Being a Green Mother

by Piers Anthony

  "Yes," Jezebel agreed. "Not as far off as it is in Jonah, but distanced just enough."

  Orb wasn't sure what she had accomplished, or whether they had merely convinced themselves that she had helped. She decided not to question it. Certainly something had passed through her.

  They resumed their walk down the hall. Now they came to a desk. "Ah, you must be the entertainers," a nurse said. "That ward's about to burst at the seams! We promised them their kind of music, but with this weather we were afraid you wouldn't get through. Right this way."

  "Their kind of music?" Orb asked. "What is that?"

  "They call it 'rusty iron'," the nurse said. "It's horrible." She paused, glancing back at them. "Uh, no offense, of course. To each his own peculiar taste."

  "You know that kind?" Orb asked the guitarist.

  "Some," he admitted. "But listen, that stuff is bad! We used to try it once in a while, before we got with you, but, well, that's part of what got our other singer out other head. You have to be insane to go for it."

  "Here we are," the nurse said. "The psycho ward. Go right in."

  "Suddenly it makes sense!" Jezebel said.

  "Wait!" Orb protested. "We can't do this! We—"

  "You have to," the nurse said, looking harried. "They'll riot if we renege now! We had to promise—"

  "You don't understand," Orb said. "I'm the only one here with an instrument, and I have no knowledge of—"

  "You don't understand," the nurse said. "The season and the storm have brought the inmates to the point where any trifling thing can set them off. We're shorthanded for the same reason. Once things get out of control, there will be absolute mayhem!" She unlocked the door and drew it open.

  The sound hit them like the roar of ocean breakers. It was bedlam. Patients were running around, some in dishabille, some screaming unintelligibly, some banging against the furniture. Harried aides were trying to attend to the needs of individuals, but it was evident that they were so tired that they were hardly better off than the patients. This might once have been an orderly ward; now it was at the verge of chaos.

  "They're here!" the nurse screamed. "Find your places!"

  The effect was magical. "Rusty iron!" a patient cried jubilantly, and suddenly every person was scrambling for his chair. This was evidently intended to be a social setting, with comfortable chairs and television and assorted board games, cards, and books; the cards and books were scattered across the floor, and the television screen was filled with an interference signal, appropriately. Live entertainment was what was required.

  "We've got to do it, somehow," the guitarist said. "But you know I can't sing a note, and without my strings—"

  "I'm not part of this at all," Jezebel reminded them. "Cooking's the only mundane skill I ever tackled."

  "But I couldn't possibly do this—this rusty iron," Orb said. "The best I can do is support someone else who performs it. All I can do alone is my kind of song."

  "Do what you have to do!" an aide cried urgently. "Maybe they'll buy it!"

  "A skit!" the guitarist said. "Like Danny-Boy and Lou-Mae! We could act the parts, and you sing."

  "Let's get it going!" a patient exclaimed, banging his fist against the wall beside him. There was a clamor of agreement.

  "Anything!" the nurse hissed.

  "I'm no actress," Jezebel protested. "At night I only do one thing well and I'm damned if I'll do that here."

  "Come on," the guitarist said, taking the succubus by the arm. "You can do this much. Just stand here and look at me, and I'll look at you, and Orb will sing, and we'll just follow when we hear. With her magic it can work!"

  "Get it on!" the patient cried. He began to stamp his feet on the floor. This was quickly echoed by the others.

  "Shut up, you freaks!" the guitarist yelled. "How can we do anything with all this noise, and no amp system? Get it quiet; then we'll perform!"

  The stamping subsided. Quiet came to the ward. "Okay, Orb," the guitarist said. "Make it come to life."

  Orb had her harp in place, her fingers poised. She was ready—except that her mind had suddenly gone blank. "I can't think of any song!" she whispered, horrified.

  "Any of the ones we do!" he whispered back. "Maybe they'll buy it!"

  But Orb's mind remained blank; she could not remember any of their regular numbers. She seemed to have been struck by a kind of stage fright that depleted her entire store of music. Too much had happened; Jonah had undermined her security by stranding them like this, and her effort of song and will to stabilize her two companions had seemed to have used up her magic. She was powerless.

  "Believe me, if all these—" the nurse said, her gaze scanning the assembled patients nervously. Already the feet were preparing to resume their stomping. From there it would surely lead to worse things, for these were not sane people.

  Believe me, if all these—Orb thought, as if reading the words on a sheet of music.

  Then her fingers moved on the strings of the harp, and she began to sing.

  "Believe me if all these endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to fade by tomorrow and fleet in my arms Like fairy gifts fading away..."

  Orb heard herself with new horror. She was launching into one of the oldest and staidest of the mundane favorites, totally alien to the craving of this audience! Yet it was all she had, suggested by the chance words of the nurse. All she could do was throw herself into it and hope that the magic helped.

  But the patients weren't stamping; they were listening, perhaps in amazement at the irrelevance of this effort. The guitarist was gazing at the succubus as if she were the most innocent of lovely young maidens, and she was gazing back at him as if it were true. How long could this hold?

  She continued singing, aware of the audience as if apart from herself. Their astonishment was turning to something else as the song progressed; every pair of eyes were fixed on the two standing figures, who continued to look only at each other. They seemed impossibly young, untried, unsure, yet loving.

  "No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her God when he sets, The same face which she turned when he rose."

  It ended, but no one moved. The audience seemed locked in stasis, looking at the pair on stage, who continued to gaze at each other. It was as it had been the first time they acted out "Danny Boy," but more general; every face was a sunflower. The guitarist looked devoted and handsome, animated by his loyalty to his love; Jezebel looked radiant, as if she had never before received such a look, and was animated by it.

  Jezebel turned. Now Orb saw her eyes. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Then, silently, she collapsed.

  Startled, the guitarist grabbed, catching her before she struck the floor.

  Then the monstrous nose of Jonah came through the wall. The mouth opened. The guitarist picked Jezebel up in his arms and stepped in. Orb scrambled up with her harp and followed. The audience remained frozen.

  Jonah closed his mouth and swam strongly on through the hospital, passing rooms and people as if they were illusions, and emerging from the upper level. The fish was on his way—somewhere.

  The guitarist carried Jezebel on down the throat and to her chamber, where he set her carefully on her bed-region. "Is she all right?" he asked worriedly.

  Orb knelt down and checked the woman as well as she could. "I think so. She's not mortal, you know; I don't think she can be killed. She must have fainted. But I can't think why."

  "Look at her face," he said. "She was crying..."

  "I didn't think that demons could cry," Orb said.

  "She just looked at me when you sang, and the tears started." He shook his head. "God, she's beautiful! I guess I love her."

  "But she's a succubus!" Orb protested. "She's a century old!"

  "I'm going to kiss her."

  Somewhat dazed. Orb backed away. The guitarist knelt down beside the unconscious woman, leaned over, and kissed her on the lip
s.

  Jezebel stirred. Her arms came up to embrace the young man, then stiffened. "No!" she said. "I have no right!"

  "No right?" the guitarist asked.

  "To play such a role. I am not, was never, never can be... oh!" She turned her face to the side, the tears flowing again.

  The guitarist looked at Orb, baffled. "What does she mean?"

  Now Orb understood. "The song—took her. But she's a demoness, sullied by a century of her nature. She believes she has no right to pretend to be what you saw in her."

  "I know what she is!" he said. "Look at what I am! God, when you sang—"

  "I think demons can weep—when they experience true emotion," Orb said, working it out. "She may never have experienced it before, and it overwhelmed her."

  "Then she—?"

  "Loves you," Orb finished. "To whatever extent such a creature can. But she feels unworthy."

  "She'd have to be a hell of a lot lower than that to be unworthy of me!" he exclaimed.

  Then the fish nudged down. They were at the hall where the engagement was supposed to be. In fact they were in the hall; Jonah was delivering them right to the stage. Orb could see the others there, gazing up.

  "We have to go," Orb said.

  "Yeh." The guitarist got up. But he pointed a finger at Jezebel. "This isn't over," he said.

  She just looked sadly at him.

  Orb and the guitarist hurried on out, stepping from the mouth directly onto the stage. They took their normal places, and the show went on.

  In a few days there was an item in the local newspaper describing the mysterious manner in which a contingent from the Livin' Sludge had pacified the psychotic ward with a single song. The patients had shown much improvement, and many had taken to painting pictures of sunflowers.

  Similarly the scheduled concert had started off uncertainly, but developed into a rousing success when the absent members reappeared. Only two of the early numbers had the magic, but all of the later ones did. The reviewers were uncertain why, but Orb and the others worked it out when they compared notes.

  Orb had sung twice in that period: once to stave off the awful hungers of her companions, and once for the psycho ward. At the times she had done that, the remaining Sludge had come alive. The magic had reached out to them, too, enabling them to thrill the audience.

  She also had private conversations with Jezebel and the guitarist. Nothing had been said to the others about that aspect of recent developments.

  "This is ridiculous," the succubus said. "Demons can't love!"

  "And you do?"

  "Even if I were mortal, I'd be four or five times his age!"

  "And it makes no difference?"

  "I've always hated my nature! I did it because I had to. When I got free of that, here in Jonah, I knew I'd never do it again, as long as I had any choice!"

  "And now you want to?"

  "Not by day. But by night it's driving me crazy! Now that hasn't changed. But I just want to be with him, to please him, and if that pleases him..."

  Orb remembered how it had been with Mym. "Then why don't you go to him?"

  "And corrupt him? I'd rather die! Anyway, what future can there be in it? How could I face him by day, with the others knowing?"

  Orb shook her head. She didn't know.

  But when she talked with the guitarist, the answer came clearer. "I know she swore off that stuff the moment she could, but God, I wish I could be with her, you know, just, I mean I wouldn't have to touch her, I don't want to make her hate it, but if I could just be with her at night..."

  "What about the day?" Orb inquired.

  "Yeh. That's rough, too. I wish it could be like now. I mean, nobody knowing. She's just the cook. But at night you know, secret love. Nobody knowing that either."

  Orb took a deep breath. She felt responsible, because her song had triggered this. "Go to her at night. She will keep your secret."

  "But she doesn't want—I mean—"

  "Yes she does. She feels about you as you feel about her, the awkwardness and everything. Secret love—that seems best."

  "You mean it?" he asked incredulously.

  "You did a very nice thing, when you gave away your H. Perhaps this is your reward."

  "But—"

  "Go to her," Orb said firmly.

  He looked as if he had just received news of a phenomenal inheritance. "If you're sure—"

  "Just remember her nature. We won't be in Jonah forever, and then she will revert to her normal state. What I did was only temporary. Even if you stay with her then, you will have to share her, in her fashion."

  He nodded soberly. "Better a little time than none," he said. "I do know her nature."

  Orb was left to her own thoughts. Back in Ireland, she would never have thought she would send any man to a succubus, not even a drug addict. But she had learned something of the ways of life and love and had become less judgmental. Every person was caught in the web of circumstance, and right and wrong became matters of opinion. If a man who thought himself worthless had found someone who thought otherwise, and if a creature who had been a slave to sex now was discovering the positive side of it, where was the evil?

  Evil. That reminded her of the prophecy—she might marry Evil. Others had taken that to mean she would be the bride of Satan. Orb doubted that; as far as she knew, Satan had never married, and certainly she would never do such a thing. So the obvious interpretation had to be wrong, and some more devious one would eventually manifest.

  And what would that be? That she would marry an evil man? Why would she do that? She was getting over her loss of Mym; time had passed, after all, and she had another life now. But he set the standard for her; she could not get interested in a lesser man.

  Ah, but interest had not been specified. Suppose she married for some reason other than love? Yet what could that be? She would not do it for money, certainly!

  But perhaps she would do it for good. If she discovered that she could do a great deal of good in the world by making a token marriage with an evil man. She shook off the notion. The prophecy simply didn't make much sense, so the sensible thing to do was to dismiss it. What would be, would be, and surely the truth would turn out to be other than the implication.

  Already there were strange aspects, though. She was a musician, utilizing her natural talent of magic projection to amplify her trained talent of music. But now her magic was spreading to the whole group she was with, and sometimes even when she was not close by. This most recent series of events, where she had seemingly put a hold on both the succubus' nature and the drug addict's craving—that was more than music! She knew, in a way, what she had done; she had borrowed from Jonah, copying the manner he held those urges in abeyance. She didn't understand the mechanism, but somehow her magic had read it and brought it to them. Still, that was a power she either had not had before or had not known she had.

  Jonah—why had the big fish deserted them for that period? He had spit them out at the wrong place, then come for them later. Could that be coincidence?

  Hardly! That session had put Orb on the spot and forced her to extend herself, drawing on her magic. The fish's lateness in picking them up from their shopping trip had a similar effect; she had done some good for those who were trying to collect money for a good purpose. Jonah must have known!

  Was the big fish trying to guide her? Why?

  Then, perhaps, she understood—the Llano. They all wanted to find that magical song. There must be some way to do that, which Orb could use—if she first mastered the full powers of her own magic. If she found the Llano, so would Jonah.

  "Very well, Jonah," she murmured. "I will seek to explore and develop my full potential. You help me when you can."

  There was no response by the big fish, but Orb knew she had in him an ally and perhaps a friend. She needed that support, for though she was back in a group, with constant activity, she was lonely. If only Mym had been able to... Orb found herself crying, for no apparent reason. />
  Some months later Orb happened to see a picture on a page of a newspaper. She froze. That was Mym!

  She read the caption. PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF INDIA VISIT, it said.

  Now she looked at the woman in the picture. She was indeed a princess, regal and stunningly beautiful.

  This was the marriage they had arranged for her beloved. Orb forced herself to read the article and learned that the Princess was his betrothed, called a complex Indian name that translated to "Rapture of Malachite," and indeed she wore malachite, costly green stones. The Prince had a speech affectation, so the Princess did most of the talking, eloquently expressing the sentiments that he unobtrusively signaled to her. They had come to negotiate a loan for their nations, and their prospects were very good, for the Prince was forceful and clever despite his affectation, and the Princess most persuasive. When she leaned forward to make one of the Prince's points, even the most cynical official paid close attention.

  Orb noted the woman's evident cleavage. Of course the official paid attention!

  But this was a showcase liaison, intended to appeal to westerners. Was there any genuine feeling involved?

  Orb stared at the picture and into the picture, feeling her magic reach through it and to the reality beyond. The picture was old; she felt that now; it was a dated newspaper. But still she felt the reality behind it. There was love there. Mym did love her, and she loved him.

  Orb felt something breaking in her. Of course she was happy for Mym, she told herself. She wanted him happy, whatever his situation. The woman was blameless and good; no fault in her. But oh, the hurt, even after all this time!

  She had to get away from here for a time, to be by herself. Far away!

  Her vision blurred. Her mind seemed to blur, too. Somewhere in the far distance she heard a melody, and she knew it was a fragment of the Llano. She tuned in on it and felt her whole body blurring.

  She seemed to expand, diffusing across the chamber, then across the giant body of the fish. She remained herself, but larger, and her substance thinned as her dimensions increased. She seemed to be no more than fog, now as large as Jonah, now larger.