Together they entered the castle.
Chapter 23
THE DRAWBRIDGE WAS DOWN, the sullen iron portcullis raised. As they ambled in, not even an ant appeared to challenge their advance.
“Not much security.” Mudge scanned the parapets in expectation of ambush. None was forthcoming.
As they passed into the great hall of the keep, they encountered sculptures and paintings man and otter did their best to ignore. Like the heinous music, the decor grated on the senses. From what they could see, the castle’s master had all the aesthetic sensibility of a banana slug. Execrably executed black velvet portraits of unrecognizable musicians lined opposing walls.
“All ’umans,” Mudge observed of the pictures. “Leastwise, I think they are. The bleedin’ work is so bad ’tis difficult sometimes to tell. I’ve eaten clams that could paint better.”
“Clams have no hands,” Jon-Tom pointed out.
“I rest me case, mate.”
They were approaching the back of the hall. The poorly woven yellow and brown carpet across which they were striding ended at the base of a throne. Constructed of solid five-carat gold, it was embellished with musical motifs.
Seated atop a cotton cushion several days shy of a desperately needed washing and cradling an electric guitar was a skinny, chicken-pox-scarred figure. It wore artificially and imperfectly faded jeans, sneakers that looked superficially costly but were in reality rejects from a Kmart blue-light special, a fraying, cut-open-to-the-lint-filled-navel sweatshirt from which the improperly appliqued cartoon characters were already peeling, and a backward-turned unauthorized navy blue L.A. Raiders baseball cap which had been produced on the cheap in Hong Kong. The pirate in the emblem had a distinctly oriental aspect.
One hand rested lazily on the guitar while the other picked at a huge rhinestone-encrusted golden bowl piled high with french fries drowning in ketchup. The body was all fish-white flesh and uncoordination, the face narrow and pinched. Brown eyes were framed by a greasy mat of black hair. It reminded Jon-Tom of a portrait he’d once seen of a sour-visaged Ichabod Crane, in the cheap edition. Try as he might, he could find nothing about the individual seated before them that was in the least appealing.
Wiping a mushy fragment of french fry from the corner of his mouth, the figure stiffened as it caught sight of them. The piece of potato tumbled to the floor, there to join a small but growing mound of deceased cousins. Hard to believe a healthy tuber had sacrificed its life for such a fate.
While noting that no cord trailed from the guitar, Jon-Tom knew from the wailing they’d heard that it had to be plugged into something. Sorcery could provide a suitable substitute for a socket. Professionally, he found himself wondering if it was AC or DC sorcery.
An unpleasant sound rumbled in the pit of the scrawny figure’s belly. “Who the hell are you and how did you get up here?” It was the shrill voice of a dyspeptic crow, concerned but not panicky.
The weight of the duar was reassuring. Mudge stood ready at his side (well, a few paces behind). Thunder boomed outside the entrance to the castle. It had been a long time since he’d confronted a situation this intense. What if he’d lost it? This wasn’t sitting around the fire, entertaining family and friends while cubs played in the background. There was much at stake here, not least perhaps their own lives.
What if this time his gift for lyrical invention failed? Or his strength, or his fingering? What if… ?
Don’t borrow trouble, Talea was always telling him. Plenty will find you of its own accord.
“We walked,” he told the skinny musician.
Hieronymus Hinckel’s gaze fastened on the duar. “You a musician, too?”
No elaborate insults, no grandstanding cursing, no demonic threat could have strengthened Jon-Tom’s will any better than that simple statement.
“That’s right. I sing and play duar. What about you?”
“Plays with ’imself, most likely.” Despite their surroundings, or perhaps because of them, Mudge managed an otterish snicker.
Hinckel’s eyes flicked sideways. “I see you’ve got a big rat with you.”
Not only did Mudge emerge from Jon-Tom’s shadow, he advanced several paces forward. “I’ll ’ave you know that I’m a bloomin’ otter, guv. I’d also like you to know, just by way o’ casual conversation, that you’re the ugliest example o’ your tribe ’tis ever been me misfortune to set eyes on.”
“Yeah, well, lemme tell you that—” Hinckel halted in midreply. “Wait a minute. What am I arguing with you for? I’m in charge here. I command the, uh, music of the spheres.”
“What kind of spheres?” Jon-Tom’s fingers were ready. “Ball bearings?”
“A comedian. Where you from? Not around here.”
“Originally L.A. Now … now I guess you’d have to say that I am from around here.”
Hinckel nodded. “Okay. Because you’re an ex-city boy I’ll give you and your rat-bro one chance to get out before I lose my temper. I’m being generous. You interrupted my breakfast.”
Eyeing the soggy mountain of french fries, Jon-Tom came close to losing his own latest meal. “Was everything we heard on our way up original with you?”
“Damn right. I’m workin’ on a ballad.”
“Ballad?” Mudge made a gagging sound. “You call those hideous sounds a ballad?”
“That’s good, Mudge,” Jon-Tom whispered. “Do everything you can not to incite him.”
“Oi, why dance around the dickery bush, mate? You ’eard that bile clear as me.”
“You must have something going for you to have made it this far.” Hinckel turned thoughtful. In addition to everything else, Jon-Tom noted, their nemesis had terrible posture. “Casual travelers don’t call at my island.”
“A piece of music led us here,” Jon-Tom told him. “A cluster of associated chords.” Looking around, he wasn’t surprised to see that the cloud of notes which had accompanied them all this way had chosen to remain outside the keep. He didn’t blame it.
“It needs to be returned to its rightful owner. Like all the rest of the music you’ve appropriated.”
“Rightful owner?” Hinckel was amused. “Now there’s a fresh concept.”
“This thieving of music has to stop.” Fully committed, Jon-Tom pressed on. “You have to leave honest musicians and natural songsters like the whales alone.”
“Like hell I do.”
“Your former band mates say that you’re doing this so that you’ll be the only one left able to make music, and that because of that people will have to listen to you.” The spellsinger lowered his voice. “I can tell you right now it won’t make any difference. You can put every piece of music in the world under lock and key. It won’t make people like you any better.”
“Won’t it? We’ll see.” A twisted grin, a sort of visual equivalent of the belch which had preceded it, creased the thin mouth. “So my ex-sidemen, my buddies, led you up here. I’ve kind of been ignoring them lately. They’re overdue for a visit.”
“We would’ve found our own way.” Jon-Tom was anxious not to do anything that would contribute to the already pitiful condition of the unfortunate trio.
“Call themselves a band,” Hinckel was muttering. “Bunch of Jersey pricks. That Gathers; thought he could play guitar. And Hill. What a loser! As for Zimmerman, man, you’d think anybody could play bass.” Their host’s laugh was an unlovely screech. “Well, look at ’em now! The lost goys.”
“Why don’t you send them home?” Jon-Tom restrained his rising anger. “There’s no need to keep them here.”
“Oh, but there is! I like for them to have to listen to me. They wouldn’t listen to me when they needed a new singer. Well, they can damn sure listen to me now. For eternity.”
“Oi, but you are a vicious one,” Mudge growled.
“Not vicious. Righteous, rat. I know what I can do, musically. I know my talent. Soon so will everyone else—they’ll have no alternative. Anyone who wants to listen to musi
c will have to listen to mine.” Looking smug, he sat back on the throne. “Once they’ve acknowledged my superior talent, once they’ve begun to appreciate me, then maybe, maybe, I’ll let them have some of their old music back. A trickle to a piccolo here, a silly little love song there.
“But not until I’ve received the acclaim my talent is due.” He gestured diffidently. “Meanwhile, I give you your freedom. Go on, leave. Take a hike. I’m feeling magnanimous today.”
Jon-Tom frowned. “You don’t talk like your average heavy metal singer.”
Hieronymus Hinckel let out a snort. “You think that schmuck Gathers is the only one with an education? I was a year short of a B.A. in economics at NYU.”
Mudge leaned to whisper to his companion. “’E’s chock-full of lies, mate. Who ever ’eard o’ someone goin’ from studyin’ economics to bein’ a lead singer in a mad band?”
“We’re not leaving.” Jon-Tom steeled himself.
When Hinckel’s brows drew together, creasing his already narrow face, he no longer looked quite so elementally nerdy. He managed to look almost threatening.
“I’m warning you. I’m only giving you a chance because you’re not one of these stupid nattering animals like that rat standing next to you.” Mudge drew his sword. “Not goin’ to be so easy for you to sing, guv, without any vocal cords. Or maybe we’ll try permanently raisin’ your voice a couple o’ octaves an’ see if it improves any. I guarantee your disposition will.”
“As for thinkin’ to insult me by callin’ me an animal, why, we’re all animals together ’ere, guv.”
“That’s so,” agreed Jon-Tom proudly.
“You’re right.” Hinckel spun sideways and put his legs up on the side of the throne. “You have been here a long time. So what do you expect me to do?”
“Free the music. Remove the sorceral shackles that hobble each harmony. Let it return to the instruments and throats that wait.” With a gesture Jon-Tom took in the grim battlements. “If you want to stay here and be king of the island and sing yourself silly I’ll be the first to support your right to do so. But taking everyone else’s music leaves you a poorer musician, not a better.”
“Too bloody right,” Mudge barked. “You can steal a lot o’ things, guv. I should know. But you can’t steal talent.”
“What pretty speechifying. Are you both finished?”
Jon-Tom had been readying his lyrics. “Not quite. If you still don’t get it, well, I’ve always been a firm believer in audiovisual aids.” His hand brushed the duar and he began to sing.
An evanescence unlike any Mudge had ever seen before began to emerge from the depths of the duar’s nexus. Bright as neon, the deep purple flux oozed from the impossible omphalos where the wondrous instrument’s double sets of strings intersected. The otter retreated several steps. At such times there was no telling what might happen.
Jon-Tom himself was often the last to know.
“One thing ’bout the music
Most folks don’t seem to know
Ain’t no good to lock it up
A song needs space to grow
Doesn’t matter what kind
Classical, rap, jazz, or show
Find it in your heart to find
Freedom for that rock and roll!”
Hieronymus Hinckel was less than impressed. Straightening once more, he eyed the cloud dubiously, as though it were a puff of pollution clouding the intersection of Second and Twenty-sixth.
“Hey, not bad.” Rising from his erstwhile throne, he wandered over to a tall, narrow window and peered out. A rush of sound washed over the room, a vast musical sigh as of a hundred clarinets suddenly deprived of air. “Looks like you’ve managed to free a small amount of the music I’ve gathered here. Now I’ll just have to bring it back.” He turned to regard his visitors.
“Of course, I’m also going to have to make you stop. Didn’t really want to take your music, but if you insist on playing hardball …”
Jon-Tom managed an uncharacteristic sneer even as he was concocting additional lyrics. “Hum a few bars and I’ll give it a shot.”
Smiling unpleasantly, from a front pocket Hinckel extracted a battered but still functional harmonica. Putting it to his lips, he blew a few simple, basic, incredibly off-key notes.
The purple haze which had begun to dominate the atmosphere of the central hall recoiled as if from a blow. It all but vanished before gathering new strength from Jon-Tom’s lyrics and a shift to a major key.
Surprised, Hinckel stumbled back in the direction of the throne. The air of cockiness he’d maintained ever since their arrival vanished. As Jon-Tom continued to play and sing, the purple cloud pressed close. When Hinckel, clearly deciding that stronger methods were in order, finally began to sing, the cloud’s advance was slowed but not shattered.
“That’s it, mate!” Hovering close at his friend’s side, Mudge was hopping about wildly, waving his sword over his head. “Give it to ’im! Show ’im wot real spellsingin’s about! Fix ’im so ’e can’t co-opt so much as a lazy lie-about stanza ever again!”
“I’ll do just that,” Jon-Tom growled, “if you don’t cut my head off with that damn sword!”
“Oi, right.” The otter promptly lowered his enthusiasm along with his weapon.
Unable to faze either the menacing purple cloud or Jon-Tom’s music, a wide-eyed Hinckel had retreated all the way to his garish sit-upon. When Mudge seemed about to dart forward and put an end to the business with a most unmelodic thrust of his sword, the would-be singer turned and let out a cry of desperation. It was the piteous baying of a mistreated child; of the one always picked last for any game, of he who perpetually finished, not at the bottom of his class (which would have bestowed a certain perverse distinction), but simply in the lower tenth, that inchoate academic abyss from which no hint of excellence ever arises.
In response to his moan, shapes began to emerge from the insubstantiality that heretofore had held sway behind the throne. Beyond the fortress battlements lightning flared for the first time since Jon-Tom and Mudge had set foot on the island.
Black lightning.
Angry thunder rattled the ill-hewn stones of the castle, shaking them in their footings. Hinckel’s lyrics were largely unintelligible, his music as excruciating as ever, but this time there was an underlying desperation to each chord, a pathetic necessity that had previously been lacking. So pitiful was it that Jon-Tom hesitated.
It was not his hesitation which cost them control. He and Mudge simply found themselves outnumbered.
Emerging from the darkness, the various specters were attired in everything from satin and silk to cotton waistcloth and breeches. Some wore Romanic togas while others showed off torn blue jeans and battered sandals. Bleached tie-dyes backgrounded chipped love beads, hairy arms bulged from too-small tuxedos, and black leather jackets glowed with lace trim.
One apparition approaching Mudge was clad in a manner so hideous that the hardened otter was forced to look away.
“Not that!” Mudge moaned. “Anythin’ but … but plaid!”
Into the great hall they drifted on wings fashioned of filthy feathers and frayed membrane, each and every one of them years overdue for a bath. As they drifted, they played. And sang, and hummed, and clapped their hands to a beat no two of them seemed able to follow. In their hands they carried their instruments, from ancient lutes to not-quite-state-of-the-art synthesizers and everything in between.
Jon-Tom recognized a viola da gamba. One apparition wrestled with a mistuned gamelan. There were flutes and guitars, maracas and drums, didgereedoos and banjos. The phantasms sang as they played.
While each individually realized distinct degrees of tastelessness, not a one of them could match Hieronymus Hinckel when it came to sheer ugh. Though several did come close, Jon-Tom had to admit as his outraged ears began to ring. All poor Mudge could do to try and fend off the aural horror was hold his sword out in front of him with both hands, as if it might function as some sor
t of steel talisman. But while the blade could cut easily through flesh and bone, it was useless against tectonically bad music.
Once more the otter retreated behind his friend. “In the name o’ the Great Odor, wot is this?”
“Spirits.” It was becoming a real struggle to sustain any kind of musical comportment in the face of such overwhelming ghastly sonics. “The shades of dead musicians from my world.” Jon-Tom winced in pain. “The worst failures and most talentless performers in the history of popular music must be in this room.”
A wild-eyed Hinckel confidently slid off the throne to confront them. “Hey, they’re baaaad.”
“You’re telling me.” A particularly grating whanggg from an acoustic guitar brought tears to Jon-Tom’s eyes. As a riff it was pure raff.
Hinckel continued to advance. “They’re just misunderstood, like I am. Though none of them’s as good, of course.”
Mudge retreated from the hideous performance. “Do somethin’, mate! I can’t stand it much longer!”
As he detected what he thought must be Gregorian chant executed (and that was surely the right word) to a disco beat, Jon-Tom, too, found himself having to give ground. His retreat was cut off by the shade of a shambolic Elvis impersonator from Uttar Pradesh who was essaying “Jailhouse Rock” in a voice that verged on the Lovecraftian. His funeral persona was complete to sequined white Vegas outfit, long sideburns, and pompadour greased with hog lard. Worse than a travesty, it was potentially lethal.
Hovering on slim batwings, a squat, tubby ex-accountant’s assistant from the cheaper suburbs of Osaka was fighting to render (and that was surely the right word) a classic Bessie Smith soliloquy. A more lyrical sound could have been produced by cutting titanium with a chain saw.
There was a would-have-been rocker from East Prussia who added to the harmonic devastation by flagellating “Stairway to Heaven” with his accordion, a New England preppie complete to Yale sweater, white slacks, and yachting loafers struggling in an aching New England drawl to mimic the best of Joe Cocker, and a humorless dyke from Des Moines out to convince eternity she could indeed play “I Will Always Love You” on her kazoo.