Nightingale Songs (18 page)

When her vision cleared, Natalie saw the rosebushes shivering under the artificial light. Around her a strange sequence of muffled sounds carried, as though the distance they had to travel from the keys transformed them into something that was barely music. What notes she was able to make out acted as a soundtrack for the falling leaves as they described their twisting paths through the air.

Memories of Roger moved between the carved rosebushes and trees of the small maze. Each sighting drew a cold gasp even though she knew he wasn’t truly there. Tears pushed at the back of her throat, but she struggled to keep them suppressed.

Natalie reached into her purse and withdrew a battered cigarette case that had engraved upon its silver surface an ornate tangle of lines representing her initials. It was the first gift Roger had given her, and even though he had left her she still could not get rid of it. She pulled a cigarette from its open mouth and, cupping her hands to the wind, put her lighter to the end of it.

Natalie was trembling uncontrollably by the time her second cigarette was finished. She rubbed her goose bumps flat to try and bring some warmth back to her arms, and then walked back across the stones and went inside.

From the glass doors, she was struck by the silence. All music, all conversation, had stopped and for a moment she thought the entire hall was empty. Every seat had been vacated, its occupant standing upon the tiny dance floor. The small area could not contain them all and they bled out along the narrow path and into the spaces between the tables. Each held the hands of a partner but their eyes were focused on the back of the room where the piano stood silent in the half-light.

The tiny musician said nothing as he looked at the crowd, his teeth faintly glowing in the lowered light like the surface of the piano. His face was shining too, as though covered in a thin layer of perspiration.

The small wooden balcony creaked above Natalie’s head, the sound amplified by the silence in the hall. On the edge of the crowd before her stood the unmistakable profile of the man from the large entrance doors holding the hands of the bridesmaid he had been speaking to earlier. Both were silent and did not look at each other. Natalie approached him, wishing she had bothered to ask his name, and placed her hand upon the crook of his arm.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Natalie was about to repeat herself when his head finally pivoted with some difficulty towards her and revealed a set of half-closed eyes.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

His lips trembled a moment before soft unintelligible sounds crept out. She leaned closer to listen to the words, but he turned back towards the piano and would not respond again to her, nor would any of the other guests.

She scanned the crowd, wondering where Ellen and Graham were. She called out for them, and her voice sounded overly loud in the dead quiet, but no one moved or responded. The pianist was still smiling as he sat on his perch, his fingers hidden somewhere behind the piano.

Then, with a jerk, both his hands were suddenly in the air, suspended over the keyboard like two tiny claws above his unchanging expression. Nothing moved. Even Natalie held her breath. Then just as quickly they dropped as though pulled by wires back to the keys. The sound the pianist’s flailing hands produced was unlike any she had ever heard; a discordant cacophony of flats and sharps that sounded impossible together. The notes made no musical sense, but they caused the entire group of guests to sway.

There was another creak from above Natalie’s head and loose rose petals fell to the floor around her. She looked up at the carved wooden balcony and saw Ellen moving in fits and starts in time with the broken rhythm. Across from her, on the opposite half of the shaking balcony, lumbered Graham. Both headed straight for the small staircases that flanked the sides of the pale concert grand piano.

The two descended in unison, their feet landing heavily upon each stair and accentuating each arrhythmic note. Around Natalie the swaying of the crowd intensified and filled the room with a scratched, shuffling sound. Ellen and Graham reached the foot of the stairs just as the guests began to stagger forward.

The couple approached the large instrument from either side while between them the small pianist’s fingers danced on the keys like tiny marionettes. From the dark edges of the room, more guests continued to wordlessly lurch forward, gathering like hectic shadows. They nudged Natalie aside as though she weren’t there. She sidestepped as many as she could, but their concentrated numbers forced her to take refuge behind one of the thick wooden pillars. She could feel its carved surface snaking down upon her head.

Ellen and Graham’s hands linked across the width of the piano. Around them, the first of the guests converged, hands still locked. The musician did not turn, and instead continued to play with awkward, exaggerated movements.

The couple lowered their fused hands into the vast open body of the grand piano, and instantly the music changed. The pianist continued to play as the crowd grew, each member placing his or her hands calmly within the instrument while across the hardwood a dark wet shadow began to spread.

The numbers continued to swell as the musician played on, and the sight at the piano became increasingly chaotic. Ellen and Graham had been swallowed by their guests, as had the pianist, and each new pair of bodies approaching them rippled waves though the cluster.

Natalie stepped from her hiding place and again everything stopped cold. She, too, was unable to move or breathe, unsure of what was going to happen.

A single meaty note filled the room, and then another, and at once every body turned in her direction. The dull symphony had resumed and she realized she could not retreat. The music was turned on her and faces blank and indistinguishable shoved against Natalie with bloodied hands. The flood of bodies pounded against her and forced her involuntarily towards the large entrance doors.

Ellen and Graham emerged from the remains of the crowd at the piano, their bleeding hands linked. They were both disheveled and Ellen’s dress was tinted a burnt red, yet neither acted as if they noticed. Natalie called out to them for help, her shoulders bouncing off the carved pillars that scraped away her skin, but there was no response to her cries; the dull thudding drowned out all other noise.

Late autumn chill fell across her back the further she receded from the piano. Above the crowd appeared the grinning head of the pianist, floating as if he stood on his bench or was lifted upon their shoulders. That tiny visage was the last thing Natalie saw of the reception before one final shove knocked her pinwheeling backwards through the open door and onto the stone path that met it.

The door was closed by the

"The writing of Horror is not a game. It's an art form, a serious art form whose lineage traces back through recorded history, whose antecedents continue to be major components in the world's literature and philosophies. We owe it to ourselves, as authors, to work tirelessly on our fiction in order that we might illuminate the truth of existence through it. That's my opinion, at any rate."

There was a small round of applause when my friend Gahan McKaye finished speaking, and as he raised his pint glass to his wide lips some of his small circle of fellow writers followed suit, as though somehow they could absorb his insights through mimicry. Conventions are awash with repetition, after all. I sat across from him and smiled, and he shot me a sparkling wink that said he knew just where he had them. I laughed, and then stroked my beard when I received angry looks from his ragtag entourage.

The WeirdCon convention was held every year in Toronto's Intercontential Hotel, a short walk from the lake and from the tall tower that marked the city's location on the map like a giant needle. It was Gahan's first time as a Guest of Honor, and he seemed suited to it. He knew as well as I did that the fiction he wrote, with its focus on the themes of family, of existence, of existential angst, had a built-in ceiling with readers, but he was comfortable there, happy to make the small advancements in notoriety that come with both a long history of work and the tenacity to continue when most contemporaries had given up and returned to their day jobs. I suppose I was one of the latter, but I didn't want to think of it that way.

Not that I had a day job, of course. My grandfather had made his money on the CN Rail, and enough of that money passed down to me that I could afford to devote my time to penning fiction instead of working. I'd written a popular book once called "The Howling Faces" but that was twenty-five years earlier and though it seemed like no time at all to me, in the world of horror fiction, where the median age of convention attendees is thirty, its cache was diminishing exponentially. The WeirdCon organizers remembered the book however, bless them, so every year I was invited to attend, and every year I did so -- if only to see my friend, Gahan, whose circle of admirers grew slowly while mine continuously winnowed.

But despite what I’ve said, Gahan was not my only reason for attending the WeirdCon festivities. It was the one time each year I would allow myself to rub elbows with others in my field and pretend I was still a part of something I frankly hadn't felt part of in some time. I attended the panels and listened to writers, editors and publishers discuss the genre I so loved, and then visited the merchants to see what first editions I might be missing. What I enjoyed most, I think, was sitting in on the readings by upcoming authors. Much of it I admit I had no taste for, but I enjoyed listening nonetheless, and each time I sat down I silently held out the hope that perhaps I would encounter something I'd never heard before. It was the way I had discovered Gahan McKaye and
his
work, after all, and it led to a friendship I wouldn't have traded for the all the first editions in the world.

The Guest of Honor panel that kicked off WeirdCon was in the Simcoe room, and I had every intention of getting in there early enough to secure a proper seat up front. Alas, life conspires, and through a series of unfortunate incidents involving my getting lost in a hotel I'd stayed in at least four times previously, and then taking a malfunctioning elevator upwards instead of down, I ended up finding the closest seat available was near the back of the room, amid the younger crowd in their dark clothing and with their talkative demeanor. Had I been younger myself, I might have asked for a bit of quiet, but I was no longer quite that brave. Besides, I assumed that they would quiet themselves naturally once the panel commenced.

Beside me sat a young girl dressed in black whose repeated sidelong stares I did my best to ignore. From my vantage point I could see the long podium at the front quite clearly, as well as those attendees who filled the first row of seats. Most were the wives or companions of the guests, but at the end of the row, apart from the others, sat a small pasty-white bald man. He appeared withdrawn, hunkering inward to avoid even the most accidental contact, and he was sweating a far-from-healthy amount. He shook as though he was barely able to sit up, and periodically he'd rub his face and the back of his neck with his stubby withered hands. It seemed as though he was suffering through some great discomfort, and I wondered why, if he were sick, he simply didn't leave? Was seeing the Guests of Honor speak really that important to him?

The image inspired a passable idea for a story, and thus I was desperate not to lose it. I checked my pockets for my notepad, my constant companion for years, but before I could retrieve it the young girl next to me finally spoke.

"Excuse me, are you Simon Hearst?"

I turned and looked at the young woman for the first time. Her eyes were large, spaced a bit too far apart and circled with dark makeup. Yet I suppose she was pretty in her way. And young. Very young. And I was old. Too old. "Yes," I said. "I'm he."

"You wrote, 'The Howling Faces'?"

"I did. Many years ago." I wondered quietly if she'd even been alive while I was in the midst of writing it, hunched over my typewriter during the sweltering summer. "Have you read it?"

Perhaps it was the way I responded, but she looked at me queerly.

"No. But I've heard of it."

"That's nice," I smiled politely, the heat of my memory dissipating. I looked down at the notebook I'd pulled from my pocket and realized I didn't know what I planned to write upon the small blank page. Whatever idea had been inspired was frustratingly lost and there was nothing worth writing in its place. As I'd done countless times before, I put my notebook away unused.

"Do you think it would be okay for a forty-five-year-old woman?" the girl asked. "Mother's Day is coming up and I'm looking for a gift."

"What does she read?"

She thought for a moment.

"I don't know. I've never seen her with a book."

Inside, I choked. By the time I found my voice luck was with me as the moderator appeared at the front of the room and welcomed everyone to the convention. He then introduced the panel's participants.

It was a disparate group, and beyond Gahan I recognized only one other writer, Martin Stemmel, who was known better for the large pair of glasses he wore than for the "underground weird" fiction he created. It was mentioned in his introduction that he had done a lot of television work, acting as an unofficial ambassador for the genre, but if that were true I wouldn't have known; I hadn't watched television proper since I wrote my last book. Instead, I'd spent the intervening time watching a blank page. The other three panel members were unfamiliar to me, having flown in from Los Angeles and New York. One was a screenwriter, the second a novelist who rejected the "horror label,” and the third an editor who had one client who only wrote "dark fantasies.” Nevertheless, the applause for them was fiercer than for my friend Gahan McKaye. I clapped for him though, and I noticed that some of the older gentlemen in the crowd joined me. The bald fellow in the front row, however, did nothing more than continue to incessantly rub his pale blubbery head.

The panel went as panels often do, with softball questions lobbed at the Guests of Honor to paint them in the best light possible. Mr. Stemmel spoke of his interviews on television, and all he'd done to help promote the cause. Even the cooking shows, he argued straight-faced, were important, showing the world that Horror authors were nothing to fear. I wondered for my own amusement if he wore those same large glasses and had the same drained complexion on the small screen. I imagined the contrast there was worse. The publisher had little to contribute, seemingly discomforted by his surroundings. He did not come right out and say it of course, but his disdain for the genre was evident, especially in the way he felt it was his life's goal to "elevate it" into "real fiction.” The room seemed to applaud his intentions, though, so what do I know? Only my friend Gahan appeared bothered by the man, rolling his eyes at some of the more ludicrous comments.
That's my boy
, I thought, immensely proud each time he contradicted the man.

Gahan's opinions had not changed from those he shared with me through letters or at our yearly WeirdCon meetings. They were remarkably consistent, but I expected no less from a man whose work was so strong. As he explained it: "I'd like to elevate the genre too, I suppose, but I don't think the thing is broken, rather its view of itself is. Horror doesn't need champions, what it needs are writers willing to do the best work they can, just like any other sort of fiction. But Horror .... well, it gets a bad rap. It's considered juvenile, and even those who work hard at it face an uphill battle. I spent most of last year writing a novel, but you'd never know it because I can't get it looked at. 'It has too many problems' I was told, and it was made clear to me multiple times that
too many problems
is code for 'too artsy' or 'too ambitious' -- I heard all sorts of excuses from the major presses, all telling me the same thing: all those supposed 'problems' could be boiled down to the idea that I was trying too hard to do good work. I should relax; stop worrying about what things 'meant' and just let the story have 'fun'. I'm sorry, but I can't work that way. It would be like dying, I think. Give me the art with a capital 'A' any day of the week."

There were some scoffs from the panel. Not loud -- or at least I'm sure they wouldn't have been had there not been microphones so nearby -- but nonetheless McKaye's words were not as rousing as he'd probably hoped they'd be. He sat back, his wide lips in a nervous smile, waiting for the response he must have known was only a matter of time coming.

"You don't think," Martin Stemmel said, as though channeling the other members of the panel, "that what you've said is a bit ...
elitist
? Why doesn’t fiction have to
mean
something?
As China Mieville says, why can't we just read these things and ask, 'How cool is that'?"

"Because we're not twelve-year-olds," Gahan said. "I don't think I could really engage with Horror if I took it on face value alone -- it's too strange and outrageous. In order to process the effects of, say, Lovecraft's cosmic monsters or James's ghosts, you
must
see them in terms of metaphor. That's part of the enjoyment of weird fiction, that we
must
bring our own interpretations to the table in a way that other genres don't allow -- those that aren't based around the imagery and symbolism of the fantastic. It's why certain stories speak to us so powerfully, because they are about a specific theme. It's also, I feel, why weird tales are so vital to us all. Like an escape valve for our fears and anxieties. The author owes it to his audience to explore this."

"But," Martin responded, "But what's wrong with just having some
fun
?"

The clapping that filled the room drowned any response that Gahan McKaye might have offered. I must say, I was not completely surprised. What
did
surprise me was what I saw when I inadvertently glanced at the rest of the crowd. The pasty bald man was squirming in his front row seat and nodding vigorously at Gahan's words. Gahan also seemed to notice the display.

"Fun...?" he stammered, his eyes returning to that man, as though the nodding fellow were impossible to look away from. I wondered absently (as is arguably a writer's nature) what the man's face actually
looked
like. Suddenly I found myself overcome with dread. "I don’t think of writing as being ... what I mean is that I try ... I'm not really sure ..." He continued stumbling, all the while his eyes flitting back to the stranger in the front row with increasing frequency. I looked around, but I seemed to be the one person who noticed this. The rest of the panelists -- indeed the entire crowd -- continued on as though he wasn't there at all.

"You aren't sure? Why doesn't
that
surprise me?" Martin Stemmel said, and the room erupted in laughter. It seemed to me an awful thing to say to another writer, very close to an arrow aimed directly into his heel, but Gahan suffered the shot well enough, nodding his head amiably even while staring at the man to his right. When the crowd settled down into some sort of order, the panel continued rather uneventfully -- no doubt because its main voice of discord had become too enraptured to pose any further obstacles to the panelists' shared message.

When the panel was done and the audience was getting up from their seats, Gahan remained behind the podium, apparently dazed. I tried to navigate toward my friend through the throngs of people both leaving the completed panel and entering the room for the next, but before I could reach him my way was barred by an overweight man nearly ten years my senior. His long white hair was thin and brittle, and his pallor greasy. He smelled of old musty books, and when he spoke I was sure his tongue had turned yellow. He offered me a jacketless copy of "The Howling Faces" with cigarette-stained fingers.