With Strings Attached

by D. Aviva Rothschild

©1998

*17*
JUST AN EARTHBOUND MISFIT

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DISCLAIMER: This chapter was conceived and written back in 1987, except for some updating that I have since done. Unfortunately, Linda McCartney's tragic death in April 1998 lends Paul's emotions much more meaning than was originally intended. I thought about delaying the publication of this chapter, partially because it was depressing for me to work on again, but I decided to go ahead and post it on time because the last long delay was very disruptive.

If you think you want to skip this chapter, here's the action in a nutshell:

Paul is bitter, jealous, and lonely because the others have magic and he doesn't, and none of them have talked to him in a long time because they're too busy playing.

NOTE: The chapter is keyed to the song "Painted Smile" by the Moody Blues (on the album Long Distance Voyager).

Paul woke with his face buried in the pillow, stinking fit to wake the dead; his hangover only intensified the pain of his memories. He stuck his arm out and groped on the night table for a vial of healing potion, but he'd run out many days before. "Shit," he mumbled, and winced as the word ricocheted around his skull. Stiffly he kicked the covers off and hauled himself up. He'd gone to bed fully dressed.

The room lurched; he swayed on the edge of the bed. His stomach churned like a volcano about to erupt. "Fuck, whyn't I get more?" he moaned, holding his hand to his mouth as he staggered to the window and vomited into the yard. He heaved and heaved, trying to purge mental as well as physical poisons.

When his stomach had yielded all it could-which wasn't much-he wiped his mouth on the last clean spot of a towel crusty with dried vomit. Then he drank from a pitcher of stale water, swilling it round his mouth and spitting out the window before swallowing any.

When he finished the water he looked at the door to his room. He didn't want to go out, no he didn't, but he wanted to leave so badly that already he was turning the knob and opening the door. Thank God! No one in the hallway, just food smells (making him gag); better yet, the bedroom doors were closed. Paul hurried to the stairs, keeping his eyes forward, but was unable to avoid suffering an image as a door scraped his peripheral vision:

Behind it, Ringo lying on his bed, eyes closed but hardly asleep, smiling, smiling, smiling; every so often a chuckle bubbles up; worse yet, sometimes... but Paul jerked his thoughts away, concentrated furiously on how he was going to Ta'akan and order more Lyndess posters-at least the door was closed, he didn't have to-he had to order more posters, the originals had already vanished-sometimes the door wasn't closed, he had to walk by with his eyes shut-yes, he had to order more posters! Even when the door was open!

Paul bit his lip and started down the stairs. But as the main room came into view, he stiffened and gripped the banister with both hands. Ringo, far from being decently tucked away in his room, sat with his chair tilted against the wall, smiling. His eyes were wide open, but if he saw Paul he gave no sign. His attention was focused on a plate on the table with bread on it, and Paul watched it rise into the air and glide, wobbling, to hover unsteadily above Ringo's legs. But as Ringo reached for a piece of bread, the plate dropped, bounced off his knees, and hit the floor, sending slices, crumbs, and chips of pottery in all directions. "Shit," Ringo said mildly. He reached down, then laughed and clasped his hands firmly together in his lap. One piece at a time, the bread scooted back to the chipped plate; when they were all on, the plate rose and flew back to the table.

Paul's hands grew white from strangling the banister. His mouth was a thin hard line.

"Need a broom," Ringo murmured, turning to face one leaning in the corner. Like a witch's broom, it twitched and nodded in evident delight at being noticed. "C'mere, you!" Ringo ordered cheerfully, and it came, rocking back and forth on its bristles like a broom from "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". It bowed, began to sweep. Soon it backed away from a neat pile of dirt and leaned against the table, lost what small life Ringo had given it as he shifted his attention to a dustpan that had been sitting in the corner behind the broom.

Oh, yes, Ringo was having fun.

Paul moaned softly as he took another step down. Ringo looked up-the dustpan clattered to the floor-and waved grandly. "Hi, Paul! Have a seat!" A chair pulled away from the table and skidded to the bottom of the stairs.

Brilliant hate lanced through Paul, though outwardly he kept a bland, slightly annoyed expression. How long had it been? How much time had passed since that terrible day when three of them had become wildly, ecstatically magical while Paul was left as impotent and powerless as a corpse? When they played in the heavens while he remained anchored to the ground, where he always had been and always would be?

"No," Paul whispered, answering much more than Ringo's careless query. Ringo wasn't even looking at him any more, had refocused on the dustpan. "No." He brushed past the chair and passed through the door into the grass and sunshine. Bitter anger and jealousy roiled in his stomach, but neither of these produced the glistening in his eyes; it was shame that did that, the humiliation of knowing someone had decided he wasn't worthy of magic.

After that day, which had culminated with Paul being unfortunate witness to George's first change (he'd been peeping out the kitchen door), he'd hid in his room and tried to sort out his emotions. And he'd decided, logically enough, It's my turn next. There was no reason for the ball to stop rolling, now that three of the pins had been knocked down. So he sat back and eagerly awaited his magic, imagining all the wonderful things he might get.

And he waited, watching the others play,

and waited, growing impatient,

and waited, as three, four, five days slipped by,

and waited, desperately wandering around Ta'akan as George had when he got his ring, then rushing back to the house, terrified that magic might show up there while he was away,

and gave up.

Why not me? Why them but why not ME? he'd cried many times. He mumbled it now, his eyes averted, knowing how useless the question was. If no one was listening, what was the point? And if someone was listening, he/she/it was hardly likely to offer an answer at this late date.

Oh, it hurt, it hurt so much -

The sky was cloudless and a shadow passed over him.

Paul's gaze lifted; to look up martyred him, for too well he knew John was overhead, naked but for a pair of cutoffs-the last vestige of anything Earthlike about him-and brown from his beautiful windburn/tan. He wheeled over the front yard, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his cutoffs, oblivious to the world below. Bitterly Paul stared at the blue-tipped white wings taking up fifteen feet of sky, the hard ropy muscles on John's arms and legs, the weightlifter's chest that seemed to grow larger each day, and the goddamned smile that everyone had except Paul!

"Hi, Paul!" John yelled, swooping past. He didn't really see Paul. None of them had looked at Paul for days.

Paul whipped around and walked very quickly for the forest, breaking into a trot when another tear threatened to emerge. He dove into the trees, but he could not run far; he barely had the energy to reach a clearing, where he flopped down on the grass and panted. Strength came slowly. He could ill afford to lose what he'd vomited away that morning. He couldn't remember his last real meal.

As he rested, his mind squirmed with impatience. The forest wasn't his place, especially not the isolated section he had wandered into. It was George's place, and sometimes Paul was lucky and avoided him. That was the best he could expect from luck these days.

What made things even worse was that Paul knew quite acutely what he was missing-more so than just watching the others frolic. Because he hadn't just passively accepted the decision of the gods (or whomever) that magic wasn't for him. After it became clear that nothing was forthcoming, he had marched to Ta'akan and asked Grunnel to teach him magic. The wizard was willing and cast upon Paul the teaching spell, making him able to sense the raw magic around him. As the spell took effect, Paul felt like he'd been immersed in warm water, and from then on he was always conscious of magic in the air, much as he'd have been conscious of water pressing against his body if he'd walked through a swimming pool. Then Grunnel had held his hand and cast a light spell, and Paul had felt raw magic flow into the wizard's body, bend and twist, and emerge as a ball of light in Grunnel's other hand. The wizard had also explained that more advanced spells sent the magic through various materials, like diamond, for further changes. While spells required no "magic words" per se, casters often vocalized, sang, grunted, etc. as an aid to memory.

Paul had absorbed it all gleefully. There wasn't anything mysterious or cosmic (or soul-compromising) about magic; manipulating it was akin to running an imaginary thread through a series of imaginary needles in the correct pattern in perfect time to a guitar solo. He'd need to practice, of course, but he was confident that within a short time he'd be dazzling the others with a repertoire of tricks. And in the long run, who knew how good he could get?

Grunnel had cast the light spell a few more times so Paul could get familiar with the spell's pattern. Then Paul, full of excitement, cast it himself.

And he passed out.

He had awoken flat on his back with the fruity taste of a healing potion in his mouth and Grunnel kneeling over him. Paul had felt-God!-like he'd run a marathon. What happened?

Helping Paul into a chair, Grunnel speculated that because Paul came from a nonmagical world, his body was not accustomed to hosting magical energies, so magic was ultra-fatiguing for him.

But what about the others? Paul had cried. What about Ringo?

But Grunnel had no answer for Paul. And he wouldn't teach Paul more magic. If the light spell knocked him out, something more powerful would kill him. Grunnel would only continue the lessons if Paul got good enough at the light spell that he could cast it without fainting.

That's when Paul truly gave up hope.

By the time Paul felt ready to continue on, no one had come, and he got up shakily and continued, glad that George at least had the decency to play in secret most of the time.

Then he encountered another clearing, where a full-length mirror leaned against a tree. A fly buzzed around the mirror, and landed on it for a moment before taking off again. Paul ducked down behind a bush and closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable

*ping*

George stood before the mirror, rubbing his arms. "Whew. I'm not gonna make a career out of that one! Four legs are bad enough. And I hate being that small anyway."

Paul gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, martyring himself again. He crawled around to get a better view. George stood with his left side to Paul and didn't notice-or didn't acknowledge-the slight rustling noises that betrayed Paul's presence. "Well, what now?" George asked his smiling image in the mirror. "What haven't I seen meself as?" He pondered, then grinned and backed away from the glass.

Paul braced himself -

*ping*

The transformation was too swift for the human eye to follow; a flash of light that wasn't really light, and George became a magnificent red stag with sixteen-point antlers, prancing and nosing around the mirror. Nothing about him suggested that a human lay beneath his ruddy coat; his great liquid eyes were as empty of intelligence as any deer's. Only this complete separation between George and stag made it tolerable for Paul to watch. A humanized animal, a Disney deer, would have been just too hideous.

*ping*

No warning this time. Jolted, Paul fell on one elbow, but recovered, burning with anger. Oh, he hated John and Ringo, but George was the worst; his magic came from a ring, a removable, shareable object. Which, of course, he had never offered to let Paul use.

"I can't think of anything different to be," George complained to the mirror. He paced with his hands clasped behind his back; Paul saw him rub the green ring with his thumb. Then George smiled slowly, mischievously. With a furtive glance around, he *ping* became nothing, as far as Paul could tell, except that his hair seemed darker, his shape a little different; then Paul caught a glimpse of what was in the mirror, and he almost screamed.

George had become... Paul.

"Did me voice change?" the apparition said, and Paul's voice rang through the trees. With a wicked grin, George/Paul began singing "Yesterday", then stopped and winked at the mirror. "I wonder if I could collect his royalties?"

Paul had to force himself to stay hidden. It wasn't enough that they trampled on his mind; no, they had to steal his body as well, take what little he had left for themselves. But why not? He was just a lousy shirt for George to change into, nothing more.

He couldn't suppress a whimper then, and George/Paul swung around startled, then saw Paul. Their eyes locked like some surrealist mirror, the copy standing embarrassed, the real thing lying in the dirt, furious. Then George/Paul mumbled "Uh, hi, Paul..." *ping* He became himself again, grinning sheepishly, or perhaps not so sheepishly. "I, uh ­ "

Paul, with as icy an air as he could manage, got up and walked away. He would ignore George, cut him dead, if George ran after him with apologies and offers to use the ring.

Deep down, of course, he hoped George would. But he knew George wouldn't. And he was right.

Some time later Paul sat in a corner of the only tavern in Ta'akan that would admit him as dirty and smelly as he was: the Fish Eye Tavern, a tirin place down by the docks and too close to the fish merchants. It was decorated with laminated fish eyes and fish, dried seaweed, and sawdust on the floor, and its patrons were mostly sailors and "fishersars." Except that there rarely were fights in the place (and those that occurred were a lot clumsier), it was just like any skahs tavern. Certainly the tirin customers hadn't taken Paul to their bosoms simply because he too was a tirin. They were just as good at asking him if he sold anything, and then ignoring him when he wasn't, as the skahs had been.

Drinking three bitter ales in rapid succession, Paul stared out a window at a wall where one of their Lyndess posters had hung. No one had responded, and the things had faded away a while ago. Why couldn't someone have stepped forward the day after the ads went up? He had to get some more made. But he didn't feel like going to a poster shop right now. He hadn't brought enough money with him anyway. Maybe tomorrow. Of course, that meant returning to the house.

If only he dared leave the others and live by himself in Ta'akan, or, better yet, in one of the other Baravadan cities Grunnel had mentioned-Coarse or whatever it was called. If only, somehow, he could find Lyndess's friends, rescue her, and be sent home. Surely he was the only one of the four who wanted to return home now. So let them stay. He would fill his pockets in the cellar with gold and the most valuable-looking gems and jewelry, and strike out at night, make his way to Coarse, take a room at an inn, put up new posters.

But what would happen when he ran out of money? He didn't want to spent his nights playing music for meals and tips. Hell, he could barely look at his guitar any longer, much less pick it up and play it. And oh horrors, what if the others came looking for him? (Would they even notice that he'd gone?) What could he say to them? "I thought I'd better come here to see if Lyndess's friends are here. Someone needs to keep up the quest, y'know." Right. Maybe they couldn't read his mind (and was Paul sure that they couldn't? What if Ringo-don't go there! Don't go there!), but they knew where Paul stood in relation to them.

They were probably laughing about it amongst themselves right now. "Ha-ha, Paul didn't get any magic, what a loser." "Ha-ha, Paul can't stand to see us, so he skipped town." "Ha-ha, Paul thinks he can hide from us, but we're just playing with him, we can find him whenever we think he's worth the bother."

What if he wasn't worth the bother?

"Bastards," Paul muttered, glaring round to include all women and all men in that statement. "Goddamn bastards. Couldn't do that to me on Earth. Not me. On Earth, I beat them," he told a weather-beaten woman at the next table. "I'm richer than all three of 'em put together. That means I'm smarter. Got it up here." He tapped his head. The woman ignored him. "I don't need magic, I already own the whole bloody world. They don't have everything, so they have to have magic. They gotta get up to my level by havin' magic!" Paul slammed his mug down, slopping liquor on the table.

The other patrons, mostly regulars, had long ago learned the words of this song, and Paul heard a few men at the bar parroting him. "FUCK YOU!" he shouted across the room, glad of even this attention. If someone would just talk to him, ask him how he was or the time of day, or even insult him back! He was even getting to the point where he wished someone would take enough interest in him to beat him up or rob him. But the server set down fresh mugs and took his money in silence, and (as he had learned long ago) he was not at all challenging enough for the thieves or even the sailors.

He was so terribly, terribly lonely....

He'd never been away from Linda for so long, much less cut off from her and his children so thoroughly. When he first arrived on C'hou, he hadn't missed them as much-hadn't had time to miss them as much. Between trying to survive, all the Idri chaos, and (he had to admit) the presence and comradeship of the others, he'd been able to ignore, or at least back-burner, his feelings about them. But with the protective lid of purposeful distraction removed, his simmering emotions had boiled over.

How was Linda? How were his kids? Did they think he was kidnapped? Dead? What was Linda doing to find him? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Was she crying herself to sleep? Did she run to the door thinking he was home every time she heard a noise outside? Did her heart skip a beat every time the phone rang?

What if he died on this crazy planet without ever seeing his family again?

"Gimme thief," he ordered of the server.

Thief: a wine that stole memories. Not permanently; the drinker lounged in happy mindlessness until something triggered his memories. But the trouble with forgetting was that remembering hurt all over again. Usually Paul preferred straight intoxication, dulling the pain rather than putting it off. But today the pain was too intense; he needed a few hours of peace at the expense of tomorrow.

So Paul drank thief, gradually forgetting John and George and Ringo and Earth and his family and even his own name. He passed out several times, woke up, and drank more. Twice, having forgotten that he was a vegetarian, he ate from a communal plate of fish sandwiches.

It was always a toss-up as to whether he would run out of money or memory first. That day it was money, and he staggered out with a vague feeling that he should go home. Wherever that was.

The next thing Paul knew, he was lying in bed. It was night outside. He tried to remember if he'd gotten home by himself or someone had helped him. But he decided it didn't matter and drifted back to sleep, slightly disturbed by something unpleasant that tickled at his memory.

The next morning, Paul woke with his face buried in the pillow, stinking fit to wake the dead; his hangover only intensified the pain of his memories....

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form (AND THAT INCLUDES DOWNLOADING) or by any means, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the author. Permission may be obtained by e-mail from D. Aviva Rothschild.

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