“Try Southwest Minerals and Gems,” Bill offers, “down by the Fairgrounds. They’ve got just about every type of rock there is—finished and unfinished. You know, you should ask Lovern why he wants the crystals. If he needs them to make jewelry or amulets, that same store sells both finished findings and molds.”
“Thanks.” Chris scribbles a note. “That reminds me. The Smith is arriving in a couple of days to brief Arthur on progress with Atlantis. Then he’s going out to the Academy. If I get most of this stuff together before then, it can go out with him and save us a trip.”
“Don’t forget the groceries,” Bill reminds.
“I won’t. I’ve already got a trip to the wholesaler planned. They must love us. The Cats of Egypt refuse to eat cat food now that they’re on the staff there. They want lightly grilled chicken and lamb or fresh fish.”
“What did Frank feed them?”
“Cat food. Apparently, they earned their keep mousing around the grounds out at his ranch.”
“I don’t suppose he could talk with them for us?”
“We could try.” Chris shrugs. “But they do have a point. Lovern insists on his perks. Why shouldn’t they?”
“True.”
They work for a few minutes, silent but for fingers on keyboards or the rustling of paper. Then Bill sighs.
“Here’s another message from Rebecca Trapper asking if their request for disguise amulets has been approved. I guess I’d better nag Lovern again.”
“Ask him about findings, would you?”
“Righto.”
The intercom buzzes, then emits Arthur’s irritable voice:
“Bill, come down to my office. My computer has frozen up.”
“On my way.”
Heading out the door, Bill turns and grins at Chris.
“I bet Eddie’s sure glad that he’s not here.”
“Yeah. Bet he’s really enjoying his vacation.”
“Yeah.”
The buzzer sounds again. Bill dashes out the door. Chris reflects for a moment, wondering what it must be like to be immortal, rich, and even magical. Probably solves most problems you don’t create for yourself, he decides, and you have a long time to work out even those problems.
Then he turns back to his work.
Those are faces in the rocks, Shahrazad is certain of that now. Not so much faces as Eyes. And not very friendly Eyes either—muddy grey undershot with a green light. She hunkers down in the long grass, wishing her father was with her, almost scared enough to wish that Hip and Hop weren’t down in the vale below.
Almost. Although for a coyote only six months or so old Shahrazad has seen some tough times—starting with the murder of her mother and littermates when she was just a few weeks of age and progressing to her being kidnapped and held hostage when she was only slightly older–Shahrazad possesses a coyote’s resilience in full. When the Eyes do nothing but stare at her, she decides that maybe staring is all that they can do. With that resolution her courage returns.
Raising herself from the grass, the young coyote circles to where she can take a scent on the wind. The Eyes move, their gaze following her. There is a glint of something the color of bone—fangs? She cannot tell for certain. Then the wind shifts and a scent, hot and rank, is momentarily carried to her.
There is something vaguely reptilian about the scent, something, too, of spoiled meat, poison, and musk. Instinctively, her hackles rise. This is something to fear, something to avoid, but she has learned this too late. The Eyes are emerging from their shadows and the whiteness beneath them is fangs: fangs set in flat, reptilian heads on long, snaky necks.
Shahrazad wheels to flee. Tail no longer in line with her body, but firmly clamped to her backside, she runs. There is a noise behind her, many feet crushing grass and small plants. When the wind shifts, the scent of the Eyes is mixed with that of broken sage.
The sun behind both her and her pursuers sends shadows to loom over her. These obliterate her own running shadow, an omen of doom.
Then comes a screeching cry, shrill, meant to paralyze the hearer. Had her running legs not possessed a mind of their own, Shahrazad might have frozen in place and fallen to her pursuer, but her legs are smarter than her brain. They have realized that the sound comes not from behind her, but from in front of her, in front and a little to the right.
Her legs adjust her course away from this new threat even as her strange not-quite-coyote soul takes hope. Hasn’t she seen her father take the form of both owl and eagle? Certainly this is he, come to her rescue. Had she not been so terrified, she might have experienced a moment’s pity for her pursuers, for the Changer is the most wonderful, most terrible, most terrifying creature in Shahrazad’s universe.
She gallops on, down into the vale where she can see the antlers of Great Trimmer of the Tall Greens visible over the tall grass. Singer to the Moon is hurrying to intercept her, loping with the blinding speed Shahrazad had come to expect from these lepus kin.
A few breaths ago, Shahrazad would have been embarrassingly glad to see the jackalopes. Now, confident that her father has come to her aid, she moves toward them more as familiar points in the sea of grass rather than as allies. From behind her the screeching has sounded again, the cry of an eagle attacking, but louder than any eagle she has ever seen.
Changer.
He will rescue her, and when he has done so he will punish the jackalopes for not keeping her in better care.
(Conveniently, she forgets that she had deliberately left her chaperons behind).
She remembers hearing of her sire’s wrath when the Changer had learned she had been stolen from Arthur’s house. The memories are mixed in with images of a cruel woman, a fire-headed man, a Head that spoke though without a body, her father weakened and lacking an eye.
These are uncomfortable thoughts, and she pushes them away. The tromping of pursuing feet through the grass has stopped. The rank smell of the Eyes is fading. Neither Hip nor Hop show any undue fear, though both sit up on their haunches in what Shahrazad has learned is their guarded stance: ears high, antlers slightly forward.
When she has passed Hip and drawn abreast of Hop, Shahrazad slows, trotting in a circle to check what is behind her. There is no sign of the Eyes, but what she does see is so amazing that her tired legs give out beneath her and she plops down to check if her nose will confirm what her eyes have seen.
Eagle. Big eagle, just as her ears had led her to expect but...
Shahrazad whines slightly, vocalizing her puzzlement. Mixed in with the scent of the eagle is that of a cat. A big cat, like the pumas she and the Changer have occasionally crossed paths with in the wild. A big female puma. This, then, is not her father. The Changer takes many shapes, but all of them are male.
The creature with the eagle-puma scent flaps her wings in the direction whence the Eyes had come. Her posture is arrogant, as if daring the Eyes to return, but knowing that they will not have the courage. After holding this pose long enough that Shahrazad’s racing heartbeat slows, the eagle-puma turns her attention to the trio watching from the rear.
Now Shahrazad gets a better look at her savior and, no longer assured that it is her father, she feels a new rush of fear. In the wild, one predator often steals prey from another, either after—or before—the kill. Perhaps the eagle-puma has chased away the Eyes for that purpose. Might not the jackalopes (mere herbivores that they are) be standing not in watchfulness, but paralyzed by the screeching cry as she herself had nearly been?
Shahrazad begins to back away, hoping the eagle-puma will be content with the two jackalopes, only to be halted by a soft, unmistakable titter of laughter from Hip and Hop. Shame mingles with residual fear, freezing her as terror alone could not. She sneaks a glance away from the eagle-puma toward her chaperons.
The jackalopes have relaxed their vigilance. Their ears are relaxed, their antlers no longer ready to impale. Hop is sitting, thumping behind one ear with a big foot, as casual as if they are all gathered befor
e Frank MacDonald’s fireplace listening to the chatter of the human form.
Terror departs, leaving only embarrassment and hot indignation. It is smart to flee from something bigger than oneself, especially when that something smells like two of the greatest hunters on land or in air. Coyotes know when to run, know when to fight.
Shahrazad considers shaking the jackalopes’ laughter from her ears and trotting off in a fit of pique. Curiosity keeps her in place, curiosity and a sense of gratitude toward the eagle-puma that had saved her—not to eat her—but for no other reason than that she wanted to do so.
Pretending not to hear the jackalopes’ laughter, Shahrazad takes a few hesitant steps toward the eagle-puma; then, when she does not warn her off, Shahrazad brings herself within the creature’s range.
The eagle-puma is neatly divided, golden brown eagle to the fore, golden brown puma to the rear. The only crossover between the sections is that the eagle head possesses small, alert ears, slightly rounded at the tips like those of a puma.
As Shahrazad approaches, the eagle-puma turns her head to keep the young coyote in sight, her scent and mien watchful but not threatening. When the coyote has had opportunity to make a full inspection, the eagle-puma flutters her wings and paces majestically away.She does not fly, but her stride is long. In a few moments, she is lost to sight within the sun-dappled boulders.
Shahrazad cocks her head, then barks a sharp note—a coyote friend-to-friend sound—after the vanished creature. Then she follows the jackalopes away from where the Eyes may still watch from the shadows of the rocks. Her fear is forgotten, replaced by something that mingles attraction and awe.
In the near distance, a large black raven launches into the air, riding air warmed by autumn sunlight, bright eyes watching from afar.
“Witchy lady, I’ve got the coolest idea.”
Tommy Thunderburst ambles into his manager’s office. The newest, greatest sensation in the rock/pop world smells slightly of wine and weed, but his usual loose-limbed gait is unimpaired and his long golden brown hair is clean.
Lil Prima assesses his condition without conscious thought. She has been Tommy’s companion for a long time now. Her role is a bit less than keeper, as she will not stop him when he begins to slide, yet a bit more than casual observer, as it is in her best interest to make the eventual crash as interesting as possible.
Now, as she tucks a lock of artificially blond hair behind one ear, the woman who claims responsibility for the fall of Adam notes that Tommy has gotten on top of the despair that had seized him when he had learned how Sven Trout and his cohorts had perverted one of his songs. No doubt the fact that Tommy has been actively preparing for his first concert tour of this incarnation has helped.
In between auditioning backup musicians and planning the choreography and costumes, Tommy has been immersed in new composition, churning out songs whose themes gradually shifted from despair and disillusionment to a resolution to face and—if necessary—obliterate those who oppose him.
Lil freely admits to herself that she has encouraged him in this course of action, even to the point of authorizing the recording of a new album although Tommy’s debut album is still strong on the charts.
“What’s your cool idea?” she asks in a voice that suggests, even without effort on her part, that the idea doubtless involves something intensely sexual.
Tommy shakes his lion’s mane slightly. Centuries of hearing that voice have not immunized him to Lil’s charm, but he has other, greater passions. In the grip of one of these—as he is now—he simply charges on.
“The new album. We’ll call it Pan. That means ‘all’ in some language...”
“Greek,” Lil says dryly. “Your natal tongue.”
“Cool. I knew it was from somewhere. Anyhow, Pan means ‘all’ in Greek, but it means something you cook with in English, right?”
“So I’ve heard,” says Lil, who has not cooked a meal for herself since the invention of servants, takeout, and microwaves.
“Right. Something that gets real hot.” Tommy grins. He’s getting ready to reveal his big surprise. “And it’s also one of the old gods—the Great God Pan.”
“I believe I met him,” Lil answers. She had indeed met the athanor who then had been called Pan and had drained even his legendary goatish lust.
“Right. He’s dead now.”
“Shot by an enraged husband,” Lil recalls.
“But there are others who look pretty much like he did—the fauns and satyrs.”
“Lots of them are his descendants. He was prepotent, which is more than any of them can say, and he’d fuck anything that moved and a quite a few things that usually didn’t.”
“I want them,” Tommy says.
“Slow down, lover. Who do you want?”
“I want the fauns and satyrs—at least some of them—to be in my stage show for the concert. It’s a great idea. They’ve got music in their souls—they won’t need much training—and no one will have seen anything like them.”
“They certainly won’t have,” Lil murmurs, thinking of the satyrs’ aggressively jutting phalli, of the infectious charm inherent in the fauns’ dancing.
“Fauns and satyrs are the original party animals,” Tommy continues happily. “We’ll release Pan right before the first show so even the critics will get the connection. What do you think?”
Lil thinks of the fact that more and more single-act arena shows are failing to sell out, of her worry that even with her magical assistance Tommy will fail to be a sensation in this age of video. So much of his charisma doesn’t translate electronically.
And she thinks of King Arthur and how he will react when he learns that his worst nightmare is about to come true.
“I love it,” she purrs. “Let me get on it right away.”
Tommy moves to her side, lifts her from her desk chair, and embraces her, lifting her right off her feet, as happy as a child who has been given a present.
“You love it?” he asks, disbelieving.
“I do,” she answers. “The arrangements will be interesting... I can’t wait to hear what Arthur will say.”
Tommy smiles, innocent of the ramifications of his plan, caught up in the image of what an utterly fantastic concert this will be.
“Tell him he can have complimentary tickets,” he says. “Ringside seats. He won’t miss a moment of the show.”
The sacrifices and ceremonies have been completed and Aduke finds, somewhat to her surprise, that she feels better—more focused, more at peace.
Taiwo, her husband, had driven out from Lagos, where he is confidential assistant to some important businessman, to attend the events, but now he has departed again.
Kehinde, his twin, had also been present. Aduke wonders if anyone other than she had realized that the scholar had concealed a tape recorder in his pocket. He’d really been quite clever at changing the miniature cassettes, but she’d caught him at it.
She hadn’t given him away. In their very different ways, both of the twins are fighting for the survival of modern Nigeria. Taiwo works toward its economic future. Kehinde preserves the foundation of the past. Besides, Taiwo would never have forgiven her. She knows without jealousy that her husband’s twin is the single most important person in his life.
Now the apartment is comparatively quiet. Most of the women have gone to the market, taking with them the noisy brood of children. Aduke had remained behind in order to write some letters for her mother and to deal with some confusing official correspondence. That completed, she paces restlessly, pausing at the door to the bedroom that during the day changes from a nursery to Kehinde’s study.
Within, her brother-in-law is busy transcribing one of his tapes, rewinding and replaying each section as he laboriously scribes not only the words, but the tonal marks without which so many Yoruban words would blend into each other. Easing the door open a crack, Aduke watches him, head bent over a yellow legal pad, pencil resting loosely against the web between thumb
and forefinger as he listens to the tape, his lips moving as he sounds out a possible spelling for one of the babalawo’s archaic terms.
Someday he hopes to have a computer, but not only would purchase of even a primitive PC put a strain on the family’s finances, the electric power in Monamona is unpredictable at best. Kehinde would need a computer with battery backup. He might as well wish for the moon.
A faint wind touches Aduke’s cheek. Turning away from her watch post, she discovers that Oya has come in. Yetunde’s year-old infant is strapped to the older woman’s back, sound asleep, and her arms are full of bundles.
“Aduke, come and help me with these. Your sister asked me to bring them by so that she could stay in the market. Business is better today.”
Aduke hastens to relieve Oya of her burden, gently closing the nursery door so that Kehinde will not be disturbed.
“My brother is writing,” she explains. “He gets so little quiet time.”
“Life is noisy,” Oya says with a shrug. “If he cannot work with the noise, then he should learn.”
“But the crying of the babies, the squabbles of the little children and the women.” Aduke gestures vaguely to indicate the entire extended family that lives crowded into the apartment as they once would have lived in a more spacious compound. “He is preserving our history for future generations. It is important work.”
“What is the future,” Oya says sensibly, “if it isn’t noisy babies and chattering women?”
“The future is something else,” Aduke says, stowing away a package of crayfish and trying to find words to articulate the concept as she had learned it in the university. “It is something beyond individual people—the sum of promise of what is to come.”
“Bosh!” Oya says gustily. “You’ve been speaking too much English. Remember, in the language of the Yoruba, the future is only separated from the past and the present by what you do with it. It is not some vague thing made up of nebulous people who must be humored or inspired. The ancestral soul is always reborn.”
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