And you didn’t, damn it, need two to work her priority range. The sounds were too pure: two ears were better than four. Two bodies inhibited the purities, muddied the pitch. She’d learned that much from Larsdahl.
The sound of the returning lorries, the singing of the climbers, roused Biyanco. He blinked at her, having forgot in his sleeping that he’d taken a woman again. With solemn courtesy, he thanked her for their intercourse, and having dressed, excused himself with grave ceremony. At least a man had found pleasure in her body, she thought.
She bathed, dressed, and joined him as the full fruit bins began spilling their colorful contents into the washing pool. Biyanco was seated at the controls, his nimble fingers darting here and there as he weighed each bin, computed the price, and awarded each chief his crew’s chit. It was evidently a good pick, judging by the grins on every face, including Biyanco’s.
As each lorry emptied, it swiveled around and joined the line on the tractor that was also headed homeward. All were shortly in place and then the second part of the processing began. The climbers took themselves off under the shade of the encroaching jungle and ate their lunches.
Abruptly noise pierced Killashandra’s ears. She let out a scream, stifling a repetition against her hand but not soon enough to escape Biyanco. The noise ceased. Trembling with relief, Killashandra looked around, astonished that no one else seemed affected by the appalling shriek.
“You are a crystal singer, then, aren’t you?” asked Biyanco, steadying her as she rocked on her feet. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure but I forgot the crystals in the drive have been off. Honest I did, or I’d have warned you.” He was embarrassed and earnest.
“You should have them balanced,” Killashandra replied angrily and immediately apologized. “How could you know I might be a crystal singer?”
Biyanco looked away from her now. “Things I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
He looked at her then, his eyes steady. “That a crystal singer can sound notes that’ll drive a man mad. That they lure men to them, seduce them, and then kidnap ‘em away to Ballybran and they never come back.”
Killashandra smiled, a little weakly because her ears still ached. “What made you think I wasn’t?”
“Me!” He jabbed at his chest with a juice-stained finger. “You slept with me.”
She reached out and touched his cheek gently. “You are a good man, Biyanco, besides being the best brewman on Armagh. And I like you. But you should get those crystals balanced.”
Biyanco glanced over at the offending machinery and grimaced, “The balancer’s got a waiting list as long as Murtagh River,” he said. “You look pale. How about a drink? Harmat’ll help ... oh, you are a witch,” he added, chuckling as he realized that she couldn’t’ve been as drunk as she’d acted. Then a smile tugged his lips across his face. “Ohho, you are a something, Killashandra of Ballybran. I should’ve spotted your phony drunk, and me a barman all these decades.” He chuckled again. “Well, harmat’ll help your nerves.” He clicked his fingers at one of the climber chiefs and the boy scampered into the living quarters, back again in a trice with glasses and a flask of chilled harmat.
She drank eagerly, both hands on the glass because she was still shaky. The cool tartness was soothing, though, and she wordlessly held the glass out for a refill. Biyanco’s eyes were kind and somewhat anxious. He knew what unbalanced crystalline shrieks did to the sensitive nerves of a singer.
“You’ve not been harmed by it, have you?”
“No. No, Biyanco, we’re tougher than that. It was the surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to have crystal-driven equipment. ...”
He grinned slyly. “We’re not backward on Armagh for all we’re quiet and peaceful. “ He leaned back from her, regarding her with fresh interest. “Is it true that crystal singers don’t grow old?”
“There’re disadvantages to that, my friend.”
He raised his eyebrows in polite contradiction. But she only smiled as she steadily sipped the harmat until all trace of pain had eased from her nerves.
“You told me you’ve only a certain time to process ripe fruit. If you’ll let me take the tractor down the rails past the first ridge . . . No. . . .” and she vetoed her own suggestion arriving at an impulsive alternative. “How long do you have before the pick sours?”
“Three hours, tops,” and in Biyanco’s widening eyes she saw incredulous gratitude as he understood her intention. “You wouldn’t?” he said in a voiceless whisper.
“I could and I would. That is, if you’ve the tools I need.”
“I’ve tools,” and, as if afraid she’d renege, he propelled her toward the machine shed.
He had what she needed, but the bare minimum. Fortunately, the all important crystal saws and knives were still very sharp and true. With two pairs of knowledgeable hands (Biyanco had put the driver together himself when he updated the plant’s machinery thirty years ago), it was no trick at all to get down to the crystals.
“They’re in thirds,” he told her needlessly.
“Pitch?”
“B-flat minor.”
“Minor? For heavy work like this?”
“Minor because it isn’t that continuous a load and minors don’t cost what majors do,” Biyanco replied crisply.
Killashandra nodded, accepting the oblique snub. She hit the B-flat and the crystal hummed sweetly in tune. So did the D. It was the E that was sour—off by a half-tone. She cut off the resonance before the sound did more than ruffle her nerves. With Biyanco carefully assisting her, she freed the crystal of its brackets, cradling it tenderly in her hands. It was a blue, from the Ghanghe Range, more than likely, and old, because the blues were worked out now.
“The break’s in the top of the prism, here,” she said, tracing the flaw. “The bracket may have shifted with vibration.”
“G’delpme, I weighed those brackets and felted them proper. ...”
“Not to worry, Biyanco. Probably the expansion coefficient differs in this rain forest enough to make even properly set felt slip. Thirty years they’ve been in? You worked well.”
They decided to shift pitch down, which meant she had to recut all three crystals, but that way he’d have a major triad. Because she trusted him, she let him watch as she cut and tuned. She had to sustain pitch with her voice after she had warmed them enough to sing, but she could hold a true pitch long enough to place the initial, and all-important cuts.
It was wringing wet work, even with the best of equipment and in a moderate climate. She was exhausted by the time they reset the felted brackets. In fact, he elbowed her out of the way when he saw how her hands trembled.
“Just check me,” he asked but she didn’t need to. He was spry in more than one way. She was glad she’d tuned the crystals for him. But he was too old for her.
She felt better when he started the processer again and there was no crystal torture.
“You get some rest, Killashandra. This’ll take a couple more hours. Why don’t you stretch out on the tractor van seat? It’s wide enough. That way you can rest all the way back to Trefoil.”
“And yourself, Biyanco?”
He grinned like the old black imp he was. “I’m maybe a shade younger than you, crystal singer Killashandra. But we’ll never know, will we?”
She slept, enervated by the pitching and cutting, but she woke when Biyanco opened the tractor door. The hinge squeaked in C-sharp.
“Good press,” he said when he saw she was awake. Behind in the lorries, the weary climbers chanted to themselves. One was a monotone. Before he could get on her nerves, they’d reached the village. The lorries were detached and the climbers melted into the darkness. Biyanco and Killashandra continued on the acid road back to Trefoil