The Warlock Rock

"Is there no good rock music then?" she protested.

"Music that the rocks have brought? Aye! There do be some!" the first clam said, but even as she spoke, a bass voice near her had begun to thrum in a steady rhythm. Then three other voices began to vocalize in a higher register, repeating a wordless refrain.

The Gallowglasses looked at one another, astonished. " 'Tis like the music of the first soft rocks we did hear," Magnus said.

"It is the same," Cordelia said.

Then the tenor clam broke in, singing,

"Live with me, and be my love,
And we shall all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds and their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Emblazoned all with leaves of myrtle.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love."

The soprano clam sang the answer:

"If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love."

"Why, 'tis beauteous!" Gwen said, enthralled. "At the least, it is when thou dost sing it."

But Cordelia frowned. "The tune, I know—yet the words are new."

"Thou speakest aright," said a baritone clam. "It was but melody when first we heard it. Later, there were words, but we liked them not, so we gave the tune to other verses that we'd heard anon."

Rod frowned. "I don't know if I quite like the drift of that song's sentiments."

"Oh, thou art but one who would kill joy!" Cordelia scoffed. "Is not the lass's reply enough for thee?"

"It is," Rod said, "if you remember it."

"It was indeed the music of the soft rock," Gregory said. "Yet assuredly thou canst find no delight in the hard rocks' music!"

"Wherefore not, brother?" Geoffrey asked. "That, at least, I can begin to comprehend, for it hath the sound of an army on the march."

The clams began to vibrate with a strong, quick rhythm, and chanted:

"Crabbed age and youth
Cannot live together,
For youth is full of pleasure,
Age is full of care!
Youth, like summer morn,
Age, like winter weather;
Youth, like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short,
Youth is nimble, age is lame,
Age, I do abhor thee!"

"Now, wait a minute," Rod said; but the music rode right on over his words:

"Youth, I do adore thee!
Oh, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee!
Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long!"

"Definitely," Rod said, "I find that offensive."

"Wherefore?" asked a baritone clam. "Thou art not aged."

Rod froze, agape, then managed to close his mouth. Cordelia giggled. Rod gave her a black look, then said to Gwen, "Of course, I do kind of agree with the sentiments of that last verse."

But her eyes were already glowing at him.

"Twas fair, I will allow," Geoffrey said. "Yet surely thou canst do naught with this plague of noise that doth come from the heavy metal stones!"

"Oh, but we have heard good sounds from them!" another baritone clam cried. "Aye, mayhap nine in ten are worthless—but is not that true of all things? The tenth is well worth keeping."

But the tenor clam was already vibrating, and Rod was awestruck at the sound.

It was like surf breaking on a shingled shore, like wind howling over a frozen tundra. It was an ancient locomotive, throbbing across that barren plain; it was a driving rhythm that beat and battered at him, then broke into a cascade of jangling notes as the tenor voice cried out:

"I, who am not shaped for lover's tricks,
And made to shun my looking glass,
I, that am rudely shaped,
Cheated of feature by all-lying nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I limp by them—
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity,
And therefore—since I cannot prove a lover,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days!"

The final chord rang, and died. The Gallowglasses sat, stunned.

Finally, Rod cleared his throat and said, "Yes. I guess that's good."

" 'Tis wondrous!" Cordelia breathed.

"No music is good or bad in itself," the bass voice said. "It is what people make of it."

"Each music hath its purpose," one of the clams admonished. "Each form of music hath its verse."

"The words, though," Rod protested. "Some of the songs I've been hearing have words that are downright poisonous!"

But Fess's quiet voice said, There have always been those who have turned music to evil purposes. Shall I speak of ancient hymns to bloodthirsty gods? Or of the twisted paeans sung by medieval witches?

"Or of the sirens' songs." Rod nodded. "Yes, I take your point."

Magnus asked the clams, "Whose words are these that thou didst sing? For surely I have not heard them from the stones."

"Nay," said the tenor clam. "They are an older poet's, I think—but we sing them of the witch who doth sow these music-rocks broadcast."

"A witch behind the music-rocks?" Rod tensed. "Who is she? Where?"

"Here on the West Coast, though to the north. She doth name herself Ubu Mare."

"Ubu Mare, eh?" Rod locked glances with Gwen. "Now we have a name, at least."

Gwen shook her head. "I have not heard it before, my lord."

"We'll hear it again," Rod promised. "Come on, kids— time to go hunting."