2022-02-26 - The Glass Cannon

Backstage. It's dark, but loud. Ten thousand people are roaring a few meters away, just beyond the heavy red velvet curtains.

Itzhak is wincing despite the dark. It's the noise, suddenly filling his brain. He's wearing very tight, cherry red pants made from gleaming latex. His shirt is barely there, a tank top of black mesh. Everything from the waist up is visible, and to be honest, most things from the waist down too. If you didn't know he's Jewish, you do now.

He's got his mandolin, and his violin rests on a stand ready to go.

The purple Dave van Halen pants with glittery tassles are glued to Ravn's legs, if not spray painted on. The fact that he's wearing nothing else above the waistline is not helping his mood. He's holding -- no, not his violin. A violin. Because this one is shocking pink and glittery, and also, electric.

"You have got to be kidding," the Dane murmurs, oblivious to the fact that at least he's got the body for that kind of, uh, dressing down. "What the hell is this? I'm not doing this."

Electric violin? Not that Itzhak is judging. Just, you know. Not a real violin.

On the other hand, it is pink and glittery.

"Fuck if I know," Itzhak says honestly, "but you look fantastic."

A centaur trots briskly by, reminding them, "Five minutes, guys! Five minutes!"

Itzhak moans unhappily in Yiddish. "Oy vey izt mir, come on. Okay, uh," he looks around a little wildly, "what're we gonna play?"

Ravn gets to 'a centaur trots briskly by' and his mind just sort of... stops.

After a moment he suggests, "The Nutcracker Suite?" Because that's where centaurs belong -- in Disney's Fantasia.

Then he glances at Itzhak, and then down at himself. "We're dressed like we should be doing Aerosmith covers, though. Maybe we should go for a compromise and try bluegrass?"

He does like bluegrass.

"Bluegrass," Itzhak agrees, like that's a hard sell. "We'll do it fast and loud. Everybody likes it fast and loud. Black Crowes? Do they have Black Crowes in Denmark? Jesus Christ, my hand is shaking," he adds, because it is. Itzhak, showman, is unnerved by this crowd.

The centaur barely made him blink, though. He has experience with that kind of thing.

"Beats me, but I can follow anything you lead, and if we start to panic, there's always Creedence Clearwater and Fortunate Son." Ravn makes a face. He loves that song. He loves the lyrics of that song. He hates that he's the guy it's about not being.

A furtive glance after the -- stage manager? "Centaurs? I wonder what the story is. Please let it not be the one where the band sucks so bad we string them up a tree or sacrifice them to the Muses. Also, for chrissakes -- electric violin? I want to die."

If you think Ravn has complaints -- you've never seen him try to psych himself up to go on stage before. It seems to be a process of pissing himself off enough to go out there and face the firing squad. It's definitely not something he wants to do. He just needs adrenaline and anger enough in his system to overcome the instinctive reaction which goes something like, curl up in a ball, rock gently back and forth while screaming internally.

"Perfect. We'll do 'Proud Mary.' Ike and Tina style." Itzhak checks the tuning on his mandolin, sets it down and plucks up his violin to check it. "Oh mother fucker," this because he's just learned his beautiful custom instrument has had a hole drilled in it for a pickup. He makes an awful face but snatches up his bow, playing each string.

It's in tune. The centaur stage manager yells, "Two minutes!" Curious critters of all types scramble to get everything done.

Itzhak looks with helpless hilarity at Ravn. "Actually I get the weirdest feeling this story is about you."

Ravn just looks down at himself. He feels like he wants a shirt. Maybe this story is about how he jumps off the stage, stage dives into the crowd, and beats up some guy with his electric violin, to take his shirt. "I hate it already. I don't -- really want to show off my bullet scars like this, and I am terrified that something touches me somewhere I didn't see coming, and I hate everything."

He pauses. "That's probably the intention. It always is, isn't it? I'm supposed to be looking for a way the hell out of here."

"Not always." Itzhak leans close, searching for eye contact in the way he almost never does. "Sometimes it's about showing you something. And hey, your scars look great. How about mine?"

The flimsy mesh shirt certainly shows them off. Clawmarks ripped across his abs, some old and faded pink, some fresh and livid red. Not to mention his nipple piercings and the tattoos he's rocking.

"One minute!"

Ravn can't really decide whether to smirk or wince or both. Smirce? Wirk? "You are proud of yours, though. I just feel like I am in one of those dreams where you have to give a lecture to the entire faculty but you've forgotten to put on pants."

He glances at himself again. He debates whether no pants might in fact be preferable. At least no pants does not have glittery purple tassles.

"I'm terrified," the Dane confides quietly. "Five bucks says our audience isn't even human. If there are any fat hippo ballerinas out there I might crack up. What the hell does this story want to show? That I've got chest hair? Newsflash: Half of humanity does."

Itzhak strips off his mesh shirt and plasters it to Ravn's bare chest. "Take mine. God knows it ain't much but it's something."

Now all his decorations are on display, claw marks and bullet scars of his own and the glittery rainbow barbells in his nipples and the tattoo that's usually hidden. It's circular, illustrative Hebrew in swooping stark black letters.

"They won't be human," he goes on, urgently. (The centaur yells, "Thirty seconds what are you doing?!" and Itzhak shoots her a look, holding up a just-wait-a-goddamn-minute finger.) "You know we gotta go along to figure it out. I got your back, Ravshka."

It's amazing how quickly a man can get into a mesh shirt, even if it's a joke as far as preserving his modesty goes. Maybe it's not just about modesty -- it's also about accidental touch. Anything -- anything! -- is better than nothing.

He takes a deep breath. He holds it. He raises the electrical fiddle and the hand holding the bow. "Let's do this. Fortunate Son? It's a good opener, everyone knows it. You sing." Not even pants this pink and tight will get Ravn to try squeezing out an asthmatic note.

And up there in the dark, over their heads, the stage technicians push buttons and wheels and gears begin to turn. Time to raise the curtain, face (be!) the music, and hope that nothing goes wrong. It's a Dream experience in Gray Harbor, probably drafted up by some half-starved Veil entity, what could possibly go wrong?

"'Fortunate Son.' Then 'Proud Mary.' And if we need an encore?" Itzhak's pause is rich with panic. "We'll think a something!"

And with that, the lights dim. The crowd screams in anticipation. Heavy folds of curtain rise up up up--

Itzhak steps forward and the spotlight hits him. The look on his face as he gets a look at the massive audience of bizarre Veil beasties says everything.

If by 'everything' we mean 'fuck it.'

Baring his teeth, he picks out those first few licks on the mandolin. Instantly recognizable.

It's a good thing that Ravn has played Fortunate Son so many times in his life, amidst tourists and bus passengers, on busy boardwalks and subway platforms -- because otherwise, his fingers might have stumbled and his grip slipped. He can play most of Creedence Clearwater Revival's hits in his sleep, and thank God for that.

This is the first time in his life, all thirty-one years of it, that he has stood on a stage. He has twisted him into a pretzel many a time to avoid having this experience. He knows that once the house lights dim and the spots come on, he'll be standing there, in a cone of light, frozen. It will be like those dreams where you turn up to give the most important speech of a lifetime, and then you realize you're naked and everyone is laughing.

Some folks are born made to wave the flag
They're red, white and blue

The notes fall from his fingers as the lyrics go through his mind and Itzhak's microphone, and he doesn't hear a word. He should be too frozen in anxiety to play, his mind reminds him. Shut up, says the rest of his mind -- because there are satyrs out there, eerie shadows outlined by the backlight and hard to make out from the stage, looking into the lights.

Satyrs, and nymphs, naiads carrying a glass of their river with them, dryads carrying a sprig of their tree in a little pot, men with strange blue skin and gills.

It's the entire Greek mythos, Disney version. And I'm looking at it. Here's to hoping this stays Disney because if it goes the way of the Dionysian revelries, we are not going to like this story.

Sometimes, being a folklorist sucks. But on the up side, apparently his hands are more scared of pissing off this audience than his social anxiety can manage to keep up with.

Some folks are born
Silver spoon in hand
Lord don't they help themselves
But when the tax man come to the door
Ooh lord the house look like a rummage sale

It ain't me! It ain't me! I ain't no millionaire's son!

Itzhak doesn't dare look back. Ravn can keep up with him. It's his job to break trail, face down this huge and ridiculous mythic crowd, make space. Keep going so Ravn has no choice but to keep up. So he does, flinging himself into it.

And somewhere around the third verse, Itzhak accidentally starts enjoying himself. The long, lean muscles of his back loosen, his stance shifts to lean into that microphone like he wants to ask it to sneak out back with him. He can do this! They can do this!

It ain't me! I ain't no fortunate one!

If the rest of Ravn is frozen in terror, at least his hands have got the right idea. The electrical violin feels strange and awkward and too light, somehow -- but it plays as beautifully as an electrical violin can. He knows he's a snob about that.

The audience cheers and howls along, ignoring the irony of nature spirits and mythological constructs belting out outrage at the way certain American demographics will use patriotism as a tool of oppression. Maybe it doesn't matter as long as the words are easy to learn and repeat.

And when you ask 'em: "How much should we give?"
They only answer: "More, more, more"

So many eyes out there. So many open mouths. Sweat trickles down the folklorist's back, like unkind, chilly kisses down his spine. The purple latex pants are tight -- and rather than absorb the moisture they let it spread until it feels like he is wearing cold, wet cloth in places cloth should not be touching. Ravn can feel the fear building inside.

It's like they want to eat me alive. Oh God. Focus on the music. Focus, focus, focus.

Itzhak wraps up by striking all eight strings and leaning back from the mic to holler in glee. The crowd hollers along, until he lifts a hand to quiet them, grinning fit to split.

So many eyes are on him and he is doing his best to keep them on him. Lucky for him, it's easy. This Dream? No sweat. Not for him, the charismatic asshole. He looks amazing up there in cherry red latex, bare chested, like he thinks he's Jimmy Page.

"Hey! Man youse guys are a great crowd." Itzhak wipes his hair out of his eyes with his wrist.

A nymph sitting on a satyr's shoulders screams "WE LOVE YOU" and hikes up her shirt to flash lovely green breasts at the stage. Itzhak promptly turns red, laughing. He looks at Ravn, like, can you believe this?

That's a pair of boobs, Ravn's brain informs him in a clinical tone. A pair of very green boobs. And that's a very happy satyr.

It's not that he hasn't seen a pair before (granted, he has not seen a green pair before). He's also seen enough Greek pottery to not be surprised in the slightest that he can tell at a glance how happy the satyr is about those green boobs. What gives him pause, his clinical mind reflects, is probably the size. And the curvature. Very happy satyr, indeed.

His fingers go through the motions, easily. Inside, his mind is reeling in terror. And beneath that, beneath the stage fright and the attention and the spotlight there is something else.

Very happy satyrs turn up at specific occasions. If you're a pretty maiden frolicking around the woods on your own, for instance. But this is not a forest and he is not a girl in a skimpy tunic. This is a party. A revelation.

A revelry.

Fuck.

A revelry, and is it any wonder Itzhak has warmed up to the occasion? He could be Dionysus himself, with his looks and his attitude, riding a leopard at the head of a train of maenads and satyrs.

It doesn't scare him, to be given this power. He's always had it.

Ravn is a little too composed; Itzhak looks at him and thinks he's doing okay. Maybe not great but getting through it. He flashes him an enthusiastic thumbs up and turns back to their admirers.

"Now for this next song," he practically croons into the microphone, "some people like to do it nice, and easy. Well we like to do it nice... And rough!"

It's the words of Tina Turner before her version of 'Proud Mary'. Mythical critters love it just as much. Especially ones who really do like it rough.

Big wheels keep on turnin' is exactly how Ravn feels. Like a very small cog in a very large machinery, and nothing he can possibly do will stop those big wheels from turning, from processing, from grinding.

Like meat to a grinder.

He can feel his control slipping. It's a good thing that Itzhak picked another tune he could play in his sleep. Audience favourites. The bluegrass classics he has played a hundred, thousand times before, in bus stops and on street corners.

A couple of naiads are getting it on right there, on the floor, with each other and with a somewhat surprised looking goat. Or is that a man with a goat's backside? In a position like that, shaggy tail in the air and head buried between green legs, who can tell?

Ravn knows what a mosh pit looks like. He's never been in one for very obvious reasons. Bumping, grinding, hell, even kicking and slugging, he's looking at it.

And he's pretty certain that it's not supposed to be getting this -- raunchy. Or violent. Maybe it's his anxiety running amock. And maybe that is a nymph proudly holding up someone's ear like a lighter during a power ballad.

I slung a lotta hash in Memphis
Pumped a lotta 'tane down in New Orleans
But I never saw the good side of a city
Til I hitched a ride on a riverboat queen

Are there bloodthirsty antics going down? Itzhak doesn't seem to realize, if there are. He's the focus of this show, he knows it, everyone knows it. He's the star, sweating and singing and playing, having a great time.

Even if there are? The adorable violent creatures wouldn't tear apart their chief reveller.

Ravn, on the other hand?

He might not be so lucky.

Maybe Ravn is starting to reach exactly this conclusion. Maybe it's just that he's stuck on wondering where the owner of that ear is, and then he's starting to realise that some of the glistening moisture on skin down there is not sweat and

Excuse him while he pushes the panic button.

Make that, does a stompy river dance on the panic button.

Ravn has no idea that as his fingers make their way through people on the river are happy to give his hands start to glow. He starts to glow. Everything starts to glow until he is outlined in soft ghost light much as if he standing in front of an 80 watts light bulb.

He sees it, of course he does. He panics some more. Not only are there monsters everywhere, he just got singled out as the -- sacrificial violinist?

He knows how revelries go. The Dionysian mysteries, drunk and bawdy. The somewhat darker mysteries of Hecate and other female powers, where the revellers would rip and tear apart the bodies of any unfortunate attending males, where once upon a time males were sacrificed.

The stage lights begin to pop. One by one, winking out in a shower of crystal, shattered lenses, until there is only one light on stage -- and it's looking very terrified.

Each pop and tinkle of shattered glass darkens the stage until the only thing visible is Ravn. They happen in flickering succession, whole racks going in gouting arcs. It takes no longer than it takes Itzhak to realize something is going wrong.

Of course something is going wrong. This is a Dream and something will always go wrong. For one thing, a lot of unkosher shit is going down in the mosh pit. Itzhak shoots a wide eyed look over his shoulder just long enough to understand Ravn glows on a midnight stage. The revelers scramble towards him, climbing the stage, howling.

Itzhak lunges between Ravn and the slavering dark, takes a breath as if to begin the downbow--and light, gleaming brilliant light, explodes from him. The audience is mercilessly illuminated and at the same second, Ravn loses his light.

"Run," Itzhak barks, fists up, filling the hall with light.

Don't tell Ravn tell twice. The effect is almost cartoon-like. For a moment the electric pink violin hangs in the air, until it realises that its player is gone, and it clutters to the ground with a sad shriek of the strings.

The violinist bolts.

And there's the stage exit, dive into the safety of the dark except --

-- except the dark has teeth, and Ravn's feet skid to a halt as he realises that the building is alive.

There's a fish in the inky depths, living so far down that light does not penetrate the darkness at all. When the fish is hungry, a small light glows from its face. Other curious deep sea fish are attracted to the light, and swim within range. Ravn is glowing, and now Itzhak is glowing even stronger, and there's the teeth. It's what we are, he realises. We are the light, and those suckers out there, clamouring to eat each other and us, are fish being lured by the light.

No.

It's such a small word.

Suddenly he is back a night or two before, remembering how he curled up on his knees on the bridge over Gray Pond, terrified, literally sat on by night mares with long cold claws, sucking his light out of him. He lashed out in terror, and somehow -- somehow -- the railing of the bridge exploded, sweeping those monstrous horses and their riders back into the dream from w hence they came.

He still doesn't understand how but he can feel it inside, the same terror bubbling up.

So bright, the light.

He is blown apart in a thousand million gazillion kabillion shards of light, piercing the dark.

It dawns on him that he should probably hold his crystal body together. He might need it later.

For a split second, for a lifetime, for eternity, he is nothing but light. Then, slowly, he feels like he is becoming flesh again, that the tide of power has washed through him and the tide is ebbing. He is on his knees, blood trickling from his nose, and everything around him is dark.

Except that other light. The other light that is his friend. Itzhak, glowing in the dark. Like himself.

Itzhak is glowing to drown Ravn out, to pull the focus of everything in the room to him, so he can brace against the great wave of laughing and screaming bloody mouths and hands. So he can personally fight each and every one of them, so he can land blows backed by his Song and the brass knuckles he's wearing on his left fist. He's got his lips curled back from his clenched teeth, snarling filthy street Yiddish, half threat and half come-on, sweating and bleeding and fighting and landing hits one! Two! One! Two! and if he wasn't terrified for his life and Ravn's he'd actually be having a pretty good time.

Ravn bares his teeth.

A lifetime of keeping a lid on it all. Of walking away. Of refusing to face confrontation. He's the weak one. The asthmatic one, the frail one, the crystal bird, flimsy and fragile. His only defence, to see nothing, to pretend he heard nothing, to step away and not be where the proverbial turd lands.

And that's when it dawns on him. When realisation hits. Like a fist tattooed with STAY or DOWN, to the gut. The truth: A lifetime of holding back because manifesting strong power would draw attention.

The smile becomes a growl. He is done. At least in this dream, he's so very much over apologising for existing.

He has no idea how to work these powers. Itzhak does, but there's hardly time for a conference.

His body is made of glass and it brims with power, a tide that ebbs and flows through him, not around him. He raises his hands -- and then he brings them down in some flailing gesture as if he was smashing something invisible with his fists.

Reality splinters like glass.

Escape.

He falls through the darkness below, and he hopes that Itzhak will have the good common sense to do the same or do something similar, because there is no swimming back up now, there is just falling through the dark, and losing consciousness, and eventually, waking up in his own bed, drenched in sweat, with hands that still glow very softly.

So many questions. So. Many. Questions.