She nodded; Tennyson on the death of Arthur, the departure for Avalon. “Does King Arthur hold court in Mera, then?” she asked.
He took the question seriously. “There was a man who could have been the source of the legends, a leader from sixth-century Britain. He trained Killer.”
“Was? He died?”
Jerry’s face grew even more serious. “He came Outside on a rescue— like this— and failed to return. The other side got him.”
She laughed. “I think it is certainly bedtime, Mr. Howard, when you start the fairy stories. Play me one little piece.”
He lifted the cover. “I’m not much good— I haven’t played in months, so this may be terrible. And I’m better with a score.” He wasn’t terrible, he was a very good amateur, but she could tell that his fingers were rusty. Then she got caught up in the music He stopped with a discord and a muttered oath.
“Sorry. I’m not sure of the next bit. Like it?”
Like it?
“It’s marvelous! Incredible! What is it?”
He was surprised by her enthusiasm, then his face lit up. “It’s Killer’s teeth again— another piece of evidence. It was written by one of my friends. A bunch of us were sitting around my room one night, and he’d been playing for us— doing take-offs on Sibelius, Wagner, and Copland and tying us all in stitches. And then he played some of the stuff he writes now, using twenty-third-century rhythms, which are incredibly complex, and I asked him to play a little of the kind of music he used to write, before he was rescued. He improvised that— improvised it! Next day he wrote it down for me.”
“Who?” she demanded, feeling her hands starting to shake, seeing the understanding in his eyes as she fought down that terrifying recognition.
“You would know him if you saw him.”
“No!” But she had known the music, the inevitability of the music, as characteristic as handwriting, the sensation that whatever came next was preordained by God, the utter mastery. And it was not one of the known pieces “No!” she shouted again, rising.
Jerry stood also, smiling triumphantly. “Yes! That’s it, Adriadne! The key! There’s always something to convince someone who’s going to be rescued. That’s why the piano… that music has convinced you, hasn’t it?”
“No! No!”
“Yes! He was rescued from a slum in Vienna. You’ve heard the story of the unmarked grave, the funeral that no one went to? What year was that, Ariadne Gillis?”
“Tell me?” she whispered.
“1791,” he said. “Correct?” He smiled at her.
It was true, then. This man knew a piece of music that only Mozart could have written, but which Mozart had not— a posthumous composition? The cottage wheeled around her and then steadied Jerry Howard’s green slacks and tee shirt had vanished. He was wearing a pair of very floppy gray-green trousers, the same color as Lacey’s poncho; he was bare-chested and he was holding a long white rod in his hand. Her own outfit had changed into a sleeveless cape and loose pants like his, in the same gray shade as before, but not the same clothes.
She staggered, and he grabbed her and held her up.
Killer entered in a gust of wind and rain and slammed the door. His jeans had become floppy pants also, matching the poncho that Alan was wearing. Although the trousers were dry, his bare chest was soaking.
“Well!” he said and came limping around the sofa. He looked from one to the other.
“She believes us,” Jerry said, releasing her.
Killer grinned and came too close once more. “Come with me to Mera, then,” he said, quoting his song. “Come with me to Mera, pretty lady?” She shook her head. A four-hundred-year-old juvenile delinquent?
“I’m not sure if I do believe… ”
Jerry took her arm and led her to the chair. “Belief isn’t something you decide consciously,” he said. “It’s there or it isn’t. You believe. That doesn’t mean you have to come with us, or stay there if you do. But at least we can talk about it.” The climate must be good there, she thought inanely— they both had superb tans. Good for the kids? Far beyond Graham’s reach, then, it would be the ultimate sanctuary.
“Avalon?” she whispered.
“Avalon,” said Jerry, kneeling beside the chair. “The Islands of the Blessed, the Fortunate Isles, Shangri-La, Elysium, Brasil, Tir na nOg, the Land of Youth… it’s been around a long time, Ariadne. It’s in all the legends, of all lands and cultures and times. The place where wishes come true.” And they would take her there? She had been fleeing to Canada, stealing her own children so callously stolen from her, seeking freedom, peace, and a life free of fear. Now he was offering all of that, plus immortality? She must be going crazy. D.T.s again! And yet… that earnest, gaunt face, the obvious concern… surely she was imagining all this?
“What happened to your shirts?’ “
Jerry looked puzzled. “We gave our capes to the children. I don’t know what you saw. These are Meran clothes. They provide a local disguise.”
“But you had shirts on and then tee shirts and now nothing!” she protested.
He smiled. “I only saw Killer with a cape and then Killer bare-chested. Tee shirts? I suppose that was the best the pants could do without capes. You believe now, so you are not deceived.”
“Play that music again!” she demanded. It seemed like the only straw of sanity in this hayfield of confusion.
He smiled, went back to the piano, laid the rod thing across his lap, and played again, fumbling to a halt as he had before.
She got up and went over, and he yielded the chair to her. She played it through… then back to G-sharp… first theme in the left hand, now? Second theme inverted?
“No!” she said, “too complex, that would come later, near the recapitulation?”
He was beet red. “And I was trying to impress you!” he said. “You’re professional!”
She suppressed the childish pleasure. “I’m a mother.”
“But you’re first class!” he spluttered. “Concert pianist?” She spread her hands. “Reach was my problem, Jerry. I probably could never have made the grade.” Pregnant, she had not been able to reach the keys.
“I think you would have,” he protested. “But come to Mera, and I’ll give you the score— a Mozart holograph.” She smiled and was about to say something when wind rattled the bedroom door. Killer was there in two steps, a stumble, and a curse. He had a submachine gun in his hand, and she had no idea where that came from, unless he had pulled it up from between the sofa and the chair as he stumbled. He hit the door with a massive shoulder; it was bolted. He stepped back and hurled himself against it, staggering to catch his balance as the door jamb was shattered by the bolt and the door flew open. Then she and Jerry were there also, the window was open, and the children were gone.
Five
For a moment there was no movement, no action, only a whirl of thought. The window was wide to the night and rain, the drape streaming like a flag. The bedclothes were rumpled, the children’s clothes hung wet on the footboard, a teddy bear lay on the floor by the dresser— all stark below the naked light bulb swaying on its cord.
Then Killer shouldered the others back and pulled the door closed— they were too visible through that window.
Jerry had screwed up. He should have heard something, but he had been so caught up in convincing Ariadne that he had not been listening. The first time he had been given a rescue to do and he had screwed up.
Or had he? He had been told to bring clothes for one, not for a mother and two children— perhaps this had been foreseen. Was Ariadne expected to desert her children to go to Mera? What kind of woman would ever do that? He did not think she was that sort of mother, and so the mission was doomed to failure if the children were lost. Realization dawned that he very much wanted Ariadne to come to Mera, he wanted to show it to her, introduce his friends to her, and take her riding and swimming and doing all the million other things that a man and a woman… and that also. Perhaps it was only pity, but perhaps it was the start of love? That was crazy. He had known her barely a couple of hours and only this morning had been admitting that he couldn’t form a stable relationship with a woman. Maybe he hadn’t found the right woman?