6 More Fantasy Stories Read online

  Omar looked out the window. Twilight had already settled over the red brick row houses across the street.

  “So you think...it’s going...to happen...tonight?”

  Bobby nodded. “Where does she live?”

  “Why?” said Omar. “Is that...where it’s going...to happen?”

  “It looked like it might be Diona’s apartment,” said Bobby. “There was a framed news clipping about her playing for the queen.”

  Omar frowned. “The whole thing...might just be...your imagination.”

  “I’d rather go and find out I’m wrong than not go and find out I’m right.”

  Omar started to say something, then wheezed and had to take a moment to catch his breath. “I might be...dead...when you...get back. I’m running...out of time.”

  “I know,” said Bobby.

  “You and I...we’re not done,” said Omar. “If I die...before we finish...so much for...passing on...my legacy.”

  “Yeah,” said Bobby.

  Omar’s fingers twitched over the invisible horn. “So much...for your...big comeback.”

  Bobby unsnapped the strap around his neck and put his horn down on a floor stand. “Please tell me where she lives,” he said.

  *****

  Looking up from across the street, Bobby couldn’t see anything but a dim light through the parted curtains of one window of the apartment.

  On the other hand, the windows of the dive bar downstairs, which was called Taps, were bright with neon beer signs. People jammed the place, and loud music thumped from the open front door.

  Upstairs, everything looked still and quiet.

  As Bobby crossed the street, he considered stopping in Taps for a drink before going upstairs. He actually touched the handle of the bar’s front door before changing his mind. Wasting five minutes having a drink could mean disaster; for all he knew, he was already too late to save Diona.

  Bobby entered the alley on the left side of the building and climbed the shaky metal grate stairs to the second floor. The name “Minaret” was spelled out in black adhesive letters lined up on the windowless door there.

  Bobby listened at the door and heard nothing but the thumping music from the bar. When he tried the doorknob, and it turned freely, he decided to let himself in to the apartment. Knocking would just alert Boot, if he was in there, and give him time to get ready for Bobby.

  Pushing the door open, Bobby peered inside.

  The first thing he saw, scattered on the floor, were spilled grocery bags.

  Without another thought, he threw the door open and charged inside. Boot looked up from the floor at him with an expression of wide-eyed shock and terror.

  There was also enough twisted lust on his face to burn away any iota of a thought Bobby might have had about showing him mercy. The look of agony on Diona’s face etched the outcome in stone.

  The first thing Bobby did was kick Boot away from Diona so she wouldn’t be hurt any more than she already was.

  The rest was a blur of red.

  *****

  At first, when Bobby walked in the bedroom, he thought Omar was dead.

  The old man lay on the bed like a winter leaf, shriveled and weightless. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, his body perfectly still in the moonlight.

  Then, his fingers barely flickered over invisible keys. His chest rose. And fell.

  When Bobby sat beside him on the edge of the bed, Omar’s eyes drifted open. His voice, when he spoke, was so hoarse and faint that Bobby had to lean close to make out what he said.

  “Is she...safe?”

  Bobby nodded. “She’s at the hospital. Bumps and bruises, but she’ll be all right.”

  “Thank...” Omar fought for another breath and barely caught it. “...God.”

  “Guess what?” Bobby laughed. “She still won’t say a word to me!”

  Omar’s smile was weak. “That’s...my Diona. I love her...so much.”

  “You’re lucky to have her,” said Bobby.

  “What about...Boot?”

  “Broken neck,” said Bobby. “Apparently, he fell headfirst out of a second-story window. Paralyzed from the neck down for life, they say.”

  “What...a shame,” said Omar. He was still smiling.

  Bobby smiled back at him. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he was going after her.”

  “I’d have...to be able...to see the future...to know that.” Omar shuddered as he struggled for breath. His body arched off the bed, then dropped as he managed to drag air into his one working lung.

  He was near the end now, and Bobby could see it.

  “You used me,” said Bobby.

  Omar managed half a shaky grin. “Be my lungs...hell. I needed you...to be...my fists.”

  “Why go to all that trouble?” said Bobby. “Why not just find someone local to take care of it?”

  “I’ve got...no one left...except Diona.” Omar wrestled another breath into his chest. “Even if...I did...who’d believe...an old fool...like me?” Another breath, hard-won and too short, rattled into him. “I needed someone...who I could...connect with...and someone mean enough...to do...the job.”

  Bobby sighed. “Here I thought you called me to bring your last masterpiece to the world.”

  Omar’s withered claw settled around Bobby’s wrist like a butterfly. “Go get...Interstellar Space...by Coltrane...off the shelf.”

  Frowning, Bobby got up from the bed. He found the record on one of the shelves on the wall and held it up for Omar to see.

  “Play it,” said Omar.

  Bobby slipped the record from its sleeve and put it on the phonograph. He dropped the needle and turned up the volume.

  It started with the sound of shivering sleigh bells...then, stuttering drums and cymbals...and Coltrane’s sax leaping in like a sudden storm. Drums and horn charging and clashing from then on, horn frantic and angry and stoned, reeling up and down and over and under...faster harder faster...explosive short phrases burning...then a sweet skirling snatch of melody floating up high before breaking down in honks and squawks and screeches and yelps and racing cursing runs like the fury of the last screaming midnight fight between tenement man and wife before the summer’s bloodiest murder suicide.

  Bobby couldn’t help grinning. “‘Revelations’,” he said.

  “There never was...a masterpiece,” said Omar. “Just bits and pieces...I stole...from ‘Trane.”

  “You ripped off ‘Mars,’” said Bobby. “Why couldn’t you have picked something I liked?”

  “Sorry...for the lies,” said Omar. “Seemed like...the best way...to get you here.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bobby. “I’ll get my comeback. Maybe I’ll ride Diona’s coattails, huh? Does she still have it?”

  “I’d bet...my life...on it.” Somehow, Omar managed a normal-sounding laugh, strong and deep and resonant.

  And brief. The laugh broke into a wheezing cough, leaving Omar gasping for a breath that he couldn’t seem to catch.

  Bobby sat down beside him and took hold of one of his fluttering hands. “Easy.” He gently stroked Omar’s forehead. “Take it easy.”

  Omar gazed up at him with a look of sorrow, exhaustion, and gratitude that broke his heart. He wished he could hold the life inside that frail scarecrow, keep the great man, his idol, from floating away on the next errant breeze.

  Keep the breath in the instrument, keep it playing long as possible.

  The needle caught the next cut on the record then, “Venus.” Sleighbells shivered in the moonlit room, and brushed cymbals whispered.

  Then, Coltrane’s horn like the ripples in a pond, like the wings of a bird, airy and flowing and peaceful.

  Da-deedadeedadeedadeedadeeee

  The patter of raindrops...a red ribbon gliding in a summer sky...treetops swaying.

  A man’s last breaths and the last beats of his heart, fading in counterpoint rhythm.

  Bobby’s eyes burned with the pressure of tears. He tightened his grip on Omar’s
hand as the old man struggled for breath. “Do you see things when you listen to this?” he said.

  Omar nodded as he gasped for air.

  “What?” Bobby’s own breath caught in his throat. “What do you see?”

  “There’s...” Omar fought to eke out the words. His voice was tiny as the squeak of a mouse. Bobby had to put his ear to Omar’s lips to hear it.

  “There’s...another life...” In. Out. “...after this one...” In. Out. “...and man...it’s full of...jazz.”

  Out.

  *****

  Groupie Everlasting

  So here I am, in the year of your Lord 2010, lying beside the corpse of yet another dead musician, a rock star flamed out on heroin, and I make the promise one more time.

  "This is the last one." That's the promise. "No more musicians for me."

  How many times have I said those words over the centuries? Over how many musicians' corpses? And how many times have I broken that promise? Again and again and again.

  But maybe this time, it will take.

  After all, this guy was special. As I stroke his long blond hair, I'm filled with regret over the dead potential of him, the lost opportunities. He could have changed the world, honest and truly...could have healed it with the music I inspired in him. I felt it in my bones this time, I believed it with every iota of my essence.

  Maybe that's my flaw. I want too badly to believe in these people. These children of music. After all, I created music. I am a muse.

  Not "muse" in a general sense, like every dumbass bar band numbskull calls his underage cutie to get into her pants. I'm a muse, the muse, plain and pure and simple. The one and only original Terpsichore. Ta-da.

  So I've got a thing for musicians, which sucks, because they always let me down, just like this guy. But I always come back for more, because you just never know. Maybe the next one will light up the world for good and true and teach the world to sing in perfect harmony and all that happy horseshit.

  I lean down and kiss my latest flameout on the forehead. Give him my blessing. Speed him to my special corner of the Underworld.

  And tears roll from my eyes. More tears than I've cried in ages. This guy's the biggest letdown to come along in centuries. My biggest failure since the fourteenth freakin' century and that Gottfried guy back in Germany.

  In that craphole town called Hamelin.

  *****

  Here's how the Pied Piper got his name: he sucked so bad, people used to throw pies at him.

  That was back when he was starting out, of course. Before I helped him turn things around.

  In fact, the first time I saw the Piper, whose name was Gottfried Hazenstab, he was taking a rotten pot pie square in the face at the Oberammergau town fair. He was only two songs into his first set, too.

  And he was lucky. Europe was full of tough crowds in those days; life was short and harsh, and people didn't have much patience. Gottfried was lucky they didn't just kill him.

  And luckier still that I was in town that day.

  See, I had an eye for raw talent, and I spotted it in Gottfried before the pie hit. The way he played his flute, I could tell he had that certain something.

  Which is the whole reason I got into this business in the first place. To find that rare musical flair. That special magic.

  And set it free.

  "Hello there." I handed him a rag after the show. "My name is Terpsie."

  Gottfried wiped the gravy from his face. His bright blue eyes flashed like sapphires, framed by pure gold streamers of hair that touched the tops of his shoulders. "I am Gottfried. Thank you for this." He held up the rag.

  "When is your next show?" Smiling, I produced another rag from a pocket of my dress and dabbed at his cheeks.

  "Never," said Gottfried. "I quit."

  Power flowed out from my fingertips and wafted from my breath, fanning the sparks of talent within him into crackling flames. "I think you should do one more."

  "No more." Gottfried shook his head. He sounded like he might be ready to cry. "I'm done."

  "One more." Gazing deep within his eyes, I nodded slowly, exerting my influence.

  Gottfried's head-shaking turned to head-nodding. "One more."

  *****

  This time, when Gottfried played, he took a custard pie in the face. This was an improvement over the rotten pot pie...but who cared what the people thought. I was paying more attention to a different audience altogether.

  A non-human one.

  While the people jeered and hooted and stomped away, another audience listened with rapt attention. An audience much lower to the ground.

  Along the base of a nearby tent, a group of rats and mice lined up and watched until Gottfried stopped playing. There were seven of them, sitting up on hind legs, snouts quivering in the air of the fair.

  They scattered as soon as the pie cut the show short, but I'd seen enough. Now I knew for sure.

  "Come with me, Gottfried." I handed him a fresh rag for his face. "We're going to make beautiful music together."

  He looked at me as if I were insane. "Beautiful? Are you sure you don't mean awful?"

  "Awfully successful." I took him by the shoulders and stared him in the eye. "Forget about the masses. Your kind of talent has real niche appeal."

  "'Itch appeal?'" said Gottfried.

  "You're perfectly positioned for the changing marketplace," I told him.

  "What are you talking about?" said Gottfried.

  "Trust me," I said. "I've got inside information."

  *****

  It was wonderful watching Gottie come alive in the months that followed. Watching as his career took off just like I'd known it would.

  All because of a little something called the Black Plague.

  Mystical far-seeing wonder-muse that I am, I'd seen the plague coming, spreading across Europe with terrible swiftness. And I'd known exactly what would cause it.

  Namely, disease-infested fleas carried by rats.

  So now you see where Gottie came in. I singled him out as the savior of Europe, leader-away of rats and all things plagueish.

  Not just the savior of Europe. Maybe the savior of all humanity before he was done.

  And the savior of one thing more in the bargain: the savior of me.

  *****

  Right after Gottie's first big success, clearing the rats from the town of Babenscham, we spent our first night together as lovers.

  We lay naked in each others' arms in a room at an inn, basking in the aftermath of our lovemaking. Gottie had been the perfect lover, just as I'd known he would be.

  And I had been well-pleased.

  "How did you know?" he said, softly stroking my auburn hair. "What made you believe in me when no one else did?"

  "Vision," I told him. "And feeling."

  He smiled, his bright blue eyes shining upon me. "You mean love, Terpsie?"

  I considered lying but couldn't do it. I never could, not with any of them over the centuries. "Yes. Love," I said. "I loved you at first sight."

  He frowned then, brows crinkling in the candlelight. "You did something to me, didn't you? Changed me somehow?"

  "Only gave you a push." I shrugged. "The true power was always within you."

  "You're amazing." He ran a finger along the length of my nose and tapped it on the tip. "You really are my muse, aren't you?"

  "Yes," I said, snuggling against him, relishing the heat of his body.

  Just then, he tipped his head to one side and gave me a funny look. "And I'm your first, aren't I?"

  That was when I made a mistake, though I didn't realize it at the time. I told the truth.

  "No," I said. "Not the first."

  His look went dark in a flash. "There've been others before me?"

  "Yes," I said. "But you're my only one right now."

  The dark look lingered a moment, then dispersed. "All right." He smiled and kissed me. "That's a wonderful thing."

  "I know." I whispered the words. He was start
ing to make love to me again. "Wonderful it is."

  *****

  I wish you could have seen Gottie in action. It was truly amazing the way he cleared a town of vermin.

  Eyes closed, he blew his breath out through the flute in great scintillating bursts. His fingers flew along the length of the instrument, hopping like bees over the holes, scampering from end to end and back again.

  He danced with abandon, free and wild as his music. Hair flying, he leaped and spun and twisted, feet spending as much time in the air as on the cobblestones or dirt. His moves would put any modern rock star to shame; if he were alive today, I'm convinced he'd be bigger than any star on Earth.

  And then came the rats, pouring out of every building and burrow and crack...not just running, either, but dancing themselves, bounding and whirling. Watch them for a moment, and you realized—they were coming as close as they could to copying Gottie's own moves. In their hundreds, their thousands, their millions, they were aping him, riding the music with eyes closed and whiskers twitching like wheat stalks in a cyclone.

  And then the lot of them would dance right out of town. He would lead them, dancing and leaping, down the street and across the fields, weaving in a squealing, stinking parade that trampled grass and flushed game from the undergrowth in its path.

  It was truly amazing to behold. My heart pounded every time I saw it happen, absolutely every time.

  And I was filled with the joy of being a part of it. Helping him to blossom as a piper, and in so doing, helping him to save Europe and all mankind.

  At least that was how it was until he started leading more than rats.

  *****

  The first ones showed up around Lindelhof, dressed in colorful tatters with flowers in their hair. They came out to watch Gottie perform, clapping and dancing in time with his flute...staying well clear of the rats but taking pains to stay in Gottie's line of sight.