Terri Windling

by Borderland

  The old man began to speak. Sometimes he used his hands for emphasis, curling them before his face as though something invisible rested there, brushing one to the side as if declining an offer. Scooter waited for the boy to translate, but he did not. He listened, nodded, interrupted once to ask a question, fell silent again while his father continued. Finally the old man was done and the boy turned to Scooter. “It is very hard to translate,” he said. “You don’t have the words for a lot of what he said, and some of the things he takes for granted here don’t work where you come from. But I’ll try.” He glanced at his father, said something brief, and the old man nodded. Aarka’an looked back at Scooter.

  “You want to know what this thing is,” he said, tone changing as he translated. “The answer is simple and complex. It is a part of you. It is the embodiment of your feelings. Around us”—the boy’s tone changed— “this is one of those things that doesn’t operate the same in your world”—and changed back—“around us is a world of forms, an invisible . . . essence of things. There are ways of giving them shape, of bringing them into the world our senses can perceive. Music is one of these ways. Among us, a musician is a brave and foolish person.” The boy hesitated a moment, glanced at his father, and looked back. “I should add,” he said, more conversationally, “that some of this is pointed at me, because the main reason I cross the Borderlands is to make music. On your side it’s just music.”

  “You’re a musician?” asked Scooter.

  “Not in the way you understand. I’ll explain later; let me translate first.”

  Scooter nodded for him to go on.

  “The musician takes a feeling,” he continued, voice somehow assuming the more authoritative air of his father, “or a thought that exists inside him, and gives it a form that exists in the ear of another. That is the music. But there is a form that exists apart from the music, that is given a life by the feeling that ... that engenders it. Is that the right word?”

  Scooter shrugged. “I guess so.”

  The boy pursed his lips. “The musician must be careful what he or she plays, because he or she”—he frowned—“we have a word that doesn’t specify sex, but you don’t—because he or she is responsible for what lives on after the music is complete. The forms music may take can blind, can kill, can lust, can feel anything the musician feels. You have created a thing that is a product of rage and desire. It is consumed with a need for satisfaction, for ... for fulfillment, I guess is your word, that will never be contented. It is sent into the world to look for the woman you love, and to take from her. It will never be far behind her. There is no doubt that because she is here, it will soon be here as well.” The boy hesitated. “He says that we cannot have this thing in our land, because it will stop at nothing to get what it needs. He—he repeats what he told you earlier: what you make is yours, musician. You must stop it.”

  “But that’s why I’m here! I want to stop it; I came to ask his help. Tell me how; I'll do everything I can.”

  Aarka’an translated.

  The old man leaned back in his chair of root, folded sharp-angled arms across thin, leather-vested chest, and looked thoughtful.

  Scooter waited, full of questions, needing answers, and feeling impotent.

  The old man got up slowly, stepped down from the root, and approached Scooter. He stopped in front of him and looked into his eyes. Scooter found himself wanting to look away, to say something to Aarka’an, to turn and run—anything but meet that gaze. But he didn’t look away.

  He had the goddamnedest eyes.

  The irises were bright, the lines radiating from pupil dark. They looked like fractured ice under bright moonlight. The wrinkled lids narrowed, wrinkled forehead furrowed, a nail came up to scratch roughly under the vest.

  He turned to Aarka’an, and they talked.

  “Aarka’an, I have heard this Man play, but in his world, not here. You have heard him play in the Borderlands, where his music takes shape. You have seen his music—you say he cannot understand us?”

  “He doesn’t know our language, Father.”

  The old man nodded. “I have been reluctant to allow anyone to mingle with his kind. They are concerned only with objects, they know nothing of forms.”

  “They make very good objects, Father.”

  “The world is filled with the dust and ashes of good objects. I only allow you to cross the Borderlands because you insist on making your ugly kind of music—” “It is a good kind of music for me,” the boy interrupted.

  Aune’wah glared at him for interrupting, but responded to his words instead of ignoring them. “It is an ugly music. It loves nothing.”

  “It is a phase of my youth.”

  The old man snorted. “This discussion never changes between us. We will repeat it another time. I allow you to cross the Borderlands because there your music affects only the ears, and I do not grow concerned for what else it creates.”

  The boy sighed.

  The old man disregarded this and looked at Scooter. “This one is different,” he said. “He gives form to a thing inside him. He is a musician like our musicians.” “He used to be famous among Men, father.”

  “Mmm. He is important to me because he is the first indication I have seen that Men may have something more to them than what I have perceived.” He waved away the boy’s objections before they were voiced. “I know you count men among your friends. You are young, Aarka’an.”

  “You are old, Father.”

  He turned away from Scooter. “And you are impudent!”

  The boy looked down at his feet. “I ... ask your forgiveness, Father.”

  “Ehh.” He turned back to Scooter, who had grown alarmed at the shout, but who remained silent and respectful, afraid to offend them because he needed their help. “We cannot really help this Man because what he fights is a part of him. Therefore what he creates to combat it must come from within him. I cannot give him an answer, a method, a trick. That is what he seeks, and such a thing does not exist. There are things we can do, though.” He walked a circle around Scooter, who stood almost at attention. “If he can defeat his work, I will be surprised. But if he does, I will consider allowing more dealings with men.”

  “Grim is a Man, Father,” the boy ventured.

  “Grim is an insane Man. Take a lesson from this naive Man’s problem, Aarka’an. With your music, you could easily be in his place.”

  “Yes, Father,” said the boy, without much conviction in his voice.

  The old man glanced at his son and frowned. A problem for later, he decided. “Send runners out to watch the road and the stream. Tell them to look out for the thing. There will be no mistaking it, I am certain.”

  “Do you want them to look through the eyes of birds?”

  “Deer, I think. If not, birds will do.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Do you have your instrument near?” the old man asked. “What do they call it?”

  “A guitar, Father. I have several.”

  “An ugly word. Get the one that makes music itself, the one without the vines that make it loud. Bring it and the other Man to that beautiful tree you and your friends are defiling. Yes, I think that would be an appropriate place. Before you go, tell him this, and I will take him there to make his stand. ...”

  Scooter endured it as patiently as he could. The old man had a tone that he found hypnotic and authoritative, and he had those eyes. But there was something about him that commanded respect, and Scooter kept quiet. Aarka’an seemed determined to show his father that he was old enough to do as he pleased, but he was obviously terrified of him.

  In their conversation Scooter recognized only a few words—“man,” “guitar,” “Grim,” their own names. Once they seemed to be arguing openly—about what, Scooter could only guess.

  After what seemed like an hour, toward the end of which Scooter had begun glancing nervously over his shoulder as if he could sense the thing nearing behind him, the old man concluded what he
was saying and Aarka’an turned to Scooter.

  “I am going now,” he said. “I will see you again. Do what my father indicates, and follow him where he leads you.”

  “He’ll help me?” Scooter couldn’t help the eager note that crept into his voice.

  But the boy shook his head. “He can’t. I can’t tell you why not. There are things we can do, and we’ll do them, but this is your battle and not ours.”

  Scooter felt on the verge of tears. He wanted to shout, to tell them what selfish, uncaring animals they were, but he said nothing. Despite the magnitude of his problem, it wasn’t their problem, and he didn’t have the right to ask for help and complain when it was refused.

  The boy watched Scooter grow angry, watched him calm as quickly. “I am to tell you a thing,” he said. “You must think about it. All right?”

  “Is this gonna be another fortune cookie like before? Like, ‘What you make belongs to you’?”

  “If you had thought about that,” the boy replied without rancor, “none of this would be necessary.”

  Scooter nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m scared, you know.” He bit his lip, looked at his sneakers, looked back at the boy. In the darkness beneath the canopy of drooping fronds, Aarka’an’s eyes looked like holes cut in the white paper of his face. “What are you supposed to tell me?”

  The boy glanced at his father, looked back at Scooter. “ ‘To create a thing,’ ” he said, “ ‘is to suggest its opposite.’ ”

  Scooter waited, but the boy said nothing more. “That’s it?” he asked.

  The boy smiled. He did not have a pleasant smile. “It doesn’t have to be long to mean something.”

  Scooter frowned. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  The boy nodded and said something to his father. The father replied with something brief. “I’m going now,” said Aarka’an. “Follow him. Do what he says.”

  “I’ll try,” Scooter said, and hesitated. “Aarka’an?” Black brows rose above hollow eyes.

  “Your father—is he, you know, some kind of a king? I mean, a ruler, a chief, something like that?”

  Aarka’an looked at his father, who watched their exchange as though he understood it. “He’s my father,” he said. He pulled aside a section of frond, stooped, and stepped out into daylight.

  Scooter turned to look at the old man with the coyote eyes. “All right,” he said. “What now?”

  The old man smiled, and that was the only way in which he resembled his son.

  They were back at the horrible tree. The old man pointed to a spot a dozen feet in front of the hideous carving and indicated that Scooter was to wait.

  Scooter waited.

  A crowd gradually formed. They made a wide ring around Scooter, open-ended on the tree side, and whispered among themselves. The younger ones seemed to mix English often with their own language. Scooter got the feeling they knew what he was doing here, perhaps knew more than he did—it wouldn’t be difficult—but he tried to ignore them.

  To make a thing is to suggest its opposite.

  It was simple and infuriating. Yes, he understood that, if he could make that thing, he could make something that might counteract it, neutralize it in some way. But he had no idea how to control the making of such a thing—thought, in fact, that the very act of control might prevent the creation of such a thing. And he had nothing to create it with.

  He looked up at a commotion in the crowd. Those in front of him were turned around, looking away. They moved to let something by.

  A deer entered the circle.

  The old man smiled at it, lowered to one knee and beckoned. The deer approached and lowered its head.

  The old man stroked it a few times, whispering. Then he stood quickly and looked at Scooter.

  In the light his irises were silver.

  The deer snorted, turned, looked uncertain, then dashed out of the ring the way it had come in. The old man turned and called out. The crowd to the right of the hamadryad tree parted to admit three women. The two on the outside had an inner hand on the upper arm of the one in-between. At First Scooter thought she was short and heavy; he had already become accustomed to the generally tall and thin body type of these people. With a shock he realized that she was neither short nor heavy, that she was human, that she was—

  “Roxanne!” He started toward her.

  The old man whipped around and spoke a word. Scooter felt his feet slide out from under him and only just managed to break his fall with his hands. He whuffed and looked up. The old man smiled unpleasantly and shook his head.

  Roxanne was nude, as were the two who flanked her. Both were a head taller than she was, small-breasted, long-necked, white-haired identical twins. Their strong hands gripped firmly around her biceps.

  Roxanne craned to see past the old man. “Scooter? Scooter, what are you doing here?” She tried to get away from her escort, but they only gripped tighter.

  They stopped in front of the old man.

  “You gave me sanctuary,” Roxanne said to him. “Why am I—”

  The old man spoke, pointing at the hamadryad tree. Scooter stood as they led her to it. She started to struggle in earnest, but the one to her right leaned and whispered something in her ear. Roxanne frowned, looked frightened, and stopped struggling. Instead she looked back behind her. “Scooter? Scooter, what’s going on? They said—”

  They turned her around and put her back against the tree. Her head pressed against the tortured face caught fighting to escape. Scooter imagined the open mouth gnawing wooden teeth on the base of her skull.

  They raised her arms to the wooden fingers groping for freedom. Aune’wah stepped in front of Scooter and he couldn’t see what was happening, but the old man made patterns in the air with his hands and stepped away.

  Wooden fingers clasped Roxanne’s wrists.

  Roxanne looked away from one bound arm. “Scooter? Goddammit, they gave me sanctuary! How did you find me? They said ..She glanced at the old man. “Scooter, what did you do? They said you came here to save me.” She looked at one gripped wrist, looked away. “Tell them to let me go.”

  And he felt suddenly ashamed. “It was my music,” he said, not looking at her. “I got drunk and went up to the hills.” He looked at her sharply. “How come you aren’t wearing any clothes?” He felt stupid even as he asked it.

  “It’s what they do here. I like it.”

  He nodded irrelevantly and looked away again. “You left. I looked all over the goddamn place, and ! couldn’t find you, and I didn’t know what to do—” His voice broke. “I got a battery, and I went up on Monaghie and I just cranked, like I used to, and I was so mad—I missed you.” He wiped his eyes, feeling foolish in front of everybody, while a part of him wondered how many of them understood. “I made this thing. It came from my music, the way the other lights always have. But it lasted after I was done, and it killed a dog, a coyote,

  I mean. It chased me down the road, and I could feel it, Roxanne—it wanted you, it wanted to take you and, and—” He sniffled, made himself stop. “I came here to find help so I could stop it. The old man, he—”

  The crowd parted again and Aarka’an stepped through holding an acoustic guitar. He hurried up to Scooter, nodding at his father as he passed by. “Listen,” he said, shrugging out of the strap and handing it to Scooter, who accepted it automatically. “You have to hurry. I play it all the time; it’s in tune. Here.” He handed Scooter a pick that looked as if it was made of bone. “What—I don’t—”

  The boy fluttered his hands. “Listen. Put it on, warm up, play scales, do whatever you have to do.”

  Scooter lifted the strap over his head, settled it onto his shoulder. “But I don’t—”

  A gasp at the edge of the crowd. Scooter turned to see them scattering, to see a shimmer of light approaching between the trees in the distance, following the edge of the stream, a dark blur in the air that grew. The old man spoke.

  “Turn around,” or
dered the boy.

  “But I—”

  “Turn around! Turn your back to it.”

  Scooter turned. A tickle began between his shoulder blades.

  The old man spoke.

  “Don’t look back,” said the boy. He glanced where Scooter was forbidden to look, black eyes wide, catching a glint of afternoon sun. “Look at her.”

  Scooter looked at Roxanne. She was looking behind him. “Scooter .. . ?”

  The old man barked a word at her and she said nothing further. Scooter watched her throat work as she swallowed. He looked at the guitar he wore. It was a Yamaha cheapie, an inferior model, a shitbox. Playing this after playing his Martin would sound like the difference between a compact-disk player and a sewing needle held against a phonograph record turned by hand. His hand clasped, felt strings, rough to thin, against his fingers.

  Automatically his other hand went to his mouth and put the pick there. He damped it between his teeth, pressed its edge with his tongue. He brushed right hand against denimed thigh.

  The old man spoke again, quickly.

  “Tell her you love her,” the boy said rapidly, backing away.

  Scooter opened his mouth to speak, but the boy shook his head. “Tell her with your music,” he said.

  There was a shout, and Scooter heard people running. He started to glance back.

  “Don't look! Play!”

  His neck prickled. The skin of his skull felt tight.

  Roxanne struggled to remain calm. “Scooter,” she said, only a slight quaver in her voice, “I don’t understand why they have to hold me here.” She spoke more rapidly: “Please, Scooter, it’s getting—”

  “Be quiet and let him play,” said the boy.

  “I can’t!” Scooter shouted. “I can’t, I can’t!”

  His fingers moved.

  “Let her go!” he screamed.

  His vision blurred; he couldn’t see Roxanne. Vision brightened, shimmered, and he realized it was not from tears. He looked down at the guitar.

  His hands were making music. They played, and the air took shape in front of him.

  From his right, calmly, Aarka’an said, “It’s very close now.”