The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  Alma! I didn’t know her well, but am saddened to hear this news. They called her “the little bird that could,” and she was the darling of Frenchmen Street. She could sing anything, from gritty torch ballads to vulnerable tunes, breathy and childlike. I recall her sunny disposition and fearless array of tattoos.

  “I heard something about that,” Teddy pipes up. “They found her on Louisiana Avenue by the roots of that big ol’ oak tree, just down from New Orleans Music Exchange. Autopsy reveals some sort of poisoning.”

  “She was a shifter? Oh gods, no …” I hear myself moan. “I saw a dead mockingbird yesterday in that same spot. That was her?” I try to fend off the wave of guilt, even though I don’t know what I could have done to prevent it.

  “I have been receiving information over the last few months through a network of other Alphas,” Rowan continues. “Something is harassing shifter existence. We don’t yet know how widely spread the threats are outside of New Orleans, but some clandestine movement is at large.”

  “Sounds like some sort of government conspiracy to me,” Teddy murmurs pensively.

  Rowan shakes his head. “For the government to want to use us, they’d have to admit that we exist. The repercussions would be too severe if there were ever a leak; not just about the secrecy, but also the indentured servitude. We’re not talking about Roswell rumors, we’re talking American citizens … mostly.” He finishes this sentence with a respectful nod at Raúl.

  “Does anyone have a clear reason why?” I ask. I am only just now embracing this new life and this new sense of belonging. I can’t bear to have another precious thing violated.

  Sylvia is the voice of reason. “Does it have to be complicated? Do you remember the principle of ‘Occam’s Razor’? Basically the simplest explanation is probably it. It’s most likely either greed or fear. The same reason that countries are at war, that greed battles empathy, that prejudice sends the masses on proverbial witch hunts.”

  Raúl lets fly an abrupt chortle. “What, they’re out to get women in long black cloaks?” he teases her. With lightning speed, my best friend whips out a ruler from seemingly thin air, grabs Raúl by the wrist, and smacks him smartly across the palm of his hand. “A hundred Our Fathers, you scandalous child!” she castigates him. The big man pretends to cry like a little boy as the rest of us double over in hysterics, shattering our tension and fear of the unknown threat. I wonder if Sylvia always keeps that ruler handy, like pepper spray.

  The ensuing hard laughter that springs from us all breaks the tension, and I am grateful for this tiny morsel of relief. Then Rowan wipes his eyes and continues the discussion. “There are more packs out there that any of you can possibly imagine, and all packs are united by some common factor; for us it is music. And even more groups of other kinds of shifters exist, even for the non-gregarious ones; more like a kind of union without all the fees and restrictions.

  “Some of the more high-falootin’ shifters and I are in the process of organizing a combination awareness rally and musical showcase this coming harvest moon to send out a warning through cryptic lyrical messages and more complex wordless signals through harmonies, polyrhythms, and energy signals. Our task is to alert our people, as well as dispense healing and courage. It’s most likely going to take place at The Howlin’ Wolf, publicly billed as the standard ambiguous ‘private party, but Teddy suggested that we call it …”

  “Howlapalooza!” Teddy chimes in on cue.

  “The powers-that-be will listen if they get word that Rowan has written lyrics and will be performing, which he seldom does anymore … this is why he does not write or play live, save special occasions,” Sylvia explains. “Our Alpha is a much bigger deal than he’s been letting on.”

  “One good piece of news is that we have an organization of our own trying to pinpoint and eradicate whoever is behind all this,” says Rowan. “Shifter Infiltration Network, or SIN, is a covert intelligence operation dedicated to keeping our kind safe and out of the public eye. Which leads me to the next topic: modern communication.”

  We are each given a special cell phone with the rest of the pack on speed dial, as well as the numbers of a few other top-ranking lycans in the area. The contacts are highly encrypted, and the ringtones are designed to be only heard by other lycans—like a dog whistle of the highest technical innovations.

  The different members of the pack are assigned different tasks for my training in different aspects of lycan life. I am thrilled to have this new world opened to me by the people I love and trust. But a tiny shard of self-doubt nags me. I am the neophyte, and worry that I will be the weak link in the chain. A band is only as strong as its weakest member, I have so often heard, and hope that this also does not apply to a pack. I push the worry with a mighty sweep to the back of my mind and try to refocus on everything that lies ahead for my new life.

  I am the only member of the pack who has never had any training, but the others are eager to show me the ropes. “I wonder what would have happened if you guys hadn’t finally called me out,” I muse. The image on the “Join or Die” flag —a snake hacked to bits—comes to mind, and I barely repress a shudder.

  “This is why it’s a hard road for a lone wolf coming into its own,” Sylvia assents. “Imagine having to grow into adolescence without anyone warning you that you were going to get boobies or periods! Sorry …” She aims the apology at the remaining males. “The rest of us had training by various elders. Rowan and Raúl had their families, I had family friends who were lycans, and later special factions of the Church …”

  “And I had the Boy Scouts!” finishes Teddy with a grin. “Believe me, kiddo, the others had it way easier. There is much more to being a werewolf that just trying to suppress your state every full moon. You have to learn the physical, spiritual, social, and mystical aspects of it all.”

  For physical training, Rowan urges me to spend more time at the gym. I freeze. The last person to suggest that I do that was Cal, and it was because he was forever telling me that I was fat. I try not to hear the echo of his cold, silky voice in my mind …

  Rowan picks up on my distress. Damn! So much for controlling my emotions.

  Mercifully, he pretends not to notice. He explains, “Two different sets of metabolism for two different corporeal forms can really throw your body out of whack. You burn more calories and body fat when you’re in wolf form, but when you change back to human, your metabolism won’t know what to do, and it will try to overcompensate. If your human form stays in good physical shape, you’ll have an easier time switching. Have you ever seen a fat wild animal?”

  As a matter of fact, I have. “The captive tiger at that truck stop in Grosse Tete.” I remember seeing this poor creature come waddling out of its hiding place in its cement cell, looking more like a neurotic Garfield than an exotic beast.

  He nods. “Exactly. A body designed to hunt for its prey can gain more weight if it’s not challenged. Werewolves can get out of shape just like any living creature, no matter what our advantages may be in strength and speed. If you spend a good amount of time at the gym, you will not only have a prolonged life, but also everything—your mind, your reflexes, your endurance, and yes, even your bass chops—will benefit.”

  “Oh, by the way,” he adds, “you’ll want to stretch and rehydrate your body as much as possible after switching back to human form. You know how your muscles can get sore after a strenuous workout? Imagine how sore you’ll be after a complete metamorphosis of your muscular-skeletal system and them back again. But don’t worry … just like exercise, it gets easier and easier to adjust the more you do it. Don’t overtax your body, and remember to meditate afterward.”

  Raúl is placed in charge of overseeing this training. His expertise lies in the body, the physical vehicle through which we live as musicians and as wolves. I have a feeling that he’s going to tease me through my struggles, and that I’m going to be flipping him the bird a lot.

  Social training is the mission given t
o Teddy, and I grin. We get to be drinking buddies? Of course, there’s more involved than that. A lover of world music and a walking encyclopedia of cultures, Teddy is the teacher of communication, social mores, protocol, and codes.

  Sylvia is, of course, assigned to guide me through the spiritual process. I am relieved not only to be able to continue to confide in her, but to hopefully learn what I so desperately want to hear: that I am not a monster, but something inherently good, instead.

  Rowan will talk me through the more eldritch musical theories and emotional shielding. I will learn to let the waters of my feelings flow, freeze, or evaporate. He tells me that energy shielding is sometimes crucial to survival. He will teach me more about warding. We are to meet on a weekly basis. My heart does a cartwheel. Life just gets better and better.

  Before we adjourn we test out the backline equipment provided for us. I am like a babe in toyland: the brand new Markbass combo has a wide range of tones that I can coax out of it. Teddy tries out the SWR bass combo, and we swap back and forth, comparing sounds. Rowan answers my silent question about where all this stuff came from: the combination of his Alpha heritage and years of careful financial planning and people-watching have allowed him to form a nest egg and put together what he considers the perfect musical pack.

  We are all supposed to meet to play music together on a regular basis. Playing, I am told, helps ease any tensions in pack hierarchy. It also strengthens the bonds.

  I have Teddy drop me off on St. Charles Avenue at the edge of Audubon Park, and I walk home along Exposition Street the rest of the way. It’s a nice day, and I need to savor the howl still ringing in my ears for a spell.

  On my way back from our “rehearsal”, I am more than a little bit overwhelmed. My life has changed so drastically, and I’ve kept my secret guarded for so long.

  Until I met my pack, I had never told a soul. Yet somehow only one person seemed to figure it out. No words were ever said, but his implications were enough to make me sick with fear.

  The echo of his words rings in my ears. You’re just a stupid little bitch … you’ll never be anything but a stupid little bitch … I know just what to do with girls like you … I shudder at the memory of his fingers gripping my hair, my eyes filled with tears from pain and bewilderment as he nearly ripped my locks from my scalp.

  Calvin Quinn had been tall and charismatic. He would never be what anyone would consider handsome, but his presence was compelling from the first moment I saw him in the audience at one of my gigs with old Slackjaw Harrison. He was well liked by many bigwigs in the music industry. His veneer was generous and chivalrous. Fond of fine dining, fine wine, art, and music, he was a collector and a connoisseur. My bass playing and stage presence were definitely things he wanted slices of.

  I had been playing with Slackjaw for a few years, and Cal had bought every CD of his that I appeared on. Next thing I knew, he had booked the band to play for a private show at the house of a famous NBA athlete. Next gig was for a major corporation, which paid us more money in one night than any of us had seen in six months. And then it became a blur of parties, dinners, galleries, and studios. Sometimes we would meet for dates, and sometimes he would disappear for a few weeks at time. It was all a bit surreal, but I never questioned it. I had never been prized by a male like this before, especially by such a jet setter.

  My parents had found Cal utterly charming when they came into town for a visit, and he took us all to lunch at the establishment of one of the most prestigious chefs in the city. The vintage wine was flowing freely, and he had an expert tongue for the perfect region and year to compliment our entrees. There was nothing not to like; he was wealthy and polite, and they thought he would be good for their self-employed daughter who lived from gig to gig. He discussed art history with my mother, fishing and science with my father. He was a canny businessman who would buy property or land, increase its value through shrewd marketing, then resell it for twice the amount, and start all over again. He never stayed with any one endeavor for more than a few years, but was always on the move. And his ventures took him everywhere. New York. London. Dubai. Bangkok.

  And he had a major dark side, as I had discovered too late. I couldn’t help but wonder if Cal was affiliated with some sort of organized crime.

  When I began to sense that something was not quite right about him and began to withdraw, he began to insinuate that he knew that something was not quite right about me in turn. And then the questions in that light and dangerous tone began: “Does your family even know what you are?” By then I had had a feeling that they already knew on some level, but would be devastated that I had not only chosen the curse willingly but also had actually relished it, dreaming of the day that I could one day terrorize and kill and maim. My parents would never be the same if they knew, so I was willing to take this shameful secret to the grave. And Cal somehow had sensed this, becoming a sword of Damocles hanging over me, ready to strike at any moment.

  I shudder hard, forcing myself to focus on the present, the sunlight, the beauty of the huge oak trees, and the passing horses from Cascade Sables. Cal was somewhere far away now—in Vancouver, last I’d heard. And now I am a stronger, wiser wolf with a whole new life ahead of me.

  Back in the little hidey-hole of my apartment, it’s a relief to focus on the mundane for a spell. I let my gaze fall upon my collection of potentially harmful toys and my stash of exquisitely bad movies—I am still the same old me. Reassured, I settle down to my writing desk, which is partly my “altar,” adorned with nothing more than a candle, a trio of Rush bobblehead dolls, and a pair of tiny resin foo dogs that somehow got named “Rocco” and “Prestia.” I flip open my computer and check for messages from my website. I haven’t had a steady lucrative gig since Slackjaw’s passing, but refuse to let this be the only high point of my career. This site not only lets folks know where I’m playing, but also shows some samples of my playing as a way to get new work. I’m hoping to get back onto a big bandwagon soon.

  The very first message makes me audibly suck in my breath. It’s from the late night talk show I had auditioned for, Past Your Bedtime with Titus and Ronicus. I had submitted a video of a one-woman one-bass show, singing Joni Mitchell’s adaptation of Charles Mingus’ “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.” I was especially proud of that little gem, since I’d arranged it for six-string fretless bass, able to alternate between walking basslines and some jazzy little chords, singing the whole time. It had taken me months to prepare, and I click on the message with such alacrity, I almost accidentally delete it in the process. This could be my big break at last.

  Dear Ms. MacKinlay;

  We regret to inform you that your video was not chosen for our show. However, we encourage you to continue to pursue your creative endeavors.

  Yours truly,

  Management

  Continue to pursue my creative endeavors? How condescending is that? What else am I supposed to do, throw my bass in the Mississippi River? A snarl rises in my chest as I delete the message with a hard click, as if punching the key with any more force could somehow make this unidentified management feel it. The hard lump in my throat and tears stinging my eyes only aggravate my humiliation. It would be simple to text one of the pack and vent, but I would rather try to take it like a grownup. A few deep breaths ground me. Curiosity is the final nail in the coffin, provoking me into checking out show’s website to see who did make the cut, and it isn’t a name I recognize. It’s some female world music performer from Syria or Turkey or something like that.

  “You guys have been through this too, haven’t you?” I ask my bobbleheads. “But you eventually made it. You’re even in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame now. I just want to get one stinking crack at national exposure. Is that too much to ask?” They don’t have any answers for me, but they nod in sympathy.

  I take a moment to get a grip before perusing the rest of the messages in my inbox. A couple of them are nice notes from people who had seen me on other gigs. No inquiri
es about new work, though. Six different people have asked me when I’ll be playing next, or will I be playing on this date or that date—even though my entire gig schedule is posted on this very same website. By the time I have answered everyone’s emails, an entire hour has gone by. One complete stranger has even invited me for a romantic dinner, which creeps me out, and I politely decline. What am I, an escort? By now I just want to punch something, which wouldn’t be good for my hands.

  Social media offers me even less comfort. Local news reveals the murder of an NOPD cop, a mounted officer named Debra Colt. Policewomen are sometimes killed in the line of duty, which always saddens me, but what raises the hair on the back of my neck is a paragraph about the abnormal levels of distress the horses have been experiencing in the wake of Colt’s death.

  I close my laptop with a sigh.

  It dawns on me that I can sanctify my frustration without shame. A slightly obsessive-compulsive check to reassure myself that all of my blinds are drawn and all three locks—chain, sliding, and deadbolt—on my front door are bolted, and I strip. Unfolding into my full lupine form does bring me a sense of relief, as part of my animal brain is able to overlook ego and hurt feelings. The rest of me vents with a growl. It feels pretty wonderful actually, the vibrations resonating from my skull to my chest. Tension rolls off of me in waves, and the growl becomes a lullaby to myself. I leap onto my bed, lightly chiding myself for being allowed on the furniture, curl into a ball, and let this savage rumble lull me to sleep.

  It’s so awesome to have my little Honda back in one piece that the voyage out to the river parishes seems to take no time at all. Tires crunching on gravel, I pull up into the church parking lot in shockingly bright daylight. The old tree behind the building sways its branches in a new familiar light, as if throwing me a secret wink. The others have told me that the aspect of spirit is what needs to be most urgently attended. I am grateful to have Sylvia as my first instructor, comforted to be in the company of another woman in my early stages of initiation. Not that I can’t trust the others, but Sylvia is the person I know the most intimately.