Being a Green Mother

  "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. And from the trees, the leaves, the leaves are falling; 'Tis you, 'tis you must go, and I must bide."

  There seemed to be an electricity as the song progressed and the magic took hold. The drummer and Lou-Mae were staring at each other as if genuinely loath to part. Mountains seemed to form, and the sound of the pipes that the organist made seemed to echo across them. A breeze stirred the imagined trees, and leaves tumbled down, for it was autumn. The same breeze stirred Lou-Mae's dress and hair, and she was lovely.

  As the song ended, something snapped. The drummer stepped forward, and Lou-Mae met him halfway, and they embraced as if drawn together by irresistible magnetism, and kissed, long and deep. Then he hauled himself away, dramatically reluctant, and stumbled down the hill, while she watched, sobbing. They knew they would never be together again.

  The music ended, and they came out of it. "Geez," the guitarist said. "I'd a sworn you two was in love!"

  "I guess I thought I was, for a moment," the drummer said, reappearing from the next room. He looked at Lou-Mae. "Am, maybe."

  She dropped her gaze shyly. "Maybe," she agreed, wiping away her tears. She was evidently shaken.

  "I will check her schedule," a new voice said.

  Startled, they looked. There stood Luna and an older man. "This is the director of the Kilvarough Arts Center," Luna said. "I asked him to come here to audition you, and we decided not to interrupt."

  "We definitely want you," the director said. "I believe there is an open date in two months. We are a public service organization, so we can not afford more than a nominal gratuity, but the exposure is excellent. If your group is amenable—"

  "They are amenable," Luna said.

  "I shall be in touch shortly," the director said. Luna escorted him out.

  "Arts Center?" the organist asked.

  "That would be a most prestigious engagement," Orb said. "After a successful performance there, it should be possible to get bookings almost anywhere else."

  "That's great!" the organist said. "But all we got is one song! How we gonna do a full show?"

  "I think we shall have to work out other pieces," Orb said. "Perhaps some solo renditions, interspersing the group efforts."

  "I guess," the organist said. He looked at the drummer for agreement, but the drummer was locked in a gaze with Lou-Mae, oblivious.

  "I think we have started something," Orb remarked.

  "But we got a gig!" the guitarist said gleefully.

  "Let's see to it that we are ready for it."

  "But you know, we gotta stay somewhere—I mean, a month—"

  "I suspect my cousin will arrange something."

  Her confidence was justified. Luna found lodging for them all. They practiced diligently, working out new songs and new skits, fashioning a variety program from parts that had just one thing in common—magic. As they worked together, they came to know each other and to respect one another's qualities. The drummer and Lou-Mae were definitely a couple, but Orb made it plain that however much she might respect the music they were creating, she had no interest in any romantic attachment with any of the boys.

  When the time of the performance came, the audience chamber was only a quarter full. "This is typical," the director confided. "There is not any great support for the arts today, alas."

  "It's still a damn sight bigger than anything we've seen before," the drummer said. Then, embarrassed: "Delete that; I mean we never had a big crowd."

  They started their performance. The audience seemed not particularly impressed—until the first note sounded, and the magic spread out. Then the people were rapt. All coughing ceased, all motion; it was as if statues sat in every chair.

  After the intermission, there were substantially more people attending, and more filtered in, until at the end the hall was better than half filled. "That has never happened before," the director confided.

  Next morning the reviews appeared. It seemed that several of the city's critics had hastened to the hall and taken in at least part of the performance. Orb read, and felt dizzy. "Can this be us?" she asked.

  "It's the wildest praise any local performance has ever had," Luna assured her. "They felt the magic; mere expertise would never have moved them like this."

  In the afternoon the offers started coming in. Cities all over the country were asking for the Livin' Sludge, and offering fees that left the boys' mouths hanging open.

  The group was on its way.

  Chapter 8 - JONAH

  Luna was in touch with sundry professionals, and set the new group up with a bookkeeper who would stay in touch and handle their bookings and records. She was Mrs. Glotch, a grandmotherly woman of unquestioned competence and integrity. She refused to travel, but would be on constant call, and would update them whenever they called in. If an emergency arose, she would search them out; Luna gave Orb a stone that would serve as a beacon, so that Mrs. Glotch could always locate her geographically.

  But how would they travel? The boys had blithely assumed that they would rent a bus and fit it out with beds and a kitchen, so they could live on the road. "No way I get in that bus!" Lou-Mae declared. "I'm a good girl!"

  Orb was less concerned about her morals or safety, because of her amulet, but shared the girl's disinclination for this type of travel. "Why not use commercial transport and hotels?" she asked.

  "You know what they cost!" the drummer demanded. "And I won't trust my organ to shipping," the organist added, "It'd arrive broken, in the wrong city."

  "It sure would!" the guitarist exclaimed, and he and the drummer broke into crude laughter, while the organist looked nettled.

  Orb exchanged a glance with Lou-Mae. Had they missed something? Then Orb realized that there was more than one meaning of the word "organ," and caught the point.

  They did seem to have a case. Money should be no problem, with the bookings they could now get, but the problems of shipping were notorious. They needed their own transportation.

  They considered renting a railway car, but the ones they were shown were ancient and bug-ridden, and the tracks did not go to many cities, and schedules were erratic. They considered a private airplane, but the cost was horrendous, and the chambers crowded; in addition, the guitarist was afraid to fly. They considered a mobile home, but Lou-Mae declared that to be little more than a mobile bedroom and would have no part of it.

  Luna hated to admit it, but the boys' original notion of a revamped bus seemed to be the only feasible mode. But Lou-Mae remained adamant; she had a thing against buses, somehow believing that she would be confined to the rear if not actually molested. "But I'll see that no one bothers you," the drummer assured her. "You're the one I'm afraid of, Danny-Boy!" she retorted. Then she kissed him.

  The others nodded. Lou-Mae had liked the drummer ever since that first song together and had dubbed him Danny-Boy after their success with Londonderry Air. But she regarded it a sin to be intimate with a man outside of marriage, and a lesser sin to have the opportunity for such intimacy, even if it was scrupulously avoided. She was, perhaps, afraid of herself. She represented an ideal standard, and the boys respected that without quite understanding it. The bus was out. But what else offered?

  "There is magic," Luna said. "A big carpet—"

  "Not on your life!" the guitarist exclaimed. "We'd be blown off!" His fear of flying seemed worse with the prospect of an open carpet.

  "Or a dragon-drawn wagon—"

  "Can't trust a dragon," the organist asserted. "Those reptiles are only waiting their chance to turn and toast you. Half of 'em hid out in Hell when magic was banned, and the evil never did get out of 'em. Sure, the drivers use safety spells, but spells can glitch."

  "Perhaps unicorns, then."

  "They can't be controlled," the drummer said. " 'Cept by a—" He paused, his eye turning on Lou-Mae. "Then again—"

  "I always adored unicorns," the black girl confessed. "Ye
ah, but if she—if something happened to—where'd we be then?" the organist demanded, looking sternly at the drummer. "Way out nowhere with a pair of enraged unicorns!"

  "What do you mean, if something happened" Lou-Mae exclaimed angrily. "I tell you, nothing could—" But then she looked at the drummer, who was trying to stifle a blush. "I mean, nothing would—well, not likely, anyway." Now she seemed to be attempting her own blush, though her dark skin protected her. "Maybe we'd better pass on the unicorns."

  "Maybe I'd better consult with the local Gypsies," Orb said. "They surely know how to travel with baggage."

  "You're a Gypsy?" the guitarist inquired. "I always thought it would be nice to live in wagons and rip off the... I mean—"

  Orb smiled. "Gypsies do what they have to, to survive. They aren't bad people, but they don't like to be tied down."

  "I know the feelin'," he said.

  "Come with me, if you want, and we'll see what they have to say."

  "Well, sure, okay!" he agreed, pleased.

  Orb's carpet would hold two in a pinch, but there was no way the guitarist would get on it, so they took a taxi to the next township, where a band of Gypsies was passing. They decided to take their instruments along, because Gypsies always responded to music.

  It was a disappointment. These Gypsies wore ragged but conventional clothes and drove battered cars. On top of that, they were surly and suspicious of strangers. "Get away from here, woman," one snapped. "We've got trouble enough."

  "But I have lived among you, in Europe!" she said. "I speak the language!"

  "Yeah? Speak the language."

  "I am looking for good transportation," she said in Calo.

  They looked blankly at her. Then one old woman nodded. "It's the old tongue," she said. "But we've almost forgotten it, here, and the young ones never teamed it."

  "Oh." Orb tried to mask her disappointment. "But perhaps you can help me anyway. All I want is information on—"

  "You can't use a car or carpet?"

  "We have a group of five, with instruments. One won't ride a bus, and one won't fly. We'd prefer to travel together, if we can agree on how to do it."

  "You know Gypsy ways?"

  "As I said, in Europe—"

  "Can you dance?"

  Oh. "I know the tanana," Orb said guardedly. "But—"

  The woman laughed. "But you can't dance it! You'd die of shame. Because you're not a Gypsy, just an observer."

  "That's right. But I do respect the Gypsy ways, though they are not mine. Can you help me?"

  "Maybe, girl, maybe. You know of Jonah?" 'Who?"

  "The fish that swallowed Jonah."

  "Oh, you mean the whale? In the Bible?"

  "The fish. He was damned for that, but not in Hell. Damned to swim the air and earth, but never the water, until the Llano sets him free of his guilt."

  "The Llano! You know of it?"

  "Of it. Not much more. You seek it?"

  "Yes!"

  "Then you're in luck. Jonah may help you. He's sleeping in Clover Mountain. Call him out, do the dance, and if he likes you he'll swim for you. Most of the time."

  "A fish float—"

  "He's what you want, if you can win him over. We tried to get him, but we're not pure Gypsies anymore, and—"

  "Move!" a man called. "They're comin'!"

  Instantly the gypsies, men, women, and children, piled into their cars, and the cars cranked up, sputtered, and got moving. As this occurred, three trucks roared in, filled with men. They had shotguns, and looked angry.

  "Get outta here, girl!" the old gypsy woman screamed at Orb as her car squealed away.

  Two of the trucks careened after the fleeing Gypsies, the shotguns firing. The third skewed toward Orb and the guitarist.

  "Run!" Orb cried, realizing the danger they were in.

  They ran. They cut across a ragged field, but the truck pursued, bumping across ruts and churning up turf. "There's two!" a man yelled.

  "Kill 'em!"

  "Naw! One's a slut! Lay 'er first!"

  They crossed a gully, then a ridge, and half-slid down the other side. The truck screamed to a halt, balked by the terrain. "Catch 'em afoot!" a man yelled. "They can't cross th' rapids!"

  The rapids? Now Orb heard the sound of spuming water. Already her breath was rasping, and her side was developing a stitch. She stumbled, and the guitarist caught her and helped her along. "How'd we get into this?" he gasped.

  "They must," she gasped, "have stolen a horse or a girl. Now they're scattering. But we—"

  "Behind the eight-ball!" he finished. "But we're not Gypsies!"

  "I think one of us will get raped and the other killed before they find out," she puffed. She was not at all certain that her amulet would protect her from this; it had never been tested against more than one person at a time.

  He heaved out a laugh. "Wonder which'll get which?"

  Then they came up against the rapids. The water charged past like an express train, throwing out spray. The bank dropped steeply to it, beset by rocks and boulders. There was no safe way across.

  "The carpet!" Orb cried, wriggling out of her knapsack and dumping it on the ground. The little carpet unrolled immediately. "Get on!"

  "I can't get on that!" he protested. "I can't fly!"

  Now the pursuing men crested the hill. "There they are!"

  The guitarist stood frozen, petrified by both alternatives. The men charged down the slope.

  Orb grabbed her companion by the shoulders and shoved him onto the carpet. "Sit down!" she cried in his ear.

  Numbed, he obeyed, holding his cased guitar in his arms before him. She jumped on behind him, spreading her legs to circle his body, putting her arms around him. She willed the carpet aloft.

  It lifted as the first man arrived. "Hey!" the man cried as the carpet with its burden almost banged into him. Then he grabbed for it.

  Orb swung out with her left arm, cracking him on the neck. She did it without thinking and was appalled at herself even as the shock ran up her arm. Then she willed the carpet out toward the river, gaining effective elevation in a hurry as the land dropped away.

  The guitarist stared down. "Geez!" he exclaimed, and tried to scramble off the carpet.

  "Stop it!" Orb hissed into the back of his head. "You'll overbalance it!" Indeed, the carpet, overloaded, was already tilting scarily.

  The guitarist tried to shrink into himself. "Worse'n a bad trip!" He shuddered.

  "Just shut your eyes and keep still!" Now they were over the turbulent water, sinking slowly. The carpet was doing its best, but double weight was too much for it.

  "Don't let 'em get away!" a man cried.

  Orb didn't dare look back. She urged the carpet on across. It obeyed unsteadily.

  There was a bang. They were shooting! Orb did what she had to do—she guided the carpet slightly down and forward, so that it could gain velocity in the descent.

  "Aaaahh!" the guitarist cried as the bottom seemed to drop out. "Geez Keerist!"

  Orb clapped her hands over his eyes, as if shielding a baby from a bright light. "Relax, it's all right, relax," she said. She felt moisture on her fingers: he was crying. Then she hugged him.

  It worked. He relaxed slightly, feeling somewhat secure in her embrace.

  Another shot sounded. Then the carpet cut through the spume at the water's verge, seemed virtually to skip the surface, and plowed into the far bank. They tumbled off, brought up short by the slope.

  A third shot sounded, and there was the thud of something striking the bank nearby. At least they weren't good marksmen!

  "Go there!" Orb cried, hauling on the man, shoving him in the right direction. He scrambled as directed, and they dived behind a great spray of water from a boulder in the river, finding cover from the party on the other side. They were safe for the moment.

  The guitarist stared at the river. "You should have left me," he husked. "I almost got you killed."

  "I couldn't do that!" Orb exclaimed
indignantly.

  "You know I'm worthless, hooked on H. Wouldn't have been much loss."

  "Now stop that!" she snapped. "You—" But there wasn't much encouragement she could make, because he really did not have much to recommend him. "You're a fine musician."

  "I'm a zilch musician! Only time I play well is when you're spreading your magic. That's you, not me." He pondered a moment. "But I'll make it up to you somehow, I swear! What little I am, I owe to you, and my life, too."

  "I'll be satisfied if you just get off the H."

  He rolled over and put his face in the ground. "God! If only I could!"

  "You can't just stop?"

  "You don't know what it's like!"

  "You're right, I don't. If I wanted to stop a thing, I would simply stop it, I think."

  He lifted his face to stare at her. Dirt crusted it; he looked almost like a zombie. Then, with a convulsive movement, he reached into a pocket and brought out a packet. "Then take it! It's all I've got! Don't let me have it!"

  Orb took the packet with a certain revulsion. "Your life is ruined for this?"

  "You got it, sister."

  Orb tucked the packet away. "Then I will hold it for you. I will be pleased if you never ask for it back."

  He did not reply. He simply set his face back in the dirt.

  After a time the pursuers gave up, as they were unable to cross the river. Orb heard their truck departing. However, she had not spent time with the gypsies without learning a trick or two. "I think we had better not cross back," she said. "Someone could be lurking."

  "Right," the guitarist said, relieved. He did not want to be airborne again. He recovered his instrument and shouldered the strap.

  Orb considered. "I think I might climb this bank, but I would prefer to use my carpet. If you prefer to climb—"

  "Gotcha," he said, and began to scramble up.

  Orb settled on the carpet with her harp and his guitar and willed herself aloft. Now the carpet responded alertly, having recovered from its prior overload. Soon she was at the top, watching the guitarist catch up.