The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  I had no idea that this event would be so surreal. I recognize a good many people here: local figureheads, audience regulars, casual acquaintances, and a great number of fellow musicians. I wonder who among us are shifters and who are humans just being blindly led through this labyrinth of disguise. Many people are wearing masks, some of which are either well-crafted and extremely expensive or perhaps not even masks at all. I see expensive suits and ball gowns complimented by fur, feathers, horns, hooves, scales, wings, and trappings that I’m fairly certain don’t exist in nature, at least not the natural world in which I grew up. With so many innovations being made these days in costumes—not to mention the money that some people are willing to shell out for them—it is impossible to tell what is real and what is fake. Many revelers sport ornate jewelry that I could never afford but can certainly admire. I can deduce that the ones wearing silver are not lycans.

  I hear a song emitting from the main ballroom: “A permit for perniciousness, and wild hearts one and all, a license for licentiousness, it’s called the Shifter’s Ball!”

  There is a central atrium with potted foliage of all kinds, giving the main room a jungle-ish feel. Smack in the middle of the room is a fifteen-foot papier mâché image of Ruthie the Duck Lady frozen in partial transformation, arms extending into wings. Space is cleared for dancing, and the band in the corner is masked. Predators dance with prey, and prey coyly string the predators along. Dominants of the same species engage in terpsichorean one-upmanship. Single males show their bright colors in hopes of luring a mate.

  We wander the rooms, each with a different theme. There is a room that contains a fish tank the size of a small movie screen, and some of the guests have already decided to take a dip with the dolphins and seals. One has an assortment of climbing trees, in which guests are lounging. We enter the one that features magical creatures, its main attraction being a giant ice sculpture of a unicorn head. Two little people attend the glacial hunting trophy, pouring vodka into a hole at the tip of its massive horn, ingenious interior plumbing causing the creature to weep chilled vodka tears. The diminutive man hands me a shot glass, smiling with a mouth full of needle sharp teeth bright against his mahogany skin. As I am led from room to room, I catch snatches of conversation. “We all know a neigh is just a bray with vibrato. Those horses don’t have anything on mules …”

  “She can have all the beer she wants, but keep her away from the margaritas! The salt will make her melt!”

  “No, there’s another reason he only likes missionary position. If he gets flipped on his back, he goes right to sleep! I swear I’m going to make a pair of boots out of him someday …”

  One guy is already face down at the bar, eyes rolled back in his head and tongue lolling out, but his buddy, a sharp-faced man with tiny eyes and a long nose winks at me. “He ain’t passed out! He just don’t wanna talk to this gal that’s been buggin’ him!” The ersatz drunkard rises to give his companion a rough shove, saying, “Shut yer pie-hole, J.D.! You know if her skank sister woulda been here, you’d-a been playin’ possum along with the rest of ‘em!”

  A distinctly wild odor catches my nostrils, obvious enough for even human senses. Whatever it is, it both raises the hair on the back on my neck and piques my curiosity. It’s coming from a corner of the room where a number of young men are clustered, blocking my view, although a woman standing next to me sneers, “There they go again. What is it with young men’s fascination with cougars?” She isn’t kidding. With a small break in the throng I can plainly see a bona-fide cougar lounging on a velvet settee, grooming itself impassively. The jeweled collar and leash that tether it to its resting place don’t appear that they would be terribly effective should the creature decide to spring from its perch and snack on a few revelers. I can’t help but admire its beauty, and before I can make a remark to Teddy, it looks directly at me and gives me a conspiratorial wink with a jade-colored eye.

  A well-known local politician is lounging by the bandstand, flanked by two ostrich-legged cocktail waitresses. The tail feathers sticking out of their skirts appear to move of their own accord as the women snake their bodies around the big man, as if unsure whether to kiss up to him or snap his face off. He accepts a drink from each, tips them both generously, and languidly tastes the air around them with a two-foot long tongue.

  My eyes flit next to the tallest woman I have ever seen in my life, tawny-skinned with short black hair, sporting a giraffe mask. No one seems to be disguised tonight as his or her real animal counterpart, so I have a hunch that she’s really something even larger. With my ears trained on her I overhear some people ask her if she’s going to sing tonight, and she nods her head. With slow, fluid movements she migrates over to the fish tank, mounts the steps on the side, and dives in face-first, her arms making slow flying motions. I can’t hear what she says underwater, but people have their ears pressed against the tank, mesmerized. I grab Teddy’s wrist and drag him with me to the tank as well and as we press our ears against the smooth glass, a sound resonates through our bones. The sound of bowed basses and crystal bowls are brought to mind. Humpback whale, I realize. Their songs have been studied for years, but this is an amazing rare treat to hear it put into lyrics. How quickly I forget that lycans aren’t the only shifters with a talent for music. When the song is over, everyone breaks into wild applause. Now that music is singing in my blood, I have to go check out the house band.

  It’s so strange for me to be attending an event and not be playing. The masked band is a young, good-looking gypsy ensemble, and I don’t recognize their scent. My guess is that hiring a group from somewhere else entirely keeps tension from arising among New Orleans groups, especially if some members aren’t shifters. The violin, trumpet, saxophone, bass, and drums make for a much bigger sound than five people would normally produce. They are swept up in a frenzy playing a turbocharged horo, ensnaring the listeners in their infectious spell. The guitarist spies me studying his fingers and throws me a nod. He turns to face Teddy and me, steps up to the mic, and improvises a quick doggerel: “The wolf pack chases songs and tones, let no sound go astray! For just as you are what you eat, you’re also what you play!” Well, I’ll be darned.

  I don’t sense any of the other pack mates here. I can’t help but wonder what Rowan is up to, and I am even more disconcerted that Aydan isn’t here either. My eyes flit to the dance floor and I watch an old man in a wheelchair suddenly glide to his feet, arms outstretched like wings. He appears to grow in height, shifting into some equivalent of alto form. He takes the arm of a woman in a bear mask and they begin to dance flawlessly, captivating more than a few spectators. I find myself wishing that Rowan could see this. In a desperate attempt to focus my mind on something other than my angst, I decide to give the dancing a try. Teddy promises to keep a protective eye on me in case anything goes amiss.

  The trouble is that most musicians I know don’t dance, and I am certainly no exception. Even though we are required to have a concept of rhythm and motion, we seldom get a chance to cut a rug, since we’re always playing for the people who do dance. Or else we are simply the nerds that no one asks to prom says an old voice in my mind, rising up to burn my gullet. Something tells me, however, that tonight is all about feel and instinct. If I turn off my human ego, pay no attention to choreography and performance, and follow my instincts, I might actually learn something. I remember to lift my rib cage in an elegant posture and stalk to the edge of the dance floor.

  A tall man in a gazelle mask sidles over to me as the band strikes up a waltz. Now it gets tricky. He is warded but has let some of his scent permeate his disguise. He moves with impressive authority and I follow his lead, aware of my jaguar disguise and try to appear seductive. You know you want to fill my belly, I try to project to this man who would be prey. Come a little closer, I silently command, and there is no boundary between our thoughts as he tightens his grip on my arm. I don’t know what kind of animal form he takes, but I am now certain that it isn’t an
herbivore. In fact, he might be something that could possibly give a wolf a run for its money. He is dangerous, but aloof. I get in the back of my mind the image of him lounging in a tree. Leopard, I surmise, and I can feel his body tremble in genuine laughter. No wonder he chose me to dance with him: he couldn’t resist the joke of my feline mask. He bows, I curtsey.

  I catch a snatch of lyrics from the band: “Celebrate a secret that has never been exposed! The tension mounts between the diametrically opposed!”

  I’m beginning to understand the role of this ceremonial dance. Even in this transient dual nature that we all possess, it is important to pretend to be something that we are not. A predator symbolically experiencing what it is to be prey or vice versa makes for a deeper understanding throughout the shifters’ world.

  Another man, this time masked as a monkey, takes my arm as the band switches to a bebop tune. I don’t know how to swing dance, but he’s not leading the standard steps anyway. He initiates a sort of a bobbing and weaving motion, so I mirror him. I can see his eyes through the holes in his mask, and I am trying to not freak out that his pupils are rapidly dilating and contracting. I can’t figure out what he craves. I continue bobbing up and down, inhaling the tangy scent of his sweat and aggression. I’m pretty sure that my abs are going to be killing me in the morning. I sense a jungle that would easily be habitat to his simian disguise, but a flash of rainbow feathers out of the cuffs of his sleeves gives him away. If he really is a shape-shifting macaw, then it means that we are actually doing a dance to establish dominance. I relax. Even if my dancing isn’t up to snuff, in my animal form I can take him. I let down my warding slightly, and he drops his eyes deferentially. We bow and curtsey like the previous dance and I wander a little dazed back to my packmate. I think I’ve had my fill of dancing. Teddy pats me on the shoulder in sympathy and support.

  Something blessedly cuts through my disorientation in the form of a tall, stunningly photogenic man sashaying our way. “Teddy, darling!” exclaims the newcomer, pushing back his otter mask and flipping his long blonde tresses out of his eyes. He hugs Teddy with a flourish of wrists and a girlish foot-pop. His inherent hilarity is infectious, and I can’t suppress a snort as the ornamental foxtail attached to the seat of his leather pants sways like a pendulum.

  “Dean, you’re looking fabulous as always,” Teddy chuckles. “Birch MacKinlay, meet Dean deChanteloup; lycan, model, massage therapist, and occasional bartender.”

  “Hey, what else am I supposed to do with a master’s degree in geology?” our new comrade deflects. Turning to me, he remarks, “Girl-child-boo, your mask is fabulous!”

  Teddy claps the ferociously beautiful werewolf around the shoulders. “Dean is a lone wolf, but a very important part of lycan society. He is a diplomat among the regional packs, and keeps the alphas informed of news. Such a hard life, isn’t it, Dean? Your sensitive nose meant that you had to hang out with that food and wine pack of restaurateurs for three days. You will of course, call us if they are doing a gala that needs a live band?”

  “I think I already mentioned your pack. Then someone opened a Jerboam of Bordeaux, and I don’t remember much after that!”

  In a blur of jokes and anecdotes, I rapidly feel comfortable and grounded again. Dean has a laugh like Tom Hulce playing Mozart in Amadeus. His energy is friendly, and I sense deep intelligence beneath the flamboyant veneer. Maybe if there are more shifters around like this guy, it won’t be such a frightening new world.

  I want him to stay with us awhile. “Guys? Who wants drinks?” Abita for Teddy, Jameson on the rocks for Dean.

  As I wend my way through the crowd to the bar, the scent and energy patterns of two men seated there catch my attention. One short and plump and the other tall and strong, they seem like a comically cliché duo. Their cockatoo masks are pushed to the backs of their heads, looking like someone has wrung their necks. Why haven’t they warded? The vibe I get is that they simply couldn’t be bothered, so I eavesdrop.

  “…why they think we would even want to drink this shit,” says the little man. “You can’t even find Foster’s back home!”

  His larger companion shakes his head, swinging his long ponytail off his shoulder. “What do you expect the bar to be stocked with? James Boag and Tassie cider? Be happy they’ve got Shiraz!”

  “Stick it in your date, mate. I don’t give a toss about Shiraz! I can drink that at home. It’s just the principle. It’s like, why would I come to a restaurant in New Or-leeens to eat Vegemite?”

  Australian, it hits me. Good gravy, I had no idea this was an international event!

  “Don’t get aggro there, Wally. Joey is here representing the whole mob, and you don’t want news of an argy-bargy to get back to Old Man Ripclaw.” The tall man is clearly enjoying winding up his blunt-nosed friend, and his spicy amusement entices me.

  “You’re a fine one to talk. You’ve been acting like a bogan the whole time! Asking that lady this arvo if she’d fancy a root—I’m surprised that she didn’t just job you one in the kisser!”

  “I just wanted to see how she’d react, mate! You know they like our accents here …”

  They pick up on my having overheard, and turn to face me. The wave of energy thickens as my own joins in. The longhaired one smiles kindly. His eyes are mild, but their keen blueness holds a reflection of something primal—of clear water and ancient forests. Something is distinct about his scent, like a fox shifter, but wilder and more inviting. “How’re ya going, mate?” he inquires politely.

  I grin. “I had no clue that this was a global shindig.”

  “Ah, a babe in the woods!” chimes in his roly-poly cohort, whose wild mess of hair manages to cover his ears but not quite the shiny top of his bald head. “And very pretty, too. Too bad old Malcolm is already making the rounds. He’s a bit tired of being such a baby-munching minority in a country full of roos …”

  “I’m sorry, luv. Wally here needs to stop being so biased towards the marsupials,” explains the lean man. “Not even Aussie humans know the full extent of our variety.”

  Wally blinks his small eyes. “Did you see that local Sheila Miss LaFleur at the bar, playing possum? Or is that ‘opossum’? Quite fetching. Marsupials in America … who knew? Ah, I do love Lou-weeezee-ana. Great food, as long as I chew some leaves in between meals!” He grips his beer more tightly, and I suddenly notice the oddity. His hand is strangely formed into a configuration of three fingers and two thumbs. A werekoala?

  But his blue-eyed friend intrigues me even more. “So he’s Wally and you are …?”

  “Darren. Wally’s from Queensland and I’m from Tasmania.”

  “Beautiful there,” I volunteer, glad to have some common ground. “I played in Tassie years ago. Launceston and Hobart.”

  “Hobart, eh? They say all roads lead to Hobart, one-way street hell that it is. ‘Played,’ did you? So you’re a muso, then?” He stretches languidly and the bottom of his shirt hikes up, revealing a strange horizontally striped pattern of birthmarks across his lower back.

  I haven’t heard the word muso in years, and in spite of my overwhelm I smile at the Aussie term for musician. “I am indeed. I used to play bass with Slackjaw Harrison for a few years until he died. I wish I’d had more time to see some parks and such when I was in Tassie, like maybe the Royal Botanical Gardens. I love learning about the flora and fauna of the countries I visit, and now that I know I am, you know …” It feels odd to talk about this with a complete stranger. “… a shifter, I am trying to get some answers about nature. What is the general consensus down under? Are we natural? Are we more human or animal? What do you think happens if we go extinct?”

  Darren flashes an open-mouthed smile, then drops his jaw wider and wider until his abnormally gaping maw looks like something out of a horror film. My suspicions are confirmed. He’s a thylacine, known to the rest of the world as a “Tasmanian tiger,” or “Tasmanian wolf,” long declared extinct. No more wolf than tiger, he moves with a fascinatin
g hybrid grace of the canine and feline. He clicks his mouth shut and takes a swig of his beer, pleased at my reaction.

  “We never went extinct, mate. We had to survive the only way we knew how … by shifting into humans. Our time to run free will come someday, but even now with attempts to find us, preserve us, and even clone us, it’s still too risky. My sister Lucy was one of the last ones to see a human while in her true thylacine form. She too, finally decided to shift. Of course, the most dangerous thing to a human is another human. Even still, we can’t resist the laugh. In fact, many so-called ‘extinct’ species actually walk among us, hiding in plain sight. If you unfocus your mind, you might see a few tonight. And you might see even more after a few drinks!”

  Drinks! I have totally forgotten my original mission of procuring libations for my pack mate and his friend. I give Darren my card, say goodbye to Wally, and buy a round of drinks for my pals. Weaving my way back through the crowd, I can see Naj in the far corner, murmuring surreptitiously with Sand and a thin man in a kingfisher mask. As I walk past them, their heads snap up on my approach and the women’s smiles for me abruptly turn on like a switch. I have never seen Sand smile before, and the hair on the back of my neck begins to rise. The masked man creeps me out as well, and something about his shape is disconcertingly familiar as I feel his eyes slither over me. I nod and keep walking, trying to appear casual as I shield and remember to breathe slowly through my nose.

  In some distant corner, Lydia is sulking alone and sipping a Coke … who twisted her arm to come to this? I wonder. If she’s not careful, that wet blanket might actually have fun, is the next thing that crosses my mind, although I’m not entirely convinced that this surreal event could be described as “fun.” Further past, my producer buddy Kim is standing in the doorway of a raptor-themed room, chatting up a couple of young chanteuses. We exchange waves, but I am more eager than ever to find my pack mate.