This Creature Fair

This Creature Fair

by Wayne Wise

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Wayne Wise on Smashwords

This Creature Fair

Copyright © 2011 by Wayne Wise

Cover by Marcel Walker – www.marcelwalker.com

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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PART ONE

March 2001

CHAPTER ONE

1.

He was getting too old for this.

Nick Chambers plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back in a vain attempt to keep warm. Gusts of wind swept along the sidewalk, picking up trash and dirty flakes of snow, slapping exposed cheeks with an icy hand. Close to a hundred people stood in line with him. Puffs of breath made bright as souls by the glare of streetlights rose into the crisp Washington, DC night. Couples embraced and groups of friends huddled together for warmth. Nick pulled the zipper of his leather jacket tighter to his neck, hands immediately chilled. He removed the band from his ponytail. His hair, dark blonde and wavy, came loose and fell around his shoulders and over his cold red ears. This late March cold snap had taken everyone by surprise. The sub-freezing temperature was, Nick hoped, the last frigid gasp of a dying winter.

He leaned to the side to see if the doors to the Red Dog were open yet. He knew they weren’t--the line wasn’t moving--but he had to do something to appease his impatience. He watched a man and woman step out of a large van that was parked next to the sidewalk and go into the club. Nick assumed it was the tour bus, and these were members of the band he had come to see. He wouldn’t have recognized anyone other than the lead singer and the guitarist.

Got any extra tickets, mister? came a voice from his side. Nick turned to see a girl of about eighteen with a guy who looked even younger. She wore a black derby over a shaved head. A tuft of plum-colored hair that matched her lipstick poked out from under the front of the brim. Her legs were bare except for ripped purple fishnet stockings. Her eyes were outlined in dense black makeup that made her look like an abuse victim. A thick metal ring, coated with cold condensation, protruded from her nose.

No, Nick said. Sorry. He watched the couple make their way back through the line. They probably wouldn’t be allowed in even if they scored tickets; the Red Dog was a bar, after all. There was no way they would pass for twenty-one, no matter how good their fake ID’s were. He remembered his own attempts at sneaking into bars and concerts when he was too young to go. It had been twenty years since he had reached legal age, but he could still recall the thrill he felt the few times it had worked. Getting to see The Police at The Decade in Pittsburgh long before the rest of the world had heard of them had been a highlight of his youth.

He glanced around the crowd and saw that the line had gotten longer behind him. He wasn’t the only idiot to brave the cold to see Morrigan Blue. To his knowledge this was the first time the British musician had toured the States. The few fans she had here were determined to see her no matter what the weather brought.

Had anyone else come as far as he had? He had taken two days off work so that he could make the trip from Pittsburgh to see this show. Chris had offered to cover the store while he was gone, which surprised Nick. Chris was the one who had discovered Morrigan Blue several years ago when her first, and only, album had been released. Nick had expected him to want to come along. When Chris’s band had played the Red Dog three months ago he had struck up a friendship with the manager. One phone call had scored a ticket to this sold-out show. But, since he really needed the extra hours at the store, he gave it to Nick.

Nick had run into some really ugly weather along the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the mountains of Somerset County. What was normally a four-hour drive had turned into six. He had hoped to get here in time to find a motel room before the show, but that hadn’t happened. Right now, at a little before nine PM, he had no idea where he was going to spend the night. Paula had told him to reserve a room, but he hated to plan that far ahead. Not knowing where you were going to end up was part of the adventure as far as he was concerned. Paula could never understand that part of him. She needed to have things planned ahead of time.

Which was only one of the reasons she wasn’t here tonight. News of the show had only reached Nick last week, and he was lucky to get a ticket at all. Paula’s job at the bank--assistant vice-president of something or other--didn’t allow for a sudden day off unless you were sick or someone had died. She had to apply for her two weeks vacation in January every year, and wait up to two months for approval. Then, when the vacation was over, she was done. She had only bank holidays to look forward to for the rest of the year. It was all far too structured for Nick’s tastes. Opportunities like this didn’t come up very often. He couldn’t imagine not being free to take advantage of them.

Okay, so Paula’s yearly salary was more than double what he made as manager of the Record Cavern, but so far his life style suited him just fine. Maybe he couldn’t afford to fly to England to see a band, but he could take the time to do so if he had the whim. It was all a tradeoff.

Structure appealed to Paula though.

A small cheer went up from the front of the line as the door to the Red Dog finally opened. Nick wasn’t sure if the noise was enthusiasm for the show or if people were just happy to get in out of the cold. He unzipped his jacket and reached into its interior pocket to get his ticket as the line surged forward.

Paula would hate this.

He paused at the open doorway to the bar. A young man with a Mohawk and a Dead Boys t-shirt was sitting on a barstool just inside, taking tickets and checking ID’s. Nick smiled with the knowledge that this kid hadn’t even been born when the Dead Boys were around. He reached in his pocket for his wallet and glanced back along the line behind him. Derby Girl was at the back of the line, bouncing on the balls of her feet and waving a ticket at him, a look of youthful excitement on her wind-reddened face. Nick shot her a thumbs-up and turned back to Mohawk Boy. He handed him his ticket and started to open his wallet.

Nah, dude, said Mohawk. I don’t need your ID. You’re old enough. He stamped Nick’s hand with a Fragile logo, and then motioned for him to go in. Nick nodded in understanding. Derby Girl would get in, but she wouldn’t get the handstamp that would allow her to be served alcohol. It was an imperfect system for an all-ages show at a bar.

Thanks, Nick said, taking the ticket stub and moving on. He hadn’t actually been carded for years. Although most people thought Nick looked younger than he was, the gray splotches in his beard gave the truth away. He was painfully aware that he was probably the oldest person in line. That was happening more and more at the shows he went to.

When did people let their youth and their joy of life slip away? When did they just lock themselves into their job, and their house, and a narrow definition of what life could be? Nick had seen it happen to lots of his friends over the years. He saw it happening to Paula now.

It wouldn’t happen to him. Nothing would ever trap him in that way.

He pushed his way into the bar, eager to finally see Morrigan Blue.

2.

The Red Dog was divided into two sections. The front room was a bar, narrow and crowded. A number of people had already claimed stools, and Nick was sure some of them would remain there for the whole show. He never could understand the people who would pay for a concert and then stay at the bar and talk through the whole event. If you weren’t here for the music why not go to another bar? It would be cheaper.

He paid for a bottle of Yuengling and made his way through the doors at the back. The second room, where the concert would take place, was a long dark hallway. It was a venue that held four to five hundred people at most. A small stage, raised about three feet higher than the scuffed wooden floor, sat at the far end of the room. Posters from past shows, stained and torn, papered the walls. Strands of multi-colored Christmas lights were strung around the ceiling in a vain attempt to hide the metal struts that held up the building. Techies were moving around on the stage, checking equipment and lights. The echoes of a voice yelling, Check! Check! bounced off the walls.

Nick wanted to be up close for Morrigan’s set, but there were two opening acts. Years of small shows had taught him that the crowd dynamics would change over the course of the evening. He had plenty of time to stake out his spot.

T-shirts and other souvenirs were being sold at a small booth in the back of the room. One of the sad realities of life as a small band was that playing out and selling CD’s simply wasn’t a guarantee of turning a profit. You needed to supplement your income in any way possible. Stickers, patches and buttons for all three bands filled the table. Samples of the shirts hung on the wall behind the display. Nick bought one with a blurry picture of Morrigan Blue for Chris as a thank-you for the ticket. He bought another one for himself featuring a close-up of her mouth, large red lips provocatively pursed. Both shirts were black, of course. He rolled them up and shoved them in the large pockets of his jacket. He paid for a couple of buttons to take home to Scotty as well. Scotty didn’t have a clue who Morrigan Blue was, but he was always happy with the little gifts his big brother brought him.

The room began to fill. Nick was already forgetting the bitter cold outside. He unzipped his coat, revealing a faded Cheap Trick shirt that was older than most of the people present. He had bought it in 1981 when they were selling out arena-size spaces. It was worn and thin, and had contributed to his discomfort outside, but he knew it would soon be sweltering in here. He took a sip of his beer and surveyed the room.

Cigarette smoke hovered next to the ceiling, a cancerous ghost waiting to descend. Soon the room would fill with its gray mist, and Nick knew that tomorrow morning he would feel like someone had shit in his eyes. Dim lights washed over a sea of black-clad fans. It was a typical mix of people for this type of show. Though he was on the upper end of the age spectrum it was actually a pretty even distribution. Morrigan didn’t appeal to the general teenybopper set. Her music was too varied and intense for that. Nick saw a lot of couples in their twenties, a few in their thirties. They were all obviously veterans of the scene. You didn’t discover an artist like Morrigan Blue by listening to pop radio.

He spotted Derby Girl down close to the stage, dancing to the mix tape of early Punk that was being played. Her boyfriend stood completely still, way too cool to admit to liking anything.

Not for the first time Nick wondered about the power that music had to unite people. Not a terribly deep or original thought, he knew, but it still amazed him. He saw it at every show he went to, and every day at the Cavern. In one day he would sell the same CD to Punk kids and businessmen, ages fifteen to fifty. People who, based solely on appearance, one would believe had absolutely nothing in common. But, for some reason the same music moved them, spoke to something deep within. There were still differences, he knew. Some people were just jumping on a bandwagon, getting into an artist because they were the hip thing at the moment. It had very little to do with liking the music and was all about being cool. That happened with the alternative crowd as much, perhaps even more so, than with popular music. But then there were the true music lovers, those people who bought and listened to what they liked with little regard for the tastes of others.

Nick was here because he loved Morrigan Blue’s music. So were the others or they wouldn’t have braved the cold. Whatever differences there were in their lives, he had something in common with the Derby Girl’s of the world, and with everyone else in the room.

More than he had with Paula, he sometimes thought.

3.

The lights dimmed as the first act, a local DC band, came on stage. A smattering of cheers and claps from a few of the friends who had come out to support them dotted the air.

Hello DC! the singer shouted. We’re the Roadkill Scholars!

They launched into an aural assault of punk metal. Twenty-five minutes of one beat, three-chord music with unintelligible lyrics shouted at maximum volume. They sounded like a million other bands.

The sparse crowd in front of the stage spontaneously turned into a mosh-pit. Kids in leather and studs began to skank and bash into one another. Nick watched as the pseudo-violent chaos began to take form. The moshing turned into a march as the kids began to thump around in a counter-clockwise circle, raising their fists in the air and screaming along with the lead singer. People were thrown out of the circle while others joined in. It was the bunny-hop for punks.

Nick had seen it all before. These kids were participating in their moment, unaware that they were reenacting a ritual that had always taken place around loud music. Nick had been in the pit himself many times in his life. He had proudly worn the bruises and cuts from moshing and stage diving.

These days he preferred a calmer concert experience. Maybe that was a symptom of age, but he just wasn’t that angry anymore. He hoped the mosh would end before Morrigan came on. He thought it probably would. These kids seemed to be here for this band only, and her music didn’t lend itself to this style of thrashing.

He went to get a second beer.

The second act was a blonde woman who called herself Halo Jones. Nick smiled, recognizing the name from an old British comic book series. It had been name-dropped in a song by the band Shriekback in the mid-eighties. He wondered which of these two obscure references had inspired her.

The music was slightly more stirring than the Roadkill Scholars. It contained more layers and textures, anyway, and it wasn’t all the same tempo. But Halo herself was one of the least charismatic performers Nick had ever seen. By the third song he had pretty much forgotten they were on stage.

Toward the end of their set he started to make his way to the front of the hall. Halo had succeeded in boring people enough that they had gone off in search of drinks or other entertainment, leaving plenty of room for Nick to get right next to the stage for Morrigan. Not long after he staked out his spot the crowd began to thicken around him, pressing close so that they could be near their idol.

Excuse me, excuse me, came a voice from behind. Derby Girl, using the prerogative of all cute young women, pushed her way through the crowd to get down front, her boyfriend towed in her wake.

Hi! she said, flashing a smile at Nick as she took a spot directly in front of him. You don’t mind, do you?

Nope, Nick said, and returned the smile. The boyfriend didn’t make eye contact. Nick had seen a million examples of them over the years.

I can’t wait! Derby Girl said, directing her comments to Nick. She was bubbly, and excited, and wanted to talk, and the boyfriend was too cool to be much of a conversationalist. Nick didn’t know how guys like that ended up with cute women, but it seemed to happen.

Have you ever seen her before? Derby Girl asked.

No, Nick said. I’m pretty sure this is the first time she’s toured the States.

I just got her album, Derby Girl said. I love it! I can’t believe it’s as old as it is. I was only about ten when it came out.

Nick revised his estimation of her age downward and momentarily felt really old.

I dunno, she continued. It’s like, she like, I dunno, says things I wanna say but don’t have words for, y’know?

Based on her speech pattern Nick wasn’t surprised that she didn’t have words for things, but he nodded, because he did know. Even with a better vocabulary he understood what Derby Girl was driving at. It was what separated music he merely liked from music that really touched him. He had stopped trying to figure what it was that moved him when this occurred. Sometimes it was the lyrics, sometimes the sound of the music itself, and sometimes it was simply the quality of the vocals. More often than not it was some combination of the three. When this happened it was as if the artist had somehow put the words of Nick’s soul to music. He would hear thoughts and feelings that felt private and personal coming from someone else. He assumed that was at least a part of what every fan felt with their favorite artist. It was the magic of music that resonated from performer to listener, creating connections and bonds where they hadn’t existed previously.

No one had had that effect on Nick to the same degree as Morrigan Blue. He had been obsessed with artists before; as a member of the Kiss Army in the seventies he had tracked down every kind of collectible he could find and afford at the time. This was different. Nick knew it, but he was hard pressed to explain it. Kiss had been a phenomenon that he had shared with millions of other fans, and even then he knew it was more about the stage show and theatrics than about the music. This felt far more personal.

Morrigan’s music had made an immediate and profound effect on him the first time he heard it at the store last spring. Chris had brought the CD to work with him and in the middle of the afternoon put it on. Music always played at the Record Cavern and often, when Nick was working, he was able to relegate it to the background. He was dealing with a stack of invoices in the back room when the opening rumble of an upright bass guitar grabbed his attention. They weren’t halfway through the first song before he stuck his head around the doorway and asked Chris what they were listening to.

Chris had discovered Morrigan Blue on the Internet when he was twelve and downloaded a couple of songs that he immediately fell in love with. He mail-ordered the CD--her only official release--and a t-shirt he had long since outgrown directly from a British distributor. The CD was now long out of print.

The music was hard to describe. There was an element of Punk, and a lot of distortion, but there were also fiddles and the upright bass being played with a bow. Nick thought he could hear the structure and cadence of old folk tunes weaving in and out of the electric guitar. It was an odd mix, but one that gripped him immediately.

But more than the music, it had been the voice of Morrigan Blue that had ensnared him.

I love her name, said Derby Girl, turning her face up to look into Nick’s eyes. She had apparently given up on talking to her sullen date. Morrigan sounds really cool. I named my cat after her. I’ve never heard the name before, have you?

Yeah, Nick said. The Morrigan was an ancient Celtic goddess, of war or battle or something. I think she appeared as a crow or something. I don’t remember the details.

Wow! You’re smart, Derby Girl said, as her eyes grew large in her face. Nick would have to remember to thank Chris for that tidbit of trivia.

What about the ‘Blue’ part? she asked.

I dunno, Nick said. I think it’s just because it sounds cool. Derby Girl laughed and treated him to a slight flirtation with her eyes. Nick smiled and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

After repeated checks of the equipment and tunings of the instruments the tech crew finally left the stage. The lights dimmed and a palpable current ran through the audience. Nick craned his neck to the side of the stage to see if he could spot any of the band.

Tonight was the culmination of months of obsession for him. Since that first listen to the album Nick had done everything he could to track down more. He was lucky enough to get an original copy of the album from an online auction site; it had only cost him forty-two dollars plus shipping. He had found a poster advertising one of her rare live gigs the same way. A handful of demo tapes and rejected tracks were floating around cyberspace, and with a diligence born of obsession Nick found all of them.

There wasn’t much else to find. Facts about Morrigan were sparse. The few press releases and reviews he saw hinted at a mysterious background, no doubt designed to add an aura of glamour to the band. It was fun reading, but provided very little in the way of real information. The mystique added to his obsession.

There was a discussion mailing list for fans but there wasn’t much discussion. There were a few attempts to rehash opinions of the first album, and a few obnoxious flame wars among some of the newbies. Nick had been just about to unsubscribe when someone posted the news that Morrigan was touring again, and Washington, DC was to be her first stop.

Even the details of the tour were meager. He knew that most of the original band had been replaced. In addition to Morrigan, only guitarist Ian Connelly--credited as co-writer on most of the album’s songs--remained. There had been no announcement of a new album, or any explanation of where they had been for the last few years.

The stage lights came on, accompanied by the frenzied cheer of the audience. The drummer, violinist, and bass player--a man and two women respectively--came on stage and took their places. Nick recognized two of them as the people he had seen getting out of the van earlier.

Ian Connelly followed them. He staggered and tripped over a monitor cord. For a moment he looked lost and unsure. Nick had seen few pictures of the guitarist, but he was still surprised at what he saw. Connelly was thin and incredibly pale. Dark circles and crow’s feet framed his eyes, unfocused as they glanced out over the crowd. His hair was thin and limp. He looked much older than Nick would have guessed based on what little he had read. He was obviously a man in the throes of an addiction. Nick shook his head, in sympathy and disappointment. After a moment that lingered Connelly picked up his guitar and strapped it on.

The bass player drew her bow across the strings, producing the deep rumbling drone that the fans recognized as the opening song from the album. The violin began an Irish reel as a counterpoint, faint and ethereal, nearly overwhelmed by the rising voice of the crowd. The drums came in with a nearly military snare, counting out the three-four-waltz time of the song. Connelly hit a loud and driving power chord and the lights came on full force.

And she appeared.

4.

Morrigan wore a tight black skirt and knee high leather boots. Her hose were ripped to expose small bits of bare flesh. Her black baby-doll t-shirt was held together with safety pins and thick red thread. A picture of a crimson apple stretched taut across her small breasts. A leather collar was cinched around her throat and bracelets dangled around her wrists in grand profusion. She waved at the audience, then went to the mike-stand and leaned against it. She swayed as the music built, nodding her head in time with the drums. She was cool, and sensual, and in total control of the room.

She was more petite than Nick had assumed, smaller than he was usually attracted to; Paula was five foot eight, with long legs and full breasts. Morrigan was waifish and thin. He doubted she stood an inch over five feet. Black hair, shot through with streaks of scarlet and blue, fanned around her face as her head bobbed back and forth. Her lips were full and painted the same red as the apple on her shirt. She opened her eyes and Nick saw a flash of green. She exuded sexuality. Her every move and gesture seemed to be an invitation to the pleasures of the flesh. She wasn’t the most attractive woman he had ever seen, but there was something that drew him to her, and he wasn’t the only one to feel it. The energy washed over the crowd, the music serving as aural foreplay. Derby Girl leaned back against Nick and he heard a low moan of pleasure escape her lips. Morrigan waited for the tension to build.

She took a deep breath and launched into the opening verse.

The voice that Nick had fallen in love with enveloped the room in silk with a touch of sand. It was deeper, fuller than you would expect from someone so small. It was a Siren’s song, the words pulled from somewhere deep within the depths of the unconscious, infused with all of the grief and longing of the ages. She sang of hurt and you were in pain. She sang of anger and you were enraged. She sang of love and loneliness and you wanted to be with her forever.

Thank you, she whispered into the microphone when the song was through. She broke into a lop-sided smile, her lips a scarlet gleam around her large mouth. She swept her gaze over the audience, making eye contact with as many people as she could, welcoming them to her world. The crowd cheered and shouted out I love you. Morrigan was obviously pleased with the acclaim, yet demure in her acceptance of it.

Thank you, she said again. This next one is a little slower. She nodded to the fiddle player, a tall blonde woman with dreadlocked hair, and the music began.

***

She looked out over the audience as she sang, drinking in their praise and love. The individual forms vanished into a haze of color, swirling and dancing before her eyes. She could feel their energy washing over her, feeding her. She breathed in their emotion, felt it seep into her pores, flooding her body with vigor. It had been too long since she had felt this, too long since any music other than Ian’s had sustained her.

She tore her eyes away from the crowd and glanced at him, caught up in his playing, living entirely in the music. He had been a good lover, one of the best in her long life. But he was nearly empty now. She doubted he would make it through the tour. His music had been powerful and sweet, but it was losing its flavor. She sang the words, felt the notes, but their energy had been bled dry from overuse. She had hoped that playing live again, after so long, would inspire him somehow. But she could see that it wasn’t going to happen. It saddened her. It always did when her lover’s wells went dry.

Ian smiled at her, enjoying himself more than she had seen in months. He loved her still; she could see that in his faded eyes. Loved her even though she had taken so much from him. She could give him this at least; one last tour to play his songs. The energy of the crowds could help nourish her needs as his candle slowly went out.

And she could hunt.

***

The crowd pushed forward as Morrigan sang. Nick found himself pressed tightly against Derby Girl’s back. She didn’t seem to mind. She danced and gyrated, singing along with the lyrics. Nick couldn’t stop the erection as he felt her backside rubbing against his crotch. If she felt it--and he didn’t know how she couldn’t--her only reaction was to grind even harder. Accidental frotterism wasn’t Nick’s usual turn-on, but under the circumstances he just got into the music and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation.

The performance was everything he hoped for. Morrigan commanded the stage, sensual and forceful, her natural charisma inciting the crowd to more devotion. The more they cheered the more she performed.

Then, in the middle of a song, Ian fucked up.

***

The bad note sliced through her head like a rusty nail pounded into her skull. Anger flared as she whipped her eyes from the audience and turned them on Ian. His rhythm was off. The notes were jumbled. His face looked wan. Stage lights reflected from the sheen of sweat that coated his panicked face. His eyes met hers and he flinched when he saw the rage in them. His fingers continued to fumble over the strings. His eyes pled with her. In that moment she hated his weakness, hated him for being frail, hated him for failing her like all the others.

But then her eyes softened and she remembered the love. Losing his music was killing him more surely than it was hurting her. She looked deep into him, where the music lived, where she had bathed in ecstasy for years. There was little left, and what remained was chaos. She sang then, in a voice meant only for Ian. If the crowd noticed the change they only loved it more. She found the thread he had lost, coaxed it out of him and spun it into song. His fingers found the notes, his body found the rhythm. Once again he lived the music that was buried just beyond his reach. He smiled at her, grateful and fearful. He knew it was almost over as well.

She treated him to a smile of approval, and then turned back to the audience.

***

In a pause between lyrics Morrigan’s eyes locked onto Nick’s. She smiled and winked at him, then returned to her song.

He loved moments like