Harmony

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  Moussa sank to the floor cross-legged like a giant black Buddha. “Who are you to say what the Work is?”

  “The Work,” growled Pen, “is not parking my ass in a fucking rehearsal hall week after week, diddling some fool director!”

  “It might be,” said Omea.

  Ule stoked and lit his pipe.

  “What are you all doing here so late?” I asked.

  “Might ask the same of you,” Ule returned.

  “The Crossroads open dress.” Sam drained a paper cup and tossed it to Pen for a refill. He dropped beside me. His predatory grin seemed out of character and made me uneasy. “We were setting an Eye on the competition.”

  Lucienne smirked at him. I wondered where Hickey was and what had happened to the Great Romance. I hadn’t seen them together the past few days.

  Tua flopped down beside Cris. “They could use an Eye or two.” She looked ready to leap full-feathered into Moussa and Pen’s argument if only they’d fight about something that interested her. “Big crowd for a dress rehearsal.”

  “Open dresses are a favorite tradition in Harmony,” I explained.

  “That cast has a lot of friends.” Sam’s limp and stiffness were gone, the stitched-up scars thin and pink with healing.

  “You look so much better,” I remarked.

  “The fine art of de-lusion.” He pulled a ripe peach out of my glue bucket. It had a big bruise on one side. He sneered at it and flicked it aside. Jane caught it and brushed it off. Her thin hands cradled it possessively.

  “I mean, you heal very fast,” I added.

  “With a little help from my friends.” Sam tossed back his wine, made a face. “This shit is really bad.”

  Mali paused behind him. “Then don’t drink it.”

  “I will if I want.”

  “How was the show?” Cris asked.

  “They got through it.” Mali bent to share Ule’s pipe.

  Cris laughed. “Guess you really loved it, huh?”

  Holding in smoke, Mali considered. “The show is colorful, detailed, extravagant, rousing, well acted, full of refined grace and totally devoid of content.”

  Omea took the pipe from him. “Therefore will be a huge success.”

  “Mind you, it pretends otherwise about the content.”

  “And therefore is totally boring,” Tua finished.

  Mali folded himself up beside Sam. “And so, we thought we’d just come by and see where the numberless resources of this great Palace of Art are not being directed.”

  I hunched up a little tighter and sighed.

  “Fuckin’ Chamberlaine, anyway!” Pen growled.

  “It’s not only Chamberlaine,” said Cris.

  “You just have to see the Fat Man’s hand in this,” Ule agreed.

  “I do question Howie’s control of his own theatre,” Omea observed.

  “Hey, it’s gonna be great!” urged Songh. “When it’s done.”

  Omea smoothed his silky hair out of his eyes. “There, child. We’re not blaming you.”

  “I mean, walk around on it a little. It’s fun.”

  “Maybe we should.” She rose, held out her hand to him. “Show me around.”

  Songh scrambled to his feet, still morning-fresh. “Okay!”

  Moussa rising was like a mountain levitating. “Show me where I’ll sit.” Pen followed, dragging Tuli along giggling. Jane trailed after Mali. Tua bent her lovely mouth to Crispin’s ear. Beside me, Sam stared into his empty cup. His odd mood leaned on me like a weight.

  “What kind of help?” I asked him finally.

  “What?”

  “Healed you so fast. Can you talk about it?” I watched Te-Cucularit warily as he drifted away to observe Margaret at work. “I mean, is it a secret… taboo?”

  Sam gave me a bemused look, intimate and faintly mocking. “Help is never taboo.”

  I decided he was a little drunk. “Sorry. I meant—”

  “Miraculous powers of recovery, right? So you can decide I’m the Conch after all?”

  “I never thought that.”

  “Oh?” He laughed harshly. “No, of course not. Not old Sam. Couldn’t be him.”

  “You always think people are—”

  “Tch! Don’t touch unless you intend to buy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Ule cackled, sucking on his pipe. “It’s no use, Sammy boy. I tried already.”

  Sam passed him a snarky grin. “You mean I gotta stand in line for the privilege?”

  I glared at him. “What is with you guys?”

  “Sam, Sam, Sammy,” chided Ule softly. To me, he sighed, “Just homesick. Domesick. All of us. Sick and sullen.”

  “Crossroads is not my fault!” I declared.

  Across the circle, Cris said to Tua, “Sure we could, but I can’t get in by myself.” He glanced up, looked at me, looked away.

  “Sorry,” Sam muttered. “We had some bad news from home today.”

  “Bad news indeed,” Ule echoed.

  I waited.

  “Explosion in a coffee warehouse.”

  “Eighty-three dead.”

  “Oh…”

  Cris glanced up. “What happened?”

  “Your WorldNet/News blamed the boiler units,” said Ule.

  “You think it was… ?”

  “Always is.”

  Mali’s wanderings had returned him full circle. He crouched, staring as if into a campfire. “Blood of our blood.”

  “Station Clans?” I whispered.

  “Many were.”

  Sam crushed his empty cup. “And we sit here safe and sound…”

  Mali tipped his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “The Rock my father rebukes me!”

  Ule knocked his pipe out and ground the ashes into the stage floor, humming quietly. Mali relaxed and joined him after a phrase or two, then Sam, then Tua, breaking off her murmurings with Crispin. It was a four-line, keening melody, repeated over and over. What was remarkable was how the Eye had regrouped and resettled around us without my noticing. Pen sat stiff-backed and quiet, Tuli sobered beside him. Te-Cucularit added words to the chant and the others joined him one by one until ten voices sang in unison, filling the dark theatre as our complaints and gossip and hammering had failed to all night.

  And then abruptly, the singing stopped.

  “Sa-Panteadeamali!” came Moussa’s ringing cry.

  Mali answered as if he were miles away.

  “Pirea-Omealeanoo!” Moussa called, and so on through each of them. When the last had answered, he sighed with relief and folded his big hands in his lap. “We are ten. We are here.”

  They sat with their heads bowed. Ule and Omea wept quietly. After a moment Te-Cucularit announced, “The tale that the song tells is this. It tells of times when the clans have not listened to the wild music of Wind and Water, of Earth our End and Fire our Brother, and in falling out of step, have fallen.”

  “If a typhoon comes,” Mali translated, “or an earthquake or fire ravages a village, we sing this chant when the dust settles. We sing the twelve stations, then call out every name in the village. Those who do not answer are those who are lost.”

  “If we knew the names of the murdered at home,” said Omea, “we would call them tonight to show that they cannot answer.”

  “And so the Ancestors will know to welcome them,” said Te-Cucularit.

  The circle relaxed.

  “That is very sad and beautiful,” murmured Jane.

  “Sad?” barked Pen. “Sad? We are sad, that’s what, the whole sad fucking lot of us, sitting on our asses doing nothing while the shit hits the fan at home!”

  “Maybe we should go home?” Tuli ventured softly.

  “Oh no!” I protested.

  “You can’t do that!” Songh cried.

  “Why not?” Sam challenged.

  “I… the show…”

  He jerked his thumb at the unfinished scenery. “What show?”

  “We’ll finish it,” I insisted. “I
t’ll be there!”

  Margaret ambled over, stowing tools in her belt. “None of my business but it will, you know. Somehow it always is.”

  Omea rose, hovering like an angry goddess. “For shame, Pen! And you, Sam, of all people! What we do here is not nothing!”

  “They don’t want us here,” Pen muttered.

  “My dear, we have always known resistance to the telling of our tale. No matter! We must tell it the truest we know how!”

  “It is the actor’s job,” said Mali quietly, “to make the truth unavoidable.”

  That is the job of Art, I realized. The hard nut of responsibility at the center of every project and the hardest thing to accomplish, because avoidance of truth is what we are most skilled at, both audience and practitioner. It was a good insight and a lasting one, but it was the the dry sound of Mali’s perseverance that stayed with me the longest.

  “Time to head home, kids.” Margaret dusted debris off her overalls. “Told Micah I’d see you to the door.”

  Omea rose gracefully. “You’ve worked a long day. Let us do it.”

  “Safety in numbers,” offered Mali.

  “But it’s way out of your way,” I objected.

  Sam draped a heavy arm across my neck and smiled at me lazily. “Nothing like a little exercise before bed to help you sleep.”

  Tua took Crispin’s hand, hauled him to his feet.

  Margaret swallowed a yawn. “Makes sense to me.”

  Sam was making me nervous. I was delighted to make friends with the Eye, but I hadn’t thought of getting physical with them. I tried to slip out from under his arm, but as I rose, he moved with me. He pinned me in the crook of his elbow and hauled me in a crooked line across the stage, laughing a throaty man-laugh when I resisted.

  He was drunk and I didn’t want to embarrass him. I aimed a subtle jab at his bruised ribs. He winced and drew me tight against his side. “Hey. It’d help if you played along a little.”

  I eased my struggles. “Hunh?”

  His winey breath was warm against my cheek. “Trust me.”

  In the shop, the crew was wheeling in Crossroads scenery to be repaired in the morning. A shipment of pipe and fabric had arrived in the vacuum-tube bay. Drawers and lockers slammed. Sam backed me up against the half-open loading door, under the curious stares of the entire shop. He leaned in close, listing, his balance insecure.

  I pushed uselessly at his chest, too aware of the comfortable fit of his body against mine. “Sam, what are you—”

  “Hush.” His fingers toyed clumsily with the fastening of my coveralls. I shoved his hand away. The crash of fresh lumber being racked behind us hid his quick murmur and the impatient spark in his eye from all but me. “Okay, okay. I need a key to Micah’s studio. I hear you have one.”

  “Key?” I echoed stupidly.

  “We need a terminal. With guaranteed privacy.” He dipped his head and left a line of butterfly kisses along my neck with a finesse no drunk should be capable of.

  My breath caught as biology betrayed me. “Why?” I demanded, too loudly. Over his shoulder I saw one of the men jerk his thumb in our direction with a leering shake of his head.

  “To send the citizens of Harmony a message.” He drew back to look at me, his stance unsteady, his eyes amused and speculative.

  “What kind of message?”

  “Call it a… a counter e-mail.”

  “On Micah’s line?”

  “No one will know. That’s a promise.”

  His half smile made me angry. “Why didn’t you just ask me? Why the damn charade?”

  He tiled his head toward the busy shop but kept his smile on me. “Wouldn’t want them to think you like me here whispering in your ear…”

  Mali and the others crowded through the loading door. Sam pulled away, grinning. I stared at my feet. Peter and Margaret passed, called out their good nights.

  Mali eased up beside us. “How’s it?”

  “I think we have a team player. What do you say, Gwinn?”

  “I don’t want to get Micah in trouble.”

  “Nor do I,” Mali returned.

  Cris nosed in behind him, trying to appear nonchalant. “So. We gonna do this now?”

  I felt trapped. I didn’t know how to refuse them, or why, if Micah would truly not be compromised.

  Mali absorbed my sullen confusion. “You needn’t worry. It’ll look just like we were walking you home.”

  Ruth trotted into the shop from the big theatre. Sean came after her, shouting orders to the crew.

  “No time like the present,” urged Sam.

  As he snaked an arm about my waist, I stepped aside. “I can manage by myself, thank you.”

  He backed off, but the half smile remained, mocking me obscurely.

  * * *

  It was Mali and Sam, Cris and Tua and myself by the time we reached the studio. A gang of school kids yelled at us from a brightly lit soccer field along the way, but the dark presence of the Eye discouraged pursuit. Moussa escorted Jane and Songh to the dorm. The rest doubled back home to Cora’s. In the dense shadow of Micah’s guardian beech, Sam produced a tiny penlight and I unlocked the studio gate. I half expected to find Micah hard at work, but the courtyard was fragrant and still, the windows dark. The thick stones of the stoop shone from a recent shower. A cricket chirped in the bougainvillea.

  “Nice place,” said Sam as I unlocked the front door. He brushed my hand from the switch plate. “Better not.” He passed Cris the penlight.

  Cris hesitated. “You’re sure this is safe? Micah’s not going to…”

  Scanning the dark room, Tua located the silhouette of the console. She squeezed Crispin’s arm. “I’ll tap into the public network, leave our message in Monday’s e-mail, and get out fast before anyone notices.”

  Cris blinked at her as before a glare. “You will?”

  “Cover my tracks completely.”

  Sam nodded proudly. “Never seen the like of her.”

  “But if they catch you—”

  “They won’t.” Tua smiled into his eyes, drew him through darkness toward the console. “You want to watch?”

  “Oh yes, you bet I do.”

  She slipped into Crispin’s chair while he held the light for her. Her fingers settled to the keypad as if no machine could be unfamiliar or keep its secrets from her. Cris hovered to one side, Mali to the other. I shut the door and stayed by it. Sam waited beside me, as if guarding both the door and me but so close I could hear him breathing. Would he grab me if I moved away? I wondered if I should be afraid of him.

  “What kind of message?”

  He stirred as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Just a little something to give them pause. Something they must never know came from anyone’s console anywhere. Something that should seem to appear in their lives like”—I started as his shadow reached for me, but it was only to pluck a rose from the breast pocket of my coveralls—“like magic.” He offered the rose in formal presentation. Its pure whiteness glowed in the faint light from the windows. “The charade was for me,” he murmured.

  “We’re there,” Tua announced from the console.

  Cris gave up little sounds of amazement. “Teach me to do that!”

  “Maybe later.” She leaned into his shoulder to give up the keypad but kept her eye on the screen. “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

  Mali bent to the console without hesitation. His fingers worked the pad as smoothly and familiarly as hers. They’ve done this before, I realized.

  And beside me, Sam said with something approaching gentleness, “Because even the magic needs a little help sometimes.”

  LESSONS:

  “I’m going on to Cora’s,” Cris said to me at the turnoff to the dorm. An antique gaslight stood sentinel among the oak trees. Tua moved ahead along the shadowed lane to wait with Mali and Sam. He jerked his head in her direction. “Staying the night.”

  I stared at him, too astonished to be angry.

  He shrugged.
“Just something I gotta do. It’s not every day, y’know…”

  “You are welcome to join us.” Mali’s voice floated out of the darkness. What did they have in mind? I glanced down the path at Sam and then away.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got an early call in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” said Cris.

  “I’m going in to work on my Lysistrata.”

  The harsh gaslight exposed the heat of Crispin’s eagerness. “Okay, then. See ya.”

  “Just like that?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  I felt performance pressure there, facing a domestic squabble in front of three waiting shadows, and found I hadn’t the heart for it. Beneath the burn of embarrassment lurked relief. “No, I don’t think we will.” I turned on my heel and took the brick-paved footpath to the dorm.

  It was only a few hundred yards to the door, but the path was an S-curve hedged with tall boxwood. I used to find this quaint and comforting. Now the hedge was dark and every bird a mysterious rustling in the leaves. Besides, if I walked a little faster, maybe I could outrun my humiliation. I was practically running by the time I rounded the last curve, a lucky accident. Five teenaged boys lounged against the pillars and railings of the Gothic porch. Light shone in the window of the closed door, silhouetting the head and shoulders of a person inside.

  “Here’s one coming now,” said one of the boys.

  “And it’s a girl. I get her first.”

  “No way, man. I saw her.”

  I kept running, anger displaced by terror. My momentum broke their ranks as they closed around me. One grabbed my arm. I yanked him with me. He tripped and fell hard on the stone steps. Hands snatched at my clothes. I yelled at the shadow behind the door. The door flew open as one tough plastered his hand across my mouth. A small horde of hollering apprentices exploded through the door to shove the boys off and bundle me in to safety.

  Yolanda caught me as I tumbled into the entry hall. “Gwinny, Gwinny, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I…” I looked back at the door. Someone had fashioned a crude bar bolt to secure it against ramming.

  “You’re the fourth one we’ve rescued tonight. Jeanie was the first. She got beat up pretty bad.” She consulted a list taped to the wall and checked off an item. “Mark’s got us counting heads, so looks like… where’s Cris?”