Apocalyptica Fic: What Could Go Wrong? Part 8

The feeling of musical jubilation did not last, however. After just two numbers the concert was beginning to slide rapidly downhill. Hall had been rapturously well received. Path had met with some success, but then deciding to tone it down a little for another lift-off, they had thought about playing Faraway. It was here, in the gentler, mournful tones that the audience started to get restive, and as the ballad drew to a close, the crowd were starting to get downright antsy, with a pitch of discontent in their rumbled complaints that the band recognised form old- concerts attended and concerts done in tiny venues, back in the day; it was the sound of displeasure, multi-throated and deeply upsetting when it came from a large crowd. Having a large number of people vocally disappointed with you made for a reinstatement in their pleasures a lot harder. The trouble was, until the Driver had added to their nerves, the utter obscurity of what the band were doing- playing a concert for a bunch of madmen living in a forest- had had them merely deeply unnerved. Now, with their reception dropping off sharply, and Aedd’s face, front and centre in the crowd and registering angry concern, the band were beginning to feel the pressure, the tiredness and physical reaction to adrenalin withdrawal. At last it had caught up with them- the impossibility of all they had had to endure, and the very likely messy, painful end awaiting them. Perttu, normally swift-fingered and sure, stumbled over the beginning notes of SOS. His agitating was catching- playing the vocal line for that number, Eicca’s bow slipped momentarily, and his Strad gave a clipping yelp in response. Paavo jumped, and even Mikko- stalwart, reliable and regular-as-hell Mikko dropped a beat or two. It got so messy that Antero called a halt, and, giving them a beat, tried to restart the band, but their shaking hands and skittering nerves weren’t having any of it. They were crumbling, visibly crumbling, dying onstage the likes of which they had never done so before, falling into the vacuum left by the crowd’s removed approval- a crowd that was starting to look hungry.

Eicca held up a hand and stepping forward, tried for honesty and attempted to call for a break, but an annoyed Ion had started slow-clapping; an action swiftly taken up by the larger woodsmen in the crowd, while the smaller ones shifted with a fidgety anxiety.

Real tough crowd… hang on, is that one actually sharpening a knife?!

In flat despair, Eicca watched the crowd seethe below him, and then, with some surprise, he realised that the seething was not now altogether directed towards the band. Indeed, Ion was leaning over towards Aedd and actually summoned up the nerve to tell his boss “some show you promised, Aedd. Can’t even del’ver onna ennertainment, huh?”

Aedd’s face darkened in an instant and he snapped at the taller man, claws flashing momentarily. Ion reeled back, blood flowing down his cheek, face pale with shock. However, another larger wildman was not so reserved as his compatriot when it came to resuming the fight against the clan’s leader.

“Undersized whelp!” he spat.

Aedd’s eyes opened wide, as Daciana gasped beside him. The whole clearing suddenly dropped into unearthly, terrifying silence. If a pin could have made a noise on an earth and leaf floor, it would have clattered most noisily at that moment.

Aedd’s chest swelled with breath, his teeth flashed, his hair stood on end. “Inbred freak!” he yelled back, and the rumble was on.

The band watch, horrified, as the lycanthropes started to square up on two sides before them, a split as obvious as it was divisive. It was the smaller vs. the larger; the more civilised against the more rustic. Either way, it was probably going to get very, very graphic in a matter of moments.

With insults trading both ways and teeth and claws flexing in readiness, all it would take is the wrong action, the wrong look to set the flame to the fuse. And yet they did not fight all at once. This was no free-for-all, this was something much, much deeper ingrained... and it suddenly struck Eicca. The same with animals and young humans; indeed, anyone with something to prove. In a pack group, to ensure fitness of survival, the weakest will get thinned out. Even if it’s the leader who has proven less than satisfactory. But when such ructions occur, there will be sides to be taken; precisely what was happening in front of them right now. Apocalyptica had a front-row view of a major political upheaval in a group where so far they had only seen one restraining factor at work. Eicca turned, white-faced to the others.

“Aedd is only the leader while he provides, and he provided us! But if he goes down, so do we! The pack will have us all!”

“You mean-" Paavo’s face likewise speedily lost all colour.

“-We’re dogs’ dinner?” Antero finished with grim humour.

Eicca pulled a face at the bluntness of the suggestion, but had to nod. “Whatever these people are, they aren’t forgiving; should he fall… no! No! I cannot think of it!” Eicca rocked down onto his heels, tears starting in his eyes.

“Holy sh-! I don’t wanna die!” Mikko moaned from behind them, thrusting his body over the drums to join in the urgent conference.

“What do we do?” Paavo hissed, casting about for solutions. “We can’t run, or fight, we’re- YEOW!”

-when, along with the others, he suddenly clapped both hands over his ears.

Because of Perttu.

Because of what was coming out from under his hands.

Because of what was pouring from his heart and mind.

Standing centre stage, frozen to the spot he had been standing in for the ill-fated attempt at SOS, Perttu had remained, temporarily unregarded by everyone.

With set, blanched face, his unheeding eyes far gone to the land of fear and retribution, Perttu’s hands had twitched involuntarily over his beautiful instrument; the one graceful, glorious element in all this mess.

The others- they had families, they had dependants and responsibilities to return to. What of he- the youngest, the prodigy- held up to the limelight? What was he, off that pedestal? The giggly, playful scamp; inspiring laughter and flippancy. The shy one; endearingly private; the closeness hiding a transient mood that had him restless, restless, moving on, always moving on.  And then there it was: Perttu; lone wolf. So ‘wolfish’ he’d grown his hair, bearded his face, and dyed it all black. The brooding, good-looking one; the growl-y, Aragorn-esque shadow in the band’s pictures. The lone wolf… forced to look forward and back, and he saw- nothing. Nothing to set a stamp by and say “yes, I come from here, to here I will return.” And in his heart the fear coalesced, as emotions had done since he was a tiny infant: into sound.

From under his fingers it came- not a howl, but a scream.

A scream of rage and helplessness.

The young animal with its back to the wall and overcome- raw, awful and discordant. It was the sound of a soul scrabbling for purchase.

The note, if a note there was in there, pitched incredibly high, howled over the speakers, the amplification unable to kill the insistent clarity of sound of the amazing instrument he now wielded like a sonic weapon. The warring wildmen collapsed about the stage, staggering and yowling against the sound, their hands clamped to ears, their feud utterly forgotten in the split-second the sound wailed forth.

But, then, something extraordinary happened. Something that proved that the heart under it all beat not with aggression or rage, but with a quiet beauty that cannot hold onto rage forever. The pain in the sound decreased, even if the intensity did not.

“Not of this world,” Perttu murmured under his breath, and his expression finally began to change, settling into concentration. The sound revealed layers, textures that being woven, interspersed with other notes, other runs. It travelled down from ‘excruciating’ towards merely ‘gut wrenchingly intense’ and with the abating pain came a new direction; the animal at bay rising, the soul not so overcome as now overcoming.

Within that note- itself now made of many spiralling pitches, ascending to the sky above, there came a soft, insistent rhythm: a beat. From behind Perttu the beat was answered, then underscored- a timpani regular and unforced. On the bass drum, and then on the bass tom tom, Mikko answered and held Perttu’s flight, providing the heartbeat of the note’s song.

Now Paavo’s fingers moved, seemingly of their own accord. Standing not so far behind the younger man, his cello began to send coils of lower-toned harmonies to ride alongside Perttu’s coursing series of movements up and down the strings; those nimble fingers dancing lightly across the body of song he contrived.

Eicca moved up to stand, amazed and transfixed by the experience of the pure jam now in session beside Perttu. The wildmen of the woods forgotten, he turned slightly towards the younger man as if following his lead and offered up the voice of his instrument to accompany Perttu’s wild, lovely, lonely music. Antero, swaying gently, joined in under Paavo, drawing out a bass line that frisked playfully around the drums- now more involved and suggesting the odd counter-time.

Before the stage the Wildman stood about, gaping. Aedd stood, panting, his face scratched from a flying punch. Hands had been cautiously, then gladly, removed from all ears present and the sensitive hearing of those adapted to living in the woods and by their wits was flooding with the truly astonishing sounds coming from the stage. In the heat of imminent violence and death, these men had drawn together to produce some of the most incredible, improvised, living music Aedd had ever heard- and he’d had time to hear a lot. And then he felt it before he heard it properly. Coming from the throats of those around him arose the voice of his people; the grumbling bass, the steady tenor, the eye-watering soprano of many throats but with one intention, moving as one. As the pack they should remember they were.

Aedd, his own voice responding in kind, nodded his satisfaction. He’d been right. Gambling exposure of the pack in order to snatch this lot to order had been a wise move- his continued princedom was assured…. And even better, they would toast tonight in human blood, too.  It had been so long since they had done so, and they were starting to forget what it meant to be men. The blood of these gifted musicians would help them to do so and ensure their survival. With plans laid and details falling into place, Aedd gave himself up to the music of the night and allowed his spirit to become part of the greater, chorusing whole.

The music went on and on and nobody cared for the time. The cellos and voices challenged, accompanied and led each other round and about in a spell ancient and profound; that of community. There were no words, but the language of sound in which all partook, and within which no one was refused existence. Lost in the shared world of sensation, when the cellos finally fell quiet, drawing to a natural close with a sigh, the wildmen rocked back on their heels, eyes glazed, lost to all other sensation. Perttu, emotions utterly spent, his face softening into amazed weariness and his mind a thousand miles away, dropped to one knee, leaning forward on his cello; instrument and man supporting each other in mutual balance. His head fell forwards, resting his cheek against the cool wooden flank under him, his eyes fluttering closed, his long black hair trailing across the strings. Paavo sat down heavily on one of the stools provided for them, rubbing heavily, tired eyes. Antero likewise found his knees buckling, and was soon sat cross-legged on the rough stage, his face and eyes washed clean of any reaction, his cello cradled in his arms. Mikko’s head dropped forwards to rest with his arms on the snare drum, the slight shuddering of his shoulders a testament to the sobbing breaths he took, unable to comprehend for the moment what he’d just heard and played. Eicca alone remained standing to, cello in one hand, bow in the other, body upright, pale blonde hair blowing gently in the slight breeze, his face angelically transported. The wildmen milled about, or stood swaying, all of them with blank, hypnotised expressions on their faces. Gazing out over them with woozy beneficence, Eicca found he could hold no malice towards them for abducting and terrorising them. No, just a sense of wonder at the chance to partake in the music they had just so spontaneously made.

A faint glint caught his eye- something shining over by the tour bus. He blinked, trying to focus, a belated warning instinct jangling sluggishly over the sea of tranquillity he currently floated upon. What was twinkling over there, by the tour bus, in the hands of the Driver...?

So completely lost were the wildmen to the narcotic effects of the first proper group pow-wow in a fair few centuries that the first three shots caught them utterly unawares. Three of their number fell heavily, their nascent screams frozen on lips already turning black with poison.