on the trolley," he said, not promising it -- not exactly. "So you'll sit tight, all the way into the city. Get a taxi to your friend. Understand me. . ." He paused, thinking how best to tell her that distance wasn't what she needed; that she was carrying her doom inside her -- she was sick, he recalled her saying. Well, then, she knew as much as he did.
"Sylvia," she said, shaking him out of his thoughts.
He looked down into her face again.
"What?"
"Sylvia. It's my name."
He felt it strike him, solid, like a fist against the heart, and almost swore. Dammit, he hadn't asked for her name!
Asked or not; he had it, now. And everything that went with it.
He sighed.
"Dangerous thing to be giving your name out to anybody," he said, mild, like it made no difference.
"You're not anybody," she answered. A breath, and she added, "You don't have to tell me yours."
Damn right, he didn't have to tell her his.
"Cross here," is what he said, and took them across Archer Avenue, to Milliken.
"Trolley stops on Grand," Sylvia objected.
"Stops on Milliken first, and it's quieter there. You want the music to concentrate on you, right?"
She nodded, jerkily. "Right."
The town council had planted fewer street lights on Milliken, it being a secondary way. There was plenty of spill off of Archers Avenue, though, and a lamp post right next to the trolley stop, its light furry in the sea-damp air.
Andy settled into the corner of the little wooden bench, and slipped the guitar out of its case. He could feel the music buzzing in his fingers; buzzing in his head. It came on like that, sometimes, 'specially if he hadn't played in a while. After a night of moving music through him. . .it worried him a little, just while he was getting the case out of the way and settling his fingers along the strings. It worried him, that the music was so eager, almost like it. . .had a plan.
It ought to worry him, that the music had a plan, but once he had his fingers on the frets, nothing worried him at all.
"Sit on down," he murmured. "We got a couple minutes."
"I don't want to sit down!" she snapped, and he might've snapped back, but there wasn't any sense to it -- it was the dope making her twitchy and mad.
"Suit yourself."
His fingers were already moving, teasing out a melody – “Simple Gifts”, it was. Good music, that one; gentle.
Powerful.
What it felt like, playing the music -- the kind and style of music he played. . .It felt like. . .it felt like he went all still at the dead center of him while light filled him up, flowing out through his fingers to wash away the pain and sadness around him.
That was why he'd stopped playing, after Nessa married her prince and took herself off to the Land of the Flowers. He'd told her that he was happy, so long as she was happy -- but that'd been a lie.
The truth was, it felt like his heart'd been torn out, and there was no still place inside him for the light to fill up. He'd gone back to his land, threw himself into its care and keeping, not thinking; only serving.
Until the night he found himself standing on the corner of Milliken and Archer, hat on the ground by his feet, his fingers bleeding from the strings -- playing.
Playing.
That had hurt -- the music melting the scar tissue; growing him a new heart. It had hurt for a long time, but he learned. He learned to let the music -- what the music was and everything that it did -- fill him up and flow away. It was his gift -- his gift to give away.
It was rare that he played just for one person. The full power of the music focused on a single heart and soul -- not many could bear that. When he'd been young, and learning his gift, he'd broken a man's heart, playing just to him. His fault; he hadn't known the limits of a human heart, then. Still didn't, though he had a far shrewder notion.
He learned to play for big groups; he'd learned to give the music away to the street, to a meadow, to the sea -- and to those strong enough to bear it.
This girl now, this Sylvia -- she was only human, wyrd-sighted though she seemed. Whole and healthy, she wasn't strong enough to bear the full brunt of the music; sick with the dope like she was, and dying -- the best thing the music could do, to fix her, like she wanted, was to kill her outright, and stop her from hurting any more.
His fingers moved along the frets without him paying any particular mind, and it was “Shenandoah” this time, easing into the space that had been warmed by “Simple Gifts.” Andy looked up, wanting to see how she was bearing it -- but what he saw was the music, swirling 'round and through her, lighting her up like she was a candle.
A funny kind of candle, with the flame guttering, and a space of blackness before there was light again, burning brilliant and brave.
He watched, his fingers moving up and down the strings; he watched the music coil around the brilliant base of the candle and. . .tighten. The light moved up, slow, like the dark patch was almost too heavy to budge.
The music tightened again. He found his fingers insistent, and it was some Spanish thing now, that he'd learned from that sailor, long winters ago. Flamenco, thrumming hard and insistent, exerting pressure, until, the white base of the candle flowed upward into the darkness, and the crowning flame flared bright blue-white.
The bottom half of the candle -- that was dark, now, and Andy's fingers slowed, sliding out of insistence into a gentle murmur; not music, really; more like whistling to yourself when you'd just done something that scared you bad.
The music flowed away, the image of the candle faded, and it was just the girl, Sylvia, standing there and staring at him, her face a little pale now, and her eyes soft with tears.
"You fixed me," she whispered. "I felt --"
"You felt," he said, his voice a harsh counterpoint to the murmur of the music. "You felt half your life taken off the back end, and applied to the front. You won't die this week, missy, but you won't live out the length you was given."
Her mouth tightened, the lipstick long gone, and then she nodded, once, firmly enough that the brave red flower on her hat jerked with it.
"But I was going to die this week, wasn't I?"
"Can't say that, missy, but you were in a bad way."
"Then I'll take that shorter span," she said firmly, and stiffened her thin shoulders.
"What're you gonna do, then?"
"Like I said. Go to Portland; find Sarah. Figure out what to do with what I've got left."
A bell sounded, around a crackle of electricity.
Sylvia looked over her shoulder.
"The trolley's here," she said, but instead of moving toward the curb, she stepped up to the bench, leaned down and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you," she said. "I mean that."
She turned, then, took a step, turned back to look at him, a wry grin on her pale face.
"I don't have car fare."
He snorted lightly, and came to his feet, one hand still fondling the strings while he dug into his pocket and pulled out his evening's earnings.
"Here."
"That's too much!"
"Taxi ride to Sarah, once you're in Portland," he said. "Something to eat, maybe." He pushed the money at her. "I'll get more, tomorrow."
She laughed. "You talked me into it."
The trolley arrived with a clang of the bell, the door clattered open.
"Milliken Street!" the conductor ye
lled. "All aboard for Portland, Congress Street Car Barn!"
A fella came down the stairs, none-too-steady on his feet, tipped his hat in Sylvia's general direction -- "Miss." -- and charted an uncertain route down Milliken, taking the corner wide at Imperial, and heading up the hill, toward the boarding houses.
Sylvia mounted one step, and stopped to look over her shoulder at him.
"Come with me," she said.
He shook his head, both hands on the strings, and the music moving softly out into the night.
"Got everything I need, right here."
"Lucky you," she said.
"Hey!"
Andy turned, fearing the worst -- and here it came, the fella she'd been with at The Conch, hatless and running.
"Sylvia! Hey! Hold that trolley!"
She froze; she half-turned. . .
"Jake?"
Andy brought his hand across the strings in a slash, waking discord.
"Go!" he shouted, and used what she'd freely given him against her. "Sylvia! Get on the trolley!"
Her body stiffened. Wooden, but obedient to his command, she mounted the steps. The doors clashed shut behind her. Electricity crackled; sparks danced along the wire.
"Hey!"
The fella -- Jake -- slammed to a stop by the bench, breathing hard, and shaking his fist at the trolley's backside.
"Evenin', Jake," Andy said, quiet and firm.
The man turned toward him, eyes widening.
"You --What'd you do with my girl?"
"Gave her some help. She asked me."
"Yeah? Well, you're gonna be sorry you did that. How about I break that guitar over your head?"
"No," Andy said, and heard the music coming out of the guitar, thick and dark and heavy.
He tried to stop, but the music had him as much as it had Jake, and the music was angry.
"You better leave," he told Jake, and tried to change it; to play something else. He thought the notes of “Simple Gifts”; but his fingers continued to call forth darkness and doom. The strings were icy against his skin, and he saw the music flow into the man and through him.
Saw the candle -- saw, Andy thought, the man's soul -- dull and tarnished thing that it was, with its flame guttering orange.
His fingers were pitiless; they played on, and the dark music swept out in an eddy so poisonously perfect that Andy felt the tears prick his eyes.
There was no filling here; no squeezing, neither. Just a breeze, that was all, cold, and soft, and sudden.
The candle flame flickered, guttered. . .and licked back up, just a glow now. . .
Andy drew a breath; he drew deep, on all the power he had in him.
He lifted his hand away from the strings.
The music stopped.
The man's guttering soul flickered in the passing of the cold breeze; Jake swayed -- then straightened as the flame steadied and flared.
"You. . ." he snarled again, taking a step forward.
Andy slashed his hand across the strings, making them scream.
"Run!" he shouted. "Jake, you better run away -- and forget you knew Sylvia!"
He felt that last bit take, just before Jake jumped like he'd been poked with a hot wire. A harsh gasp, near enough to a scream, got loose from him, and his slick-soled shoes scraped the sidewalk as he sprang into a run, up Milliken, back toward the lights of Archers Avenue.
Andy watched until Jake was just one more silhouette among the many up on the Avenue. Then, he walked over to the bench and put his guitar away in its case.
He stood for a little while, then, shivering; the breeze off the ocean having gone from chilly to cold.
"Shows what comes of dealing with folks from Away," he said, to nobody in particular.
He sighed, and slung the case over his shoulder, looking toward home.
Midnight, he thought. The Big Band would be finishing up its last set real soon, and the jam session'd be warming up. He wanted voices around him, and music, that was what.
Tonight now, he thought, moving slow toward Archer Avenue. Tonight, he'd learn to play the Blues.
The Aristocrat and the Free Man
by Robert Conroy
My latest novel, Liberty: 1784, takes place in a dark world where the British have won the Revolution and are hell bent on imposing a harsh regime mirroring England’s. This is a short story dealing with, among other things, how black people existed in a New York City at that time. Thus, this tale of a free black man in the alternate world of 1784. – Robert Conroy
William thought he felt a tug on his fishing line. As usual, he was wrong. The dead worm was still there, but he didn’t care. This was his afternoon off from working with Tom Dawson in his inn and stable. He was a free black, a privileged black, and didn’t have to worry about someone scolding him for lazing away an afternoon. There were still many enslaved blacks in New York despite the fact that both sides in the recent war had tried to convince blacks to fight for them. Both sides had promised them the moon but had yet to deliver. William laughed softly. What the hell would he do with a moon? Someone had told him that nearly ten thousand blacks had lived in the city before the war, but who knew for certain. Besides, war, fire, and the British occupation had changed the population. Many Negroes were slaves but many, like William, were free.
William had created his own freedom. Already powerfully built at fifteen and named Ajax by his owners, he’d been abused and was being beaten by his master when he suddenly turned on the smaller man and bashed his skull against a tree, killing him. He’d hated the master, not just for the beatings but for the many times he’d raped William’s mother when William was young. He considered it a mercy for her that a fever had carried her away.
Knowing that a terrible fate awaited him if he was caught, William had run for his life and hadn’t stopped until he reached New York. He’d then found work with Tom Dawson, an Irish immigrant and innkeeper who was also a decent man and one who deplored slavery. Dawson had taken a liking to the hard-working and intelligent William and had even gotten the runaway forged papers showing that his name was William, and that he was a free man and not a murdering slave named Ajax. Of course, William had not told Dawson the exact circumstances that forced William to flee, but the Irishman understood they had to have been dire. Dawson further encouraged William to learn to read and write and do his figures. This kindness was reciprocated and William worked even harder for his benefactor. Now, twenty years later, their relationship was one of friendship rather than employer-employee.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the familiar sound of men marching. A column of redcoats was coming down the road. He watched them with a professional eye. He had spied for Washington’s army because the rebels seemed to promise the most, particularly in New York where there was a small but strong anti-slavery movement, typified by Tom Dawson.
These soldiers William was observing were straight off one of the scores of transports that lay at anchor in the harbor and they looked like hell. Several weeks locked up in a leaky, stinking and disease-ridden tub will do that, he thought. Worse, these looked like the refuse of society which they were. They were pale, scrawny, and sullen. They might as well be slaves, he thought. He had already noted that the average British soldier was shorter by several inches than the average American. He thought it was because Americans had access to better food.
Yes, William was a free man but that freedom only went so far. He could not vote in local elections and many professions were blocked to him. For instance, he could not become a doctor—as if anyone would want to go to a black doctor except blacks who had no money to pay him. Nor could he walk around with a weapon, such as a sword. He had a large knife in his belt, but that could be construed as a tool.
“William!”
Startled, he turned and smiled. It was May, the attractive mulatto who worked at Dawson’s inn and who occasionally shared William’s bed. “What is it May? You miss me already? Wasn’t last night more than enough?”
William rose to his feet and wrapped up his line. “Oh, we wouldn’t want that to happen, although I’d pay money to anyone who did kill the bastard.”
The bastard in question was Major Sir Arthur Harper, a portly thirty-year old who’d been living in Dawson’s inn and stabling his horses and carriage at Dawson’s stable. From the first day, he’d been a boor and a bully and, worse, hadn’t paid a penny of his bill. Now the British were stirring themselves and moving north to Albany from which they would head west and destroy the remnants of the shattered rebel army. Harper was minor nobility and lusted to increase his stature and his wealth. He had only recently come to realize that there wasn’t much in the way of treasure out west. As a result, he’d become bitter and frustrated, concerned that he was on a fool’s errand.
The rebels had collapsed after their crushing defeat at Yorktown and what remained of their forces had headed west where they’d hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.
William hadn’t been anywhere near Yorktown but he knew enough to curtail his activities and curb his tongue with so many redcoats around. So far it had worked. White people scarcely noticed black people except to order them around. Otherwise they were like the furniture, mute.
It was several short blocks to Dawson’s inn and William made it a point to step out of the way of white people, especially British soldiers, even if it meant walking in the street. Several redcoats knocked some people into the muddy street because they didn’t move out of the way quickly enough. Only a few streets in the city had been paved and even those were covered with dirt. The fires, especially a great one that had raged a year or so after the revolution began, had destroyed much of the city, dotting it with charred ruins. Even some of the buildings built by the Dutch a century ago had been destroyed. William thought that was a shame. The Dutch built elegant homes and businesses.
William also considered it a shame that Trinity Church had been destroyed in the great fire of 1776. The Christians had built some elegant churches even though their faith had been such a contradiction. How could so many of them, including preachers, condone slavery? He had frequently attended services there, although always sitting in the back. He felt this had helped cement his reputation as a hard working free man who accepted his lot in life.
