The Time Of The Transferance

by neetha Napew

  “How do you expect him to comply with rules and regulations he knows nothing about?”

  “Ignorance is no excuse,” the line of demons standing on the edge of the headboard intoned ritualistically. “He has been audited and found wanting. He must pay.”

  “All right.” Jon-Tom reached toward his purse. “How much does he owe? I have some gold.”

  “Money?” The leader’s lips formed a miniature bow of disapproval. “We do not accept money. We have come for his soul and we mean to have it and if you continue to interfere, man, we will take yours as well as interest earned. I Lescar, Agent-in-Charge, say this.”

  “Jon-Tom,” whispered Weegee urgently, “the goblet’s prediction!”

  He stared at the tiny, threatening demon. Certainly his expression was lugubrious enough. Wildly he wondered if the goblet was also right about IBM.

  “It doesn’t matter, Weegee. I have to get my duar fixed. Coulb’s the only one who can do it, so I have to try to help him. I think I’d try anyway. I don’t like these smartass bureaucratic types.”

  “No one likes us,” the demons moaned. “We like no one. It does not matter. The end is never in doubt.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He began strumming the suar’s strings, trying to think of an appropriate spellsong. What might have an effect on demons like these? Armies of the dead, skeletal apparitions, ogres and monsters of every description he could and had dealt with, but this was a different kind of evil, sly and subtle. It required spellsinging of equal cunning.

  He started off with another bold rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Money.”

  Though he was functioning without the power of the duar, the bedroom rang wih the sound of his voice. The house picked up on what he was trying to do and added a throbbing, contemporary backbeat. But no matter what song he tried or how well he played the demons simply ignored him as they concentrated their efforts on the rapidly weakening kinkajou.

  Eventually Cautious put a gentle hand on Jon-Tom’s arm. “Might as well save your breath. Ain’t having no effect on them. Ain’t nothing gonna have an effect on them, maybe.”

  Jon-Tom requested a glass of water, which Amalm readily provided. His throat was sore already. He’d been singing steadily for more than half an hour, with no visible effect on his opponents. Not one demon had disappeared. They continued their insidious harangue of Couvier Coulb.

  “There’s got to be a way,” he mumbled. “There’s got to be.”

  “Maybe spellsinging ain’t it.” Cautious looked thoughtful. “When I was a cub my grammam used to tell me ‘bout magic, you bet. She always say you have to make the magic fit the subject. Doen look like you doing that, Jon-Tom.”

  Was he going about it all wrong? But all he knew how to do was spellsing. He couldn’t use potions and powders like Clothahump. What was it the wizard was always telling him? “Always keep in mind that magic is a matter of specificity.”

  Specifics. Instead of trying to adapt old songs to fit the situation, perhaps he should improvise new ones. He’d done that before. But what kind of lyrics would give such demons as these pause?

  Fight fire with fire. Clothahump hadn’t said that, but somebody had.

  He considered carefully. A gleam appeared in his eyes. His hand swept down once more over the suar. Take equal parts Dire Straits, Ratt, X and Eurythmics. Mix Adam Smith with Adam Ant. Add readings from The Economist and Martin Greenspan. Mix well and you have one savage synoptic song.

  Heavy metal economics.

  Instead of singing of love and death, of peace and learning and compassion, Jon-Tom began to blast out raw-edged stanzas full of free trade, reduced tariffs, and an international standard of taxation based on ecus instead of the dollar.

  It staggered the demons. They tried to fight back with talk of protectionism and deficit financing, but they were no match for Jon-Tom musically. He struck hard with a rhythmic little ditty proposing a simplified income tax and no deductions that sent half of them scurrying for shelter, moaning and covering their ears.

  Those remaining countered with an accusation about an unqualified deduction retroactive to the first date of filing, a vicious low blow that cracked the front of the suar and nearly knocked him off his feet. He recouped the ground briefly lost and more with the ballad of unlimited textile imports and suggestions for a free market in autos. When he slammed them with a flat tax tune it was more than the strongest among them could bear. They began to vanish, holding their briefcases defensively in front of them, dissolving in a refulgent gray cloud of letters and incomprehensible forms.

  Still he sang of banking and barter, of one page returns and other miracles, until the last of the cloud had dissipated. When he finally stopped it was as if the air in the room had been scoured clear of infection, every molecule handwashed and hung out to dry. He was hoarse and exhausted.

  But Couvier Coulb was standing tall and straight by the side of his bed, assuring his sobbing housekeeper that if not completely cured he was surely on the way to total recovery.

  At which point a fuzzy head popped into view atop the stairwell and declared at this solemn and joyful moment, “Damn, I thought I were goin’ to piss for a week!”

  “As always, your timing never ceases to amaze me.” Jon-Tom had to struggle to form the words. His voice was a breathy rasping.

  Mudge glanced rapidly around the bedchamber. “Timin’? Wot timin’? Now where are these ‘ere demons everyone’s so worried about? I’m ready for ‘em, I am. Big demons, little demons, let me at “em.” He stode briskly into the room.

  To her immense credit and Jon-Tom’s everlasting appreciation Weegee booted the otter right in the rear.

  As the two of them quarreled, Couvier Coulb led the rest of his guests downstairs. “Come, my friend. Amalm, I am sure our guests must be hungry.” He put an affectionate arm and his prehensile tail around Jon-Tom’s waist, which was as high as he could comfortably reach. “And I know this young man must be thirsty. I am going to fix your duar, Jon-Tom. Have no fear of that. If it is at all possible I will do it.” He winked. “I may even do it if it is impossible. But first we must rest. You are tired from battling demons and I from a long illness. You must talk of your travels in distant lands and of the world you come from, and I would know more of this Clothahump who knew to send you to me.”

  “That’s easy.” Mudge and Weegee had rejoined them, Mudge still rubbing his backside. “ ‘E’s a senile old faker with a ‘ead as ‘ard as ‘is shell.”

  By nightfall Coulb had recovered much of his strength and led his guests into his workshop. The house was already perking up, having set aside its month-long funeral dirge in favor of some sprightly, cheerful tunes that would have done well on Broadway. It had a rejuvenating effect on Coulb and Jon-Tom. Mudge thought it spooky.

  The kinkajou carefully laid out the shattered components of the duar on his workbench, a glistening long table made of pure white hardwood. When the last piece had been set down he turned the carrying sack inside out to check for dust and splinters. These were collected, placed in ajar, and added to the display. As he donned a pair of extra-thick work glasses Jon-Tom took a moment to examine the workshop.

  Musical instruments in different stages of repair lay on other benches or hung from the walls. The air was thick with the rich smells of oil and varnish. Some of the tools meticulously arranged in boxes next to the workbench looked fine enough to do double duty in a surgery.

  Coulb was muttering aloud. “Align these here, replace some wood there; that seam can be fixed, yes.” He looked up, pushed the work glasses back on his forehead. “I can repair it—I think.”

  “You think?”

  The kinkajou rubbed at his eyes. “As I said before, this instrument is unique. The most difficult part will be setting the strings. It is hard to achieve perfect pitch in two dimensions at once.” He gestured toward the bench. “All the strings are there?” Jon-Tom nodded. “Good. I’ve never seen strings like these and I’d hate to have to try
to replace them. Fortunately they are metal. But I will need help setting them properly.”

  Jon-Tom looked around the shop. “An apprentice?” Coulb just smiled.

  Oil lamps, each in the shape of a different instrument, lined the walls. It was pitch dark outside. They were full of Amalm’s good cooking. Jon-Tom sensed he was in the presence of another master magician. What else could you call someone who took wood and glue and gut and created from such disparate elements the essence of music?

  “Not an apprentice.” The kihkajou was walking to another table. “Gneechees. A spellsinger should know gneechees.”

  “That I do, but I’ve never seen anyone except Clothahump and myself call them up.”

  “Not only must we call them up, young man, we must isolate those we need. In order to be able to do this I collaborated some years ago with Acrody, a master manufacturer of medical devices. Working together we built this.”

  Jon-Tom studied the contraption intently. It consisted of a series of transparent tubes, each stacked inside the other. Their sides were perforated by minute holes. The largest tube, which contained all the others, was nearly a foot in diameter, while the innermost was as narrow as a straw. This emerged from the middle of the stack and continued up and out until it entered a glass plate that was perhaps a quarter inch deep and some two feet wide by three long. It resembled a solar collector without the silicon cells. Coulb assured him it was covered with small holes but Jon-Tom could perceive them only as a roughness on the flat surface.

  From the underside of the plate hung thin strips of metal, wood, glass, plastic—every imaginable substance. Coulb leaned over and blew on the plate. As the air passed through the glass the streamers began to vibrate, producing an infinity of musical tones.

  Keys ran in a circle around the base of the big glass tube. They did not appear to be connected to anything but Jon-Tom knew better. Coulb hadn’t placed them there for decoration.

  “What is it?” Weegee finally asked.

  “A gneechee sorter.” Coulb looked proud. “Not an easy thing to build, I can tell you. I use it to isolate those gneechees who are musically inclined from those with other ethereal interests. It will help us to tune your duar, young man. If I can put it back together again. Which I cannot do if I stand here nattering away with you. Go on now, out, shoo, leave me to my work. Amalm will attend to your needs. It is late and you need your sleep while I am just waking up. I will see you again tomorrow night.”

  They filed out, Jon-Tom’s gaze lingering long on the fragments of his duar. He felt as though he was abandoning his only child to another’s care. Better care than you gave it. he reminded himself.

  There was a large guest house out back. Amalm found beds for all of them and bid them a good night. They fell asleep instantly, lulled by the music of the house and the waterfall nearby which combined to sing them a liquid lullaby.

  XVI

  They spent several days as Coulb’s guests, enjoying Amalm’s cooking and exploring the village, regaining the strength they’d expended during the arduous journey to Strelakat Mews. Many times Jon-Tom was tempted to look in on Couvier Coulb. He did not, mindful of Amalm’s admonition that the master worked best when he was not disturbed.

  There came a day when Coulb interrupted their breakfast. He was tired from working through the night but quietly exultant. The right lens of his work glasses was almost obscured by varnish and he held a brush in his right paw as he looked straight at Jon-Tom and smiled.

  “It’s done. Come and see.”

  Though he wasn’t finished eating, Jon-Tom pushed back his chair and moved to follow Coulb. So did Cautious. Weegee dragged a disgruntled Mudge away from the food.

  Even Amalm put her apron aside and came to see what musical miracle the kinkajou had wrought.

  Miracle was the only description that fit, Jon-Tom thought in wonder as Coulb proudly displayed the restored duar. At the very least he expected cracks and seams to show. After all, the duar had not merely been broken; it had been shattered.

  It hung between padded metal clamps atop the workbench, and it glowed. Coulb had done more than restore it, he had improved on it. Those sections which had been irreparably damaged had been seamlessly replaced with jewel-like pieces of exotic woods. New wood and old had been polished to a mirror-like sheen. The tremble and mass controls sat flush with the resonating chamber.

  “May I...?”

  “Of course you may, young man. It is your instrument, is it not?”

  Holding the duar by its neck, Jon-Tom loosened the clamps and removed it from its mounting. He tried the controls. They turned with a fluid firmness. The old uncertain give and play was gone.

  Even. the feel of the wood was different. It was soft, almost malleable, the result of penetrating oils Coulb had worked into top, bottom and sides. Yet no matter how much he caressed it there was no lingering greasiness on his fingers.

  The strings looked right. They gradually ran together over the openings in the resonator, vanishing into another dimension before reappearing on the other side. Yet when he ran his fingers lovingly over their taut surfaces the sounds they generated were unnaturally discordant.

  “We still have to tune it.” He was enjoying himself, Jon-Tom saw.

  Taking the instrument, Coulb placed it between two braces beneath the strips of material that hung from the underside of the gneechee collector plate. Moving to the peculiar keyboard that encircled the concentric glass cylinders, he began to play.

  Oddly clear, lilting notes filled the workshop. Slow Mahler on a glass harmonica. The chords deepened as Coulb leaned harder on the keys and picked up the beat. Sounds of several symphony orchestras mixed with synthesizers assailed the ears of the onlookers. Mudge put an arm around Weegee and pulled her close while Cautious closed his eyes. Amalm looked on and nodded knowingly, her face alight with pride.

  The sonority brought forth a glow, one familiar to Jon-Tom and his companions. Gneechees, attracted by the thousands to the magic of the music. They clustered around old Couvier Coulb .until he was encased in a luminescent blanket. More of them swirled around the glass columns. As Jon-Tom stared they began to filter through the minuscule perforations, filling one cylinder after another, until at last the most persistent of them reached the central and final tube.

  It conveyed them up in a neon arc, up and around and into the collection plate as the cylinders separated out those gneechees whose especial affinity was for music. They filled the collector plate to overflowing, the glass growing so bright with the light of their concentrated bodies that Jon-Tom could hardly bear to look at it. Compacted within the plate they continued their joyous, celebratory dance, thereby agitating the tuning strips which hung from the underside of the glass. Jon-Tom began to cry from the sheer ecstasy the resultant music produced.

  And as it poured into and through and around the duar that extraordinary instrument strained against its braces, bending slightly upward in the middle. But the clamps were strong and held it in place as it and everyone else in the room quivered in time to the rampaging music.

  Then it was done. Couvier Coulb stepped away from his keyboard. The gneechees put forth a few Final, questioning chords before they began to filter out of the collection plate and concentric cylinders. The music faded with them, back into the unreal realm from which the master instrument maker had summoned them forth.

  Coulb took a deep breath and then, as if in intentional contrast to the indescribable musical sweep they had just endured, cracked his knuckles. He walked over to the now transparent plate collector, reached beneath the motionless tuning strips, and removed the duar from its braces. In appearance it was unchanged, but when Jon-Tom took it from the kinkajou’s grasp a subtle trembling ran from the instrument through his fingertips and up his arms, drifting away like a lost sigh.

  Coulb looked up at him out of wise, gratified eyes. “Now try your instrument, young human.”

  Jon-Tom put the strap over his shoulder, let the duar rest agai
nst his chest. It felt familiar, comfortable, a part of him. The wood was golden and the strings gleamed like chrome. It had not been restored so much as resurrected.

  The first sounds that issued from the resonating chamber when he passed his fingers across the double set of strings were exalted.

  Couvier Coulb looked satisfied and found himself a chair. “Play something. Not for magic. For the music.”

  Jon-Tom nodded and smiled at the old craftsman. The bond between them transcended such insignificant differences as species. This was to be the kinkajou’s reward. Play he would for the master, something high-spirited and full of life. A celebration.

  Too much of a celebration for Mudge, who never had become a heavy metal fan. He ran from the workshop, his paws clapped over his ears. He was followed by a reluctant Weegee and an apologetic Cautious.

  Though she winced a lot, Amalm stayed. As for Couvier Coulb, he seemed to drop twenty years. As the smile on his face grew broader he began snapping his fingers and tapping his feet, and his long prehensile tail twitched back and forth behind his chair like a furry metronome. The house went dead quiet for about five’ minutes before it began to join in, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.

  Jon-Tom had never felt better in his life. Never played better either, he reflected happily. He bounced and pranced and leaped about the room, even managing an exuberant aerial split h la Pete Townshend. And when he concluded, the sweat pouring from his face and beneath his arms, the breath coming in long sweet sucks, it still was not silent in the workshop. Couvier Coulb was on his feet, applauding mightily.

  “Such depth of feeling! Such insight and enthusiasm. Such wanton expression of personal karma.”

  “Say what?” Jon-Tom straightened.

  “What do you call it?”

  “A song for my lady love, who I wish was here to share this moment with me. It’s called “The Lemon Song,” by a quiet bunch of good-natured fellows who named themselves Led Zepplin. Very refined.”

  The kinkajou stored this information, then turned and walked toward the back of the workshop. “Come, young man. I have something else to show you.” The twinkle was back in his eyes.