[Warning: some language]
The rain drizzles down onto 14th Street as the door to the roof of the old brownstown opens, and the man steps out. He pauses, momentarily, with his face to the rain, smiling at the feel of it. Then, he lifts the battered guitar case and the small amplifier over the sill, and lets the door swing shut behind him. The exterior still does not have a handle, despite complaints from some of the other tenants. Only the fact that the super keeps the heat and electricity running prevents them from replacing him. That, and he is five feet tall, three feet wide, can bench-press a Saurian, is covered in fur, and possesses six-inch canines.
The guitarist doesn't give the door a thought. He knows the doorknob is missing; he removed it in the first place. In truth, the Yeti had replaced the doorknob. Twice. And the man removed the exterior knob both times and replaced it in the maintenance closet. The poor super didn't understand the patois of Nexus well enough to comprehend that Mr. Perkins in 425 wanted him to fix it again. To him, it had already been done, and didn't need to be taken care of. The Yeti never came up onto the roof anyway.
The guitarist sets his amp down in the open space where Mr. Perkins had originally wanted to put his pigeon coop, and plugs it into a convenient outlet, mounted on a light pole. The coop was the reason that he kept taking the knob, primarily. The old man wasn't agile enough to climb the fire escape to get to the roof or get back down again. He didn't want the old man up here, or his birds. Let him keep them out back. The guitarist had generously moved the coop and the birds down to the back lot, leaving the roof to the more agile tenants.
To be sure, the Aguilars would come up to grill burgers sometimes, and Tommy Matursky and Peregrine Moongleam would shoot off model rockets towards the park. But in the rain, only the guitarist would come up to the roof. It gave him some privacy that his apartment didn't allow for.
He lays the guitar case down gently and opens it up, removing a well-tended, but old Stratocaster. The body is a dark gray, shot through with silver sparkles. The neck is solid black, with silver frets. He pulls out the cord and plugs it into the guitar, turns the amp on, and attaches it to the guitar with the other end of the cord. With the pop of static, and the anticipatory hum of feedback, the amp comes to life.
The guitar needs little tuning, but the amp's levels need to be set. Things must be done just so. Contrary to a jesting friend's suggestion, he does not set the amp's volume to eleven. No need to get that loud. Not today. Not with the weather cooperating.
He runs through his scales out of habit, settling down on a milkcrate. The amp crackles, but provides true sound, and he smiles again. The rain begins to fall more heavily, but he pays it no mind.
He reaches into the pocket of his trenchcoat and pulls out a metal tin. Formerly the container for an intensely strong breathmint, it now serves to hold a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes and a small bunch of matches. He removes one of each, strikes the match off of his thumbnail and lights the cigarette. Behind his rain-splattered dark glasses, his eyes unfocus as he thinks, lightly strumming basic chords. He looks up at the sky, contemplating the gray expanse of clouds with eyes of matching hues, and then nods to himself. He flicks the ash off of his cigarette, sticks it back into his mouth, pulls a guitar pick out from the breast pocket of his shirt. As he touches the pick to the strings, a rumble of thunder begins. He smiles, lets it fade, and then begins to play.
The song begins with a mellow riff, repeating four times. In the back of his head he can hear the lead cut in.
(Nice lick.)
(I can feel that this is gonna be a rhythm 'n' blues song.)
(Nice. Real nice. Tasty.)
(Hmm.... Wait a minute!)
The riff ceases to be mellow, tearing out with fuzzed sound. The guitarist's heel pounds the tarred roof in time, echoing the drumbeats in his head. He can hear the singer howl with the music, and then cut into the first verse. As he hears this, the wind begins to pick up, and the rain begins to fall in slanting sheets. Static pops from the amp, but the music continues to play.
(Well if you want it, baby,
Slide right up and take me home.
You go ahead and drive me crazy.
You can't leave well enough alone!)
As the imaginary vocalist segues into the first chorus, the guitarist builds up a chord and then drops it. Simultaneously, the first lightning flashes, almost immediately followed by a peal of thunder that parallels his repetition on the second couplet.
('Cause I'm a Piledriver!
Piledrivin' man!
I'm a Piledriver!
Piledrivin' man!)
As the guitarist tears into the second verse, the thunder rumbles in steady roll, providing bass counterpoint to his snarling lead. His hands slide across the wet strings of the Fender, building progressions of chords that seem to hang in the the stormy air. Sparks jump from the instrument in the wet, wreathing his hands in St. Elmo's Fire, but he does not stop playing.
(Well, so you say you love me,
Just shake me up and cut me loose.
Let's shake me down like you've got rabies
And slip your neck inside of my noose)
Lightning strikes in the park, with thunder sounding like a peal of drums following. A flash of smoke as a tree catches fire, but is immediately extinguished by the rain, which is falling straight down in a torrent, might put a witness in mind of concert pyrotechnics, when viewed in tandem with the musician. But no witness views his performance; all have found shelter inside or under cover. He knows that even his neighbors will not hear the song, believing it to only be the sound of the storm.
(I'm a piledriver
Piledrivin' man
I'm a piledriver
Piledrivin' man)
In his mind, he does not hear rain, but feels the beat of the drums. The growl of the bass is thunder. Lightning streaks across the clouds, lighting them from within, but never dropping to strike the ground, save for that first strike in the park. Staticky discharges fall from the head of the guitar like from a sparkler as he conjures forth raw, elemental sound.
(Another nasty situation (c'mon baby)
I heard that story line before (oh, hey)
We're gonna rock this fuckin' nation (oh! ow! yeah!))
He is in and out of the bridge fast, before the storm can react to the music, and surges into a solo that screams upward. It rises like a climbing jet, dropping briefly, only to soar again, in staggered succession. The man's eyes are closed behind his shades, and the expression on his face is one of rightness. As if, for that moment, he was where he was destined to be, and where he was his best.
Suddenly, he stops. Completely. The rain tapers off to a slack drizzle. The guitarist stands quiet, a slight smile on his face, as he hears the vocalist speaking in his head.
(There I was cruizin' backstage in Des Moines, Iowa
And a little girl comes up next to me and says
"Mr. Nugent do you think my skirt is short enough?"
I said, "Baby, you want to be alive you've got to piledrive!")
With a sudden shriek of wire, vibration, and electricity, he sends the guitar into its highest note yet. The storm abruptly doubles in fury as the solo does the same. Ball lightning, a rare meterological occurrence at the best of time, leaps from roof to roof of the buildings around him, finally swirling around him. They swirl faster and faster, but as the solo ends, and he returns to the beginning refrain again, they dissapate into sparks. The rain gentles, the wind slows, the thunder softens. In his head, the vocalist, and his band, are talking again.
(Well, that was fun.)
(That was great!)
(Yeah!)
(What's next?)
(Did anybody get the license plate number of that truck?)
(Oh nuts!)
(Hey, look out!)
(Here it comes!)
(Oh, Jesus Christ! Here we go again! OH FUCK!)
With the same fuzzy snarl that began the song, the guitarist tears into the final chorus. The wind billows, tossing his trenchcoat about around his hips, and the rain plasters his hair to his head and his shirt to his skin. The clouds light with flashes of lightning, and the thunder roars, almost as if the storm can sense the end of the song drawing near, and it is fighting to keep its strength with the music.
(Piledriver
Piledrivin' man
I'm a piledriver
Piledrivin' man
Yes I am
Piledriver
Piledrivin' man
Piledriver
Yes I am a
Piledrivin' man)
He brings the song to the raucous conclusion, and the rain begins to slacken off. This time, it is no lull, but the true break. The thunder begins to fade, and the lightning becomes less frequent.
(Whoa nice)
As the song ends, he drives the music up into one more crescendo, tearing out a final series of riffs. As the final riff rebounds from the guitar, the storm lets loose with one final stroke of lightning, aimed directly at him. The bolt strikes him dead on, catching him in final, extended pose, standing on the balls of his feet, with his right hand holding the guitar pick over his head, and his left hand lifting the guitar by the neck away from his arched body. There is a flash of intense light, followed by an echoing roll of thunder. When it fades, the roof is empty, save for the smell of ozone, and a pair of scorched bootprints in the tar.
-----------
Somewhere else, there is bright sunshine, although it is partially obscured by clouds. A heavy mist clings to everything, but it is not wet, and it doesn't particularly obscure the marble buildings with their elaborate columns, or the beautiful gardens. The number of animals reposing are astounding, as are the species. Eagles, peacocks, and doves can be seen, as well as aurochs, wolves, and horses. None of the beasts seem to be at all concerned with escaping or catching the others, but instead lie in the grass at rest.
Men and women can be seen as well. Mostly human in appearance, they bear content expressions as they tend the gardens and move in and out of the buildings, doing menial tasks. Some wear the appropriate chitons or togas of airy, light materials and many colors, but some wear less antiquated clothing. Times change, even here. And the centaurs and satyrs, of course, wear nothing at all.
"Oh rapture me, right now," the guitarist says, finishing the song, as he steps from within one of the smaller buildings. He is completely dry, but takes a moment to run his fingers through his hair, before stepping out onto the gravelled walk. His cigarette, forgotten during the storm, has gone out, so he pauses to light it again, and then walks across the gardens. Several of the folk greet him in friendly fashion, although their tone also includes an inherent deference. He smiles and returns their greeting, but does not pause in his pace.
The path leads to the center the garden, where the largest building can be seen. An impressive edifice of marble, the mists obscure the roof, and the height cannot be guessed. The sun can be seen above it. The guitarist pauses, and listens for the faint noise of hoofbeats from overhead. He is not disappointed.
He steps into the building (better called a palace, for its size), his boots clicking as the silver toecaps land. He unslings his guitar and hands it to a man who waits at the door. The man handles it reverently, as if it was a holy relic, placing it in a cushioned case in a reliquary off to one side. The reliquary is guarded by a number of fierce looking men, carrying a number of unpleasant weapons. He makes sure that the guitar is secure, and then steps forward, into the main chamber.
The audience chamber is set up for a banquet. A long table begins at the far end of the room, headed by a huge chair, and extends into the room, ending with an equally huge chair. The colors of the chairs, and of many of the decorative hangings about the hall, is predominantly purple. Not the dark purple that many might expect, but a redder hue, found in the dyes of the Phoenicians. The color of ancient kings.
Seated in the chair at the head of the table is an older man. He appears to be in his sixties, but still in good health, broad-chested and strong. His hair is white, and tumbles down around his shoulders. A thick, curly beard cascades down to his chest. He wears a white toga, trimmed in gold. His face is craggy and his eyes are stormcloud grey, but his expression mirrors the gentle weather outside. He looks up at the sound of the guitarist's boots.
The guitarist stops about ten feet from the man. He inhales a last puff on the cigarette, and then tosses it into a brazier that is burning nearby. "Hi, dad."
"Aleksandr!" The older man leaps to his feet in an instant, moving like a man half his apparent age, and engulfs the guitarist in a huge hug. The younger man, Aleksandr, holds his father close, drawing in the sense and power of him. His father breaks the hug, and looks at him. "Good to see you, boy."
"Good to be seen, pop." The young man's Texas twang offers strange contrast to the vaguely Mediterranean flavor of his father's voice. "How're things?"
The old man leads his son back to the table. A servant hurries up and pulls out a chair for Aleksandr, and he pulls off his coat and drapes it over the back before sitting down. His father regains his seat, and says, "Good. Very good." He motions to another servant, who steps forward with an amphora. Two cups of a golden liquor are quickly poured for the two men. "And you?"
Aleksandr swirls the cup and sips. It's not Bushmill's, but, to him, the nectar could be. He knows that his father tastes it as it actually is, having grown up on it (as it were), but the substance has a tendency to take the characteristics of whatever the imbiber's favorite beverage happened to be. He answers, "In the words of a man, 'Can't complain, but sometimes I still do.'"
The quote is lost on his father, but the sentiment isn't; he chuckles. "The others should be here soon."
Aleksandr looks about at the bustling servants. "I imagine that June is still getting ready?"
"I was checking on your aunt, until I heard voices," comes a voice from one of the doorways. A woman, tall and beautiful, stands there. Her dark hair has just a touch of grey in it, and the smile lines around her eyes give her face an element of graceful maturity. She, too, wears a white toga with gold trim, and in her eyes there is strength. Her face is the face of a matriarch, staunch supporter of her children, fierce foe to her family's enemies, and pure hell to her husband should he disagree with her.
She enters the room and glides across the hall with the smooth step of born royalty. Aleksandr stands, not particularly out of manners, but because of her very presence. Even his father, monarch that he is, stands when his wife enters the room. June holds out a hand to Aleksandr, which he takes, and presents her cheek for a kiss, which he gives.
"The others are arriving," she says, releasing his hand after a quick squeeze. She kisses her husband lightly, and then sits on the other side of the table from Aleksandr, on her husband's left. A servant has a goblet filled with nectar before she can sit, and another slides the chair under her without spoken bidding. "Your aunt is in the kitchen, as usual, and your uncles are discussing business out on the patio. The same old territorial squabbles."
"Of course. Money or lives?"
"Both," comments his father. "They never change."
"Nonsense!" comes a voice from a side doorway. The speaker is a large man, with a snowy white beard that falls like cascading sea foam down over the loose, brightly colored, patterned shirt that he wears. A pair of baggy cutoffs cover his tanned legs, and he wears sandals. He smiles brightly, the skin around his deep green eyes crinkling. "I change often; some might even say randomly. Of course, I cannot speak for Stoney-Face here ...." He gestures to his companion.
The other man is equally as large and impressive as both his companion and their brother, Aleksandr's father. The family resemblance is there, but the third brother is as dark as the other two are light. Although clearly older than the other two, he still retains dark hair and beard. His dark eyes look out under heavy brows, and his face holds a stern, if neutral expression. He wears a fine suit of silk that is a purple so dark to be almost black. His beard is short and elegantly groomed. He wears several pieces of jewelry that are clearly expensive, but tasteful.
His reply to his brother is issued in a deep, somber voice. "And yet, my brother, there exists stasis in the very fluctuations of your nature."
The other man laughs in response. "And thus, I am bested by our somber plutarch. Aleksandr, how are you?"
The Stormchild stands to receive the older man's affectionate embrace. "I'm good, Uncle Pos." He extracts himself, and shakes his other uncle's hand. "Sir," he says, in a respectful greeting.
"Nephew," is the reply. The older man's face does not change, but there is something in the eyes to indicate familial affection, however distant.
A servant appears discreetly behind June and murmurs something in her ear. She nods, and he disappears again, off on whatever errand she has approved. "The others are arriving. Aleksandr, will you go fetch your brother from the forges? I fear that he will forget if we let him."
"Sure," he responds, turning towards one of the many exits from the room. He is halfway there when he stops, turns, and asks, in a rather pointed tone, "Shouldn't his _wife_ do this? Where is she?"
"Venus chose to meet Ari when he arrived," answered June. "She's bringing him here from his barracks."
The Stormchild opened his mouth to say something caustic about his sister-in-law, but a look from his father warned him off, and he merely said, "Of course." With an internal sigh, he turned and headed towards the forges. Family politics, he thought. I'm not here twenty minutes, and I'm already hip-deep in it.
Aleksandr walks the halls of his father's estate, headed towards his brother's workshop. The halls are well lit, and winding. Most of them, he knows, but not living here with the rest of his family, he can still get lost. His father assures him that when the time is right, he will have permanent quarters here. When he presses the issue, the old man simply says, "When you're older."
Must be the only person in the whole wide Nexus that wants to move in with his folks when he gets older, he muses, pausing at an intersection. He closes his eyes to remember which direction he needs to go, but his mind blanks. Too many marble hallways; no signs. He's wary about getting lost; there are things - pets and otherwise - that his family keeps in some of these rooms. He doubts that his somber uncle will have brought his dog, but he might have brought other sentries to watch his quarters. And the humidity in Uncle Pos' would ruin Aleksandr's boots.
"Lessee... the forges are left out of the hall, down the stairs, and past the kitchen. Now where's the kitchen?" He turns and looks down one hallway. Nothing but tapestries and paintings. He looks down the others, but they have much the same appearance. He breathes a deep sigh, and then stops. Sniffing the air, he smells the odors of roasting beef. "The kitchen," he says, smiling, and follows his nose.
The kitchen is only a short walk away, and he starts to pass by the door, but stops. Sticking his head in through the swinging doors, he addresses one of the people within, "Evenin', Aunt Hester."
"Alex!" The speaker is a matronly woman, but in a very different fashion from her regal sister. Hester is short and plump, and appears to the epitome of all cooks, homemakers, and mothers. A bun of brown hair, from which a number of strands have sprung loose from and form an ersatz halo, tops her round face. Her merry eyes are always smiling, and her rosy cheeks are almost always dimpled. Her plain cotton dress is covered with an expansive apron that proclaims her "World's Best Cook" and shows sign of daily use.
She puts down the rolling pin that she has been using to roll out piecrust and toddles over to Alex, holding out her arms in an embrace. "It' s been so long!" she exclaims, as he stoops to return the hug. "How have you been?" She steps back, and takes his face in her floured hands. "Have you been eating enough?"
"Aw, Aunt Hester," is the young man's embarrassed reply. He pulls back just enough to free his face. "Don't do that."
Hester chuckles and hands him a dishtowel, which he uses to wipe his face clean. She then takes it from him and, after wiping her hands, pulls him down and wipes clean the spots that he missed. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Have you been eating enough?"
Alex sighs. "Yes."
His aunt hmphs in response, clearly not believing his reply. "I'll pack you some things to take home with you. You should have something in your refrigerator other than mayonaise and beer."
"I do," he protests.
"Ice doesn't count." She turns back to the piecrust. "Now scoot. June will have sent to fetch Festus, and I have to finish up here."
Alex turns to leave, but pauses. "Aunt Hester," he asked, "will you be joining us at the table?"
The chubby, little woman turns and looks at him, a small, sad smile on her face. "No, Alex. It's not my place."
"You're family. You should."
She shook her head. "It's sweet of you to say so, but you know better. Your father has his rules, and I'm to stay at by the hearth, in case it is needed."
"Yeah, I know. But it don't seem fair."
She chuckled. "I know, sweetheart, but that's the way things are. Now, go fetch your brother."
The forges in the bowel's of the Skyfather's house are expansive. Within them, many things are made, in many fashions. One thing that all the processes seem to have in common is heat. The Stormchild steps from the relative coolness of the hallway into a sweltering wall of it that causes sweat to immediately break out on his brow.
Loosening his tie, he looks around. The smelting furnaces are the most obvious landmarks, looming over the shop floor, and lit from within by the molten metals that are being purified for later use. As his eyes grow accustomed to the flickering light, he can see the drop forges nearer to him, where alloys are poured into the molds for drying ovens and other metal-treatment equipment. The resounding and steady bang of smiths' hammers can be heard, along with the whining counterpoint of waldos on the assembly lines that are further back in the shop. All of the equipment is manned by the hulking, beetle-browed figures of his brother's staff, working as they have always worked, producing those things that his father demands.
Alex slips on his dark glasses to provide protection from the glare of molten metal, welders and other sources. He grabs a hardhat from the rack under a sign that reads, "This shop has been accident free for 14 centuries. Do your part to keep it safe." He stays near the edge of the shop floor, out of the way of the workers. Despite their skill, their depth perception is limited and they are preoccupied with their work. They might not see him, until it was too late.
Past the smelters, he finds one of the foremen. He is standing near one of the smiths, inspecting a new batch of the Skyfather's weapon of choice. Alex touches the foreman on the elbow, getting his attention. "Where's the Master Smith?" he shouts.
The foreman squints an eye at the Stormchild. Then he recognizes him and nods, pointing towards the clean rooms beyond the main shop floor, where the delicate work is done. He grins and offers a shaft for Alex's inspection.
Alex takes the weapon in both hands. In the flickering of his own St. Elmo's Fire, he examines the yellow-white bolt with an expert eye. It is not straight (they rarely are), but it is strong. The forks are well crafted. He hands it back in the hands of the foreman with a nod of approval. The foreman's grin widens, showing his tusks, and he winks his eye at the smith, who grins as well. With a salute, Alex steps away and moves towards the clean rooms.
The noise of the main factory floor is muted significantly as he steps into the clean rooms. Several of the smiths are hunched over tables, engaged in delicate work. Their large hands and blunt fingers are surprisingly nimble, and their eyes are good with the detailed work that they are engaged in. Alex steps around the end of a table where a dozen are at work fitting tiny gears into watches and spies his brother.
The Master Smith sits at his own table, working on something small and difficult to see. As Alex approaches, he can see that it is a fragile creation of silver and gold wire and precious stones, slowly taking the shape of a jeweled spider seated in a web that clearly will be the majority of a large necklace. "For Minnie?" Alex asks.
The Master Smith shakes his head, but does not look up. "Commission," he says, in a voice that is as rough and homely as the rest of him. "One of the Spider Queen's high priestesses distinguished herself." He pauses, realizing the identity of the other speaker. He sets the necklace down, pushes back his jeweler's loup and looks behind him. "ALEX!" he shouts, grabbing his brother in an embrace.
"Howdy, Festus," says the smiling Stormchild. "How're things?"
Festus leans back, the smile making his ugly face only slightly less ugly. He is a rough-hewn person, stocky and squat, with a face that looks like it fought a battle with a shovel and lost. But the eyes under the heavy brow are bright and intelligent, and the hands nimble and gifted. "Not bad. You?"
"'Bout the same. June asked me to come down and get ya. 'S dinnertime and the family is arriving." He gestures to himself. "Case in point."
Festus starts and glances at the clock above his workbench. "Styx! I lost track of time. Mother's going to blow a gasket."
"Nah. June's all right. You and Marty are her babies; you could set the house on fire and she'd forgive you. Already have, if I recall correctly. She's probably planned for it." Alex sniffs, and adds, "She probably has even planned for you to take a shower."
Festus looks down at himself, lifts an arm and sniffs his armpit. "Hmm. I suppose I'd better." He braces himself on the table with both hands, and then stands. There is the faint whine of servomotors from his person.
Alex looks down at his brother's legs. Braces are strapped around both of them, but these braces appear to be motorized, taking much of the Master Smith's weight as he stands and walks towards a small domestic area laid out in the corner of the room. A bed, dresser, and enclosed shower stall stand behind a privacy barrier. Festus' stride is regular and strong, with only a hint of jerkiness. "Smooth mechanism," Alex comments.
"Thanks. These are the newest set."
"I miss your automatons. What happened to them?"
"I reprogrammed and set them up in Inventory. They're very good at sorting parts."
Alex chuckles. "I can imagine."
Alex sits at Festus stool as he hears the shower start. He watches the smaller group of smiths work for a few minutes, listening to the cascade of water. Unconsciously, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the battered tin case. He extracts a hand-rolled cigarette and places it in his mouth, and is about to light it with one of his wooden kitchen matches when one of the smiths looks up, squints his eye at the Stormchild, and points at a sign that reads "No Smoking in the Clean Rooms." Alex reads the sign, looks back at the smith, and grins apologetically. He stows the spliff and puts the tin back up.
After about ten minutes, he hears the shower stop and Festus moving about. "You, uh, need any help?" he asks loudly, not sure if his lame brother will be offended by the offer. Some handicapped people are sensitive.
"No thanks," says Festus. His voice is cheerful, showing no offense. After about five minutes more, he comes around the screen, toweling off his hair. "You make that to anyone who happens to take a shower in your presence?"
"Only if they're cute," says Alex, grinning.
"Well thanks, Alex, but I am married." The Master Smith is smiling as he says it, showing that he knows that his brother was concerned and that he appreciates it.
"Asshole."
"No, Marty's the asshole, remember? I'm the humble one."
"Right. Modest, too. Comb your hair, Mr. Humble, and let's go eat."
Festus runs a comb through his hair, but it doesn't do much for it. The limp hair is only a part of his homeliness, and styling it would be futile. He would need a whole new face to look better. But he comes it up out of his eyes and then he and his brother head out of the clean room and across the forge towards the main hall.
Once they are away from the noise of the forge, Alex clears his throat and looks at his brother. Something that Festus had said put him in a mood to ask. "Festus, you mind if I ask you somethin'?"
"Ask away." The Master Smith walks with a measured tread, the braces making each step exactly the same as the last. He looks at his brother with a look of mild curiosity on his face.
"Well," Alex says, trying to put an uncomfortable situation into words. He'd seen it for a while, and his father didn't want to talk about it. He didn't talk to June about it, because he knew she didn't approve. Hester wouldn't say anything, and his uncles were usually not around to ask. Festus was at the heart of the situation, and he knew that the Master Smith wouldn't get offended if he asked. And he had to ask.
"Um, it's about Marty .."
"Yes."
"And your wife."
The Master Smith pauses briefly. He nods as he starts walking again, indicating for the Stormchild to continue.
"Why do you put up with it, man?"
"Put up with what?"
"Your wife! She's all over Marty every time I see her. And he's not doing anything to stop her. Your own brother!"
Festus shrugs. "She's Venus, Alex. That's the way she is."
"Bullshit. You should kick her out. Let her shack up with Marty, if that's the way she is."
"No."
"Well, why the fuck not?"
Festus holds up two thick fingers. "Two reasons: One, Father would never permit it. He has certain notions about marriage."
Alex snorts. "Yeah, he can screw around, and nobody else can."
"You shouldn't speak ill of him in his own house."
"Oh come on, Festus! You, Marty, and Minnie are the only children he's got by his lawful wives. The rest of us are bastards. Even me."
"You forget, Alex, that Father is sovereign. He decides what is law."
"When June lets him get away with it."
Festus grins. "That is true."
"So what's the second reason?"
"Hmm?" The Master Smith looks puzzled, and then remembers his previous train of thought. "I love her," he says.
"Yeah, but.."
"No buts. I love her, and she loves me."
"She does a piss-poor job of showing it."
"So does Father, but there's no doubt that he loves Mother, is there?"
Alex considers this. He knows his father pretty well; as well as he can, given that the old man hadn't been around for most of his life. June is something of a mystery to him, his father's wife, but not his mother. "I guess so. But, Festus, how do you know? About Venus, I mean."
"I know. She is my wife, and the mother of my son."
"How do you know he's yours?"
Festus stops in the hallway. His homely, kind face changes ever so slightly, and steel creeps into the Smith's voice. "I know. I am the Master Smith; I know my own work. Ross is my son."
Alex blinks, surprised at the sudden, and subtle, shift. "Okay. No problem." He pauses, and adds, by way of changing the subject, "How is he, by the way?"
"He's good. Busy, as usual. His job keeps him pretty much on the go, you know."
"Yeah. Is he still having trouble with his eyesight?"
"You know, he really hates that joke."
"Not as much as he hates those pictures of him. I heard that he and Father Val get together every February and have nothing to do at all with the proceedings."
Festus chuckles. "Something like that." He starts walking again, and then adds, "Look, Alex, Venus is beauty. She likes beautiful things. Marty is, I think you'll agree, something of a peacock. She's attracted to him. But she's married to me. You see her at family gatherings; I know what she's like at home. It's okay. Really."
Alex looks at his brother warily. "You sure?"
"As sure as I am of anything in this universe."
"Ha! You're just sure of it because you've already embarrassed your brother out of cuckolding you!" The voice brayed out from behind a bead curtain that the pair had been walking past. Alex cocks an eyebrow at Festus, and lifts the curtain away to see inside.
Inside the room, the marble floors give way to a verdant carpet of grass. Trees grow up out of the floor, and there is no ceiling. It is impossible to see the back wall of the room, and Alex knows that the woods go on for miles, despite the room being in the middle of his father's palace.
In the middle of this sylvan setting is a scene straight out of an Arabian harem. Pillows and carpets are piled among the trees, and incense burners emit sweet-smelling smoke that enhances the odor of the flowers that bloom throughout. A small brook has been diverted into a crystalline fountain and the water cascades musically down its sides.
Reclining about the scene are a number of men and women, in varying states of undress and clearly enjoying themselves. Several look up as Alex looks through the curtain and wave.
Seated on a throne of cushions, leaning against a venerable olive tree, is the being who shouted through the curtain. A devilish face (indeed, some might have said the origin of that description) tanned to a dark nut brown. His dark, curly hair and beard match the hair on his bare arms and chest, as well as the thicker coat on his legs. One hand holds the mouthpiece to an ornate hookah that is propped among the cushions, while the other idly gropes the backside of a curvaceous, auburn-haired nymph who is nestled in the crook of his arm. His shaggy legs stretch out leisurely, exposing his lack of any clothes.
"Gracious," says the Stormchild in mock surprise, "it's that ne'er-do-well cousin of ours. Does June know you're holding an orgy down here?"
"Hah!" His laugh is a crude bark. "Not only does she know it, but she couldn't stop it if she wanted to. Some things not even Her Majesty can stop." He grins, insouciantly, and asks, "Care to join us?"
Alex's gaze lingers at the sybaritic crowd for a few moments. A number of the women beckon to him, and a few of the men as well. "Sorry, not this time. Tempting as it may be."
A chorus of "aww" and "oh, please" comes from of the group. "You sure?" asks his cousin. "It'll be a whole lot more interesting down here, even if Harry and Dion are going to be there."
"Better not. June is expecting me."
"Fuck her. Better yet, invite her down!"
Alex's eyebrows shoot up in alarm. "Not only 'no,' but 'hell, fuck no!' She'd kill me!"
"Bah! You're no fun. But you're probably right." He scratches one leg with his hoof, and asks, "What about you, Smith? Care to join us? The girls don't care about your looks here; they know what's important!" He grabs his crotch to emphasize his point.
Festus smiles and shakes his head. "I'm married."
"What the high holy fuck has that got to do with anything?" exclaims the master of the seraglio. The nymph next to him shrugs in response. "You think that ever stopped your father? Or your brothers?"
Festus shrugs. "It stops me, and that's all that matters."
"Well, no one can say that you're a conformist. At least, not in this family. It's too bad that you're no fun!" He looks back over at Alex. "You sure that you won't join us, even for a little while? There's nothing like a quick fuck to whet the appetite and make dealing with family a little easier."
Alex shakes his head. "Next time."
His lecherous cousin holds up the mouthpiece of the hookah and gestures with it. "I'll hold you to that, boy. You better show, Stormchild, or I'll hold you down and fuck you up the ass myself. And don't think I won't!"
Alex laughs, and says, "Crude, but effective. You're a piece o' work, cousin."
"I'm more than that," replies his cousin. "I'm everything!"
Festus rolls his eyes. "Mother is waiting," he reminds Alex. "We should go."
Alex nods. "See you later, Satan."
"Bah! Call me not by that amateur's name. I'm older, stronger, and I get more tail than Old Scratch ever will!" He gestured around him to emphasize his point.
"Good night, Old Goat," says the Smith, and he and Alex step back through the beaded curtain. Their footsteps - the click of the Stormchild's bootheels and the whine of the Smith's servos - fade.
The Old Goat puffs on the hookah, and then says, "Alas! I am abandoned by my kin. Whatever shall I do to pass the time?"
The supple young lady on his arm leans across, pressing herself against the length of his body. She whispers something in his ear, while her hand wanders downwards to provide a demonstration. His face splits into a leering grin. "That'll do," he comments, rolling towards her.
Outside, away from the impending orgy, Alex turns to Festus, and asks, "What did he mean, about you embarrassing your brother?"
Festus gestures. Up ahead is the entrance to the feasting hall. "Tell you later. Dinner first."
The feasting hall is more crowded than it had been, as more of the family is present. The servants move about at an industrious pace, carrying trays of hors d'oeurves and refilling drinks. One hurries up to Alex and Festus as they enter, carrying a tumbler of whiskey and a large glass of water.
Festus takes the glass of water and drains it. Smithing is thirsty work, after all. "I'm going to talk with Father. See you in a while." Servos humming, the Master Smith stumps over to the main table, where June and the king sit.
Alex sips his Bushmill's and surveys the scene. Most of the immediate family is here. His two uncles are seated at the table with his father, deep in discussion. Next to them, his Aunt Sara, dressed in a homemade dress and Birkenstocks, talks with her daughter, Stephanie. Stephanie sits next to her husband, Alex's rich uncle, Dee, and dresses in a beautiful, dark dress that compliments his own clothes.
The old folks will be talking crops and seasons, tides and money, even with Stephanie and Festus there. Alex really isn't in the mood for that. He sees the other group, standing near an archway that looks out into the gardens. The younger generation, engaged in their own matters. He moves towards them at an easy gait.
Crossing in front of three of the nine sisters, who are playing quiet jazz, Alex approaches the quartet of his half-siblings. His eyes are drawn to his golden-haired brother first, naturally. The handsome, tanned young man with the perfect teeth and hair leans casually against the side of the piano. His wardrobe is fashionable, tailor-made, and suits his complexion perfectly. His voice is mellow and pitched at the perfect soprano, although Alex knows, from experience, that he can hit any range that he chooses. He would be easy to hate, this golden boy, except that he can be so nice. "Hey, Feeb," says Alex, extending a hand as he addresses his brother by an old nickname, "how's it groovin'?"
The Feeb, or Phoebus, as he is more properly named, smiles broadly. He takes his brother's hand and pulls him into a warm embrace. "It grooves, my man. It grooves most mellow."
The Feeb's twin, Diana, rises from a low couch and takes up the embrace when he lets off. She is an athletic, slim girl, with short, chestnut curls; a pert nose dusted with freckles; and merry eyes. She wears no makeup and simple clothing, a brown turtleneck and green knee-length skirt that shows off her runner's legs. Knee socks and sturdy shoes finish an outfit that gives her the appearance of a girl from a private secondary school, despite the fact that she is older than Alex. "Hello, Alex," she says, her voice calm and gentle, like wind through the trees.
"Good t'see you, Di." Alex turns to greet his other brothers. One lounges indolently in a chair near the exit to the garden. He is the youngest, save for Alex, and is a handsome, if roguish, fellow. He wears a wine-colored poet's blouse and blue jeans, and goes barefoot. A silver pendant shaped like a dolphin lies across the open collar. A blush is in his cheeks, indicating that he has been drinking, but Alex is not surprised by that. His eyes are curtained by his long, curly hair. He sweeps it up with a hand and looks up at Alex with a sleepy expression. He smiles lazily and extends his other hand, but rather than reaching for a handshake, he hands up a goblet of wine.
Alex takes the goblet and sips. "Beaujolais?" he guesses.
"Bingo. Part of this year's batch," responds his brother, taking the goblet back. "You're getting better, even if you still drink that Celtic swill all the time. Good to see you, Alex."
"Same to you, Dion. And I happen to like this 'Celtic swill,' thank you very much. You drunk yet?"
"Ain't drunk; just drinking," he replies, quoting one of Alex's favorite songs. Dion throws back the contents of the goblet as if they were water, draining it. A servant holding a ewer is standing close by, and refills it immediately.
Alex turns to the last of his siblings present, a young man with auburn hair, dressed in a sharp, professional suit. He seems involved in whatever information can be found on his palmtop computer. He taps the screen a few times with the stylus, and looks up. "Hi, Alex. How're things?"
"Good, Yuri. How's business?"
"Booming. Communication just keeps getting faster."
"Unfortunately," comments the Feeb, "people seem to have less and less to say."
"Phoebus seems to have more faith in the method than the message," comments Diana.
"It's all crap," continues the Feeb. "Porn and drivel and commercialism."
"And how much idle banter, innuendo, and advertising could be heard in the agora of Athens?" inquires Yuri. "It's not the fact that there's more of it; it's simply more widespread. A fishmonger hawking his catch in Minos, or Illium, or Ithaca is only heard by those on the street. Each new method of communication merely makes that street larger, broadening the spectrum. Information can be traded just as well as advertisement. Or have you been ignoring the CDC Web site, Doctor Delphi?"
"Gotta agree with Yuri, Feeb," says Alex. "Communication is going strong. Even the bread and circuses have joined the Information Age."
"Bread?" asks Diana.
"Food Network," replies Yuri.
"Circuses?" asks Dion.
"Wrestlin'," says Alex.
A massive arm reaches around from behind Alex and puts him in a headlock. "Somebody mention wrestling?" asks a deep voice.
Alex struggles, trying to get loose and not spill his drink at the same time. "Leggo, ya big goof!"
The hold is released and Alex turns to face his assailant. A massively muscular man, dressed in loose pants, a denim vest, and a t-shirt that bears the image of a man in a leather mask and the mantra, "Have a Nice Day!" grins back at him. His dark brown hair is down to his shoulders and he has a thick beard. A roaring lion's head is tattooed onto his arm.
Alex hands his glass to Dion and embraces his brother. "How ya doin', Harry?"
"Super cool," is the Wrestler's response, white teeth flashing through his beard.
"You grew your beard back," observes Diana, giving him a hug.
"Yeah," agrees Harry, his large hand brushing the affectation in question. "Got tired of being confused for that Sorbo fellow."
"And there is an excellent example of my earlier point," interjects the Feeb. "That pathetic portrayal of Harry was total drivel; a bleached and sappy retelling that couldn't even get half of the facts right."
"Oh, I don't know, Feeb," says Harry. "I didn't mind it so much. It was a good telling, full of fun and delightfully silly violence, for all of its moralizing."
"I thought it was pretty funny," says Dion.
"You thought the warrior woman was hot," Alex says.
"Which one?"
"The one that got her own show."
"Oh." Dion pondered for a moment, and then smiles. "Yeah, she was."
"Phoebus," Diana says, "your blind poet was no more accurate. Just admit that you didn't like it, and chalk it up to personal taste."
The Feeb grumbled a little (albeit handsomely). "It just seems insulting."
"And Thalia's work throughout the years wasn't?" came a voice from behind Harry. Stepping around the massive Wrestler is a small woman, dressed in the uniform of a New York police sergeant. Her black hair is tied back in a simple, sensible bun, and she wears a pair of pragmatically plain glasses over her gray eyes. Those selfsame gray eyes sparkle with humor, as she continues, her calm voice taking a wicked lilt, "I do seem to remember you talking with that Swift fellow, once upon a time, Phoebus. Not to mention sitting in the front row when young Andy thought he could wrestle."
Harry chuckled. "I remember that. I wanted Lawler to kick the little runt's ass, until Feeb explained the joke to me. You remember, Feeb? I couldn't stop laughing for days."
Alex steps over to embrace his newly arrived sister. "Minnie," he says, "you look like you just got off work. How's the city?"
Sergeant Minerva Athenos, NYPD, sighs. "Frustrating. Wonderful. Scary. You've heard the news?" At his nod, she continues, "Yuri and Thane have been there recently. Thane's taken up permanent residence in the Greek neighborhood, for the time being. Uncle Dee sent him out on extend assignment. But the people are pulling together, even at this late time. I was talking to Dad about sending Rudy a gift."
"A gift?" asked the Feeb. "You're not serious?"
"Completely. The man rallied his people, inspired his city and nation, and acted as effectively as any leader of mortals that I have known. Even my dear Ithacan could have done no better."
"I dunno," says Yuri. "He was a sharp one. It'd almost be worth asking him."
"I did," says his sister, gray eyes twinkling. "He's been following the whole thing intently."
"They get CNN in the Fields?" asks Alex.
"Alex," says Yuri. "They get CNN everywhere."
Alex blinks, and looks impressed. "Wow." He is about to add more, but there is the sound of a gong. Hester enters the hall, pushing a cart that bears a large covered tray, almost as large as she. Several other members of her kitchen staff follow her, carrying other trays. They place the trays on the table. Hester lifts the large one off the cart with little difficulty. She sets it in front of her brother, the Sovereign, and lifts the lid.
Out of a swirl of steam is a beautiful and large roast lambs, surrounded by steamed vegetables. "Dinner is served," she announces brightly. "Everyone enjoy." With a bustle of motion, she pulls the cart back out of the room and returns to the kitchens.
As the younger members of the family seat themselves, Harry asks, "Where's Marty?"
"We're here," says a cheery voice from the doorway. "Sorry we're late!"
Alex rolls his eyes as Venus, his sister-in-law, breezes into the dining hall, arm in arm with his remaining half-brother. She wears some of her nicest clothing, a tasteful dress of shimmering purple, complimented by exquisite jewelry that Festus has made for her. She is, as always, beautiful.
Lieutenant Colonel Martin Herrason is in his dress uniform today, and looks as sharp and neat as any officer in the military has a right to look. He escorts Venus to her seat, pulling it out for her. She runs her hand down his arm in a affectionate gesture of thanks. He smiles back, the smile of a man accustomed to the attention. His gentlemanly duty done, he turns to do that of the faithful son.
"Good afternoon, mother," he says, his powerful and charismatic voice softening as he leans to kiss June on the cheek. "My apologies, but I wanted to change into clean greens. I was coordinating recon on Banshee, and the HQ wasn't enclosed."
"That's fine, dear," replies June, smiling. "I know that you just wanted to look nice for us."
Martin straightens up and snaps to attention in front of his father. "Sir!" he all but shouts. "Reporting as requested, sir!"
The king, who has stood to receive his son, nods graciously, and says, "Good to have you here, son. Seat yourself."
Alex restrains himself from adding a snide comment as Martin pulls out a chair roughly across the loaded table from him and sits down. The soldier sits ramrod straight, fastidiously draping his napkin across his lap as he waits for June, as hostess, to begin eating. He looks across at Alex, his dark eyes meeting his half-brother's storm-grey ones. "Aleksandr," he says, formally.
"Marty," replies Alex in his Texas drawl, "how's it hangin'?"
"Well," replies Martin, ignoring the nickname. "Quite well, in fact. The action on Banshee is looking quite positive. We should take the Western Continent with minimal casualties."
"Ah," says Alex, helping himself to a helping of mustard greens that he knows Hester put there particularly for him. "Still assisting in the attempted genocide of sentient life, then?"
Before Martin can reply, Venus leans over, placing a hand on his arm affectionately, and says, in a laughing tone, "Oh, Alex, you're so silly! Martin only does what he's supposed to do. He doesn't take any enjoyment in it. He's just a big sweetie."
Alex looks at Venus, his storm gray eyes meeting her perfect blue ones. He holds her gaze for a moment, and then looks back at Martin. "Right," he says, in a tone that holds no acceptance of his sister-in-law's statement.
Silence falls between the two for a few minutes, and Alex focuses his attention to emptying his plate. Harry, who is sitting next to him, makes noises of appreciation around a mouthful of lamb, and Alex makes a reciprocal grunt, agreeing with his half-brother's assessment. This elicits a bushy eyebrow raised in his direction. "Aroo?" asks Harry.
"Grah," replies Alex around a mouthful of potato. "Nrf?"
"Mrfl," is Harry's reply. His grin is distended by a piece of cornbred, but he is smiling at the shared nonsense.
Dion looks down the table. He puts a piece of lamb into his mouth, and then comments, "Grmph."
Alex shakes his head, replying, "Phah."
June looks down the table at the three. Her look is distinctly disapproving. "Could we stop mumbling around our food, please?" she asks in a deceptively pleasant tone.
Harry swallows, and says, "We weren't mumbling. We're merely practicing our Wookie." He smiles and meets his stepmother's gaze with something close to sincerity.
There is a snort from the head of the table as Alex's father tries to laugh and swallow at the same time. June glares at him, but he hides his smile with his napkin, and says, once he has recovered, "It is a good skill to have, dear. The people of Kashnykk are powerful warriors and skilled poets. It can't hurt to have allies among them."
June looks like she is about to say something abrasive, but the look of sincerity on Harry's face is mirrored by his father's. She smooths her expression into one of tolerant humor and changes the subject. "So, Alex, how are things for you?"
Alex swallows and looks down the table at his stepmother. "Good," he replies. "Things are good. The band is doing good. We should be laying down an album soon."
The Feeb grins down the table at Alex. "Nice. Any ideas for the set?"
Alex nods. "I'll show it to you later," he says. "You want to help with the mixing?"
The blonde Artist shakes his head. "I'm heading out of town for a while. Cora, Dion, and I have business to attend to. Sorry."
"No big thing, Feeb. I'll get Wiggy to take do it. He knows the band's sound anyways, since he works the board for the gigs."
"Who's Wiggy?" asks Minnie.
"Our engineer," replies Alex. "He's a bit skittish, so everybody calls him 'Wiggy.'"
Venus giggles. "That's silly."
Alex shrugs. "He doesn't seem to mind. I think he likes it better than his real name."
"What's his real name?" asks Harry.
"Ignatz."
Harry stares at Alex for a moment. "You're joking?"
"Nope."
Minnie shakes her head. "Poor fellow."
"Indeed," adds June. "So, are you still dating that lovely girl from Rome?"
Dion turned to Alex, sitting on his right, so that his face is away from June. Under his breath, he mutters, "What was that, ten minutes?"
Alex covers a snicker with his napkin, and then answers, "Nova Roma, and no. We had... communication issues."
June arches an elegant eyebrow, and replies, "Your father and I have 'communciation' issues. It generally ends with a lot of shouting. What do you mean?"
Alex looks down the table at his stepmother, realizing that he's not going to be able to get out of explaining in front of the family. "She wanted to worship me."
Ignoring the snorts of amusement that erupt from her husband, Dion, and Harry, June asks, "Isn't that what most men want?"
"No!" say Alex. "Well... maybe sometimes. But I couldn't talk to her anymore after she found out who my family was. It was pretty bad. She was burning sacrifices to me and everything."
June nodded. "I know. I smelt them."
"Yeah, then you know how fervent she was about the whole thing. And since I didn't want to drive her mad or strike her dead or turn her into a tree, like Feeb does to his exes..."
"Hey!" cried the Feeb indignantly. "It wasn't like that."
"Of course not, dear," said June. She turned back to Alex, asking, "So you left."
"Pretty much. I told her father about the situation, and he agreed that it would be best if I left. I think he introduced her to a nice young senator." Alex shrugged. "It was a little creepy."
"Worship can be like that, sometimes," says Alex's father from the head of the table. "Harry can tell you about it. He was in your position once, weren't you Harry?"
Harry nods. "Yeah, there were some doozies. There was one time ...."
"Perhaps later, Harry," June says, cutting off the loquacious wrestler. She asks, "So, Alex, are you seeing anyone now?"
Alex nods as he takes a sip of wine. "There's a lady that I met out on 14th. Member of the local street racers club. I think you know her father, Dad. Her name's Ynga Wotansdottir."
The king's bushy eyebrows rise. "You're dating one of the Old Crow's girls?" He chuckles. "Has she introduced you yet?"
"Not yet. I'm not looking forward to it. He's got something of a reputation."
"It's well-deserved. Mind the wolves, when you do meet the old berzerk."
"Wait," says Martin. He points at Alex, and asks, "You're dating one of the Choosers of the Slain?"
"Yeah. What of it?"
Martin chuckles. "Nothing. Just seems a bit strange. They are in my business, you know."
"Actually," interjects Dis, who has quietly been listening, focusing mostly on his meal, with the occasional comment to his brothers or his wife, "she's more in my industry. I know the girl. Darling child." He takes a sip of his wine, and adds, "Likes goldfish."
Alex gives his uncle a mildly startled glance. "Really? I didn't know that."
Dis nods. He looks at his brothers, who are staring at him as if he had grown a third eye. "We were networking, and it came up in conversation."
"I can't imagine how," comments Pos.
[After completion of this story, the characters in this thread continue in Down at Jack's.]
Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.