Bronson sounds relieved to leave the philosophical issues alone. “The Moderator is sending in a small plane to pick us up. I believe one of the tengu is piloting. We’re arriving at an airstrip in Albuquerque.”
“Not Albuquerque International!”
“No, I have the impression it’s a smaller place, maybe a private landing field.”
Arthur exchanges worried glances with Eddie. Even at a small strip there will be humans who may see more than is wise.
“And will you be availing yourself of the facilities of my hacienda?” he says hopefully. “Your dues do go toward its upkeep against such need.”
“I think the Moderator has arranged for all of us to stay at a hotel,” Bronson says, the note of apology back in his voice. “That’s part of the issue, you see. Being permitted out in public.”
“Oh, quite right. If you change your mind…”
“I’ll mention it to Rebecca, but I think she has her heart set on visiting with some of her Net friends in the flesh.”
“She could do that here,” Arthur reminds him.
“Only if all of them were convinced to stay at your hacienda,” Bronson explains.
“Right.” Arthur swallows another sigh. “I say, Bronson, who is this Moderator you’ve mentioned?”
“I don’t really know,” Bronson admits. “Rebecca just calls him the Moderator. He set up the chatroom and now has arranged for this trip. My guess is that he is a shapeshifter, since he doesn’t seem worried about his mixing with the humans. Maybe he’s a tengu. They seem pretty active in this.”
“But you have no idea who he is?”
“None at all. I don’t even know if it’s a male. I’ve just gathered that. I can’t say I haven’t wondered, but, honestly, I don’t think Rebecca’s fervor for the issues would change if she learned it was Satan himself.”
Satan, Arthur thinks, doesn’t exist, but I know someone as mischievous who does. I wonder if this is how Sven’s been spending his spare time since his meeting with the Changer?
Eddie holds up a note that reads: “‘Get the website address for this chatroom.’”
“Do you have the address for the chatroom?” Arthur asks casually. “I might as well send along an invitation myself for folks to stay here.”
“Sorry, that’s Rebecca’s bailiwick. I don’t care for computers myself. My hands don’t keyboard comfortably.”
“Ah. Could you ask her?”
Bronson sounds uncomfortable. “I’ll try. She’s out now.”
“How sweet,” Arthur says dryly. “Well, if you get an opportunity…”
“Yes. I’ll send it on.”
“I hear Rebecca coming in,” Bronson says, his voice suddenly soft. “She only went out to the henhouses. I’d better go.”
“Thanks for calling, then,” Arthur says.
“And I’ll get that order to you directly,” Bronson says, his tone firm and businesslike. “Thank you for calling.”
“Good-bye,” Arthur says, fully aware of the implication of his own words. “I’ll be seeing you.”
25
Das Ewig-Weibliche/ zieht uns hinan.
(The eternal feminine/ draws us up and on.)
–Goethe
By the first week of September, Tommy Thunderburst has completed his composition for Sven Trout. It is beautiful and, despite the primitive simplicity of the instruments, curiously compact. Rich and vibrant, owing something to classical orchestral composition, something to the “wall of sound” approach, and something to a cappella harmonies, it is none and all of these things.
Lil Prima, draped elegantly in a heap of pillows on the floor of Tommy’s studio, listens to the final work and shakes her head in amazement.
“I take it all back, Tommy. That’s one of the best things you’ve ever done. I don’t know whether it makes me want to laugh or cry.” Her lips frown, but the bliss doesn’t leave her eyes. “Or dance. Or none of that. What contract did you give Sven?”
Tommy blinks. “I don’t know. One of the release things.”
Lil’s blissful expression becomes calculating. “Good. I’ll make certain we review the terms before Sven gets his CD. I think this would make a great radio release.”
“Cool.” Tommy imagines concert arenas filled with gently grooving souls, all those eyes turned up to him like he’s a priest of some lost mystery. “Really cool.”
“Do you have a number where you can reach Sven?”
“Nah. He said he’d be in touch.”
“We give him no more than a month, then we tell him that his piece is something else and take this one,” Lil says decisively. “He won’t know the difference, and I’ll want a month to build momentum for this release anyhow.”
“Cool,” Tommy says, somewhat saddened that he might need to wait a month to see the effect of his composition on the multitudes. “What if Sven doesn’t want it released?”
“If you gave him the standard contract,” Lil assures him, “he can’t stop us. Underneath all the doubletalk, it doesn’t sell him anything but the right to pay us for first use. Can you put something else together for us to toss him in case he shows up after we have this one in production?”
Tommy nods. His mind is still buzzing with all the music he didn’t use for this opus. “Sure. I can do something. It won’t be this, but it will be good.”
Lil unfolds herself from the pillows, eager to get to work on the promotional aspects. For a moment, she considers not letting Sven have this composition at all. Then she shrugs. If he wants to pay them for something that will ultimately resound to Tommy’s glory—and indirectly to her own—then let him.
“Tommy, can I have a copy to listen to while I work?”
“Want to work on the release copy?”
“Well”—she reaches out and touches the side of his face—“that, and I just want to listen to it. It makes me feel good.”
He grins, almost blushes. Hard-edged Lil doesn’t usually admit such an emotional attraction to a piece.
Music to soothe even the savage breast.
Feet that have never before touched a floor prove to be difficult things to manage. So learns the Head—now possessed of a body—the first day he tries to walk.
“Put the entire foot down,” Sven urges impatiently, “flat against the floor. Don’t walk on your toes!”
“That’s how babies walk at first,” Louhi says more patiently. “They test their balance while leaning forward. It takes them longer to shift balance onto the entire foot.”
Sven sighs gustily. “But we don’t want a baby!”
The Head disciplines himself to put all of his left foot flat against the carpeted floor. Although he is angered by Sven’s impatience, he knows that he only has himself to blame. Louhi had suggested that he begin by crawling. He had been the one to refuse such an undignified method of locomotion.
“Now the other one,” Sven says, steadying the wheeled walker he had brought in the afternoon before.
The Head holds the metal rail, hoping they cannot see how tightly he clutches with his new hands. These he trusts somewhat more than he does his feet, for they had formed earlier. During all his waking hours he has striven to strengthen them, first with a rubber ball, then by pulling against a series of weights.
The body that Louhi has grown for him outwardly appears that of a hale man in his mid-thirties. He is moderately tall, neither lean nor heavy, built to suggest strength without advertising his potential. The Head has surreptitiously compared his new appearance with those of the men he sees on the television and has decided that he is attractive without being overtly handsome. Except for his silvery grey hair (something he plans to remedy by means of dye or magic when present needs are past), he does not bear any marked resemblance to Lovern—something he alternately regards with pleasure and concern.
His new body does not possess an invalid’s flaccid muscles— indeed, superficially, he is in fine shape. His calves are cabled with muscle, his torso and arms suggest regular exercise—nothin
g as distorting as weight training, rather something like swimming several times a week.
However, just as owning a racehorse does not make one a jockey, possession of this body does not make the Head confident in its use. He has only had soles to his feet for a day—these being the last things to form—but the time for their long-anticipated confrontation with Arthur is growing close. Thus, he cannot dawdle in learning how to use his new equipment.
Taking a deep breath, the Head sets both feet flat on the floor. Motioning Sven to one side, he lifts his right foot and moves it forward about six inches. Then he does the same with the left. The walker against which he leans rolls forward.
“I’m holding it so that it won’t roll too far, too fast,” Sven assures him.
The Head wonders if to trust him, decides that he must. Sven has little to gain by damaging his new ally and, surely, he must realize the vengeance the Head would wreak.
Louhi crosses so that she is standing about six feet in front of him. “Come, kultani,” she says sweetly. “Come to me. Walk as you have dreamed.”
He shuffles forth, fired by dreams of other than walking. When he reaches her, Louhi strokes his cheek before stepping out of range again.
Obediently, the Head shuffles forward, an idea forming, one he cannot undertake until Sven is gone and Sven will not leave until he is assured that the Head is practicing.
A step at a time, the Head walks toward his goal, noticing the shine in Louhi’s eyes and wondering if it is pride alone, or if perhaps it just might be love. At that moment, to his dreams of possessing her body, he adds that of possessing her heart.
Might she love him? She has reason, for he is made largely of the two men with whom she has been the most deeply obsessed. He is shaped, however, by her hand and craft, rather than by their own capricious whims.
Never mind. Soon Louhi will look at him with love… whether she chooses to or not. Her own words have reminded him of the way.
“I have him for you!” Vera crows over the phone. “Duppy Jonah has finally relented.”
Arthur is stunned to silence. He has grown accustomed over the past two months to the idea that he must deal with his present difficulties without his wizard to counsel him. The situation has taken on the light of a particularly bad omen. After all, didn’t the legends agree that part of the reason for Camelot’s fall was that the king was without his mystic guide?
“You did! How? When?” he sputters, unable to word his requests more clearly.
“I did. How?” Vera chuckles. “I suggested that Lovern get to work on some magical means to permit electronic equipment to work underwater. He complained at first…”
Arthur can imagine this easily.
“Then he got to work on the project. Duppy Jonah was pretty generous with him—gave him Odd and Pod for assistants—and had the selkies fetch him whatever gear he requested. I think Lovern’s fidelity to his captivity was what finally decided Duppy Jonah. Lovern could have requested the means for weapons or escape, but he kept faith.”
“I’m proud of him,” Arthur says. “I didn’t know he possessed such humility.”
“Lovern isn’t humble,” Vera qualifies, “but he isn’t a fool. I’d like to believe that he has learned something.”
“Have you told him about the theft?” Arthur says delicately. He had requested that she not, being uncertain how Lovern would react and not wishing to torment the wizard when he was effectively helpless.
“I have acceded to your request and not done so,” Vera says formally, “but I did tell Amphitrite, and if she told Duppy Jonah… Well, Arthur, the Sea King is no fool either.”
“No,” Arthur agrees. “He is not. Are you returning, too?”
“I am. I promised you that I would be there for this new visitation.” Vera sighs. “Have you learned anything further about what we may expect?”
“Sasquatches, yeti, satyrs, fauns, kappa, tengu, a few pooka. That seems to be it.”
“Quite an ‘it,’” Vera comments.
“True. Frank MacDonald will almost certainly be there with his jackalopes, ancient ravens, the Cats of Egypt, eagles, and such. I’m not certain whose side he’s on. He’s accepted hospitality here, but that may be because he isn’t certain that the animals would be comfortable at a hotel.”
“And the Changer?”
“No word.”
“And Sven and his crew?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s Eddie’s leg?”
“Doing better. Anson is coming back, too. Jonathan Wong has promised his help if I need him.”
“Have him come,” Vera prompts. “Everyone respects him, and he may be vital if some sort of amendment to the Accord needs to be drawn up.”
“I’ll call, then.” Arthur is happy enough now to chuckle. “Eddie has been after me to do much the same. Are you certain that you two aren’t coordinating behind my back?”
“Positive.”
“How long until you are home?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. We’re catching an early flight.” She pauses, but Arthur can tell by some nuance in her breathing that she is not finished speaking. “And we won’t be alone.”
“No?” Arthur has already guessed but he must ask. “And who will be coming with you?”
“Amphitrite, Duppy Jonah, and at least one of their selkie courtiers. They have decided that if changes are being discussed about such important matters, they wish to be present.”
Arthur takes a deep breath, whooshes it out. In all his memory the Sea King has never come inland. Sometimes he has come onto a beach as a great seal, but never has he taken human form.
“Tell Their Majesties that I am awed and honored. Will they do us the honor of staying with us?”
“Yes,” Vera says. “I suggest that you give them my suite. I never moved back after Anson’s visit.”
“Thank you for the offer.”
“One of the reasons we’re coming back a few days before the meeting starts is so that Duppy Jonah will have an opportunity to adjust to the new surroundings,” Vera says, her tone balanced between pleasure at having brought Arthur the good news about Lovern and concern about how the King is reacting to the rest.
“That seems wise.” Arthur projects approval into his tone.
“Well, then,” Vera says, sounding relieved, “I’d better go and finish coordinating everything on this end.”
“Go then, Lady Grey Eyes,” Arthur answers. “I can see that we will have much to do as well.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Arthur Pendragon, once King of all the Britains, sets down the telephone receiver. He cannot decide whether to laugh or cry. The Lustrum Review which he had so worried about had been a rumble of thunder before the real storm.
He sighs and shrugs. He’d better go find Eddie and make certain that the roof doesn’t leak.
In the higher reaches of the Sandias, the nights are now most definitely chilly. Shahrazad is growing into her ears and limbs. These days, no one could mistake her for either a puppy or a somewhat canine fawn. She is definitely a coyote.
You look so much like your mother my heart weeps tears as bitter as pine tar, the Changer thinks, looking at her. I wonder what she would think of you. Nothing, probably, except that vague, warm joy that another young one has lived to see the moon’s face turn. And I, too, feel that joy, even as I look at my lover’s image growing out of puppyhood.
The Changer has had much time for introspection during this last long unwrapping of days. Unlike many of his animal incarnations, he has not permitted himself to lapse into the animal life. No matter how much he longs for that simple, animal oblivion, he does not dare. One-eyed, with potential enemies unpunished, he cannot simply be coyote.
One-eyed.
That angers as much as it inconveniences. Despite his most skillful reworking of his body—reworking that has descended into the level of the cells and even deeper—he has not been able to rid himself of the magical taint. His entire identity is
wrapped up in being the Changer. To be saddled with an infirmity he cannot change not only pains him—it makes him doubt his essential identity.
Moreover, it makes him ravenous.
Time and again, he has considered going to Arthur and requesting help. Time and again he has rejected the idea. Nor does he have any illusions why he has refused to ask for help. He knows that he is proud. He likes giving aid or requesting what is his due. But creeping down, crippled, begging for the same aid he had refused weeks before.
No!
The Changer rises from where he had denned beneath a spreading evergreen and shakes the needles from his fur. Shahrazad comes romping over, eager to join him in whatever venture he plans. Evening is coming on, a good time for hunting, and she is always hungry. Vaguely she remembers a place that was always warm and where her belly was never empty. She views its loss with philosophical regret.
Most things change: day into night, wet into dry, hunger into fullness, warmth into cold. Perhaps this will change as well. For now the Big Male is up and walking about. There will be mice to eat, perhaps even a rabbit.
The Changer knows the immediacy of her viewpoint. With quiet sincerity he envies her as he never envied all the rulers of the earth.
Whistling happily, Rebecca Trapper unfolds lengths of dark green cloth from the wide, flat, shipping box that had arrived that morning. When she holds it up and shakes it, the cloth resolves into a forest green robe, long enough to conceal her feet. There is a matching sash trimmed with gold and a turban.
Donning the ensemble, she discovers that the sleeves can be buttoned away from her hands or draped forward to conceal them. The fabric is lightweight, but the color is dark enough that even a strong lamp doesn’t turn it embarrassingly translucent.
“Bronson! Bronson!” she calls. “Come see what came in today’s mail!”
Bronson Trapper stomps in from where he has been cleaning the mink pens. Seeing his wife clad all in flowing green, a turban on her head, her large eyes shining happily, he hoots softly.
Changer (Athanor) Page 45
