Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  A perky young female in a blouse and skirt vaguely reminiscent of a military uniform begins the boarding process, pulling the Changer from his memories. With Lovern, he joins the line shuffling forward.

  Once aboard, situated in first class seating, they try to ignore the envious or resentful glances of the less fortunate passengers. Taking out his thriller, Lovern tucks the rest of his bag under the seat. The Changer debates having a sandwich and decides to wait until he sees what the airline has to offer. Closing his eyes, he begins to make himself comfortable.

  “What are you doing?” Lovern hisses in his ear.

  “Taking a few inches off my hips and shoulders, shortening my legs slightly,” the Changer responds softly. “These seats may be roomier than those in back, but they’re far from generous.”

  Lovern sighs enviously and opens his book, but he doesn’t read. Instead he sits staring blankly at the page.

  “I wish I could have checked the odds that this plane will come to difficulty.”

  “With the Head?”

  “Yes.”

  “You use it for such small things?”

  “Why not? It is an available resource.” The wizard pauses. “Or was.”

  “And soon will be again.”

  “I hope.”

  Feeling rawly pleased with himself, Sven Trout drives to Santa Fe. His spy-eyes (more of Louhi’s work) have confirmed that Lovern and the Changer have departed. A bit of cunning telephone work (if he does say so himself) has confirmed for him that they are heading to the Florida coast—a hopeful sign.

  His early-morning dip into the offerings on his website had also been encouraging. Arthur may not know it, but the drums of change are sounding and, as with the trumpeting of Joshua’s horn at Jericho, soon the walls will come tumbling down.

  Awash in self-satisfaction, the miles melt under his tires. When he pulls into the gated community where Tommy Thunderburst resides, his euphoria has hardly diminished.

  “Pity I can’t bottle this feeling,” he muses to himself as he crosses the lawn to Tommy’s town house.

  Neither his ring of the bell nor polite thumping on the door brings any answer. Pressing his ear to the door, he hears a dull bass thudding. Tommy is in then, just absorbed in his music.

  Ten days have passed since Sven’s last meeting with the immortal musician. Ten days during which, he hopes, Tommy will have learned the joys contained in the little package of powder. Ambling around the town house, Sven comes to where elegant French doors stand ajar. The sound of the music is louder here, just at the border of what might make a neighbor complain.

  Stepping through the doors and into the living room of the town house, Sven pulls the doors shut behind him. It wouldn’t do to have anyone interrupt them now.

  Tommy sits hunched over a keyboard in one corner, his shaggy hair masking his face, his long fingers dancing over the keys. A drum machine provides the bass line and, apparently, he is listening to other instruments over earphones.

  He could, Sven thought, have performed the entire operation in apparent silence thanks to modern electronics, but this is not Tommy’s idiom. Instead sound leaks out around him and, with it, a trace of the wild charisma that accompanies his music no matter what style his compositions take.

  Sven knows that waiting for Tommy to finish playing of his own accord is one of the more useless ways to spend time—quite equal with drying raindrops or bottling the wind. Therefore, he waves his hand in Tommy’s face. When the musician looks up, Sven notices that the amethyst thunderbird is around his neck.

  “Hey, you!” Tommy says by way of greeting. “You’re here.”

  Sven nods. “That’s right. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop in. How are things with you?”

  “Pretty good.” Removing the headphones, Tommy rises, stretching to loosen muscles cramped from sitting crouched over the keyboard. “The album is going to be released this month. Lil says that the prelim reviews are good. The video’s done, too. I’ve just been noodling.”

  “Sounded good for noodling.”

  “That piece is gonna be called ‘She Ripped My Head Off and Ate My Mind.’ It’s for Lil.”

  Sven makes a noncommittal noise, uncertain whether Tommy means the song as tribute or insult to the woman who has been his keeper and manager for centuries. Tommy spares him the need for further comment by drifting into the kitchen.

  “There’s coffee here somewhere, and tea. Want some?”

  Sven glances into the kitchen, notices the dirty dishes and pizza box with its shreds of dry cheese, and decides that anything he drinks here had better be boiled in his presence. He may be immortal, but he isn’t foolish.

  “Tea, thanks.”

  While Tommy fills the kettle and sets it on the gas range to heat, Sven glances around the untidy living areas. What he sees gives him something like hope. The room is messy, but not descended into squalor. In the heaps of cans and bottles, he sees no evidence that Tommy is taking anything stronger than caffeine—and even that in moderation. Either that means he has finally beaten his tendency toward addiction or…

  “How’re you enjoying the stuff I gave you?” Sven asks, picking his way around a heap of fried-chicken cartons and going to the sink to rinse a mug.

  Tommy’s expression is beatific. “Cool. Really hot. Makes me feel great. Even laid off it for two days and didn’t crave it. And I passed a drug test like nobody’s biz.”

  “Great.” Sven takes the tea-bag Tommy hands him and drops it into his newly washed mug. “Have you told Lil about it?”

  “Naw. She asked where I got the T-bird. I told her from a fan at the recording studio. She didn’t ask anything else.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I thought so.”

  Uncharacteristically, Tommy fidgets. Sven lets him stew, wanting the musician to be the one to ask. He sips his cup of tea and toys with a lucite sculpture of a saxophone.

  “Hey, uh…”

  Sven looks at the musician, apparently incurious, though his nerves are singing crossroads. “Yes?”

  “Do you… Do you have any more of that stuff you gave me? I’m almost out and… I don’t need it. I mean I put it by for two whole days, man, but I kinda like it, if y’know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do,” Sven says. “I might have some more.”

  “I have money.”

  “I’m certain you do. Why would I want your money?”

  “What do you want?” Tommy’s leonine features are petulant, like a child who expects to be told to clean his room before he can have a cookie. Given the state of the rooms Sven can see, it must be a long time between cookies for Tommy Thunderburst.

  “What do I want?” Sven feigns hurt. “I just want you to live up to your potential without chemical meltdown.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sven reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a packet containing, with conservative use, another ten days’ supply. He doubts whether Tommy, having convinced himself the stuff is free from negative side effects, will bother to ration his use.

  “Here you are, Tommy,” he says, handing over the packet. “That’s all I have right now. I should have more by the twenty-first. Are you going to be at Arthur’s?”

  “The Review,” Tommy says, looking up from the pale blue packet with visible effort. “Yeah. I’m going with Lil.”

  “I’ll be there, too,” Sven says. “If you need more, speak to me there, but remember, be discreet. Lil won’t understand.”

  “Right.” Tommy sets the packet down on the piano. “Where are you staying, man?”

  “Here and there,” Sven answers. “I have a room at Arthur’s for during the Review. You can’t miss me.”

  “But what if I need…” Tommy swallows hard and starts again. “What if I have something for you? I thought you might want a copy of my new CD.”

  “Keep it for then,” Sven says. “I don’t have a player with me now, so I couldn’t enjoy it.�
��

  Tommy nods. After a few more minutes of sporadic conversation, a conversation in which the packet of blue powder is a silent participant, Sven takes his leave.

  He’s whistling as he heads down the walk toward his car, seeing in his mind’s eye slender fingers ripping open a cellophane envelope and spilling just a little pale blue powder onto the varnished black of the piano.

  From the Irish lace curtained front window of her town house, Lil Prima watches the red-haired man strut down the walk and (ignoring the signs requesting otherwise) across the grass. He has changed his appearance considerably (although he keeps that flaming red hair) but she knows him: Loki, Loge, Set, Fire-born, Fire’s Friend, Troublemaker, Trickster.

  The directory provided by Arthur and his organizers notes that Loki is calling himself Sven Trout now, a name fraught with ill portents to her way of seeing things, but then, Loki whistling is ill portent enough.

  Ill for whom, though? That is the question she wants answered as she turns from the window. Perhaps it is merely for Tommy. She knows that Tommy has a new drug, a blue powder that he either sniffs or packs close to his gums. She knows, too, that the amethyst thunderbird he wears so faithfully is a potent charm against intoxication. For now, she has not interfered with his use of either.

  Vine-wreathed deity out of the north, Dionysus has been associated with intoxication even longer than with music. Music now substitutes for chemical stimulants, but the substitution has not made him immune to the lure of the external high. Lil doesn’t try to keep Tommy from either music or dope; she simply moderates his indulgence in the latter until he has exhausted what music can bring to him. A fall from the heights is so much more dramatic than a stumble into a ditch.

  So does Sven merely desire Tommy’s addiction, or is there some larger plot under way?

  She hasn’t forgotten the Changer’s unexpected visit or the uncompromising fury in his yellow eyes as he asked his terse questions. Had he remained convinced that she was responsible for those coyotes’ deaths, she would have died that day. She does not doubt this, just as she does not doubt that she would have severely hurt the Changer before breathing her last.

  And on whose side would Vera have fought? Would her sense of justice place her on the side of the wronged Changer or on the side of the Accord’s ruling that any conflicts between their kind must take place in secrecy lest the battles of the few reveal the existence of the many?

  Biting into one Cupid’s bow lip, Lilith spits her own blood into a shallow basin of polished Nambé-ware, then adds warm water and scented oil. The metal—pewter sheened with a touch of silver brightness—reflects back the pink of the mixture.

  Lilith is old, older than Arthur, whom she views as a useful latecomer, older than most of the human-form kind. She publicly claims to be Adam’s first wife, a claim she likes as it sets so many on edge. Odd how, having made mythology themselves, they are still captives to its power.

  Blood, oil, and water have separated into distinct levels. Chanting softly in an extinct language, she sweeps an elegantly manicured hand over the basin and gazes green-eyed into the reflective surface.

  The scrying ritual is usually reliable. She has employed it to keep track of Tommy, jealous rage feeding immortal bitterness as she voyeuristically participates in his amours. He has never loved her. She is not certain if she loves him, but she knows that she desires him. His self-destructive nature is counterpart to her destructiveness. He is a willing victim who would sacrifice himself if no one else was present to lift the knife.

  As maenad, lover, goddess, and, lately, manager, she has wielded that knife, taking part in his self-destruction, feeling a frisson each time, as if at the lowest point their souls might merge and each provide what the other is lacking.

  That union has never happened. Time after time she has drawn him back just as he was dying, nursed and guarded him in a fashion that she had once believed was foreign to her nature. When he is strong once more, then begins his spiral downward and the quest for completion at the borderlands of death.

  Today, however, she does not try to see what Tommy is doing. The answer she seeks is what connects three things: the death of a family of coyotes, an ancient shapeshifter, and herself. She has her suspicions, but certainty is always preferable.

  The oil in the basin vibrates, concentric rings forming in the center and rippling outward. Then the blood separates from the water and pools atop the oil. When it spreads thin, the image it makes is of Sven Trout, his hair the same color as the blood, driving south on I-25. Two faces are faintly sketched behind him: a drowned man and a woman with hair the color of ice.

  The entire image fractures as Lil seeks to bring these dim faces into focus. Blood drops steam into a noisome vapor, and the oil burns. Someone has a protective spell in place and does not care who is injured by its operation.

  Quickly, Lil pulls back from the flames. She has a partial answer. Sven Trout and two others she did not recognize tried to frame her for the death of the Changer’s family.

  What to do with that knowledge?

  Arthur would certainly be able to use it, but, no matter how grateful she is to him for leading the Changer into caution, she does not think that he deserves the information for nothing. In any case, who is to say that she would not approve of what Sven is planning?

  Clearly he has some use for Tommy. That is as obvious as the amethyst pendant the musician wears about his neck. That Sven considers Lil a possible impediment to his plans seems equally possible, but, since the attempt to set the Changer on Lil, no harm has come to her. Therefore, Sven may simply have viewed Lil as disposable.

  Rinsing out her scrying bowl, Lilith smiles. Sven has a use for Tommy. That purpose might drive the musician to new highs or new lows, either of which might provide the transformation of spirit she has been awaiting these past several millennia.

  For now she will watch and wait. It could be that in using Tommy, Sven will be of service to her and, if not? Well, she hasn’t survived to her current age without learning a few tricks, tricks that should be sufficient to extinguish even that fiery trickster.

  Clad in baggy shorts and a tee shirt printed with a palm tree, the Changer sprawls in sleep on a Mickey Mouse towel spread out on the sand of a private beach on the coast of Florida.

  Lovern sits beside him in a low-slung beach chair. He is dressed in what from a distance would appear to be an ivory-colored beach caftan. It is actually a mage’s robe hand-embroidered with signs and sigils of power in thread only slightly darker than the fabric itself.

  The two athanor had arrived in Florida the night before and had driven to this place, a beachfront estate owned (through intermediaries) by Arthur. Long hours within metal planes and cars had given Lovern the equivalent of a magical migraine. A shower, a good meal (fresh fish caught by the Changer), and a long nap have restored him. For the last several hours, he has occupied himself with reviewing the spells and inspecting the amulets that he will use to descend into Duppy Jonah’s realm.

  Although Lovern would never admit it aloud, he is annoyed by the shapeshifter’s nonchalance. Certainly, the Changer is old, but doesn’t he fear anything? If Lovern had survived from the dawn of life, he would do everything in his power to cling to continued existence. The Changer, though, seems to act with animal caution, but no particular…

  Lovern sighs. He begins chanting a mantra he had learned in Tibet. Envy toward an ally is a foolish thing and, no matter why, for now the Changer is an ally.

  When he has composed his soul, Lovern loudly clears his throat. He has already learned that waking the Changer by touching him is not wise.

  “Yes?” The Changer makes the transition from sleeping to waking as a cat might, fully alert, with no lingering grogginess.

  “I’m ready to depart at your convenience.”

  “Are there any sandwiches left?”

  “A couple, turkey and provolone, I think.” Lovern grins as the Changer digs into the cooler. “Didn’t anyo
ne ever tell you not to eat heavily before going swimming?”

  The Changer laughs at the joke. “I’ll want the extra energy for the shift. How are you traveling?”

  Lovern shrugs. “Human-form. I have magics for such.”

  “Cumbersome, but I guess you know best.” Finishing the sandwiches and draining a bottle of water, the Changer starts removing his clothing. “I thought I’d go as a bottle-nosed dolphin. They’re not unheard of in these waters, and I like them. Do you know dolphin song?”

  “Some,” Lovern says proudly. “I studied it in Haiti.”

  “Good.” The Changer shakes the sand from his shorts and shirt, folds them and his towel, and stuffs the lot into the now empty cooler. “Do we need to put this in the house?”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Lovern considers commenting that strolling around nude might not be precisely polite—Arthur does have caretakers who drop in from time to time—but he dismisses the idea. There would be a lot more trouble if anyone sees the two of them descending into the sea and not emerging. The spell he plans to ensure against that should cover the other contingency as well.

  Besides, he suspects the Changer would ignore any chiding.

  When the Changer returns, Lovern’s spells are ready. Side by side, as if they were a pair of more usual bathers, they walk down the white-sand beach. Little licks of water splash about their ankles and knees, the lapping tongues of warm, salty cats.

  “Ride the horses of Lir!” the Changer says, running forward and diving into the surf. A dolphin emerges, bobbing and leaping, whistling joyously.

  “A pretty image,” Lovern says.

  He has waded waist-deep now, but his robe does not become wet; rather it moves freely within the water like a bit of seaweed or mermaid’s hair. Atop the staff he clasps firmly in one hand, a cut-crystal sphere glows with lambent, orange light.

  In a few more steps he is fully submerged and walking along the sandy bottom. A few curious fish dart up to his light and then away again. Crustaceans scuttle across the bottom waving their claws, whether in threat or greeting is difficult to say.