The Seven Gifts

by John Mellor

  The effect was electric.

  “Who? Where?" The Minister almost screamed with relief at the prospect of maybe seeing the morrow. “It must be brought here immediately," he demanded. “At once! I will send a battalion of the Queen's Escort to fetch them. Where is that band?" He pointed almost accusingly at the young courtier, as though the whole business were his fault.

  “We..el," stammered the young man, now wishing he had kept quiet. It was probably only the Chief Minister who would have had the chop anyway. “Er, it's not quite as simple as that," he said. He explained: “Some years ago I used to play the psychological synthesizer in a band called ‘Half a Ton of Nutty Slack', run by Coalhole Custer ...." He paused, brought up by the sudden tension he felt in the room.

  The Minister of Technology whistled: “Coalhole Custer! You played with him? That lunatic troublemaker? He's not a musician." The minister felt himself begin to perspire at the very thought of the man. He wiped his brow and calmed himself before continuing: “You must be joking. I can just see the face of the Princess if he appears in the ballroom and strikes up that cacophonous rubbish of his. We'd all be boiled in oil."

  There was a strange silence in the room. The young courtier who had confessed to having played with Coalhole Custer quietly sat down, now regretting having opened his mouth. The others stared at him, as though he were a strange being from some foreign land.

  “Just a minute," came the testy voice of the Chief Minister. “I don't know much about this Custer fellow, but as far as I'm concerned the Princess wants a band and if he's got one he'll do."

  The room erupted in raucous cries of dissent, but the Chief stood his ground. He held his hand up for silence. “If there is no band here tomorrow," he said firmly, “our heads will be impaled on the palace gate. If there is a band, they might not be. So unless any of you know of another band in the country that has not been banished to the Snowmen, we will just have to take our chances with this Coalhole Custer." He looked around for dissent, but the logic of his argument was irrefutable. Only the young fellow who had played with Coalhole Custer spoke.

  “Er, he might not come," the young man muttered diffidently. “He lives alone up in the mountains now, and never has anything to do with the city. He was thrown out if you remember, and I don't think he likes it down here very much."

  The Chief Minister smiled unpleasantly. “He will come," he said, in a deceptively quiet voice. There was no mistaking the meaning.

  Coalhole Custer sat huddled by his campfire. He poked gently at the embers, stirring up sparks and crackles in the slowly dying fire as he did. His eyes focused quietly on the red flickering in its depths as he hummed a few bars of his new song, as though seeking a reaction in the flames. For a long time he sat there, intermittently humming as he played around with the music, gradually drawing around it some sort of structure. Finally he picked up his guitar and struck a few chords to adjust the tuning; then he began to sing softly to the glow of his camp fire:

  Look into my eyes, Prince of Darkness,

  tell me what it is you see.

  Is the Lord of Light in me

  or is my soul reserved for thee?

  Will you fight the Lord of Light,

  Prince of Darkness,

  for the soul that lies in me?

  Is it worth your while, my Prince,

  to save my soul from being free?

  My life, O Prince of Darkness,

  is it rooted in the Earth?

  Will my sanity in whispers sound

  around this barren land in which

  not even you, my Prince, have cause for mirth?

  Can I walk upon the emptiness

  within the nestling void of death

  that follows me from birth?

  I must delve into your darkness,

  look towards the Lord of Light,

  and leave the twilight to the Earth.

  My life, O Prince of Darkness,

  does it lie within the Moon?

  Will I bask in silken starlight

  as I sway, seduced in sorrow by

  the piper's haunting tune?

  Can I withstand the sirens

  and their symphonies of darkness

  that would draw me to the devil spider's loom?

  Have I any hope of holding out?

  O Lord of Light,

  please make the Sun come soon.

  My life, O Prince of Darkness,

  will it take me to the Sun?

  Can I survive the solitude

  in all the seas of loneliness

  around this race I know that I must run?

  Lord of Light, help me survive

  the race; it seems each time

  I've won I've just begun.

  Hold up for me the hope,

  O Lord of Light,

  thy will be done.

  Look into my eyes, Prince of Darkness,

  tell me what it is you see.

  Is the Lord of Light in me

  or is my soul reserved for thee?

  Will you fight the Lord of Light,

  Prince of Darkness,

  for the soul that lies in me?

  Do you think you have the power,

  Prince of Darkness,

  to prevent me being free?

  Lord of Light, I see the night -

  please rescue me.

  Lord of Light, I see the night ....

  Please .... rescue me.

  The haunting notes lingered on the still night air, as though addressing themselves to the darkness. The cat lay close to the fire purring quietly, and Coalhole Custer remained quite still, his fingers holding, as though reluctant to leave, the closing chord of his new song.

  “I like it," came a familiar voice from close behind his shoulder. The musician whirled round, to face his one-time psychological synthesizer player, now a junior courtier in the Snow Queen's city. They had been close friends in the old playing days, before things had become too hot for the band and Coalhole had been hounded, not altogether unwillingly at the time, to the hills.

  “Well, well!" A welcoming grin lit up the guitarist's face. “Psycho! What a surprise. Come and get warm." He grabbed his friend's arm and steered him to the fire, where he rattled up the smouldering ashes and piled on some more logs, along with the kettle.

  “Kicked you out as well, have they?" he enquired, when they had settled themselves by the fire.

  “No, Coalhole," said the courtier, “but I'm in big trouble, and only you can help. It's the Ice Princess's Twenty-First birthday tomorrow and we haven't got a band. She rejected the lot of them; sent them to the Snowmen. The only band left in the entire kingdom is the old ‘Half a Ton of Nutty Slack', and the Chief Minister will personally emasculate me if we don't get it together for the ball tomorrow night. I've found all the others, but we need you. Will you come?" The young man was pleading.

  Coalhole Custer grinned. That was original - him being asked to play at an official function. Then he laughed. The only band left in the land, eh? Whatever his feelings about the Ice Princess and life in the city, he was a musician, and there were interesting possibilities here. He scratched his long yellow beard thoughtfully.

  “Does the Princess know that we are supposed to be the band?" he asked.

  “No," said his friend nervously. “She might have us all shot when she finds out; but if there is no band, she'll shoot us anyway. So we've nothing to lose." He looked hard at the unkempt figure of the guitarist and crossed his fingers surreptitiously. “I won't blame you if you don't want to do it," he went on. “It's your life and your decision, and anything could happen down there when she finds out, although we've bribed as many of the guards as we can".

  “Never you mind about that, Sunshine," said Coalhole briskly, suddenly making up his mind. “Tomorrow night is going to see the first appearance of Coalhole Custer's new band - by appointment to Her Regal Majesty the Ice Princess herself. And it'll be a stormer, believe me - the start of a new musical era." He chuckled and
picked up his guitar.

  “Rehearsal time, Psycho my old buddy. Let's run through the programme."

  The city streets were athrong with people; noblemen and their ladies, Princes and minor Princesses, courtiers, ministers and Royalty from neighbouring lands; all clutching their gold-embossed invitations and wending their way to the ball. The gutters had been whitewashed, and the common people sent out into the fields for the night. The city was clean and tidy, as befitted the Coming-of-Age celebrations of a cold-blooded Ice Princess.

  Gay bunting filled the streets and gay people the carriages. Trumpeters stood on either side of the Palace steps sounding a fanfare for the arrival of each carriage. The Royal Standard flew from the flagpole. At the top of the steps the Ice Princess stood in her new ball-gown cordially greeting her guests, while backstage of the ballroom Coalhole Custer's new band was tuning up.

  Finally, all the guests were received, and the Ice Princess made her regal entry to the ballroom on the arm of a suitably handsome neighbouring Prince. She looked very beautiful; quite splendid in fact, and was rapturously received by all the guests spread around the room sipping champagne. The ranks parted to allow her escort to guide her to a small daïs close by the main stage, which she mounted before turning to the assembled company.

  “I thank you all," she said, “for your fine gifts, and I welcome you to this Grand Ball. Let the music begin."

  The heavy drape curtains drew back from the main stage and the wild, yellow-haired figure of Coalhole Custer stepped forward. He turned with a smile and bowed low to the Ice Princess. An audible gasp came from her lips and she stared at him, tight-lipped with anger. Belligerent murmurings rumbled from the crowd.

  Ignoring their reactions, the guitarist walked slowly into the centre of the stage and surveyed his audience. They glared at him challengingly: the nobility of the kingdom; soon to be sliding slowly beneath a sea of champagne and lust. And why not? the glares implied.

  It was their night. A night for pleasure. The night of the wrong wives. When the guardians of the Nation's morals might forget their own.

  The common herd was in the fields; armed guards at the doors. Who need pretend between these walls? The band must conform. Their scowls relaxed into satisfied smiles. The singer dare not censure them.

  Coalhole Custer smiled too. Then he turned and addressed the glowering Princess: “Your Highness." He bowed again. “My first song is for you. A celebration of your flowering."

  He stepped back, picked up his old thirteen string guitar and slung it round his neck.

  “OK!" he shouted. “Let's go. One, two, three, four."

  The audience was stunned, as a melody of exquisite gentleness flowed softly from Coalhole Custer's band. It was conventional, beautiful, and totally unexpected. The ballroom was hushed and they all listened, as Coalhole Custer sang:

  You must be sad, my little Princess,

  in your boudoir full of incense,

  when there's nothing in the world

  you haven't tried.

  How much d'you have to pay

  to get your body through the day?

  Have you ever seen your soul, or has it died?

  Since this morning's scented bath

  not a cloud has crossed your path -

  your life's a crossword someone

  slowly fills each day.

  Today your hair is fair

  and your breasts are almost bare,

  for your body is the key that pays the way.

  He sang slowly, in a clear, well-modulated voice such that every word was perfectly audible to the Ice Princess and her guests. The Princess stood on the daïs rigid, her face white and set. The guests began to mutter. Coalhole ignored them and continued singing, waving in a little extra bite from the Elephant Tusk Horn Section;

  I grieve for you, my Princess,

  safe within your cloud of incense

  where you never see the world that's going round.

  You'd rather take a bath

  than walk the endless winding path

  to where the Roller Coaster Road can be found.

  The muttering turned into uproar, with guests shouting and brandishing their fists. The guards from the main door advanced on the stage, called in by the irate Princess.

  Suddenly the singer chopped his hand through the air and the song finished abruptly; on an ill-fitting, expectant note. It caught the attention of the guests and the ballroom went quiet. The guards paused and looked to the Princess for guidance; but she had left.

  In the momentary silence, Coalhole Custer's voice carried clearly to all parts of the crowded room: “For you, my friends; drunk, drugged, satiated; occult-ridden in the endless hunt for happiness, I give PANDORA’S BOX”.

  He raised his guitar high in the air and struck a chord that dug deep into the marrow of the watchers' bones, freezing them like a charmer his snake. The sound lingered, as though resonating within the guests. There was something peculiar, almost purposeful, in the manner of its going.

  Then the band echoed it, in a wild soaring run of theme and variations that streamed among the spellbound guests like a plague of spiders, spinning its web of music to hold them entranced, and captive before the stage. And on this foundation the musicians layered yet more music until the whole palace trembled in a desperate attempt to contain the ever-rising crescendo of sound. Then they stopped. The sudden silence was almost unbearable.

  Somewhere a window shattered, splintering and tinkling to the polished floor of the ballroom. Its faint echoes accentuated the silence. Then Coalhole Custer began to sing, the ‘Half Ton of Nutty Slack' filling in behind him to build complex, subtle patterns of strange and oppressive music. It seemed to permeate the very fabric of the palace, reaching out through the walls as though to escape, and Coalhole Custer sang:

  You take the path to Wonderland

  Through the door marked forty-nine

  Where the werewolves lope in moonlight

  Through the snows within your mind

  And the vampires rise to swallow you

  In the land of unknown time ---

  You'll never hide away from what is true

  For the images reflect what lies in you

  Another window broke at the far end of the ballroom and some plaster rattled down off the wall. The music was throbbing heavily now, weird and vaguely out of control. It began to pound at the walls and pierce the windows, trying to break its way out. But Coalhole Custer sang on:

  When spiders crawl across your eyes

  And your limbs begin to shake

  When snakes swim through your daylight

  From the darkness of their lake

  When reality is doubtful

  Will you know which path to take ---

  You'll never hide away from what is true

  For the images reflect what lies in you

  As he sang, oblivious to all around him, his strange music filled the ballroom like an alien entity. It crept into every crack and carving; it ran along the exquisitely moulded lines of plaster that covered the high ceiling; it swirled around the paintings, the icons, the graven images.

  Wherever its delicate fingers probed, it drew out resident demons; sucked them from their sanctuaries to be cast helpless and screaming into the spiritual wastes of the ballroom. And as they went they dragged their hiding places with them, pounding the terrified guests with broken images, bricks and dying paintings.

  Then it suddenly retreated; permeating the bones of the musicians as though to hide from the horrors it had disturbed. And its alien resonance drove them into a wild frenzy of playing that fed it and strengthened it, charging it with energy from a long and furious run of riffs and discordant key changes that took the musicians to the very brink of their already crumbling sanity. Then, rejuvenated, like a bolt of lightning it struck back into the room.

  It left Psycho foaming at the mouth, clutching at his psychological synthesizer like a man possessed. The copper triple bass player was kneeling on his
instrument in a desperate attempt to stop it levitating, his eyes bulging like balloons. The Elephant Tusk Horn Section was upside down, pumping out a strange, grinding dissonance that seemed to drive the other instruments berserk. The dodo drums appeared to be dancing; pounding away blindly by themselves as the drummer lay flat on the floor in a trance.

  Only Coalhole Custer seemed untouched by it all. He stood at the front of the stage dragging indescribable chords out of that old thirteen string guitar, his long yellow hair flailing in the peculiar breeze that seemed to blow from nowhere.

  Then a heavy truss crashed from the ceiling, pinning guests to the floor in a shower of dust and debris. Unable to reach the exit through the jam of bodies, the ones still able to move added their screams to the wild, electrifying music. And Coalhole Custer sang on:

  When the cities fall in ruins

  Will you damn the human race

  When the sun goes supernova

  Will you smile upon its face

  And when Armageddon strikes us

  Will you cross yourself in case ---

  You'll never hide away from what is true

  For the images reflect what lies in you

  The music was now clawing at the very structure of the palace, breaking up foundations and vibrating the huge oak roof beams into clouds of feathery dust which filled the air, choking guests and musicians alike. Deprived of support, half the roof collapsed in a roar that almost drowned out the music.

  Smoke poured through the gaping hole and Psycho in his frenzy could see Heaven itself, the eyes of God peering through the stars at the carnage caused by Coalhole Custer's music.