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all!"
She turned back, her gray eyes shining with a reddish light. Her
lips curled wryly, as she said, "But you will, Flavius Decius. You will
believe, before you go free from this stone."
Then they were gone into the shadows, leaving him to stare into the
coals, which were being quenched quickly, now that there was no
fresh fuel added. Tears ran down his face, mingled with the cold rain,
and he felt snowflakes beginning, as well.
He would freeze soon. That was, he had heard, an easy death. He
might have lain on his back, watching that monolith crush down onto
his unprotected body, as Praecipius had done. He was fortunate ...
And then he heard the laughter, mocking and wicked, rising from
the ashes. Something swirled there, evil and hungry, turning toward
the sacrifice that had been made.
"Oh, god of the ancients!" Flavius cried, "spare me! I am ignorant
of your ways. I have done nothing but good for you, providing you
with the blood of infants ..."
But that was the wrong thing to say. Eyes that were eddies of mist
turned toward him, examining him, and a bulging head of fog nodded
softly, once.
Fear filled him. Belief grew in his heart, as the thing neared his
helpless body. He cried aloud to the gods his dead mother had
revered but that did him no good at all.
Ardath Mayhar The Crystal Skull 86
The hunger he had helped to create in that ancient sleeping thing
found him, now, to be a satisfying offering. Neither his cries nor his
prayers affected it at all, for it believed in no god but itself, and now it
was freed into the world again, to feed as it would on Celt and Roman
alike.
(Eldritch Tales)
Ardath Mayhar The Crystal Skull 87
CONCERTO
(Vampires interest me, particularly those who do not conform
entirely to the "rules" established by Bram Stoker, et al. Here is a
most unusual batch.)
When you are trussed up in braces and prosthetics, confined to a
wheelchair, life is never easy. When, in addition, you need to find an
apartment in which you can get around in your chair, with room for a
piano and neighbors of more than human patience to endure a resident
composer, it makes things even harder.
Once I got out of the hospital, I rather expected that my friends and
acquaintances would drop me pretty quickly. A concert pianist whose
hands have been damaged too badly to stand up to the demands of
practice and concertizing is pretty much a dead issue, even when he
has had some success as a composer.
But, aside from my fiancée and my professional friends, my Aunt
Gwen took over, deciding to coddle me. She couldn't understand,
after a while, that she was smothering me. A concerto that I had
begun, just before the plane crash, was struggling into life, and
coddling didn't help anything.
I was, after all, twenty-eight years old and nobody's infant. I
needed my own place, though there was no way I could go out and
look for it, as things stood. But I found that friends filled the gap,
rallying around instead of backing away. My agent did even more
than the rest. He assured me that David Eichermann the composer
was worth as much or more than Eichermann the pianist. Among the
bunch, they managed to find a suitable place for me, to Gwen's
dismay.
I hated to upset her, but when a call came from Ted I was ready.
"Listen, Dave," my agent said, "I think we've found the very place.
Ground floor it's a sound old building being renovated. Side
entrance, near your own door, with a ramp for your chair. No other
tenants above you, yet, but the place is so solid that you probably
wouldn't bother anyone who lived above you. The super ... you are
Ardath Mayhar The Crystal Skull 88
not going to believe this! ... is a classical music nut. Has all your
recordings. In an emergency, he'll be there like a shot."
My heart thumped beneath the crosshatched metal and leather that
held me together. "If there is room for the piano, I'll sign the lease
right now."
He laughed. "I'll bring it, and my secretary will witness it.
Callahan, the super, says the paint will be dry by Monday, and you
can move right in. I'll call the movers and get your stuff out of
storage. We'll all get together and get you moved."
I leaned back in my wheelchair, amid a creaking of braces. "Ted,
that's above and beyond the call of duty. How will I ever thank you?"
I looked down at the tangle of metallic exoskeleton that held my
shattered body in order. "You know I'm not in any shape to do much."
"I'm going to work your ass off," he chuckled. "I knew before the
crash that you had more in you than simply playing. 'Sinfonia, With
Roses' made a real splash, when Bernstein used it as his season
opener. I knew then you had found your real strength. You're going
to make us both rich."
I laughed. "Okay. I'll tote dat bar, lif' dat bale. Go hire your van
and get me out of jail!"
Which was neither kind nor fair. Gwen had been glad to take me
anyplace I was able to go, had done everything she could to make me
comfortable. But I still felt like a prisoner whose parole was coming
up.
When Millie, Ted's secretary-cum-strongarm-cum surrogate Mom,
together with my aunt, finished unpacking, arranging, and getting rid
of cartons, the apartment was already licked into shape. They had
even vacuumed the nice Aubusson-reproduction rug. We looked
around at the white painted wainscoting, the satin-stripe paper, the
high ceilings. My antique piano, which had been my mother's, looked
right at home.
Once my helpers had worn themselves out and gone, I was alone
for the first time in almost a year. Independent at last, thanks to the
elaborate equipment Ted kept finding that would help me with things
like taking baths and getting into and out of bed. It felt wonderful.
Ardath Mayhar The Crystal Skull 89
I turned out the lights with some regret, for I would have loved to
pitch into the concerto, then and there. When I woke, it was with a
surge of energy that I thought had been lost forever. It was a joy to
hoist myself into my chair, scoot on my own to bath and kitchen.
Gwen had equipped the kitchen for my convenience, and I cooked
and ate a huge breakfast. That done, I didn't even take time to dress.
I wheeled to the piano, where Ted had left a table at hand, holding
music paper, pens, and the harmonica I sometimes used to work out
my frustrations. I let down the movable arms of the chair and touched
the keys.
Music flowed into my mind, the joyful early theme, composed
before the accident, rising to a crescendo, then dying away into a
simpler, sadder melody. Shifting to a minor key, it became a blend of
melancholy and nostalgia. The months of pain and depression had
touched it, but all of it fitted together.
The morning passed in a mist of music, though to a casual visitor it
would not have sounded like music at all. The process of composition
is not pleasant to hear. Yet the thing was coming into focus, getting
onto paper at long last.
I settled into a schedule. Every morning either Ted or Ev, who
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