The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  The tour guide drops his character like a cheap souvenir mask. “Hey, watch it, asshole! I’m trying to conduct a tour here!”

  Teddy bares his teeth. “And I’m trying to live here, motherfucker! Why don’t you take your flock to a bar and make up some bullshit story about that? Every building in this city is haunted, so leave mine alone!” I join him at the window and we each give the tour guide a proud display of a one-fingered peace sign: the “Leland Sklar salute,” in the tradition of one of our bass heroes. Teddy claps the window shut with a satisfying bang, denying his observer the last word. I grin, feeling a little adrenaline buzz. People can say what they want to about the benefits of yoga, but still sometimes there is nothing more therapeutic than the simple extension of the middle finger.

  “Of course there’s a ghost here!” he crows. “This whole house is full of energy, and it loves music!” He makes a beeline for his refrigerator again. “Care for some cantaloupe?”

  I am in no mood for melon after that display, but I am too caught up in the hilarity to refuse. He carves up another ripe fruit and pushes a generous wedge toward me before feeding voraciously. We snarl together in parody of gathering around the kill.

  “I meant to tell you,” he mumbles through a juicy mouthful, “that you can learn a lot about basic lycanthropy decorum if you understand Japanese social protocol a little. In most situations for both races, someone is either your superior or your inferior. I would ask you if you’ve ever heard of Honorable Bones, but I know that the answer is going to be ‘no.’ Most people have never heard of this manifesto.

  “It was written back during the Edo period by a monk who called himself Matsuo Ōkami. Because the original manuscript has been lost, and all we have is a translation, we don’t know how ‘Ōkami’ was spelled, since Japanese has three alphabets. The word means either ‘great spirit’ or ‘wolf,’ depending on which alphabet was used. I wouldn’t be surprised if the monk had intended for his pseudonym to be ambiguous.

  “This set of guidelines is a good way of learning to err on the side of caution when dealing with other packs or foreign werewolves. Someone is either your superior or inferior, so it’s always good to be overly polite and respectful. There is a protocol that you already know within the music community, which most musicians follow in order to get calls for more gigs and not be branded as douchebags.

  “But when you step into other circles, be they social or work-related, you have to be aware of the subtleties of the vibes, lycan or human. This treatise is just a good thing to bear in mind when dealing with packs of military, nautical, or business lycans, for example. Kind of a universal code that everyone more or less follows. It’s the effort that counts: it indicates that you wish to show respect.

  “If there are any remaining lycans in Japan, we don’t know. Both the Honshu wolf and the Hokkaido wolf are now extinct, so any wolves spotted in Japan would be a dead giveaway to something unusual. Individuality is not a Japanese lycan value. The shifters there today still cling to the old ways, and the more valued animal attributes are those of colony creatures, such as ants and bees.”

  I am overstimulated now. “I can’t possibly learn all this!” I snap. “I had a hard enough time learning session etiquette while playing music in Scotland and Ireland! This shit’s going to get me killed if I fuck it up!”

  Teddy pulls me into an embrace. I don’t want to be hugged, and growl. He hugs me tightly anyway, and the tension rolls off of me like waves. I am disgusted, for I want to stay mad.

  “You won’t get killed,” he reassures me. “You have a pack to protect you. Every single one of us had to learn, so no one is going to judge you. And now … we are off for a drink at Flanagan’s.”

  Flanagan’s is only a few blocks away from Teddy’s pad, and has a comfortable vibe. The only thing Irish about it is its name. In all other respects, it’s a down-home local watering hole. To the right, the bar is low enough for people to sit at it like a table, and perfect height at which a large quadruped can stand around it. Subtle warding is coming from all directions, although there’s no way to tell which patrons are doing it. The sign in the back reads EMPLOYEES AND WEREWOLVES ONLY.

  “Teddy, are they serious …?”

  He grins. “Know how there are vampire bars all over the Quarter? This is a werewolf bar. Of course, it’s officially only in theme … we can’t be too careful, but if we snort or howl, no one will take it amiss.”

  It smells friendly in here. There are, of course, a fair number of tourists, but assorted places at the bar distinctly smell like the favorite seats of various regulars. Everyone knows Teddy, and his relaxed attitude puts me at ease.

  A half-human yelp of pain outside knocks us all to our feet. Closest to the door, I manage a glimpse of the sidewalk by the entrance before Teddy yanks me back in. Bob Felinus, a man who tended bar during my days playing at The Spotted Cat, is crumpled on the sidewalk, face contorted in pain. His arm appears to be caught in some sort of trap, and the scent of fresh blood permeates the atmosphere, sending us all into high alert. Another peek shows that it was some sort of bear trap concealed inside a cardboard box baited with books. Someone mutters that they’re Terry Pratchett novels intended to look like a casual throwaway, and I happen to know that they’re an addiction for the gentle soul who used to have a glass of wine for me at the end of every set.

  Someone was out to get this specific man.

  Teddy warns me to stay inside and joins the impromptu squad of rescuers, dragging the wounded man inside, trap and all. Once over the threshold of the bar, Bob collapses, not bothering to disguise his agony. His long sideburns are flecked with blood and foam, and he hisses as two men pry the trap open. They make him stretch out and elevate his feet, and a third man brings him a shot of his favorite Japanese whisky. I feel more than hear his breathing slow down to normal.

  “He’s all right,” Huggy the bartender announces. “He’s got a broken arm, and we’re gonna get him to a hospital as soon as we can.” And with that, a wall of patrons forms protectively around him. It’s safe in here, I tell myself.

  Amid the warding and the adrenaline, there is a strong sense of unity here. No one questions my presence. A few customers even give me conspiratorial winks and nods of subtle recognition. I have shielded myself so thoroughly (with a little help from Teddy) I can only assume that they recognize me from my gigs. I don’t know how they could possibly know that I am a lycan, and in here I don’t know if I fear this or hope so.

  Perhaps I will fit in somewhere at long last, even if my life is continuously in jeopardy.

  Navigating around the ever-present potholes that give New Orleans another bit of its character, my little Honda responds to my touch like a polo pony. Fixing the streets is truly a Sisyphean endeavor, but we take good paving for however long it lasts. The time for repaving the Musician’s Village, however, is long over due. Raúl’s house is in this neighborhood, a post-Katrina rebuilding triumph by Habitat for Humanity. Spanning part of the Upper Ninth Ward, it allows many of the local musicians to live on musicians’ wages and gather together with our kind. The brightly-painted houses are not ornate in structure, but sturdy and new. I pull up behind Raúl’s van, unmistakable by the bumper sticker that reads SAVE A DRUM, BANG A DRUMMER.

  Stewart Copeland’s The Rhythmatist is playing at a humane level from his stereo. I forget about my longing for Rowan, my bass chops, and even what I might feel like eating for dinner later and allow myself to be swooped up in Raúl’s strong, gentle hug, laughing unexpectedly when he gives me a noogie. He smells earthy, of comfort and strength.

  “Are you ready to make some funny noises, Little One?” he asks with a grin. His teeth shining white against the undiluted darkness of his skin, beautiful striking cheekbones, and slight off-white tint of the whites of his eyes would make any person inquire, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?” Which is why I have an even deeper appreciation for the Duck Dynasty shirt he’s wearing, clearly as a joke. Laughter that am
bushes you, that forces you to fall apart and regroup in spite of yourself, is often more purifying than any smells or bells of a ritual.

  As per his earlier instructions, I am in sweatpants and a t-shirt today. Raúl goes to change, and instructs me to go through some stretches and hydration. I glance around his living room as I do, taking in the Tibetan prayer flags hung tastefully across the corners at reducing the harshness of the square room. The large flag of Mozambique hangs over his stereo and a handful of handmade drums. A promotional poster of Dave Weckl endorsing some drum equipment is placed reverently next to some framed prints by body painting guru Craig Tracy, whom the city is proud to claim as a local.

  I sense some amount of warding taking place, albeit very subtly. No one questions noises coming from the neighbors here in the Musicians’ Village, not when your neighbor across the street is a bari sax player, and two houses down someone might be trying out a new amp and some effects loops. Whether this is for our privacy or the sacrament of what we are about to try, I am grateful.

  He returns in his yoga gear, looking for all the world like a movie star. “Part of your physical training must now extend to yoga. All of this is to not only increase your chances of survival, but to help you master your dual nature, as well as extend compassion toward those who do not understand you or even may fear you. The stronger we are, the more incumbent it is to champion the weak. Our kind would not survive without this understanding, for without balance, we would soon be killed off, and rightfully so.

  “Ready to learn some mantras, baixo? Here is a little secret: it is no coincidence that many mantras can be uttered while a lycan is in full bass form, such as ‘waheguru’ and ‘aum.’ Your parasympathetic nervous system will kick in when we do this. It’s literally ‘getting a vibe.’ Does that sound musical? It should. It’s truly vibration— the essence of music, or the very thing that holds the atoms of our bodies together, and the dual vibrations that allow us lycans to change.”

  “Rowan was mentioning something about that,” I agree, willing my heart to remain neutral.

  “Mantras give the howl more energy and focus. And now here are some things you must know about these energies.”

  He talks me through a meditation that I can do whether in complete human form, complete wolf form, or some in-between phase, the last of which is something we will soon learn. I can feel a glorious vibrancy blossom along my spine as I stretch and flow into my change to wolf and back again. But something feels wrong over my heart. I don’t know if it’s my long history of repeated heartbreak, or the love I feel for Rowan that I am desperately trying to suppress. Something feels unmistakably blocked.

  Old self-deprecating feelings creep over me, familiar and icy. I feel stupid, clumsy, and incompetent. Where is this coming from?

  So I try the meditation again with the intention of not thinking at all. I quiet my mind and feel my immediate surroundings fade. In the absence of all present day life tasks—gigs, charts, oil changes, bills—other long-repressed feelings begin to surface. Now that it is safe to make full use of my gifts, my thoughts suddenly flash back to Cal. “You need a halo. You’re just a bitch, but I have the power to give you wings.”

  Cal was determined to break down my resolve by keeping me awake all night, denying me food, and isolating me from my family and what few friends I had. In addition to all of Cal’s abuses—for now I am finally able to admit that that is what they were—I now wonder if he was also trying to gauge the threshold of my senses to detect my lycan traits. Attempting to sneak up and startle me awake for seemingly his own amusement, forcing me to eat food that was too hot (his official story was that he had wanted me to associate food with pain so that I wouldn’t overeat), and randomly flashing direct sunlight into my eyes with a mirror may have all been techniques to confirm his suspicions about my heightened senses. Crap. There is no way I can make this meditation happen today. I should be born to do this. I can’t even get being a werewolf right!

  I trust Raúl, so I don’t attempt to shield my despair. He would never judge me, and I owe him this much honesty. He mercifully does not question me too much or try to push me too hard. Without prying he steers the lesson into related topics intended to keep me balanced as a “blended being.” I learn through Hatha yoga how blended beings like shifters need equal amounts of solar and lunar energy to stay balanced. This time I shove Cal to the back of my mind and keep him there.

  We end my training with a namaste. I cleave my train of negativity with a feeble quip, “Am I going to have to start ordering soy lattés and only eat organic quinoa?”

  He rewards me with his usual deep smile. “No, Little One. My birthday is coming up soon, and I expect you to join me for some rare steaks and a few cigars. Maybe if the night goes really well, we can start a few fist fights and pick up a couple of hookers as well?” I laugh, and he gives me a huge hug, holding me in a bulwark of comfort before I leave. His scent is comforting, his energy strong.

  As I head for my car, he calls out to me, “Don’t forget to rest. It will keep your mind clear and your choices wise.”

  I am too relieved to feel discouraged on my way home. I have managed to control these feelings of love for Rowan for one more day. Right now that’s all that matters.

  Next rehearsal is not only to recharge through the collective howl and practice for Howlapalooza, but also to learn everyone’s stories. This is what the message on the pack phone reads, but as I step over the threshold into our Fountainebleau room, the tension in the room nearly knocks me to my knees.

  No one can ignore Rowan’s pacing. Any human musician might perceive it as some sort of foible, or a bandleader’s concern for a forthcoming show. But in a rare display of exposed energies, Rowan has urgent news.

  “Lorna Leatherwing was found dead in her New Hampshire home,” he says, alarming in the flatness of his tone. A collective gasp flies around the room. I loved Leatherwing’s music, in spite of her over-the-top stage show, which I found to be distracting from her songwriting. “Police discovered her hanging upside down in her closet, as she was prone to doing in her bat form. Only this time she was human, bound with ropes and her throat slit. Someone knows what she was. The media has been saying that is was some sort of lone crazed self-righteous vigilante that found her goth image unsettling. New Orleans isn’t the only place where shape-shifting musicians are under attack.”

  He turns his gaze to me. “And not all of the shape-shifters under attack are musicians. A SIN agent bore witness to your former neighbor Hortense Peacock being shot. She said, ‘You can kill me if you wish, but I will no longer comply with your ways.’ The agent tried to intervene, but the gun went off and the assailant disappeared. We need to get our shit together if we are going to warn shifters everywhere. This is going to have to go nationwide, if not worldwide. And I need everyone’s backgrounds today, even though this may make some of you uncomfortable.”

  The energy of the music today is more serious but focused. After an intense practice, we are all open and vulnerable, but connected and trusting of each other.

  It seems that the pack has been somewhat aware of my background, but it’s interesting to me how diverse we are in our histories. Sylvia, like me, was born into it with generational skips. Rowan and Raúl were born into it from long lines of shape-shifters, and Teddy was bitten.

  Rowan reveals modestly that he is descended from a long line of Alpha males, mostly Mexican wolf with a little southern Red. I wonder how a Hispanic-Cajun man ended up with a name like “Rowan,” but he doesn’t reveal this. His father is from Mexico, and was a holy lycan before choosing a mate in Louisiana. It turns out that his father was the one who helped Sylvia find sanctuary when she decided to become a nun.

  He describes his early musical career as “odd jobs,” mostly playing piano for silent films. “Yeah, yeah … I’m an old man!” he jokes. “Sylvia, Teddy, and Buzz: you guys are going to have to come up with some interesting alibis over the years. True wolves are not particularl
y long-lived: only about eight years in the wild, and a little longer in captivity. But for some reason, being a ‘blended being’ causes the two factors to cancel out. It’s about this time, in your late twenties and early thirties that you will find your friends asking what your secret is. In about twenty years, you’ll all have to start saying, ‘Yeah, yeah, I had some work done!’ Eventually, though … well, you will have to decide on a new location and musical career. With a little luck, you won’t have to fake your deaths like Elvis!” This is met with a hearty laugh, but a lump of ice grows in my gut. Am I going to lose them all again one day?

  Teddy dispels my unease as he describes his unfortunate Boy Scout incident as if it’s his favorite campfire story. It turns out that he is actually fifteen years older than me, still closer to my age than the two senior members of the pack, Raúl and Rowan. I can’t help wonder if his having been bitten was just another way of having been chosen. Now that I know him even better since coming out of the den, I can’t imagine him not being a lycan. With his nature of being a perpetual jokester and never quite playing by the rules, I am beginning to feel as if he is truly our Omega.

  “My buddies and I were at a scouting event in Lake Charles. When we were told that it was going to be Boy Scouts and Girls Scouts working together for the weekend, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. On the first day, we met some girls who seemed eager to sneak out of their tents and meet us by the lake after “lights out.” And while we waited, we could hear something lurking in the bushes. The other two guys were acting like they were about to shit their britches, but I was convinced it was one of the staff just fucking with us …” He beings to chortle. “So I said, ‘Look guys, there’s nothing to be scared of,’ and I dropped my fly and took a piss on this thing …”

  “You peed on a werewolf?” Sylvia blurts out. This is the first time I have ever seen my nun friend visibly shocked, and a shout of laughter tears out of my throat, partly at Sylvia’s incredulity and partly because of Teddy’s infectious amusement. Raúl’s deep brassy laugh echoes my own as he claps his massive hands appreciatively. Rowan simply buries his face in his hands, shaking his head slowly, but when he recovers, he is laughing along with the rest of us.