6 More Fantasy Stories Page 6

  I'd seen their like before, wherever musicians plied their trade down through the centuries. We didn't call them groupies back then, but that was exactly what they were.

  When Gottie finished and strolled back to town, they mobbed him, giggling and touching and gazing adoringly at him. Pushing each other out of the way to get close to him.

  And when Gottie and I left town, they followed us. A dozen of them, without explaining or asking our permission, fell in line behind us.

  By the time we'd finished the next job, in Dusseldorf, eight more had joined us. Six more came along after Bitburg. Pretty soon, we had a real entourage. Think

  Deadheads, only smellier and more likely to hurt you.

  I should've stopped it right there. Sent them all packing before it was too late...but I didn't. I kept thinking they'd go away on their own, or their families would come looking for them.

  How stupid could I get?

  *****

  Next thing I knew, the groupies—or Pipettes as they called themselves—were washing Gottie's clothes and cooking his meals. They were tending his horse and carrying his things. They were doing everything short of tucking him in at night.

  Which of course went straight to his head. It was the same old story, though I'd been hoping for better this time.

  I watched as the change came upon him...as he went from being sure of himself to being full of himself. All the girls, all the victories, all the praise and rewards built him up to legend-in-his-own-mind status.

  Worst of all, he started to drift away from me. He stopped acting so attentive and affectionate. He didn't look at me the same way anymore.

  I soon realized it was time for a wakeup call.

  *****

  I decided to go with honey instead of vinegar for Gottie's wakeup call. One night, I sneaked him away from camp and took him to a spring in the forest. We skinny-dipped and made love by moonlight while frogs croaked and katydids buzzed around us.

  It was a perfect night, just like before the Pipettes came along. I gazed into his bright blue eyes, and things felt back to normal for a while.

  "You're doing wonderful work, you know," I told him. "Your music is saving so many lives."

  Gottie held me close in the water of the spring-fed pool and smiled. "I could never have done any of it without you, Terpsie."

  I was glad he remembered that part. "Thank you," I said. "We make a great team."

  Gottie frowned then and tipped his head to one side. "Why don't you ever do it? Why don't you play music yourself?"

  I looked down at the moon's reflection in the rippling dark water. "I wish I could."

  "You can't?" said Gottie.

  I shrugged. "My job is to bring the music out in others."

  "But is there a rule that says you can't play it, too?" said Gottie.

  "Not that I know of," I said.

  "Then why not try?" said Gottie.

  "A muse is not a musician." I looked back into his sapphire eyes. "And a musician is what it takes to save the world."

  Gottie gave me an odd look then. "Save the world?"

  "The world of mankind." I leaned forward and kissed his lips. "All of mankind is depending on you."

  Gottie kissed me back like a wild man and snapped his head away at the end of it. "I never imagined music could take me this far," he said.

  "You should see how much farther it can take you." My voice was like a purr as we moved against each other. "Stick with me and find out."

  "Don't mind if I do," said Gottie.

  But of course he didn't.

  *****

  I never caught him having sex with his Pipettes, but it wasn't hard to guess it was happening. When the Pipettes started showing up pregnant, with no other men but Gottie in our camp, I got the picture.

  "Well, I wasn't your first and only, was I?" That was what he said when I called him on it. He didn't even try to deny it. "So I guess it's okay for me to be with more than one person, too."

  As if it wasn't bad enough that he was banging the groupies he had, he kept gathering up new ones wherever we went. He played for them three times a day, different songs than for the rats, and the music seemed to bond them to the group. Instead of fighting over Gottie, they worked together to make him happy.

  And before I knew it, making him happy took on a terrible new meaning.

  *****

  "We haven't done enough," he told the assembled Pipettes one morning. "It's time to save the world!"

  By this point, there were at least three hundred Pipettes in his entourage...and they all roared with excited approval.

  "The best way to do that...the only way I see...is to take over." Gottfried looked in my direction and winked. "It is the only way we can save mankind the world over."

  Again, the crowd went wild.

  "Let us begin a new march now to save the world!" Gottfried pumped his flute overhead, and the women and girls in the crowd pumped fists and weapons. "Music will show the way to the dawning of a bold new age!"

  The crowd howled and danced. Even the pregnant Pipettes joined in, bellies bouncing like basketballs under their frocks.

  At that moment, I finally realized just how far gone Gottfried was and how bad things had gotten. Finally, as I looked out over the cheering, gyrating crowd, I saw what he had built with the groupies he'd gathered.

  I had underestimated him. My world-saving Gottie had built himself an army.

  *****

  "Please stop this." That was what I said to him after the big rally. "You can't save the world this way."

  Gottfried kept marching through camp with his back to me. "I think it's the best way. Who better than the Pied Piper—a true natural born leader—to guide mankind through these dark times?"

  "You're going to send an army of untrained women against the knights and soldiers of Europe?" I said. "How do you think that'll go?"

  "We'll find out tomorrow when we reach our first target," said Gottfried. "A town called Hamelin."

  *****

  The next day, just like always, we marched up to another dismal Dark Ages town in the German countryside, and Gottie pulled out his flute. This time, though, he changed the tune he played.

  Instead of luring all the rats out of town, Gottie made them scurry in every direction through the streets, terrorizing the citizens.

  Then, he made an announcement.

  "Attention, people of Hamelin," said Gottie. "Acknowledge me as your new ruler, or I will order the creatures at my command to devour you all!"

  "Why?" said one of the townspeople as she tried to flee across the town limits. "Why are you doing this?"

  "To save you, of course." Gottie gestured, and his private army stepped forward, stopping the woman from leaving Hamelin. "To save the entire world."

  At that moment, I took action. I had waited as long as I could, giving my once-beloved Gottie every chance to reverse his course...but now I knew. The Pied Piper was a lost cause.

  It was time to put a stop to this insanity before it went any further.

  Glaring, I stepped in front of Gottie. "That's enough!" I said. "Call off your rats."

  Gottie played the flute more wildly than ever, shaking his head for my benefit. The rats danced in the streets, and so did his army as they drove back the people of Hamelin.

  "I said stop it!" Even as the words left my lips, I knew they weren't enough. So strong was the spell Gottie had woven, it would take more than language to break it.

  Perhaps I knew just what could do it.

  Closing my eyes, I reached deep into the timeless realm that existed inside me and drew out a metal object...a flute. I had never played one before, though I instinctively knew how; after all, I'm the one who invented music in the first place.

  Perhaps, if I could play it well enough, I could overpower Gottie's commands and change the course of what was happening to Hamelin.

  Raising the mouthpiece to my lips, I hesitated. Never before had I allowed myself the luxury of trying to
make my own music. Never before had I really believed in myself enough to stand up and do it.

  But now, at last, I had the chance. And the stakes were high. People's lives were at stake in Hamelin if I couldn't override Gottie's song.

  So I started to play.

  The music came slowly at first, then picked up speed. It came naturally to me, perfectly—swirling and skirling as I blew and spun and danced.

  And with each note, I felt more liberated. More at peace. More the way I was meant to be.

  But it wasn't enough. Gottie continued to leap and charge and wail like always, weaving a wild skein of sound that beast and groupie alike were compelled to respond to.

  As hard as I fought to match and outdo him, I couldn't manage it. The son of a bitch had gotten too good to be beaten...at least on his instrument of choice.

  So maybe that was the key to it. Maybe I needed something new. Something brand new, conjured from dreams of a future yet to come.

  Throwing aside my flute, I reached back inside my realm and drew out something else. Another instrument, also metal, also played with breath and fingers on keys and holes.

  I rested the long, curved shape of it against my body. The smooth brass gleamed in the afternoon haze.

  I adjusted the strap across my back, which held the instrument in place. Then, I eased my lips forward, fitting the mouthpiece between them.

  And I blew. I played.

  For the first time in the history of the world, the sounds of a saxophone rang out across the land.

  I played with the same abandon Gottie used when playing the flute—running off streams of rapid-fire notes and chords in maniacal, tuneful sequences. Hurling out one blast of sound after another, screaming and singing and shouting with joy and sorrow and love and anger through my instrument.

  Taking my solo and running with it. Hitting it hard.

  And damn it if I didn't run Gottie right down. Damn it if I didn't turn those rats and Pipettes away and run them right off.

  Damn it if I didn't play with such fever and fury that I burned all the musical magic right the hell out of Gottie. Every last bit of his fabulous power rushed out of him like water down a drain.

  Leaving the Pied Piper a shadow of his superstar self, cursed to wander the Earth all the rest of his days, playing his flute for anyone who would listen.

  Playing it off-key.

  *****

  Centuries later, I walk into a club on 14th Street in the Village. This is six months after the death of my latest rock star lover.

  And I see him. A new candidate.

  He sits on a stool on the tiny stage in the corner, singing and playing guitar. His long black hair falls over his face, hiding his eyes from the spotlight.

  Then, he looks up and shakes the hair back, and I meet his gaze. His eyes are glittering emerald green, bright as moonstones or new-mown grass. Full of possibilities. Full of raw talent.

  I feel the pull of him like the drag of a chain wrapped around my waist, my heart, irresistible. Almost.

  If I go to him, and awaken him, I know he will be great. He will do great things with me as his muse, as his lover, just as so many thousands before him have done.

  And in the end, I know, he will let me down. They all do. He will let the life of glory go to his head, like the Pie-in-the-Face Piper, and he'll screw me over and maybe kill himself like the last guy, O.D.-ing on drugs. The story's always the same.

  Unless he's different. There's always that chance. It's what I live for, after all—the hope that the next one will be better than all the rest.

  Or is that really all I live for?

  In all the years since the Piper, I'd let it slip my mind—that one more thing that made me happy. That one thing other than seeking talent and love in the heart of feckless musicians throughout history.

  It slipped my mind. How happy I felt that day in Hamelin.

  So for once, for once in my life, I resist the pull. I turn right away from it, away from the man in the spotlight, and I head for the door.

  I push it open and march out into the night. Heading for a corner to call my own, alone. Where I will put down a case on the sidewalk, red velvet lined to catch the quarters of passersby.

  And I will play my own music.

  *****

  Girl Meets Mind Reader

  Virgil Flint was surprised when the black-haired woman asked him to fly her kite while she went to use the porta-john.

  Virgil was just standing there on the beach, watching the flock of kites as they wandered and dove in the blue Oregon sky, when the woman waltzed up and pushed a spool of kite string at him.

  "I'd really appreciate it," she said, grinning. She wore sunglasses with round, mirrored lenses, so he couldn't see her eyes. Her dark hair was long and braided in pigtails. His first impression of her age was mid-30s to early 40s.

  Immediately, he liked her round, expressive face. Though she wore a baggy windbreaker and bluejeans, he could see enough of her body to know that he liked that, too.

  Then, he read her mind.

  He didn't dig deep, because he didn't see the need at that moment. Reaching out from his own mind, he touched the surface of hers, dipping just far enough to get a general sense of her personality and determine if the

  kite-watching request was sincere or some kind of scam.

  He was pleased to discover that it wasn't a scam. She really did have to go to the bathroom. She really just wanted him to watch her kite for a moment.

  Why didn't she just reel it in until she got back, instead of bothering a stranger?

  He liked the answer: the kite looked so beautiful and free up there, she couldn't bear to pull it down out of the sky.

  Virgil smiled and shrugged. "Okay, sure," he said, reaching for the spool of string. "I'll do my best."

  "Thanks so much," said the woman, her smile widening. As she handed the spool to him, her hand briefly touched Virgil's. "You're a real Good Samaritan."

  Then, she turned and headed up the hill toward the porta-john.

  He watched her for a moment, admiring her figure. She was just right, not too thin and not too thick for his taste.

  As he watched, he realized that she hadn't told him her name. That was okay, because he'd read her mind.

  Her name was Bridget Samovar.

  *****

  When Bridget returned fifteen minutes later, she surprised him again. Twice.

  Because he was a mind reader, he didn't have to turn around or hear a telltale sound to know she was coming. He sensed her as she drew closer, like a soft wind rustling leaves first far away and then ever nearer as it approaches.

  Choosing to wait for her to get his attention, he continued to watch the kite as it bobbed overhead. The kite was bright red and triangular with arched wings; its profile, when seen from the front, resembled that of a gull seen from a distance. Though its design wasn't nearly as elaborate as the other kites soaring over the beach, something about that simple red wedge made him feel wistful.

  "Nice work," said Bridget as she drew up beside him. "I knew I picked the right man for the job."

  "Have kite, will fly," said Virgil. Now that she was there, he didn't really want to give up the spool of string. He was having too much fun...and fun was in short supply, he had found, when you could read people's minds.

  As if she could read his mind, too, Bridget didn't reach for the spool right away. "Sometimes, I wish I could trade places with the kite," she said. "The kite's having the most fun."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," said Virgil, grinning. The red kite suddenly changed direction, spinning off and cutting downward, then back up.

  That was when Bridget surprised him again. "I brought you something," she said.

  Virgil wasn't easily surprised. He tore his eyes away from the kite and saw her hold out a stick of driftwood, five inches long and worn smooth as the skin of a pearl.

  Bridget reached over and slid the stick into the pocket of his khaki slacks. "A reward for your
good deed," she said, grinning. "Its name is Drifty."

  Virgil couldn't help but laugh as he handed over the spool of twine. "Drifty," he said, shaking his head. "I like it. Thank you."

  "Take him for a walk twice a day," said Bridget. "And keep him away from dogs, whatever you do. He doesn't like playing fetch."

  Virgil laughed again, watching her lips. When she spoke, her mouth had an odd way of flexing; the shapes it took when she pronounced words were always a little different from what he expected.

  The fact that he was focused on appreciating her mouth was the main reason she managed to surprise him again. Normally, when he was with someone he was attracted to, he tuned in their thoughts at least a little, at least enough that he should have caught a ripple of what she was about to do.

  But not this time.

  "So, I was wondering," said Bridget, steering the kite. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

  Surprised, and a little annoyed, that he hadn't sensed it coming, Virgil just stared at her for a moment. He reached out, brushing his mind like fingertips over the surface of hers...and there it was. Her intentions were clear, her feelings unmistakable.

  She liked him. She liked the way he looked and the things he said. She wanted to get to know him better.

  Virgil dipped a little deeper, following the electric strands that led from these topmost thoughts to the tangles of personality and experience further down. It was like gazing into a sea of sparks, zooming in, finding sparks within sparks, every flicker a burst of code.