Folly returns to the studio hall some time later and as she and Martin approach the open door to the smaller studio, they hear Syd and Soren playing. The music stops and Syd's voice drifts out into the hall.
"OK, but try this. Instead of strumming or plucking the strings, if we hammer them against the fretboard we get a percussive melodic sound. Listen." Random plays a short stretch and stops. As Folly and Martin get to the door, he's looking at them. "Ready? Well alright, then."
Folly looks disappointed that the music has stopped, but she nods.
Random leads the way down long, dimly lit corridors to an elegant enclosed staircase. He starts down it and doesn't slow until he reaches the bottom. A short trip through a more natural section of caves leads the foursome to a vast room, hundreds of yards across. The floor is flat as glass and the chamber is illuminated by a soft red glow from the tracery that covers almost all of the floor. "Soren, think of it as a live wire. A very, very high-voltage live wire. There wouldn't be enough left to bury if you touch it."
Folly shoots Soren a look that says something akin to, Lucky me, now I get to go walk on it for an hour. Next he'll send me to play in traffic blindfolded. But the smile behind her eyes says she's more excited than freaked out.
"Folly, start over there, don't leave the path, don't stop for anything and you'll know how to use it when you're done. If you get nervous, imagine the pattern in its underwear. Any questions?"
["Right. 'Follow the Shiny Red Road. Follow the Shiny Red Road. There's no place like home.' Here, Thelo-to, good kitty, it's time to go...."
I confess, I've been having "Wizard of Oz" flashbacks since they got to Xanadu. I leave it as an exercise to the reader which of Folly's men is the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion. I know what *I* think the answer is....]
"You're s---" Folly begins, but interrupts herself with a chuckle. "'Course you're sure. You're king of the f***ing universe."
She glances nervously toward the start-point, making sure she can find it. But as she looks at the Pattern, really looks at it, her doubts melt away. It's just another gig, and she knows these rhythms forwards, backwards and inside-out.
She turns back and grins at the Composer. "Wish me luck," she says, breathlessly; it is as much supplication to the god who could grant her this thing as it is words of reassurance between friends.
"Luck," says Syd, then he says "Wait! I almost forgot. Are you wearing good walking shoes? Because Florimel's the only one who's ever walked in heels and lived..."
Folly smirks, lifts one foot in the air, and wiggles her bare toes at him. "These are the comfiest ones I've got...."
Syd snaps his fingers and the sound echoes for a brief moment. "One more thing. We don't give a lot of instruction because the experience is intensely personal and no two people have yet described it the same way. But if you've been hearing about it over the last few years, there's one thing that's different. People talk about the first veil, the second veil and the final veil, but now there's a third veil before the final one. If that doesn't make any sense yet, it will in about 3 minutes and 5 seconds."
Folly hears Martin's intake of breath. Soren looks at Martin, then Syd, bewildered.
He steps forward and gives her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. "You'll do great. We'll be waiting when you're done." He lets her go and says "Knock 'em dead."
Folly smiles and lays her hand on his shoulder. The energy in her touch is like the static-charged calm before the storm, the hyperreal stillness of the last moments backstage.
Martin waits until she's disengaged from his father to step forward. He gives her a quick hug of his own, and says, low, "Remember, Flora did it in heels. Four veils or forty, so can you, babe. Always." He takes her hand, squeezes it reassuringly, and kisses it. Another squeeze, and he releases her.
Behind Martin, Folly sees Soren give her a thumbs-up sign.
Folly flashes a smile: I'm glad you're here.
Martin finishes, "See you on the other side."
Folly looks deep into his eyes and nods. "I'll be there," she says; and then echoes, quietly, "Always."
And with that, she turns to face the Pattern.
For a long moment Folly regards the great red squiggle in silence, watching, listening, tapping her fingers against her bare midriff in time with the hum she can almost hear, its rhythm thrumming through her internal organs; she could practically dance it.
With a deep breath, she steps one bare foot and then the other onto the Pattern in a shower of tiny sparks.
The stone is warmer than she was expecting; warm, and full of the buzz of electricity. It seems to press back against her with a slight resistance, like ankle-deep ocean water teeming with friendly eels.
She wades in, curious and excited and unafraid.
Currents. Water and electricity. Isn't that all we are? she thinks as she watches the shiny sparks flash around her ankles like minnows with each step along the path. She feels the currents surge through her body, tickling her innards, prickling her skin, as her steps trace the long outer edge of the path. Water and electricity, particles and waves. All we are is dust in the wind. Earth in air. Fire in water. A tiny spark on the shore of a vast ocean.
The opposing force climbs her legs like the incoming tide and brings her thoughts back to the present.
Here. Now. Current.
Her pace slows involuntarily as the pressure rises like strong hands over her thighs, to her hips and belly, pressing....
She doesn't struggle, doesn't bash her way through: she leans into it, using the momentum of her own substance to bring her through, like a spoon sinking into honey.
And then the First Veil pops like a bubble and the memories come rushing in, lilting as a nursery rhyme:
She rides her Papa's shoulders down the
Street to their favorite diner that her
Mother found "too lowbrow"; but it's
Folly's birthday, and Waffles Matter.
Her ancient immigrant nanny sings her
Songs with words she doesn't know but she
Hears in the language she understands:
Rhythm and meter, pitch and flow.
Soren bends to dab the blood from her
Battered knee; "And when you do finally
Learn to fly," he gently rebukes,
"You gotta promise to teach me, too --"
She stands onstage in a puddle of light,
Gathering the crowd in the palm of her hand as she
Turns her young soul inside-out; and the
Masses weep at her command....
Power. Her first tastes of it. Now she feels the power of the Pattern surging through her limbs, stronger than song, reminding her where she is and what she is doing. And what it is doing to her. She is sure now it is taking her measure: rhythm and jubilance, music and love. All that she is, painted with four broad strokes. Earth, air, fire, water.
The Pattern's rhythm moves her -- for how could she not move with it? -- along curves and spirals, a dizzying dance of glowing red and silver sparks; but it has begun to press against her again, this time slower, firmer, more insidious. She turns her mind back to her task, focuses on her breathing, on her heartbeat, on keeping time and moving forward.
Press... forward... press... forward....
She is sweating now. She can feel her hair sticking to her face in dark daggers. She blows out her breath in hard, fast bursts, still pushing; at the sound of it, she suddenly wonders how this compares to childbirth.
Silly girl, a dark voice inside her head replies, this is childbirth....
...but she doesn't even have time to wonder whether she's the one birthing or being birthed, because at that moment the Second Veil parts and power surges through her body so intensely that she gasps and nearly stumbles....
...and the memories change, too, and the rhythm: deep and visceral, more a part of her body than her mind, tempting her to submit, to lie down right there and let the power flow through her 'til she bursts in a shower of sparks.
She smells Paige's hair, all spring rain and wildflowers, enticing her to stay in bed all day -- but no, she has to keep going, keep walking, keep moving... moving... moving to the rhythm....
And then Ossian is there, dancing with her; she can hear his laughter and feel the heat from their bodies meeting between them as they twirl, giddy and breathless and always in perfect step. Folly bites her lip and stares at the red line of the Pattern, at the sparks shooting up around it, and forces her feet to continue their journey, not to get caught up in the distraction of the other dance. That is not the rhythm she needs to follow, not now, not yet....
She shakes her head to clear it -- but now she feels Solange's hands in her hair, brushing, twisting, gently stroking, all in a gentle rhythm that sends tingles down her spine. She breathes deeply in and out and keeps walking...
...but in her breath she catches the scent of the van, and suddenly she is there, in the backseat, with her head in the lap of the most beautiful man in the world and his hand moving along her waist, into the small of her back, and she doesn't want it to stop...
...but she has to keep walking. Walking. Walking. She can feel resistance building up again, but she's not sure whether it's the Pattern or her own mind creating it. It would be so easy to lie down, to give in, to fall into his arms and damn the consequences anyway, she would gladly die for it---
Sweat trickles down the back of her neck, and she reaches up to wipe it away...
...but then Martin's mouth presses warm against her neck, so vivid and real that she gasps audibly; and she is against the wall of a shadowy warehouse with his weight against her, and... and... yes, this is worth dying for...
...but then her thumb brushes the black silk cord around her neck. Not here, not now, not like this.... What was she doing? She squints into the strobe lights at the squiggly red line of a twirling dancer's glow-stick necklace....
No. That's the Pattern, and she's still following it, her feet rising and falling in half-time with the thump of the bass. Her thighs are burning from the effort of pressing forward, but still she presses. Temptation, exhaustion -- they aren't enough to stop her. Not here. Not now. Not like this....
And the Third Veil parts.
Immediately, without warning, the temptations are replaced by fears, by every threatening shadow that keeps her awake at night.
She sees the hospital where her Papa died, all clinical white and antiseptic; and the same hospital, later, where she lies in pain, crying out for the lover she lost, begging him to return, knowing there will be no answer. Even now she can feel the breath rasping in her throat, but she cannot make the words come; he will never hear her.
And then the nightmares that come, over and over, for years: she clings one-handed to the edge of a precipice, her other hand clinging to the hand of her lover; and she knows she is the only thing keeping him from the plummet, but she also suspects she is the one who got him into this predicament in the first place. And her grip on the rock is slipping, and she must either forsake her love or die with him....
And then she wakes up, and she is still on the Pattern, pushing blindly through the pain. Amid the sound of the sparks leaping up to her waist, she hears another sound, slow and rhythmic, a soft sizzle: her own tears hitting hot stone and dancing among the sparks.
And now a torrent of images, of memories and fears and strange portents, push into her mind's eye in a frenetic montage of warning: a man with one foot in the sea and one on shore, drawing his sword; another man she knows is her brother, though she can't see his face, marching an army he does not want to lead against an enemy he is not sure he can defeat; a bleeding, dark-eyed boy; a great beast with an injured paw hunted by a menacing figure clothed in shadow, and Folly isn't sure which to root for; a dark-haired woman ascending a throne; a stray arrow, pale as bone; the green eyes of a predator staring out from beneath dark water; a bright bird flying in fury at a foe many times its strength; a woman with hair the color of flame clutching at her swollen belly.
Her family. Her friends. Her heart lurches, and her feet long to rush to them, to offer aid, to offer comfort; but she barely has the strength to perform the task already set before her....
It's too big. The Pattern, the Family, the Universe, all of it. She can't save them.
And then Martin is in front of her, bleeding. She reaches for him, instinctively, to help him: but it's her own hand holding the hilt of the knife. And she can't stop it, can't stop the hot blood pouring over her hand and onto the Pattern where it mingles somehow with her own and blooms into a thousand plum-red fire-flowers.... And now she can barely see the glow of the tracery she's still desperately struggling to follow. Her eyes search the flowers the ground before her, picking out the hints of its glints; but she isn't so much walking now as sliding her feet along the outline, making her aching way by touch alone....
She isn't going to make it, and it's all her fault. He warned her....
No. She has to make it. Too many people are counting on her....
Don't kid yourself. Admit it: in the end it would be easier for them all if....
No. Don't even think it.
Keep going. Can't. Keep. Going....
The stone grows hot under her feet. Folly draws in a ragged breath and lets it out in a fierce, determined scream.
The sound sends a violent torrent of sparks shooting higher than Folly's head, up, out, along the spiral of the Pattern, carrying with it all her fears and doubts, away, back, back to the beginning, behind her, to the past, to the before; and she pushes through, pushes through the nightmares, washes them away in fire and air....
The rush of images ceases, leaving behind a strange echoing calm, a verdant field stretching to infinity. The narrow red glow beneath Folly's feet traces a nearly straight line to the horizon. Overhead is a too-big sky, the way it might look on a prairie before a storm. To Folly's left it is a riot of sunset colors, all reds and oranges; to her right it fades into inky indigo twilight, dotted here and there with faint silver stars and the first arc of the rising moon.
Before her, straddling the path, perhaps a dozen paces away, is a child with hair the color of straw.
"Poor Mama," the child says with a voice like a bell, "you always were in love with the sky, always reaching for the things you couldn't touch. Just like the ocean...."
And in a tinkling of laughter like water over smooth stones, the child fades and now a lion stands unmoving before her, blocking her path.
"...but who are you, silly songbird, to think you can save the whole sky from the storms that are coming?"
Folly knows, instinctively, that she is now mere inches from the center of the Pattern. And she knows she must still be moving, ever-so-slowly, if only because she is not dead yet. Or if she is, this is a stranger afterlife than she ever imagined.
"Who are you to come this far?" sneers the Lion. "You are no child of Oberon -- you are but a distant relation, weak and naive. You speak of Love as if it will save the world -- but everywhere you love, you drive a wedge between the ones you purport to save. Arrogant child! Do you not see the doom you write by your own hand? I should tear you asunder, here and now, and the Universe would thank me for it. Give me one good reason I should not."
Folly stands silent, every muscle tensed -- some tiny still-rational part of her mind realizes she must be straining against the Final Veil -- and regards the Lion for a long moment in the calm on the far side of fear.
"I am Folly, beloved of kings and princes, friend of gods and monsters, companion of the common man," she replies in a soft, clear voice, though her heart beats double-time. "I am young, but I am no longer a child. And if you think I am weak, you haven't looked deep enough."
And for the first time in her life, she really, truly believes it. She feels the strength in her own soul, and she knows why she is here.
"I am Folly," she says firmly, "and I belong here."
She reaches out her hand and lays it gently but firmly on the Lion's muzzle, silencing its doubts. Her doubts.
There is a bright glint in its eye, but not of anger: of delight, of completion, of joy on the verge of laughter. And the deep rumble in its throat sounds strangely like a purr.
She feels the sudden surge of power overtake her every limb and organ, stronger than orgasm or drug trip, remaking her into the thing she always was: a missing card from the family deck, lost for years under the cosmic couch but finally come home.
Home.
And the Final Veil parts, and Folly falls to her knees in the center of the Pattern.
She blinks through sweat and tears, squints toward the start of the Pattern. She can barely make out the figures standing there, but she raises her hand to them to let them know she is okay.
And then she is gone.
"Kitty?" Folly asks in a raspy whisper.
Thelonious rises from his beanbag chair and greets her with a rusty purr.
"No, don't get up, I'm ---" Too tired to finish this sentence.
Folly strips off her sweat-soaked shirt, uses the few dry patches of sleeve to wipe her brow and neck and chest and back, and deposits it unceremoniously next to the beanbag chair, into which she drags herself with aching limbs. When she is settled, Thelonious curls up on her belly, still purring loudly.
"Yeah," Folly whispers. "We're home --" And then she is asleep.
When Folly awakens, Thelonious is no longer on her chest, but cuddled up next to her. She's in bed in a dark room. Someone has stripped off her jeans, but left her undergarments on. The someone is probably the other person lying on the bed, on top of the covers, watching her sleep in the moonlight from the windows.
"Hi," Martin says, once she stirs enough that he's sure she's awake. He's smiling, the little smile. He reaches out and touches the side of her face with a fingertip.
"I have some water, and something to munch on, if you want it."
Folly blinks up at him for a moment, drowsy and disoriented and a bit concerned, as if she'd half-expected to find herself, or perhaps him, in an altogether less peaceful state. But his touch allays her fears, and the mention of food -- and especially water -- brings a broad smile to her face. _Yes, water is exactly what I need right right now,_ she says, although it comes out sounding an awful lot like "I love you."
"I love you too."
There's a pitcher of water made of fine cut crystal on a tray on the dresser near the bed. Martin fills a glass from it and hands it to Folly.
She pushes herself up into a seated position... and winces. Oh, she's gonna be sore for at least another day. But she's still got the strength and coordination to drain her glass with all the speed and relish of a chug-team captain, as she ably demonstrates. She grins a bit sheepishly as she hands it back for a refill.
Martin pours Folly a second glass. He's still wearing the little smile.
After a moment, he adds, "Dad and I agreed that I need to go back to Amber first. If you'll be up to it after you've eaten, I'd like you to come with me."
"As long as I don't have to outrun anybody, yeah, I'm up to it," Folly replies with a reassuring smile, but then adds, "...If I'm not needed here, that is. I guess you've had a chance to talk to him some about his plans?"
"He's got to get back there ASAP, if only to allay panic. With both him and me gone for who knows how long--weeks--with no word, people are probably freaking out. I've got 24 hours to resolve my little problem, which Dad has agreed I get to resolve, and then I need to Trump him in."
Folly nods. She has downed about half the second glass of water and moved on to food, which she also attacks with visible enthusiasm. If she has further comment on the topic of Martin's 'little problem,' it will probably have to wait 'til her mouth is less full.
"He and Soren are noodling around in the studio. I didn't want them waking you up, so I brought you up here." Martin gestures around at the room. "It's mine. Dad said I wouldn't have any trouble finding it, and I didn't. His suite's around the corner."
Folly looks with interest around the moonlit room as she chews and swallows. Her eyes are full of questions, but the one that works its way out first, quietly, is, "Did you talk to him any about the, uh, other thing?"
"It, uh, kind of came up." Martin doesn't look away, but his sudden twitchiness suggests he might like to. "Soren was there, so there wasn't too much either one of us could say. You know?"
He doesn't really wait for an answer before continuing, since she's still eating.
"I don't think either one of us knows what to say, anyway. But that has nothing to do with you." He does turn away with those words, going to stand by the window and looking out into the moonlight over the bay.
There's a long moment of silence, and then Martin hears Folly set her plate aside, hears the rustle of the sheets as she slides out of bed, the pad of her feet on the rug as she comes to stand behind him. And then her arms are sliding around his waist, her head resting between his shoulderblades, offering silent strength.
He almost jumps when her hands come together around his midsection. After a moment, the adrenaline reflex conquered, the tension begins draining out of him and he slowly relaxes against her.
She doesn't let go for a long, long time.
She tries to slip into the studio unnoticed so as not to interrupt them -- but it's a futile effort, she knows, even as she makes the attempt. There isn't a room in all the Universe where they -- They, of all people -- would fail to notice her, and vice versa; here, in the fresh growing newness that casts echoes of everything in its sphere, the effect is amplified a hundredfold.
They notice, and she smiles.
The room looks like it's been used for a photoshoot for "Elderly Instruments" catalog, with stringed instruments everywhere, many familiar and more intriguing. Folly notes her instrument case, unopened, in a corner. Syd's drums are set up, but he's sitting on a beanbag chair with his own small selection of drums around him.
Soren has a black t-shirt and jeans and Syd is wearing a poet's shirt and leather pants and is barefoot. His hair needs combing.
Folly has cleaned up, judging from her damp, freshly-combed hair, and changed into a more relaxed pair of jeans and a purple tie-dyed t-shirt. She's moving with the gingerly creakiness of a hard-pumping gig's morning-after, all sore muscles and residual giddiness.
"Go, me!" she announces cheerfully, and grins broadly at her rhythm section. "Now do I get my secret decoder ring?"
"Go you! Do you have enough boxtops for a secret decoder ring? Do you have any questions that will utterly confound Soren?"
"Oooh, I should try to come up with some, because, y'know, that's always fun...." She grins at Soren with the tip of her tongue sticking out between her teeth.
Soren has some sort of bazouki or octave mandolla and is picking out a tune, probably a new composition. "As long as you hit 1 and 3 and don't have another train-wreck when I need to find the downbeat I don't care what kind of crazy moon-man talk you talk."
"I've progressed beyond downbeats, " the drummer tells his band-mate. Syd picks up a tiny, high-pitched hand drum and starts a catchy little rhythm in 4 and turns his full attention back to Folly.
Martin is standing in the door, waiting. He says nothing.
Folly says, "Right, so, first off, I think I need to go back to Amber with Martin, because there are at least a couple people I need to talk to or otherwise check on. So, is there anything in particular I should say, or avoid saying, about where you've been and what you've been doing?" Her right hand takes up a counterrhythm against her hip, probably without her realizing it. "And, uh, what should I tell Vialle?"
He sighs, not dropping the beat. "I should come with you..."
Martin starts to say something, but Syd continues, "but Martin's got unfinished business. And I don't want Vialle getting mixed up in it, so yeah, it's on you, kiddo. You know the drill: ' Happenstance will be on stage as soon as we resolve these technical difficulties, so sit tight and we'll start the show as soon as we can...'"
Folly nods her understanding. She looks like she's about to continue, but....
Syd pauses briefly and then says, "Did you hear that?" Nobody heard anything. He gets up and heads out of the room and up a staircase to the main floor. Martin is a step behind him and has his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Folly gives Soren a querying look, shrugs, and turns to follow them.
Soren puts his lyre down and brings up the rear.
When Soren and Folly get to the door to the balcony that Syd and Martin jumped off of a few days ago, they see the two Amberites looking out to sea. When they get to the railing, they see what the two are looking at. A wooden ship, fat and low, is tacking into the great harbor. Flying behind it is a green banner with a Unicorn on it.
Folly stares at the ship for a long moment. Blinks. Looks at Syd.
"You wished for a navy?" she ventures.
Her tone of voice suggests she's probably got other, better guesses.
He shakes his head. "I wished for a pony."
["Yes, well, you always did enjoy a good ride...."
Oh, she is so very NOT saying that in front of Martin....]
["In Thari, that's the simple past tense and you're looking for the continuous past 'I always have enjoyed a good ride', or the conditional invitational future, but that's an advanced tense, and I don't think we want to get that tense right this second..."]
[Martin appreciates that this conversation is not taking place, because then there would be two conditional future tenses in the room, if not more, and that would be Very Bad.]
["You should give up the caffeine. It makes you two tense."]
Folly grins.
Syd opens a box under the low rail and searches inside it, not looking away from the ship. He pulls out a brass spyglass, opens it, and looks at the ship. "Le Cygne--The Swan. And it looks like they've spotted us and our colors, " he says, referring to the pennant flying from a high tower. It is just like the unicorn banner on the ship, except the field is red instead of green.
"I think that makes your leaving more urgent, unless you want to stay and greet Le Cygne with us?"
"Let me see," says Martin. He takes the spyglass from his father and looks out at the ship. Then he turns to Folly. "Wasn't she on the list of lost ships?"
Without pausing for an answer, he adds, "We should go ahead. This will give you something to do while I'm doing what I need to do. What's the timeflow differential between here and Amber, do you know?" he asks Syd.
"Straight up, unless Amber's drifted." Syd reaches out and runs his hand through Martin's hair, affectionately. "Call me when you're ready. And comb your hair."
Martin freezes, wide-eyed, for a half-second as Syd touches him. He smiles a little too widely at his father's suggestion, and nods. "Sure, Dad."
Folly, meanwhile, turns to hug Soren. "You two try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone, 'kay?" she says with a grin.
"OK, I'll make a point of not decking any cops," Soren replies, deadpan.
"You just do that," Martin says to him, and turns to Folly. "You ready?" he asks, reaching into his shirt pocket for his trump box.
Folly releases Soren and gives herself a quick once-over: shoes, pants, Trumps, head. "Looks like," she replies, and holds out her hand to him.
Last modified: 2 April 2004