The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  I have my doubts. But Rowan had never steered me wrong, ever. I clear my throat and timidly try. “Ra-Ra-Ra …” No one is paying attention. I fill my lungs, certain that I am going to be rewarded with strange looks. New Orleans is a tolerant city, but everyone has limits. “Ra-aaoooooooooooolll!!!!” I bellow.

  No one even glances at me. Raúl, on the other hand, waves at me from fifty feet away.

  We try other exercises, like how to locate others in the pack. Even though I am back to being limited to my primate ears and must swivel my whole head to pick up sounds, I find that I can still retain a few of my lycan auditory skills. After Teddy wanders away to get a beer, I find that I can still pick out his voice in the crowd. It has its own unique frequency, like radio station or a fingerprint. In time, without even consulting a festival program, I can even find my way to Sylvia’s set with Cloisterfunk.

  My tutelage goes on into the night, and by now I am overwhelmed from so much knowledge to digest. Paired with standing in the hot sun consuming crawfish pies and Covington Strawberry Ale all day, I am tired, but I don’t want this day to end, ever. Intoxication with Rowan’s company goads me onward, so I can’t refuse his suggestion that we pop into Flanagan’s bar for a nightcap.

  I haven’t been in here since Bob was caught in the trap, but not much has changed. Many of the regulars are in their favorite spots, and nearly all of them throw Rowan nods of respect. One of the locals has his toy poodle Samson on the bar. The tiny creature looks like a little fuzzy black lamb, but I’ve heard rumors that Samson is a shifter, forced to remain in dog form to avoid conviction as a registered sex offender.

  I am about to question Rowan about this, when he turns and locks eyes with me. And I am slammed by realization that I want the love of Rowan Lopéz more than anything in the world.

  My reaction is instantaneous. I can’t tell if I feel it in my loins or my pounding heart most strongly, but my knees weaken. His dark eyes are serious now, and I flail desperately to try to understand what he is trying to tell me. I pick up a scent, but don’t know what I am supposed to identify. Wait—that isn’t his scent entirely … it’s mingled with another signal coming from another direction.

  I look around the room to discover several men staring intensely at me. Even Samson makes no effort to hide his stimulation, the red tip of his erection protruding from his woolly underside. With a rush of shock, I suddenly realize I’ve let my guard down. Shit! Pheromones …

  I can’t even look at Rowan now. I’ve just humiliated myself. This is a werewolf hangout, and I’ve not only let on my feelings for my Alpha, I’ve just inadvertently alerted every male in the bar that I am aroused.

  I mumble something about having to go. I slam down the rest of my beer, give Rowan a quick hug, and am down the street before anyone can stop me. Perhaps it’s my lupine Spidey Senses that help me to snag a cab so instantaneously, who knows?

  Love is a kind of glamour that you cast upon yourself to keep another person beautiful. I would try to break this spell if I could be certain that I wouldn’t feel completely lost without the enchantment.

  I am relieved that on tonight’s gig I can be The Chameleon with Descendientes. Camouflage and contrast is the name of the game. I obviously don’t resemble my Honduran bandmates—dark and Hispanic like Rowan, I reflect with a pang of longing, as I do every time I play with them. But when the music starts, I could have been raised in Tegucigalpa alongside these guys. Physically I stick out like a white thumb, but sonically I am blended. I sometimes tell the curious listeners who comment on my difference that it doesn’t matter what your lineage is, or your skin color, or your family history. Only what’s in your heart will make you truly transform. Even these fellows from Central America are called by the music and messages of South America.

  These guys defy the cliché that has been stamped on what most of the gringo world has superficially dubbed “pan flute bands.” While it’s true that a person can hear Andean folk music played by buskers in many US cities, these guys use the traditional quenas, zampoñas, and charrangos to play music from the Nueva Canción Chilena movement. Hermes the bandleader explained it all to me. General Augusto Pinochet had forced many of the founding groups into exile after the 1973 military coup d’état of Chile. Quilapayún went to France, Inti-Illimani went to Italy, and Illapu eventually ended up in Mexico. Other musical prime movers like Victor Jara remained in Chile and were killed for continuing to play their music—ironically for songs about love, peace, and social justice. Like my bandmates, I wonder what I would have done had I been born under a similar regime.

  Coming from a Cajun area of the world, I learned French as a child instead of Spanish. But I am fairly good with languages and accents, and soon raise my voice in harmony with my brethren, all of whom stand no higher than my shoulder. My body seems to fade as our voices blend in my favorite Illapu song, Se Alumbra la Vida—Life Lights Up. My hands chase the salsa-like bassline over the hunting ground of my fretboard.

  We have our own “in” jokes between songs. As usual, they are alternately delighted and bemused by me because I not only find their coarse humor inoffensive, but I often try to top theirs with my own. Our final number is a south-of-the-border rendition of “Knights in White Satin” that makes the hair on my arms rise.

  We are musicians. We are shape-shifters all.

  Tearing down after the gig, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. A split second later, a grown man I’ve never seen before in my life bears down me and tries to swoop me up in his arms. I can’t suppress a growl as I squirm out of his embrace and push him away with more force than I knew I had. In a split second, the rest of the band is shoulder to shoulder with me.

  I can’t contain myself. “Dude, what is your problem?”

  He looks crushed, eyes going maudlin behind his glasses. “I messaged you through your website. I told you that I was coming to see your show! Don’t you remember me? I’m Gabriel. You know, like the angel.” He nervously smoothes his mustache—I must have pushed his face away.

  I have over two thousand people who follow me online, and this one person expects me to not only remember him, but also be overjoyed that we have finally met face to face. I recall the lyrics of Limelight, one of my favorite Rush songs about not being able to pretend that a stranger is a long-awaited friend. Oh yes, and about putting up barriers as well. Neil Peart certainly hammered that poetic nail on the head. I wish he’d written something about what to do when a creep is invading a person’s personal space and staring as if at an art museum. Now I understand why Neil doesn’t do meet-and-greets anymore …

  I’m fairly certain that Gabriel doesn’t speak Spanish, because if I properly understand the quip that one of my bandmates just muttered, he’d at the very least have the decency to be humiliated. Everyone keeps a close eye on him as he buys our CD, asking us all to sign it, which we do begrudgingly. Much to our relief, he finally takes leave of the venue, but not without a parting shot to me: “You’re beautiful when you’re angry!”

  Shit. I still have much to learn.

  CHAPTER

  4

  ARIA AND FUGUE

  Today’s rehearsal is going to be different, as I’ve gathered by Rowan’s cryptic instructions to be well rested. Luckily we’ve had several days to recover after the exhausting weekend. Between the potential for heat exhaustion and the strain of multiple gigs over French Quarter Festival (both during the day and club gigs at night), the entire pack was beat. I am also glad to have had a few days to save face after letting my feelings show to our Alpha.

  I have been told to bring my bass as usual, but also to wear loose-fitting clothing. Everyone is dressed comfortably. There is a case of bottled water in the corner. Even Sylvia has taken off her wimple to shake out her naturally red hair.

  Rowan has news from SIN. “We have more information regarding more disappearance and deaths of shifters,” he announces. “Not just domestic incidents in Baltimore and Asheville. Reports have come in
from Istanbul, Krakow, and Paris. There seem to be several networks that want to harness the power of all parahumans, and then quickly eradicate us. Whether they are working together or competing with each other remains to be seen. SIN still hasn’t been able to trace these incidents back to an organization, only confirm that they are correlated. It is more important than ever that you all remain in contact with each other. And you must remain in complete control of your protean natures at all times.

  “Which brings us to the subtleties of shape-shifting!” he barks. “There are four levels, the process is called a fugue. Buzz, you need to be talked through this, and the rest of us need to practice.” I’m not sure if this last statement is as intended to reassure me that I’m not holding anyone back as much as it is to goad the others.

  “Um, what is it we’re going to do?” I am terrified that we will be completely shape-shifting in front of each other, and although I don’t want to tear through my own clothes, I am suddenly filled with the same phobia I used to feel in high school when changing in the locker room for P.E. As much as I’ve dreamed of seeing Rowan naked, seeing him naked in front of the whole pack isn’t what I had in mind.

  Sylvia knows my fears forward and backward, and gently places a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your pants on, Buzz,” she teases. “We will be in an in-between state. Lycans wouldn’t have been able to survive for centuries without being able to do this. You will maintain your human form, but your senses will be heightened, and your looks will be … enhanced.

  “There are several definitions of fugue. We have adopted this term because it’s similar to multiple personalities, which lately they call ‘dissociative identity disorder.’ The musical definition of course, is ‘contrapuntal composition with melodic themes announced or imitated by each voice entering in succession.’ For us, each level of ‘fugue’ is a progressively deeper level of animal state. Like Dissociative Identity Disorder, same body, different personalities—or levels of fugue—to tackle different needs. But unlike this disorder, we retain our conscious identities, as the holy lycans learned to do so long ago, that they might be one with their animal natures and overcome the wild destructive urges that have unfortunately turned up in so many horror novels and films.

  “This is what we call the ‘alto stage’ of the fugue. Let’s start by toning … Buzz, give us a note.”

  I reach out with my mind and allow inhibitions to relax just a little. The temptation to surrender to the full wolf state is difficult to overcome, but the group energy gives me enough support and willpower to rein in my desire for excess.

  I glance at myself in the mirror. My somewhat homely face is now symmetrical and coaxing. My murky eyes are now a deep gray, irises ringed in a subtle violet, just enough to be uncommonly striking without unsettling. My features take on a more chiseled appearance, my eyes larger. My normally thin, uneven lips are now full and red. Even my stringy blonde hair looks thicker, framing my face in gentle waves.

  For the first time in my life, I am a beautiful woman. I can’t stop staring at my reflection.

  Teddy breaks my reverie. “That’s enough, Supermodel!” he says jovially with a gentle shove. “In time you’ll get used to it. Tell me what you notice about the world around you now.”

  I notice everything. Smells and sounds are enhanced. Even the various energies of people are nearly visible.

  Sylvia’s eyes are a more vibrant shade of green than normal, her red hair taking on a natural fire of its own. Raúl looks like an ebony-skinned incubus, radiating sex appeal. Even Teddy appears handsome, his chin giving him the appearance of a strong-jawed superhero, a quintessential “good guy,” his bright blue eyes shining with mischief.

  And Rowan … looks exactly the same. Am I the only one who can see how stunning he is all the time?

  I wonder how he perceives me in return. My secret thoughts chime in: Why can’t I be this beautiful all the time? To be perpetually tuned into this magic would be an ideal existence beyond belief. “This is … um …” I’m at a loss for words. “Kind of awesome …? I don’t get it. Why can’t we stay in this super-state all the time?”

  Teddy sighs. “Trust me, kid, you don’t want to. Maintaining it is physically taxing, it eventually begins to mess with your mind after long periods of time, and becoming more beautiful is a mixed blessing, too.” I take his words to heart. His natural state is no more pulchritudinous that my own.

  Sylvia smiles with her usual innate empathy. “It can almost be like a drug, Buzz,” she explains. “Remember that ‘alto’ means ‘height.’ If you become too caught up in your heightened sense of awareness, you run the risk of missing vital clues right under your nose. This is meant to be more than cosmetic; in fact, the improved appearance can be a hindrance when trying to remain undetected. But it can enhance your ability to detect any danger going on that is out of range to your human senses. And yes, also to sniff out a potential mate, which is why we evolved to become more attractive during this phase. But you have to also be careful that your anger doesn’t overtake you, because adrenaline will also heighten your instincts and bring this on.”

  This must be why that creep Gabriel was so turned on by my annoyance. I begin to suddenly slump, feeling like the slow kid who’s holding back the whole class.

  “You feel the ebb, don’t you? You conserve more energy in the ‘resting’ phases of soprano—all human, and bass—all wolf. With practice, you can maintain this state for longer amounts of time.”

  Rowan’s voice is gentle but firm. “Come back to soprano now. There are some things we all need to address. Someone fetch this poor woman some water?”

  Being a novice is certainly taxing, and I am grateful that no one gives me any extra attention. Raúl hands me a bottle of water, whispering “I didn’t have this down pat until I was well out of puppyhood.”

  Rowan grins appreciatively, then steers the conversation away from himself in a conversational sleight-of-hand. “Okay, everyone refreshed? On to tenor phase, which is the most intense of all. It’s basically the stuff that horror films are made of. ‘Tenor’ means ‘to hold,’ named thusly back when polyphonic vocal music added the tenor to hold the pedal tone. Ironically, this is the hardest phase to maintain. It’s not the most graceful, either. You will tend to look like some sort of wolfman from an old horror flick, neither person nor beast. But it is an important liaison between the two worlds. It is better to hold this in private, much like a yoga pose that you don’t intend to put to use in public. It is merely to keep you strong and flexible.”

  My peers attain this state first, suddenly sprouting in height like a time-lapsed film of plants growing. Their fangs seem far too large for their mouths, menacing and protruding slightly at a vicious angle. Only Sylvia manages to maintain a dainty image.

  I observe, imagining myself modulating into this form. My body heat flares up, and tenor phase comes naturally. My baggy jogging suit, suddenly tight around my waist, allows for my sudden increase of height and altered distribution of muscle mass. I feel a surge of adrenaline just before teetering like a wino. Standing bipedally is now a very difficult thing to do, as my foot bones are elongated, heels off the ground, and my upper body is overbalanced. My nose is something not quite human and not quite snout, and to my secret relief everyone else—save Rowan—has a little trouble remaining in this phase for long. I am the first to fall onto my butt with a snort. One by one my pack-mates follow suit, until we are all prostrate and glaring up at Rowan for further instructions. His yellow eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “Bass phase you all know,” Rowan manages to say articulately through a maw full of impressive dentition. “It’s the completely corporeal wolf form.There’s a reason that the word is also synonymous with foundation, as bass is both the foundation of music and the base form the very essence of who we are.” Teddy and I glance at each other before flashing an exaggerated beam to the rest of the pack. “You all know how to fugue into that phase, so there’s no reason to party naked here. Eve
ryone come back to soprano now, stretch, and hydrate.” We all exhale and shrink, collapsing onto the floor, and my insecurity fades when I hear the others groaning. My limbs are quivering as badly as they do after strenuous weight lifting. Dignity be damned, I just lie on the floor for several minutes before even looking at my bass in the corner. Someone hands out protein snacks. Some string cheese and three turkey slices land on my chest, and I wolf them down before playing.

  Back in human form, we go over our piece for Howlapalooza and then wind down with a jam. Sylvia kicks it off with a Procol Harum riff, easing into a subtle variation, then modulates into another key and morphs the riff some more. Before long, she’s created a completely original structure, and one by one we join in. The collective energy of musical and lycan bonding washes over me like a euphoric shock wave, ensnaring me into a slight trance. Time and space might still exist, but not in my mind. My world shrinks to this microcosm of five.

  It’s hard not to focus on Rowan’s stellar playing, but the group vibe eventually sweeps me away. Teddy and I alternate between holding down the groove and playing a higher countermelody. At some point he sets down his bass and picks up the mandolin, which is a nice touch. This is the most killer lineup I’ve ever played in, and I can’t help but wonder how a human crowd would react. The sweet irony is that we all came together so that we might truly be ourselves in secrecy and safety.

  “I have to get to bed,” I finally yawn. “I’ve got a gig tomorrow playing for the first time with Naj Copperhead at La Balcone, and I have to go over my charts. Copperhead’s got a reputation for being a backstabber, but she pays her band well. If she keeps me on board, maybe I can finally give up the last of my Bourbon Street gigs.”