Darkness Falling

by David Niall Wilson

  They nodded warily, but kept their comments to themselves, waiting. They didn't have long. Without preamble, Klaus dropped his bombshell.

  "I want to play it in the concert here," he said. "On the mountain. Who knows? Maybe the girl I wrote it for will be here."

  "Great," Damon muttered, turning to catch Peyton's gaze with his famed raised eyebrow of drama and frustration. "Three days, Klaus. We have three fucking days and we've never even heard this song. How in hell do you expect us to be ready to play it for this show?"

  "Girl?" Peyton cut in. "What girl is going to be here?"

  Klaus ignored the drummer and spoke directly to Damon. "We can do it." He glanced down and watched the designs on the swirling surface of his coffee. "I know we can."

  "But," Peyton threw in, growing serious, "remember the last time this happened? Remember that song, what did you call it? Cat Woman? We worked on that bloody thing for four days – most of four nights, too. What did it get us? Hooted off the stage when Sebastian and I tripped over that bit with the bridge, that's what. It's too risky."

  It was no use, of course, and they all knew it. Klaus' mind was set, and Klaus was in charge. There was nothing left for them to do but to launch into the project, for better or for worse, and pray it didn't louse the show up too badly.

  "At least it's a ballad," Sebastian commented to no one in particular. "I mean, it won't be as intricate as a lot of our music."

  Peyton and Damon stared at their coffee and scowled, and Sebastian fell silent.

  They fell into a discussion of the arrangement, and after a few minutes they were all involved, leaning in to contribute their part. They loved the music; even the seemingly impossible act of writing, learning, and performing a new song in three days couldn't change that.

  They worked out the details, smoothed the beat and familiarized themselves with the overall structure of the song. Klaus even went as far as to hum the tune at one point, which he'd memorized completely and modified considerably since the tape that Sebastian had heard. By the time the last cup of coffee and a couple of small snifters of cognac apiece had disappeared, they were all eager to start.

  They rose, paid for their meal and exited the Inn. It was after noon, and the citizens of Rathburg swirled about them. The band paid no attention to them; their minds were focused on the work ahead. Still, Sebastian caught some of the looks they were given in passing, and felt the underlying sense of distance. They passed by the cottage Sebastian and Peyton shared in favor of Klaus and Damon's place, which was slightly larger.

  They'd set up a small studio of sorts in one room using small, high quality backstage amplifiers, a very small simplistic mixing board, and Klaus' four track recorder. Klaus set up the equipment with practiced ease, then turned to Sebastian.

  "Get the tape, will you Sebastian?"

  Sebastian nodded. He had no idea how Klaus knew he'd have it with him, but he kept several tapes in a small felt-lined compartment of his synthesizer case, and the tape in question was among them. He'd carried it, in fact, since the day he'd first heard it. He produced the cassette, and Klaus popped it into the machine. Turning so that he could watch all of their reactions at once, he hit the play button.

  He watched Peyton and Damon as the moody, soulful tune wailed out of the monitor speakers. It was a very different type of thing from their other music, much softer and more subtle. The two never changed expression, nor did they move. When the song ended, they turned, exchanged a glance, and Peyton grinned.

  "My God, Klaus," he said. "You'll make slaves of the entire audience with music like that! If you sing that to all those women, how will I ever manage to steal a kiss from any of them?"

  Damon said nothing. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he reached immediately for his guitar, setting controls and changing his lower string tuning. The others watched in silence.

  Damon turned on his amplifier, hit a note, re-adjusted the controls, and began to play. It was a harmonic replica of the harp solo, played through a stereo chorus and a flanger (set on low). Klaus froze, stared, and concentrated on the sound. It was beautiful. Damon's eyes were closed, and it was a full two minutes before, blinking and shaking his head, he stopped the strings with his pick hand and returned Klaus' stare.

  They were all still and silent until Klaus gave a signal, and they went to their instruments. It was like being on stage; they communicated without words and moved as a single unit. Klaus pressed the record button on the tape deck and stepped to his microphone. He tossed his long, golden hair out of his eyes.

  Sebastian didn't wait for more signals. The need to play gripped him, and he began the harp solo, modifying it to match what he'd heard in the Inn, when Klaus had hummed the tune and twisting it closer to what Damon had played only moments before. Halfway through the solo, Damon insinuated his guitar and wove around the notes with an almost inhuman cunning.

  Behind them all, in the corner, a shimmer of cymbals rose, followed by a slow, resonant drumbeat. It was powerful, but sinuous, seemingly off the rhythm, but then, somehow, perfectly in sync. Klaus closed his eyes, let his head fall back, drew the microphone to his lips and began the first verse. His voice rose steadily until it competed equally with the instruments and became the lead, the rest a complicated and magical backdrop of sound.

  There was no hesitation in their performance, not the slightest hint of discord, even in the transitions between verses. They played, and Klaus sang. When his voice faded, Sebastian and Damon soared with a twining solo that brought tears to both their eyes and threatened to blind them. They faded back into the drumbeat, and Peyton brought it all to a close with the same shimmer of cymbals he'd used to bring it to life. It was over.

  Sebastian stepped back from his keyboard as if his fingers had been burned. Damon lifted the guitar strap over his head and let the instrument fall to the floor with a jarring crash of amplified sound and feedback. He walked out of the room without looking back. Peyton sat behind his drums, eyes glazed and empty. Klaus had never stopped staring at the heavens

  Sebastian staggered toward the door. On his way past, he managed to flip the off switch on Damon's amplifier and cut the horrible grinding sound. Once outside, he and Damon headed in opposite directions. Damon walked toward the town; Sebastian headed for the mountain, and the solitude of the trees.

  All of them sought the same thing – a long moment of private silence that would not break the spell of the melody echoing through their minds.

  Chapter Two

  The last day before the concert passed in a blur. There were more promoters and slick-haired corporate suits running around near the stage and perimeter of the fenced concert area than Sebastian could Count. He watched them swarm like ants and shook his head. Along with the promoters, there were early-arriving concert-goers in bright vans, low-slung sports cars, and even a couple of chartered buses. All the local businesses were closed, with the exception of the Flagon and Barrel, which would probably rake in more income in sales and lose more in damages this one night than any entire year of its previous existence.

  The locals had abandoned the streets. Their doors were closed and locked, and their windows shuttered as if they expected a great storm. It might have been from fear, but for some reason Sebastian didn't believe it. They weren't frightened; they just didn't want to be involved. The citizens of Rathburg had conceded the moment, divorced themselves from the nightmare circus of noise and glitter that had washed over them and stolen their reality, and sealed themselves away to wait for it to pass.

  The band stayed out of sight, for the most part, not wanting to be seen early and mobbed by over-eager fans. Klaus moved silently behind the scenes, checking the layout of wiring and lighting, testing microphones, smiling at anyone important in that way of his that put even the stiffest-necked promoter at ease.

  Sebastian watched his friend work for a moment, then turned and went in search of Damon and Peyton. He found them in the studio, sharing a bottle of wine and a loaf of g
ood, homemade bread they'd scavenged from the Inn. Damon picked idly at one of the two or three acoustic guitars they always had lying about. It took a moment for Sebastian to register that the tune he played was a low-key version of the solo from the new song.

  "Like the calm before the storm, eh?" Sebastian said as he entered, taking a seat beside Peyton. "It's hard to believe it's even happening. I mean, a show begins with the dressing rooms and make-up girls, and the headaches. This is a bit…different."

  "Damned spooky is what it is," Peyton mumbled. "Damon and I have been talking about this bloody mystery song of the Maestro's. I mean, I've been playing drums for years, and I've played a lot of music, but never anything like that. The damned song played itself. Hell, it played us. It's just not normal, and it's going to be hard to control an audience when Klaus sets his voice to it, backed by the power of those stacks out there."

  Sebastian shook his head slowly. The same thoughts had occurred to him more than once, but he'd thought it his own paranoia. To hear Peyton say it made it more real, and more frightening. "Just more of Klaus' magic," Sebastian said at last, only half convinced himself. "You know he'll never fail to surprise us, Peyton.we should be used to it by now."

  "No," Damon said, "I mean, he made the tape, and the words are his, but there's more to this than that. When I heard it, it was as if I already knew the song. I didn't improvise that lead. I played it from memory. And Peyton's drums – no offense, man, but you don't ever come up with a beat like that without some work and some thought." The guitarist's eyes shifted to Meet Sebastian's gaze. "And how did you follow transitions that had never been laid out?"

  Sebastian stared at Damon and blinked. That had never occurred to him, and now he wondered why. They'd played the song only once, and yet there had been nuances of rhythm, key changes, even a short bridge, and all without a signal from anyone when each section should begin, or end.

  "What could it mean?" He asked at last. "I mean, it's no use crying impossible about something that has already happened. What the hell could explain something like that?"

  "You found the song first," Peyton pointed out. "Suppose you see if you can remember where. Maybe we've all heard it somewhere and it was just so long ago we can't remember where, or when. If so, it's possible your little harp riff brought it back to us, you know?"

  Peyton's grammar was lacking, as usual, but Sebastian saw immediately that what he said made sense. It would not only explain the fluidity of the song, but it would also ease all of their minds to know there was a logical explanation for what they'd experienced. He sank back in his chair and tried to remember.

  "I think," He said at last, "that it might have been my third year at university." Closing his eyes, he tried to sink back through time and put himself in the proper frame of mind. "It was a fairly rare occasion, even in a fine arts school, when there was a harp recital. There are so few left in the world that can do the instrument justice. I went on a whim, nothing better to do, I guess. It's coming back to me, but I can't for the life of me remember the woman's name."

  As the memory suddenly gripped him, his eyes lost focus on the room, and his companions. The cottage walls receded and were replaced by ivy-clad towers and tall, stone walls.

  ~* ~

  Wind whipped loose leaves about in random patterns, scattering them across the steps to the pavilion. Sebastian's thoughts were random as well. It would be good to hear the harp played again. The harpist was thought to be among the finest remaining to the instrument – a true master. It was funny that he'd never heard her before, but who was he to question the professor's of such a grand institution?

  There were only a few others in the audience. It was the middle of a school week, and late for the beginning of a recital. It was scheduled to commence at 9:00 PM. Sebastian managed to slip up close to the stage where the view and acoustics were better. The curtains were still pulled, but there was scuffling and movement on the other side. Settling in, he removed his coat and draped it over the arm of the seat beside him.

  The auditorium felt ancient and imposing in its pompous grandeur. The curtains swooped elegantly to a high, domed ceiling that arched over him like a huge, ornate bowl. The walls were hung with stately lamps that resembled the oil-filled torches of days gone by. They suffused the room with a mellow golden light that did not raise the shadows too sharply, but instead blended them into the edges of things, melting everything that met his gaze into a single whole. The effect was relaxing, and Sebastian was just beginning to feel that he might nod off when the curtains slid to the sides with a steady rush of sound.

  And there she was. His emotions in that moment conflicted violently, defying description. She was lovely, and the harp itself was huge and magnificent. Her red hair cascaded over the white material of her gown like molten lava. Her eyes – and it was odd that he could make them out so clearly from such a distance – were sea green, and very deep. He could have sworn they were focused directly on him, but he was certain, at the same time, that every man in the audience, and some of the women, no doubt, felt that same thing. He found that he had stared at her, dazed, for so long that she'd begun to play, and he hadn't noticed.

  What she played was the introduction to a song, a song that would stick with him when her face and her name did not. There had been no opening ceremony to the recital, and the program didn't list the music by composer or title, but Sebastian remembered how her voice rose to join the harp. It was a very high, powerful voice, and she blended it with the notes of her instrument so closely that at times they sounded like ghostly after-images of one another. Her gaze never left him, and by that point he was curiously certain that it was he who she'd stared at.

  There were other songs; some he could recall vaguely, others he had no memory of whatsoever. It was well after midnight when he departed the auditorium. He wandered the streets for hours and finally made his way to a local pub, where he'd haunted a dark booth until the bartender asked him to leave.

  The woman's eyes followed him. If he closed his own, and it had become increasingly difficult not to do so under the influence of too many hours without sleep and too many mugs of beer., the memory of those eyes filled his mind. Storms raged in their green depths. Their power was oddly compelling and sharply focused. He was the focus, but he didn't know how, or why.

  Sebastian saw messages in that gaze, promises and warnings. He felt a huge sense of loss when, upon finally arriving at his dormitory, he realized that he would never see her again. The realization shocked him awake.

  He turned and ran back to the auditorium, his eyes watering from the cool air rushing over his face. The auditorium was dark, the doors closed and locked. Only empty shadows and a few loose flyers, caught in the wayward fingers of the breeze greeted his return. He turned and trudged back to his room, and his bed. As he slept, the memory of what had happened waned and slipped slowly away.

  ~ * ~

  "Hey, man, cut it out! Sebastian!"

  Peyton's huge, bear-like paws gripped his shoulders and shook him roughly. The drummer's voice was filled with urgency, but Sebastian could not for the life of him figure out what it was that his friend wanted. He felt as though he'd been dragged from a pleasant dream, and as his mind cleared a bit he almost resented being awakened into too-bright reality.

  "Wake up, man," Peyton said again. "What the hell happened? Jesus, this is strange enough without you going off to La-la Land on us."

  Sebastian shook the drummer off and stared around the room. His eyes widened in comprehension. The room focused, and he knew where he was – what he'd been doing. Had he fallen asleep? He had only been relaxing, trying to piece together that odd song and his memories of that long ago recital, and…

  "Boy," Damon said, picking his guitar up again, "she must have been something."

  "Who?" Sebastian asked? "What the hell are you talking about? Who was something?"

  Damon and Peyton stared at him as if he was some sort of giant, talking bug that had wandered
in and claimed to be Elvis. Falling back into his seat, Peyton said slowly.

  "You just told us about a harp recital, man, a red-headed woman – staying up all night – drowning in her eyes? You don't remember any of that?"

  Sebastian's expression must have answered for him. Harp recital? Something tugged at his senses, something about green eyes, but it wouldn't surface.

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said finally. "I was just relaxing, trying to remember where I'd heard that song. I must have dozed off, or something, but I don't remember anything about redheads, or harp recitals. Maybe you guys were hallucinating. I think I was asleep."

  He knew how lame it sounded. It was obvious that something had just happened, but it was frightening to be the focus of their attention and not to know why. One more strange, unexplained moment to tack onto the current string. He didn't know what else to say, so he asked the question foremost in his mind.

  "What did I say, then, Peyton?" he asked. "Tell me what I said."

  Looking at him as though he might explode, disappear, or turn into some kind of monster, Peyton brought the wine bottle to his lips, took a huge swallow, and replayed the lost moments of Sebastian's afternoon to his friend's bewilderment.

  "But," Sebastian said, when it had all been told, "I don't remember that. I mean, I obviously don't remember telling you anything, but I don't remember any such harp recital, even after you've repeated it for me. I'm not the kind to forget memorable performances – especially from sexy women with whirlpools for eyes."

  "We never should've come here," Damon said finally. ‘All this shit about Klaus' father, and playing on the mountain where his family lived, it isn't about the music at all. It's about him, and at the moment it's all a bit too freaked out for me. All he sees is this big night, playing on the mountain. Now he drags out that song as another way of making it special. I don't want to play it at all."