Christa got to her feet, took Monica into her arms. “Never,” she said. There was too much going on: pressure from Bill, idiocy from Melinda, anger from the rest of the band. And now Ron. “I swear it. It can’t happen.”
Monica clung to Christa like a frightened child. “I trust you, Chris. I hope to God you’re right.”
It was honest fear. Christa held her. “Do you want to stay the night?”
Monica’s face was buried in Christa’s shoulder. “Yeah. I need it.” She looked up, her mouth working, her brown eyes vulnerable. “And… I think maybe you need it, too.”
The telephone dragged Christa up from a dead sleep that was the product of late nights and growing troubles. The clock told her that it was early afternoon. The continued ringing told her that she had forgotten to switch on her answering machine.
Day-old mascara stung her eyes as she pushed herself up and grabbed the receiver. “
Is Chairiste
.”
“Christa?” Roger Best’s voice.
She realized that her tongue had slipped. She had been dreaming of Eriu again. “Hello, Roger.”
“Whew, you had me confused for a second. You ready to rock out with your new guitar?”
“It’s ready?”
“I said I’d have it for the Equinox, and the wife says it’s that. She’s the astrology expert, so it must be ready.”
The Equinox already. She had been so wrapped up in the band that the calendar was getting away from her.
“Come on down,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, she was pulling into a parking space in front of Best’s Guitar Laboratory. The cold air froze the damp ends of her hair when she left her car, and they clicked together like beads as she opened the door to the shop.
Roger was waiting for her, and he led her into the back room. On a table covered with a clean piece of dark blue carpeting lay her guitar, glistening as though with birth-waters.
“I thought about satin-finishing it,” he said. “But I decided that it needed to shine.”
Graceful and rugged both, the guitar was shaped as though by wind and water, and the grain of the woods gave a suggestion of Celtic knotwork that was all the more distinctive because it was present by nature and not by artifice. Roger had worked the willow wood of her harp into the body, neck, and headstock, and he had dyed it in shades of brown and green and amber, fitting the pieces together in such a way that the instrument would not have seemed out of place in a sacred grove, standing among its kindred, as venerable and as proud as any sunlit oak.
Every bit of her old harp had been used. Not a scrap remained. Even the bronze tuning pins had become a part of Roger’s work.
Christa bent over the guitar. “Saille?”
“She’s there, Christa,” said Roger. “She’s asleep, I think.”
“It’s right you are, Roger. I should have expected it.” Still, she was a little disappointed that her old harp did not respond. Melinda was sliding into a pit, Monica lived in constant terror, the band was beginning to show signs of fragmentation, and her life as a harper was drawing to an end. If ever she needed the reassurance of old friends and of the familiar, it was now.
“There’s an amp in the corner. Go ahead and crank it.” Roger headed for the door. “I need to watch the counter.”
She knew that he needed to do no such thing, but she appreciated the lie that allowed her to be alone with the guitar. “My thanks, Roger.”
“Hey, anytime. I’ve heard you play. I’m glad you’re going to use the best.” He winked at his own pun.
Reverently, she put her hand to the guitar. Roger had left a strap on the table for her, and when she attached it and slung the instrument from her shoulder, she found that the neck was as she had wanted it, and the balance was perfect. Everything about it spoke eloquently of the fact that it had been made for her, not only in material and specification, but also in intent and in feeling.
The amplifier was warmed up for her, and she plugged in knowing that, up front, Roger was listening to see what the artist made of his handiwork. She heard the bell over the front door tinkle faintly, heard voices. She would have an audience.
Well, that was nothing unusual. These days, Christa Cruitaire always seemed to have an audience when she held a guitar in her hands. Much more audience than when she played harps.
The speaker had a chance to hiss only for a moment before she smacked out a power chord, held it, dropped its pitch with the tremolo bar, raised it until it shrieked. The back room shuddered with the wave of sound, but she was already shifting to the cascades of arpeggios and the double-stopped polyphony that had become her signature. The notes rippled out of the amplifier, washed through the room like molten metal, hung in the air like stars.
At first, she fumbled with the array of knobs that Roger had given her, but as the minutes passed, she learned their use and found that she had absolute control over the slightest tonal coloration. Alternately chopping out chordal riffs and weaving intricate and limpid melodies, she pressed power through the guitar, sent a grateful blessing throughout the shop and beyond.
Saille was not yet awake, perhaps, but it was certainly alive; and, finding no limits to its abilities, no niggling constraints to her technique, Christa allowed herself the pleasure of simply making music for a time, a blessing in itself. Too many rehearsals and performances had become trials of patience, too many band meetings had turned into shouting matches. Here was a rest, a haven from the strife; and into her music she put a memory of simpler times, when two women could sleep in one another’s arms without fear and wake to a world washed clean by their love.
But, like a night of lovemaking, it had to end eventually. Her final arpeggio climbed up the neck, sweetening as it did so, until the last note rang out, shimmering: the gracious smile of a Goddess.
Her eyes were closed, but she heard applause. Roger was standing in the doorway, accompanied by a number of young men in ragged jeans and wild hair. She recognized one of them as Tony, the guitarist who had been in the shop when she had come to buy stain for a harp. Ages ago.
“It’s beautiful, Roger,” she said. “It’s everything I imagined it could be.”
And, driving home, the cased instrument leaning against the seat beside her, she went over what she had played, considered what might happen if the guitar awoke. She was not at present thinking of Judith or of Orfide. Instead, she was mulling over a more pressing and urgent problem, one that demanded a solution well before the Solstice.
Waiting at a stoplight, she rested her hand on the case.
Can you help me save Melinda
?
But the guitar was silent, sleeping in its dreams of potential and futurity.
Performance schedules were unaffected by the old Celtic holydays, and Gossamer Axe played that evening to a Saturday-night crowd eager to listen and to dance. But the absence of the customary rite for the Equinox nagged at Christa, and her discomfort was exacerbated by Melinda’s poor playing and by the raging anger of the band. Even Monica, who was more concerned these days with Ron’s possible unseen presence, was glaring at the bass player.
Melinda could not help but notice. Her gaze was fixed, sad, but at the same time angry and resentful: as torn and as miserable as Christa’s.
There seemed to be little that Christa could do. The new guitar was responding well, but without an alert instrument, she did not wish to risk working magic on someone who—even though drug abuse had utterly changed her personality—was still dear to her.
But she was not sure that she would have been able to accomplish anything even had the guitar awakened in her hands that very moment. Melinda had made her choices, and nothing about her behavior indicated that she wanted to change. Ethically, even if Christa could indeed cure Melinda against her wishes, which was unlikely, she had no right to interfere with her free will.
Some things can be done, others can’t.
Bitterly, she snapped her amplifier to standby at the end of the set as Melinda jumped down to the dance floor and pushed her way toward the back of the club. What was it this time? A couple shots of Jack Daniels? Or maybe a quick fix in the ladies’ room, match and spoon keeping her company in the bare white stall.
Monica threw an arm about her. “Your ghost isn’t around, Chris, so Boo-boo’s going to keep me company. I’ll be okay.”
Christa gave her a quick hug. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. She pumps iron, remember?”
Christa took her time doffing her guitar and setting it down. She felt tired, drained. The Equinox. She should have been at home, harping; but instead she was here, nursing a dying band.
Devi caught her eye, waved, pointed at the new guitar.
Nice axe
, she mouthed.
Christa smiled in return and descended to the dance floor with an air of tired resignation. Kevin was waiting for her at a dark table, hunched over a beer. He did not look up when she sat down.
Something had happened. He was crying. “Kevin?”
“I got a call from Benji just before I left the school. Danny…” His voice broke, but he had said everything.
“He… he went on ahead, didn’t he?”
Kevin nodded. “I wanted to be up there with him, but Benji said he got real bad real fast.”
The lights were low, and few patrons noticed as she held him while he wept.
“I wanted to help him.”
“You did. As much as anyone could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“He died loved, Kevin. He died in the arms of his lover. Can anyone ask for more?”
Kevin’s sobs quieted after a time, but his eyes were red and sad, and the tears still glistened on his cheeks. “There’s a bunch of stuff I’d like to make up to him. About twenty years’ worth. You think I’ll ever have the chance?”
“You’ll see him in the Summerland, Kevin. And if you both think well of it, you can be born again together.”
A trace of a smile found its way to his face. “I’d like that.”
Lisa and Monica came by, tapped Christa on the shoulder. “We’re on.”
Kevin hid his tears so that they would not notice. Christa kissed him before she left. “Tonight, my big solo is for Danny.”
Melinda’s playing was worse during the second set. Even the patrons were noticing. Christa saw one or two dancers stop, look at the band, shake their heads. This was the wonderful Gossamer Axe?
Melinda stared straight ahead, pumping out notes that were but vaguely on time. Christa could only salvage the set by pulling together with Devi and Lisa, compensating for Melinda’s inaccuracies by alternately overpowering her and following her lead. It was grueling, exhausting work, and though she was not overfond of large-scale, showy solos, Christa began hers that night with a sigh of relief. She would be the only one playing. She would have complete control. She could say what she wanted, however she wanted.
She swung into the opening licks, tossing off polyphony without thinking. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lisa shake her fist at Melinda and throw her sticks on the floor. The drummer stalked away. Melinda vanished into the shadows.
Alone on stage, Christa forced herself to nod at the audience. Smiles were beyond her. She struck and bent a high note, held it, let it shriek as she went to a microphone.
“A friend of mine lost a brother tonight,” she said. “This is for Danny.”
And she was off again, working her way through an intricate set of variations on the lament she had once played for Randy Rhoads. Her fingers blurred into rapid scales and ornaments, froze in place as she let the guitar cry out with grief. For Danny.
Kevin needed help too, however. And so did Melinda. And Monica. And, for that matter, Christa herself. As she wrenched her music out of the guitar, therefore, she began to add other themes, other scales and tonalities. The Equinox had arrived, bringing with it the promise of Spring, and she turned to it and its message, embraced it, celebrated its mystery with music from an electric guitar and a Laney stack driven to peak. Shouting out the mystery of the new season, she cast it throughout the club; and its benison enfolded her listeners like broad wings of solace.
Sensing a climax approaching, the other women returned to the stage. Melinda wobbled as she climbed the stairs, nearly toppled, but Christa’s music held her, helped her up, put her bass on her shoulder.
Christa could not change Melinda, but she could probe; and gently, reverently, she used the last of her solo to search through the wreckage of her friend, looking for something that might show her that the Melinda she had known was not forever beyond her reach.
Acres of night, wastelands of despair and resignation. Christa pushed the music further, seeking Melinda, feeling with her own soul the sadness and the entrapment until she discovered, buried deep, a single spark of longing for another life. Mired in helplessness and fear, it was flickering, almost dying, but it was still there.
With a murmur of gratitude to the patroness of harpers—whatever instrument they played—Christa went again to the microphone. “Okay, everyone. ‘Break Down the Walls.’ Stone Fury.” She was changing the order of the songlist, but she started the opening riff and gestured for the others to follow. “Here we go.”
Song or prayer: Which was it? Which did she want it to be?
Dawn hung in the air like an odor when Christa left the club. On the far side of the parking lot, Melinda was already pulling out, her Mustang spilling blue smoke to mingle with flecks of falling snow. Christa sprinted to her wagon and shoved her guitar cases into the back seat. Lisa had said that Melinda apparently spent her weekends with the man who was feeding her drugs. Christa intended to find out who he was.
There was little traffic on the gray streets save for the sanding trucks and the plows. Christa stayed far behind Melinda, hiding in the glare of her headlights, but Melinda seemed more intent on her destination than on what was behind her. Christa might have tailgated her without being detected.
Down University, out Orchard. Melinda led her into a neighborhood of expensive houses with yards that, even in the winter, were neatly groomed. As turn led to turn, Christa began to suspect Melinda’s destination, and she was not at all surprised when the bassist stopped in front of the house in which Gossamer Axe had once signed a contract for a week at InsideOut. They had drunk champagne in celebration: their first gig as a new band.
The streets were cold and slick. Christa shifted to four-wheel drive as she drove home, wondering what she should tell the others.
Ceis was waiting for her when she opened the door, and it greeted her like the old friend it had become. *blessings*
“Blessings, Ceis.”
*Equinox*
“Indeed.” She laughed, but fatigue and strain made her voice brittle. “I’ll shower and robe, and we can sit together for a while.”
*sleep* There was compassion in the harp’s tone. Christa had heard it before, but its presence always surprised her. The Sidh did not know compassion.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “You made me eighteen. I should be able to go one night without sleep.”
She thought for a moment of Melinda. How did she sleep tonight? What were her dreams like?
She put a hand to her face. Her eyes ached.
*sadness*
Christa nodded. “It’s Melinda I’m thinking of, Ceis. She’s in a bad way. I… I don’t know how to help her.”
*music*
Music and magic were the same thing for the harp. It knew no other way. Christa left her guitars in the living room and went into her studio. Ceis gleamed in jewel shades of amethyst and ruby, glinted with gold. “I don’t have the power, old friend,” she said. “The new guitar commands energy, but it’s still asleep. You have the ability, but I’d need the volume of rock and roll to reach her.”
The harp pondered. Christa went upstairs to strip off the glitter of heavy metal, to become, only again, the Gaeidil, the harper of Corca Duibne. She donned her robe facing the mirror, as though she needed the visual reassurance that Chairiste Ní Cummen had returned.
Dawn was growing rapidly when she sat down with Ceis, and the harp was a welcome presence on her lap. Seated in her studio with the scent of incense in the air, Christa could almost have believed that her life had returned to a time when harp students and ancient music had been her main concerns.
She sighed. Those days were far gone.
*sleep*
“I will, Ceis. I’ve already celebrated a little. I played some of the old hymns during my solo.”
The harp was silent for a time. More and more, its place had been taken by patently new instruments, and now she was letting Roger Best’s guitar usurp its duties in the Mysteries. She wondered if she had hurt its feelings.
“I’m sorry, Ceis,” she said. “I needed the help. Danny died this afternoon. And Melinda’s dying. Everything seems to be taking me further away from Judith. I don’t know if I’ll have a band come Midsummer. I don’t know if I’ll have anything. And it’s my last chance.”
She felt the harp struggling—an inner turmoil that almost thrummed the strings.
“Ceis?”
*transfer* The word came with an effort. Ceis seemed to be alive under her hands, rippling as though with ligneous muscles.
“Transfer? Transfer what?”
Again, a hesitation. *me*
“To… to what, old friend?”
The harp struggled even more. *guitar*
At first she did not comprehend the enormity of what Ceis was offering. But then she understood, and then she wept. Pressing her face to the wood, she thanked the immortal intelligence that was willing to give everything, even itself, to help her.
“Are you sure, Ceis?” She choked out the words. “That would indeed be the answer, but are you very sure?”
And for the first time in its existence, Ceis managed to verbalize itself in a full sentence that, although but a whisper in her mind, rang out as though the harp had been sounded from one end of its compass to the other.
*I love you, Chairiste*