The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  My senses are completely overstimulated now. I can no longer wrap my brain around what I’m seeing, let alone the mixed energies and pheromones now flowing uninhibited from every corner. People are lounging in impossibly high windows, draped around historical rafters, dancing and stomping and fluttering in spirals around the voodoo drummers. Chants mingle with cawing, roaring, howling, braying, and other utterances I can’t even place.

  Someone jostles me hard then, nearly spilling my drinks. I turn to glare at this perpetrator and a man in a stag costume peers back at me, the mask completely covering his head and shoulders. Something about him creeps me out. I try to get a whiff of identity and my nose is assaulted with the acrid-musky scent of deer urine, easily found in hunting and fishing stores. This man has certainly taken it upon himself to go all-out in his disguise. I also discover that I can’t avoid it, because he seems to be following me now. I try weaving my way through clusters of people, but everywhere I turn, those skeletal clawlike antlers are never far away. I try not to panic, ward, and croon The Wild Harmonic under my breath to Teddy.

  Teddy has obviously picked up on my signal as he and Dean meander back to me. Teddy sends a warning growl to the masked cervid, who vanishes into the crowd. Dean is animatedly telling Teddy about some prog guitarist he thinks Teddy should join forces with, an Icelandic fellow named Alec Leifsson. I deliver the drinks to him and Dean, we toast, and I drink from my bottle in an attempt to ground myself.

  “Oh, hon-neee, it’s a lot to take in the first time, isn’t it?” Dean says in sympathy. “They’ve been having this thing in New Orleans for a few years, but it’s been held in other places over time. Do you see that old couple over there?” He gestures to a remote corner of the dance floor, where an elderly man and woman are weaving together. They are not quite slow dancing, but not really standing either, just sort of moving cheek to cheek, occasionally picking up a foot in a light stamp. “Those two have been coming to these events since anyone can remember. He’s from Connemara in Ireland and she’s from Camargue in the southern part of France. They hardly speak each other’s language, and neither wants to relocate. But it’s something you can count on seeing every year. They are just a couple of wild ponies getting to share with each other for a brief moment in their long life spans.” My eyes well up behind the eyeholes of my mask. It’s incredibly sweet and impossibly sad.

  Teddy feels my confusion and claps an arm around me in support. As I slump against his shoulder, I notice that he smells good, familiar. Dear, sweet Teddy Lee. So funny and intelligent, so fearless and musical. Why couldn’t I be smitten with him instead of the maddeningly elusive Rowan?

  The answer promptly resonates in my skull as palpably as a blow to the head. I cannot splinter from my animal heart. My very nature has me fixated on my Alpha.

  My shields back up, Teddy has no clue that for a split second I’ve even remotely considered more than a friendship with him. “Ready to go?” he asks in a fraternal gesture. I nod and he steers me out into the streets of the French Quarter, now bland and mundane in the wake of the Shifters Ball. The streets are deserted save three people: Teddy, me, and a local character and illustrious drunk known to all as “Moth” because of his incessant staggering from lamppost to lamppost. He is several blocks away, but we quickly and quietly pass him.

  I don’t know if I have really learned anything tonight. The event only corroborates my suspicion that nothing is ever truly what it seems to be. I glance back over my shoulder to watch Moth lurch around the corner and out of sight. If he’s not careful, he will be consumed in the very flame he that craves like so many musicians I have known.

  CHAPTER

  7

  PHASE INTERFERENCE

  Journal entry, July 29th: So I edge toward this vast sea that is my double life, impassively walking the plank, animal to one side, vicious killer to the other. It’s amazing how fearless one becomes when one has nothing to lose.

  Sylvia and I have a lot of catching up to do.

  She had a wonderful time in Guatemala, of course. She tells me of the amazing people she met, the splendor of the mountains, the music, and the food.

  The mission, she tells me, was full of hard-working people, namely some friendly Methodists who impressed her with their four-part harmonies and their ability to produce mass quantities of food from scratch. Together they had installed water filters to ensure that several villages would have access to clean drinking water, and had helped cook and distribute meals to malnourished children in two feeding centers.

  She also tells me of a very special little girl named Lupe who carries all of the traits of one who will most likely be a born lycan, as Sylvia and I were. The family was thrilled to have this Sister Jean-Baptiste establish a bond with the child’s parents and offer guidance in preparation for Lupe’s impending transition. It appears that my friend won over the entire village so well that they have nothing to fear from this phenomenon and will give Lupe the love and support that she will need when she finally comes of age.

  I, on the other hand, am less than inspired. My gob is unstoppable as everything comes shamelessly pouring out of my heart: the mysterious adversaries, the Shifter’s Ball, Naj, Yohan, Rowan’s infuriating elusiveness, Gabriel, the demanding jerks on my gigs, and Aydan—all of which are wearing me so thin.

  My head plops onto her desk at last. “I know I’m not supposed to feel such jealousy,” I moan. “Maybe I should invite Aydan out for a drink or something?”

  “She doesn’t drink; she’s a Muslim,” Sylvia replies in a soft neutral tone.

  In one phrase, my best friend has just spoken volumes. I don’t every try to shield this feeling of betrayal. “You’ve talked with her?”

  Sylvia sighs. “Yes, I have. She is far away from her pack back in Turkey, and she is struggling with spiritual issues. I have to be available to all who seek counsel, Buzz. She has reminded me of some of the writings of Rumi, actually—namely what he calls ‘The Howling Necessity.’ And like Rumi, she was crying out in grief. You may find her beautiful, but trust me, you don’t want to be in her shoes. She is deeply troubled.”

  I have no sympathy whatsoever for anyone that stunning. I know in my heart of hearts that my innermost self is being immature and unreasonable. I just want one thing to go untouched by this woman. I doubt I could feel sorry for anyone so stunning who is working so intensely with Rowan each day. I feel a tiny prelude to my anger, an itch before the burn, which I immediately quell.

  Sylvia’s jade eyes are grim. “You cannot influence anyone’s decisions or preferences without repercussions—even Rowan’s—no matter how much you want him to love you back. But what you can do is control what you do about it, and catch yourself in the act of letting down your guard. The most important words of First Corinthians are ‘Love is patient, love is kind.’ That’s really all you need to remember right now. If it is meant to be, I’ll tell you about the rest in good time. What we need to address more than anything is this rage you’re feeling.”

  And so I tell her about the man with the date rape drug. She goes stock still for a minute, closes her eyes, and clenches her jaw. A wash of emotion pours off of her in a tidal wave, which she doesn’t bother to shield. My friend may have chosen to walk a path of wisdom and peace, but she is still a person capable of all feelings, including the undiluted rage welling up in her energy.

  It suddenly hits me why she stopped playing gigs and went into hiding. I feel like a bucket of ice water has just been dumped over my head. My lungs don’t want to work.

  Sylvia cannot curse, but she puts so much venom into the word “Philistine,” she could make Teddy cringe.

  “I’m going to the rectory to give Father O’Flaherty a full report on Guatemala. When you get home try to let off some steam any way you can, so long as it harms no one. We all have to be clearheaded with these mysterious attacks on shifters. In the meantime, I strongly urge you to confide in Teddy and Raúl. Diluting secrets among the pack will dispel some of the
tension. They want everyone to be happy, you know.” She’s right, of course. I grit my teeth with fresh resolve. I love Rowan, and I will not stand in the way of his happiness.

  “Oh, and one more thing? Don’t be afraid to fight back when push comes to shove. Here’s what I personally believe about the old ‘turning the other cheek’ adage. Jesus didn’t actually say to just stand around and let someone clobber you harder. Most people are right-handed, so if someone hits your right cheek, it’s going to be a backhanded slap, a degrading gesture. Turning and offering your left is an invitation to an honest fight. It’s a dare. I’m just saying.” We hug fiercely, and I head for my car.

  Rolling down Airline Highway back towards Orleans Parish, I ruminate on everything Sylvia has told me. But something is nagging in the back of my mind. I’m not even to Destrehan yet when I get a distinct sinking sensation in my gut. Glancing at the pack phone on the seat next to me, the little device rings the second I touch it. It’s Sylvia. My gut ties itself in knots even before I answer.

  Even my saintly friend cannot keep the troubled tone out of her voice. “Father O’Flaherty just had a heart attack. He’s in River Parishes hospital, although that’s little comfort to me. He apparently has had some sort of terrible scare, but won’t tell the doctors what it was.”

  I turn the car around so fast, my tires screech with a sound I thought was only heard in movies.

  Father O’Flaherty is in stable condition, but looks alarming with oxygen tubes in his nose. “Sister! You and your friend Birch need to do something for me!” Sylvia soothes him and eventually manages to coax his story out.

  It appears that the priest had thought he was having some sort of visitation from the Holy Spirit when something had slipped into his room. This being—he cannot describe it—attacked him without warning, demanding information of some sort.

  “I have something hidden in my closet that you have to hide. Please, Birch, take it with you. It won’t seem unusual if it’s discovered on secular grounds.” We promise on all that is holy that we will take care of it for him, whatever it is—the frantic old man is paranoid about mentioning it aloud.

  Back again at the church, the post-sunset gloom does nothing to reassure us. There doesn’t appear to have been much of a struggle in the rectory save a broken window, books knocked off of the shelves, and some scattered pillow feathers. Perusing through Father O’Flaherty’s room we find a large red box in his closet, as per his instructions. Sylvia is reluctant to violate his privacy, but I have no such qualms by now. If I’m going to be hiding something secret in my house, I’d better know damn well what it is, especially with all of this mayhem going down.

  As we slowly lift off the lid, my mind is reeling. What could this man be hiding that he thinks is so shameful? Forbidden scrolls? Porn?

  Comic books. We both fall on our butts in disbelief.

  I don’t believe this. There is a war being waged on shifters, a priest is attacked in his room, and he’s worried that someone will find out about his comics. What sort of dogma did they teach this man back in Connemara?

  Sylvia breaks the silence with a flutter of laughter that is somewhere in between amusement and hysteria. I am unable to resist joining in, until we are both laughing and crying with grief, stress, and ridiculousness. We sound more like a pair of hyenas than wolf people, but we release the adrenaline though the sound. “It’s the Illuminati! The Spider Man Code!” Sylvia wheezes, and by now I am so convulsed, I think I might be sick to my stomach.

  A rustle from somewhere in the room has us immediately back on our feet, and we are deadly quiet once more. Sylvia never gets scared, and the scent of her fear has me panicked more that whatever has invaded us. My best friend’s saintly veneer is ripped away as a guttural snarl tears from her throat. This is sacred territory, and we will fight to defend it. We stand back to back, slipping into tenor phase, fangs and claws ready to do their worst. We smell no people, but we quickly dismantle the room, startling only a dove that must have flown in through the damage. It sails out of the broken window, its wings whistling like a tiny smoke alarm. In one dramatic exhale, we slide back into soprano and fall back to the floor in relief. Whatever attacked Father O’Flaherty is nowhere to be found.

  “You’re a holy terror, do you know that?” I ask my best friend. She smiles weakly, promising to brief Rowan and the others on the incident. We hold each other for a very long time before I leave, breathing courage into one another, a feedback loop of best friends’ trust.

  “Text me when you get home safely, okay?” she murmurs.

  The second I lock myself into my apartment I reassure her of my safety and that the comics are hidden. She texts me back to inform me that Father O’Flaherty is in stable condition and will be back to work in a week.

  So often as little kids, Sylvia and I had tried to get frightened for kicks. I wonder if we somehow sealed out fates that way.

  “Comic books? Is that man out of his mind? Is that some sort of eighth deadly sin?” Raúl is so incredulous he nearly drops his appetizer.

  I make a cursory glance around the swanky interior of La Coquette even though we are warded. “I don’t get it either. Oh, by the way … happy birthday, my friend.”

  He raises his glass. “Cheers, Little One. It works out well that we can grab a bite before playing this gig together at the Banks Street bar tonight. Nothing against the fare of the Banks Street, but I think your idea is much more festive.”

  I feel a warm glow inside, relaxed for the first time since the attack on Father O’Flaherty. Dining out is good therapy right now. Like most musicians, I have to keep a close eye on my budget for food, but I have tired of my own cooking, which is usually a souped-up version of mac and cheese with some canned tuna when I’m in a rush. As famous as it is for its unique cuisine, New Orleans has had to up the ante in its restaurants to keep from being a culinary one-trick pony. Instead of the usual gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, or po-boys, Raúl and I are starting with appetizers at La Coquette: sweetbreads in a blueberry glaze and rare tuna with marinated cantaloupe. For our main course we will make our way to La Boca, an Argentinian steak house– I am dying for rare American Kobe tenderloin. I will even splurge and have a glass of Malbec, since they carry a few kinds that can’t be found anywhere else in the city.

  Several hours later and with bulging bellies, we begin setting up our gear. This is going to be an interesting gig for sure for the reggae band. Although we are getting paid a guarantee, this is for a showcase benefitting the Louisiana Modified Dolls: the local chapter of a national organization that enlists tattooed and pierced gals to do charity work for the community. There will be a “naughty balloon pop” –one of the local burlesque dancers will have balloons taped all over her body, with each balloon containing a tiny scrap of paper. The paper will either be good for a donated prize—ranging from bags of homemade cookies to discounts on tattoos—or a spanking from Mistress Genevieve, who is lounging at the bar. Other acts are The Tomb of Nick Cage, described as a “New Orleans horror and Illuminati punk band,” and a suspension act, whatever that is.

  Having tuned his drums, Raúl is warming up with his usual routine of high hat cadences. I know them all by the rapidly spoken words that are supposed to mimic them:

  Pea soup, pea soup, pea soup, pea soup! Look at the cat, look at the cat, look at the cat, look at the cat! Boots and pants and boots and pants and boots and pants and boots and pants! Stick and a fuck and a stick and a fuck and a stick and a fuck and a stick and a fuck! Bucket of fish, bucket of fish!

  One of our horn players is sick, but I haven’t really wondered about who might be subbing until a familiar brazen slide cuts through the sonic disarray. Raúl’s head suddenly jerks up as if he’s snapped out of a reverie. The prolonged look between him and Lydia King is fraught with tension. I introduce the two of them with as much polish as I can muster. Lydia is aloof as usual, but I remind myself that this isn’t a precarious gig with Naj Copperhead and that all wil
l be well.

  Soundcheck over, we decide to mingle a bit with our fellow musicians. Gabriel is already here, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Raúl’s hand lands on my elbow. “Is this the guy stalking you? Do you want me to serve him up for dessert?”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m sure he’d love that if there’s a chance that I’d be eating part of him,” is my grim reply. “But he hasn’t actually been seen near my house or my car. He’s just … weird. Not enough proof to have him thrown out. And since I am onstage all the time, I can’t exactly tell him to stop looking at me, can I?”

  “Well, don’t worry, Little One. I can at least make him very uncomfortable.” And with that Raúl never leaves my side, his attention only wavering to sneak glances at Lydia. She is by herself as usual, eyes roving the room, occasionally glancing solemnly at us. Perhaps I can fix her up with Gabriel, my malicious little inner monologue pipes up. Creepy attracts creepy.

  The Tomb of Nick Cage makes for a smashing good kickoff to the night. Lead singer Kym Trailz, with her green leopard-patterned Mohawk, commands the attention of all, including me. Perhaps it’s my comparatively mild appearance that surprises people when they find out that I actually like heavier bands. Secure in Raúl’s presence, I can relax enough to appreciate the absurdity of the myriad balloons and cookies as a backdrop to the heavily distorted guitars. The suspension act—called The Suspendables, of course—is preparing for their show outside.

  A huge crowd has gathered around the old oak tree outside the bar. I smell booze, cigarettes, and above all, antiseptic and adrenaline. And now I learn what a suspension act is.