"Melody," someone had once told him, "is in the fingers. Rhythm is in the mind." It had sounded like nonsense at the time; to tell the truth, it still did.But in his mind he played the tambourine that rested beneath his coat. Someone might hear it, and it was something to do besides counting cars.He shifted for a while to a complex Indian rhythm he'd learned from a tabia player he'd met in Cincinnati: Triplets within triplets, and fives within nines. He doubted he'd actually be able to play it on the tambourine, but in his mind it was a very fine thing indeed, the zils ringing out clear and precise, his imaginary fingers rolling like waves from the rim to the middle of the skin, and all the tones were warm and full and perfect.
Two hundred and eleven.
It would be a good thing if he could find the Dove or the Raven, for that matter. Csucskari would know what to do with the scarf, and Hollo would knowhow to find Csucskari. (Two hundred and twelve, and one more pedestrian). It must have come to him with some purpose beyond keeping him alive. After all,what was his life worth? What was any life worth, for that matter?
Bah. Morbid thoughts. Silly. "All you think of is death, Bagoly," Hollo had told him once. "It isn't healthy. And you know why that is? It's because you never do anything. Everything that meets you pushes you. And you always let it happen. Push push push. This way, that way, like a stick in the river." When had he said that? It wasn't long ago, as he recalled.It was while they were searching for Csucskari. He,Raymond, had noticed the taint of the Fair Lady on their movements even then, and had tried to warn his brother, but Hollo couldn't wait. No, it was just fly this way, fly that way, looking for something to swoop down on, more for the pleasure of the swoop than because it was worth having.
They shouldn't have quarreled like that. They should never have split up. But if Daniel hadn't been so-Now he was becoming angry, and that was as silly as being morbid. Better to play the tambourine in his mind and let the world drift, until it found a use for him. And don't forget the scarf, because, if all were truly over, it wouldn't be here.
The street was not very busy. Two hundred cars on this street probably meant a long time, and the weather had been cold, so the scarf must be doing something. Switch back to a simpler beat so he could keep thinking. Yes, a kajlamare. Funny how they flowed into each other, those rhythms from cultures that had so little in common. But then, in one way or another (two hundred and thirteen), the Fair Lady was common to them all. So was the will to resist Her. Was it day or night? Had it gotten colder?Warmer? Why could he hear and smell, but not see or feel anything, save the scarf? Could he taste?
Dynamics, that's what it needed. Music without dynamics was, well, it wasn't music. He built up a nice crescendo in his mind, shaking the imaginary tambourine for all it was worth, then brought it down to a whisper.
Two hundred and fourteen. Two more pedestrians,both of them noticing him. Not leaving, either. Well,what now?
I never hear those songs again
But still I sometimes cry
When I think of how we left our world,
Raven, Owl. and I.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
The old woman said, "I think he's gone."
Csucskari, staring down at his brother, snorted."I'd know if he were."
"He's cold," she said.
"Yes, I imagine he would be. I don't doubt that he's been here for hours. They found a good place to hide him."
"But how could he-?"
"Hush, old woman."
He bent down and wrestled his brother's form into a position where he was sitting up, squatted, and lifted him onto his shoulder. He was as light as air,light as a bird.
"Where are you bringing him?" she asked.
"To your home, old woman."
"But he needs-"
"A cup of tea will see him well, I think. Do you know how to make tea? Take his tambourine."
"If he's not dead-"
"Tcha! Don't you know Luci's work when you see it?"
She sighed and began shuffling back toward her home. A moment later she suddenly said, "I know Cynthia's work, though."
"Eh?"
"That scarf, around his throat. Cynthia made it."
"Indeed? I wonder how Raymond came to it."
"I've never seen it before. Except-"
Csucskari looked at her. "Yes?"
"The pattern. Does it look familiar?"
"No."
"Hmmmph. You are observant. The rug in my living room."
"Did Cynthia make that?"
"No, I did. But I didn't make the scarf."
"Perhaps Cynthia only made it recently."
"She's been dead since-" the old woman stopped in mid-sentence. "Yes, perhaps she did."
Csucskari matched his pace to what Madam Moria could keep up with, and said no more as he walked.
Who can ever know your heart,
who will ever tell?
No one will believe, my friend,
All that you'll receive, my friend.
Before she locks you in your private Hell.
"THE FAIR LADY"
The Fair Lady wriggles Her toes and frowns. '"Well, " She says, "I can hardly blame you, 1 suppose." The woman-child stares with eyes like twin moons at the full. The Fair Lady thinks of a Wolf howling at the moon, and has to force Herself not to shudder. "A jackal followed the trail you left and thought you were his prey, the Raven drove the jackal off so Badger wouldn't slay. The Badger brought him to the Wolf who would not eat him down. So now the Raven leads them all until the Dove be found."
The woman-child, left arm held tight by the liderc, says nothing. The Fair Lady thinks she is as frightened as She has ever seen a mortal. "But at least we have you, now,and that should be bait for both Wolf and Raven, shouldn't it?"
The girl clutches something tightly in her right arm. The Fair Lady notices it for the first time, and says, "What is that?" Her voice doesn't tinkle or chime, now, it snaps,and carries a shock like plunging into ice-cold water. The girl starts to cry. "What is it?" repeats the Fair Lady, but the girl is too frightened to answer.
Screams from the little room, and the girl stops crying.Her eyes get bigger, if that is possible, and she looks that way. The Fair Lady smiles. "An old woman," She says,"who thought to thwart me. You won't make that mistake,will you?"
The girl trembles and shakes her head.
"Good. Now, what is that you're holding?"
It takes a long time for her to speak, and when she does,her voice is so small it is almost lost in the crackling of the fire. But she says, "His fiddle."
"His?" The Fair Lady frowns. "The Raven's?" And then She smiles. "You've brought me his fiddle? You've pulled his wings and brought them to me. There may be hope for you, girl."
The girl sobs.
"Give it to me, then, and you will not be punished. "
The girl sobs again and shakes her head.
"What?" cries the Fair Lady. "You think to defy me? Give me the fiddle!" There is another scream from the next room.
The girl sobs once more, clutches the fiddle tightly, and,again, shakes her head.
The Fair Lady's eyes are cold as ice, cold as snow, cold as the space between Her world and ours, cold as the heart of the midwife. She speaks to the liderc. "Take her away and bring her back when she's changed her mind."
They open the door to where the old woman is crying out from the pain of the hot coals the nora is pressing to the bottoms of her feet. The girl sees this and stumbles, almost falls, and her tears flow now in rivers.
"Well," demands the Fair Lady. "Will you give me what I want?"
But she shakes her head once more. The fair lady scowls and nods to the liderc, who pushes the girl into the room and closes the door. The Fair Lady stares into the fire, thinking.