George R.R. Martin
Page 34
The clean, searing acid of the opening licks came over wavery and halfhearted. The drums plodded when they should have pounded. Larry Richmond sang the opening lyric in a high, strained voice.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
And Faxon, Maggio, Slozewski chorused:
He’s coming!
And Richmond said:
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
And again the Nazgûl promised:
He’s coming!
Richmond frowned down at his guitar, coaxed a building counterpoint out of it to follow Maggio’s lead, tossed back his white hair, sang:
Things fall apart! The centre can—
And then he jerked.
For an instant Sandy thought there had been some kind of terrible accident, a short somewhere in the Gibson or the cords that had sent a surge of power back through the singer’s body. The kid seemed to spasm wildly for a second. He broke off the lyric and looked dazed. The hostile crowd stirred unpleasantly.
And then a slow wicked smile spread across Larry Richmond’s face, a smile that was arrogant and smooth and hauntingly familiar. He shook out that long hair again, immune to the discontent out there, contemptuous of it. “Yeah!” he shouted, in a voice that filled the auditorium. He pounded the Gibson, grinned at the discord, and went right back into the song.
Things fall apart, yeah! The centre canNOT hold!
The other Nazgûl had stopped playing. Sandy saw Maggio and Faxon trade looks before they picked up the thread again.
He’s coming!
They seemed to sing it a little harder than before.
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world!
That blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the innocents are drowned!
came the prophecy, and it came in a voice that seared and sizzled through the sound system, the great stack of Marshall amplifiers, that crackled down the aisles like ball lightning and went straight for the bone marrow, a voice rich as fine wine and astringent as vinegar, a voice that laced the bubble of indifference in the auditorium and let it bleed out onto the floor.
He’s coming!
cried the Nazgûl, and a few voices took up the cry, a few hands clapped, a few fists jabbed at the air.
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
YEAH! They’re full of passion, and intensity
Maggio seemed to wake up as if from a long dream, and suddenly the lead guitar crackled with energy. Feedback came snarling and hissing over the sound system, a vast curling serpent loose in the hall, a living thing that screamed its ominous displeasure.
He’s COMING!
roared a hundred voices hoarsely, and the fists slammed upward, and Larry Richmond opened his mouth and grinned and postured and leered at them as he sang.
Surely some revelation is at hand?
YEAH! Surely it’s at hand!
Gopher John’s drumming went mad then. He scowled with concentration, his big red hands became a blur, the bass drum shuddered and the cymbals rang and clashed and mocked all hope, and Slozewski’s big deep voice joined a thousand others with the call:
HE’S COMING!
Hobbins looked over at his drummer, grinned wickedly, spun around and leaped three feet in the air, his finger jabbing out at the crowd, a knife of flesh. His eyes burned and sparkled, red as the pit, and his voice seemed on fire as well.
Surely the Second Coming is at hand?
YEAH! What else could it be!
Faxon’s face had gone white and blank, but his fingers moved with the sure certainty of old over the strings of his Rickenbacker, and low booming notes melted into the current of music, notes that were as deep as God clearing his throat, as threatening as the first rumble of an earthquake, as true and terrible as a mushroom cloud.
HE’S COMING!!!
HE’S COMING!!!!
HE’S COMING!!!!!
The entire crowd was on its feet now, screaming, singing, shoving its centipede fists into the air, arms smashing upward again and again and again like the piledriver of some great dark engine, with a rhythm that was oiled and sexual.
“He’s COMING!” Sandy shouted with the rest, his fist giving mute testimony to the force and fury of that truth.
Hobbins swiveled and shielded his eyes against the flashing lights from above, the silent cacophony that imprisoned band and singer. Peering out into the darkness, he saw something, and he cried:
The Second Coming, YEAH! But what’s this thing I see?
HE’S COMING!
What vast image comes troubling my night?
HE’S COMING!
Somewhere in the sands of the desert
HE’S COMING!
A shape with lion body and the head of a man!
HE’S COMING!
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun!
HE’S COMING!
HE’S COMING!!!
HE’S COMING!!!!!
Maggio danced wildly across the stage, like a man shocked by cattle prods, but he was grinning and sneering all the while, and his guitar spit acid, belched flame. He ripped at the strings frenetically, and the chords flew like razors. Hobbins turned to face him, glowering, clawing his own instrument. The notes burned back and forth as they jammed at each other. People were standing on their chairs, clapping their hands over their heads, writhing to the music, shaking, fucking the air with their fists.
HE’S COMING!
HE’S COMING!!!
YEAH! HE’S
COOOOMING!!!
Maggio sneered and his Telecaster was a hissing cobra that swayed and stalked and sparked. Hobbins glowered back and his Gibson was a mongoose, wild and darting and lightning-fast, with a sound full of tiny sharpened teeth. Bass and drums gave them a bottom heavy as an avalanche, and drove them both to battle frenzy. Five minutes the jam went on. Ten minutes. Fifteen. The crowd was screaming, the crowd was electric, the crowd was hysterical.
HE’S COMING!
OH, HE’S
COMING!!!
YEAH, HE’S
COOOOMING!!!
And Maggio struck and killed and Hobbins staggered back, grinning, reeling, gave a wild banshee scream that hurt the ears, leaped in the air and spun and pointed at the audience again.
It’s moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of indignant desert birds
The darkness drops again, but now I know Yeah baby, how I know!
HE’S COMING!
Oh yes, I know, I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rockin’ cradle Oh, a rocknrollin’ cradle!
And the Nazgûl sang behind him, and the crowd as well, and they sang, “He’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming he’s coming he’s coming he’scominghescominghescominghescominghes…” until it became a low mutter loud as thunder.
Patrick Henry Hobbins held up his hand for quiet, and every sound in the hall died instantly. The chanting ceased. The drums and guitars were silent. The lights went out. In the darkness his voice was plaintive and afraid.
Oh, what rough beast, its hour come round at last Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
In the echoing stillness that followed those lines, a single small spotlight came on, illuminating only Hobbins’ face, still and white. A long breathless pause. Then he smiled.
“I’m coming,” he said softly, and the light blinked out.
An instant later the house lights and stage lights all came on at once in a single blinding burst of illumination, and the crowd in the hall went crazy wild, shrieking, stomping, whistling, jumping around, dancing across the seats. The ovation lasted for a good five minutes before it even started to wane. The Nazgûl stood dazed, every one of them looking as if he’d been poleaxed except for Hobbins, who had on his old cocksure smile.
People were shouting for an encore, and when the noise had finally died away enough to hear, Peter Faxon leaned forward, smiling, and said, “Shall we give
’em ‘Wednesday’s Child’ now?”
A burst of renewed cheering greeted his words, but Hobbins just glanced at him and shook his head and turned to the audience, holding up his hands for silence. He got it. “You been a real good crowd, girls and boys,” he said cheerfully. Gopher John, smiling, went boom-boom-ba-boom on the drums in the pause between sentences, and tossed his stick up in the air. Thousands of eyes watched it sail upward, end over end, before it finally began to descend. “Now,” said Hobbins, “bug off and leave us alone.” The stick landed square in Slozewski’s outstretched hand, he looked at it wonderingly for a second and brought it down on his cymbals in a final deafening shot.
The crowd was still cheering and whistling as the Nazgûl left the stage.
They looked drained, all except for Hobbins… no, not Hobbins, Richmond, Sandy reminded himself. But he looked like Hobbins, with the swaggering arrogance of his walk, the graceful way he held his head, the music of his laughter. And he had sung like Hobbins, at least once. Sandy felt a little dizzy himself. He found himself following the Nazgûl backstage.
The place was packed when they got back there. Everyone was crowding around the band, slapping them, congratulating them. Maggio was loud and boisterous, squeezing every breast in reach as he pushed through the crush. Gopher John just looked confused. Faxon was pale and quiet. And Larry Richmond positively radiated self-satisfaction. Joints were going from hand to hand, bottles were being upended, a few lines of coke had been laid out on the big table next to what remained of the food. The noise was loud enough to give Sandy a headache. He got himself a screwdriver and tried to make his way through the press to Faxon or Richmond.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
The sound killed the party babble dead. People shifted uneasily, backing away from something, and suddenly Sandy found himself on the edge of a clear space in the crowd, a few feet from Larry Richmond.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
It was a low, threatening sort of growl, enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck. Richmond was standing with a bottle of beer in his hand, looking even whiter than usual. His mouth was open. So was Balrog’s. The dog’s teeth were bared, his lips drawn back, his tail very still. A nervous gopher held the end of his leash and was tugging at it ineffectually while simultaneously trying to back off toward the corner. The growl went on and on.
“Fucking dog!” snarled Richmond. Richmond?
Balrog leaped.
TWENTY-ONE
Like a rat in a maze the path before me lies/
And the pattern never alters, until the rat dies
The dog’s leap ended with a jolt when he came up hard against the restraint of his leash, but the force of it was enough to send the frightened gopher stumbling to his knees, and when the boy fell, he let go his grasp. A second later, Balrog was free, getting his legs under him once again, snarling, his muscles bunching for another leap. Like the rest, Sandy stood frozen with surprise and horror.
Then a huge shadow passed quickly in front of him. Gort moved faster than Sandy ever could have imagined. When Balrog went for Richmond once again, the big man was already in between them, and he caught the animal with both hands in mid-air, and slammed him to one side hard. The dog bounced off the wall, landed on the table and knocked bottles of booze every which way as he scrambled to his feet, and then Gort was on him once again, cuffing him solidly across the muzzle. Balrog yelped in shock and pain, and tried to back off, snarling and snapping. Gort caught the end of his leash, looped it around the dog’s throat, and tightened it. Balrog whimpered, and all the fury seemed to bleed right out of him. He let fly with a sudden stream of urine, all over the canapés. Gort pulled the loop tighter and the dog struggled ineffectually. For a moment it looked as though the big man was going to strangle the animal to death, right there in front of everyone.
Then Larry Richmond cried out, “No! Leave him alone!”
Richmond’s voice seemed to shatter the trance. All at once everyone was saying something or moving to help; the room exploded with noise and motion once again. Gort grunted and let up a little, and Balrog whined his relief. Richmond shouldered past Gort and wrapped his arms around the animal’s sides protectively. “Hey, boy,” he said, “easy, Bal. It’s okay, boy, I’m here, it’s okay.” Balrog’s flanks were heaving and he was panting wildly, but as Richmond talked to him and ruffled his fur and patted him, the dog’s tail rose and finally began to wag.
Gort stepped back with a disgusted noise, turned, and beckoned to two of the roadies. “You. And you. Take the damn dog out back and tie him up.”
“No!” Richmond shouted. “Bal stays here! With me!”
Ananda came forward and took him by the shoulders. “He’ll be all right, Pat. He can’t stay here. He just pissed all over the food, right? The excitement must have been too much for him. All the noise. All the strangers. You don’t want him to hurt anybody, do you?”
“Well, no,” Richmond said reluctantly.
“Then let them take him out back,” Ananda said. She gathered up the leash and handed it to a roadie. “Why don’t you go with them, Pat, get him settled down? And then come back and party.” She smiled. “You’ve got a lot to celebrate, right?”
“Well, okay, I guess,” Richmond said. With Richmond along to soothe and cajole, the dog exited docilely enough in the company of two of Gort’s underlings.
Sandy looked around. Ananda had pulled Gort aside and they were talking in low, private tones. Elsewhere the party was gathering steam again, with half the people talking about the performance and half about the crazy dog. Peter Faxon was leaning up against the wall, alone, staring speculatively at the door through which Richmond had just left. He had filled a big water tumbler with ice cubes and Chivas Regal, and most of it was already gone. Sandy headed toward him. “Good show,” he said when he got there. “What do you think got into the dog?”
Faxon studied him, sipping the Chivas, and frowned. “Nothing,” he said brusquely. “The question is, what got into Richmond?”
Sandy met Faxon’s clear green eyes, and knew that those eyes were seeing right through him. “I think you know the answer to that already,” Sandy said.
“Sure,” said Faxon. “Only the answer is impossible.” He finished his Chivas, looked around for a gopher, and sent him for a refill.
“Whatever it was, the dog scared it right back out of him,” Sandy said when Faxon had a glass in hand once again.
Faxon took a big healthy swallow. A lot of his ice cubes had melted, and what he was swallowing was mostly Scotch. He drank like a man who badly wanted to get plastered. “It wasn’t a good show,” he said. “It was a terrible show, right up until the end. And then something happened. I could feel it up there. Richmond changed. And when he changed, it changed the rest of us, too.” He snapped his fingers. “We were the Nazgûl again. For one song, it was like the old days. The music was alive, and you could feel the energy pouring off the crowd. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Everything we wanted, everything we’d been trying for all night, and in all those weeks of practice, all of a sudden it was there. And you know what? It scared me. It scared the living piss out of me.” He swallowed some more Chivas and looked pensive. “But I want it again, Sandy. I know that much. Whatever the hell happened up there tonight, I want it to happen again.”
“I have a feeling it will,” Sandy said.
Peter Faxon set his empty glass aside. “I have to go call Tracy and tell her how it went,” he said. “Damned if I know what I’m going to say, though.”
On his way out, Faxon passed Larry Richmond, who was just coming back. He stopped and clapped the kid on the shoulder and said a few words, and Richmond smiled. The minute Faxon left, Richmond was mobbed by well-wishers, groupies, and members of the crew. He was grinning like a six-year-old on Christmas morning who has just discovered Santa Claus dead in his living room and is only now realizing that he gets all the toys for the whole damn world. Gopher John had his acolytes too, buzz
ing around him like a swarm of fat happy horseflies and fetching him bottles of beer to join the growing pile of empties at his feet. And Maggio was sprawled in a big chair as if it were a throne. He was laughing raucously and talking a waterfall of words, the volume rising and falling so that Sandy, all the way across the room, caught only strange disconnected snatches. He had a girl in his lap already, and his free hand was up her blouse, roaming around. Another girl, even younger and prettier, was sitting on the arm of his chair, and he was paying more attention to her than to the one he was fondling. The blond who had been with him at the preshow party was five feet away, looking resentful.
Sandy got himself another screwdriver and drifted from one knot of people to another, listening, infrequently venturing a comment or two. He didn’t feel much like talking, somehow. The excitement was contagious, but he seemed to be immune, disconnected. Maybe he understood too much. He wandered around looking for Ananda, but she seemed to have left, along with Gort. Finally, when he was on his fourth or fifth screwdriver and the vodka had given the room a nice mellow haze, he found himself standing in front of Larry Richmond, staring at Patrick Henry Hobbins’ face. “How did it feel?” Sandy heard himself ask.
“It was great!” Richmond said with enthusiasm. He started babbling away about how wonderful it was to play with the Nazgûl.
“No,” Sandy said abruptly. “I mean, the last song, how did that feel? When it changed. You jumped, you know. Like you got a shock or something. You jumped and you broke off the song.”
“Yeah, I know,” Richmond said with a bit of discomfiture in his voice. “It wasn’t a shock, though. I mean, not like electricity, you know? It was like…I don’t know, I was getting into the lyrics, you know, and all of a sudden…it was like a chill, maybe… no, worse than a chill…it was like somebody had come up behind me and slid an ice cube down my back. A real cold feeling, going all through me. Weird, huh?”