Echoes in the Dark (2 page)

“We’ll
make sure your room in the hotel next door is booked for you through the next
week. It’s been a grueling tour for you, I know. You need rest.”

“Yes,
I’d planned a long break.” Rote answers seemed to work. Jikata didn’t know what
she felt except…empty. Nothing new about that.

“You
just go next door when you’re ready,” Juliet insisted.

“Fine.”

The
bird continued to croon, soft background scales that tugged at Jikata,
reminding her of the chants and chimes that had haunted her. She rubbed her
temples.

Trenton
squatted down, as if setting himself in her vision. “Jikata, if there’s
anything we can do….”

She
nodded. “You go on to the gala. You’re the star of that show.”

“All
right, but if you need us here in Denver, let us know.”

She
watched blindly as the Philberts left. They
were
the only people she
felt she could call on in Denver, and they were acquaintances. All her old ties
had withered.

“Um,
Jikata?” Linda said.

Oh.
The girl had looked forward to the end of the tour and the big party to
celebrate the renovation of the theater. With another nod, another blank gaze,
Jikata said, “You go ahead. You don’t have to stay with me the next couple of
days. Let’s call this the end of the internship.”

“I
don’t know, if you need me….” But Linda sounded relieved.

Jikata
was prepared. She went to her designer backpack and got the card—with
bonus—from an inner pocket. Held it out. “Thanks for all your help. I’ve
already turned in my last report. You’re free to go.”

“Thanks!”
With a smile showing the job was already history, Linda hurried from the room.

Jikata
sat and listened as the theater emptied, then dragged herself into the shower.
Let the heat and steam flow over her as she prodded her feelings about her
Japanese great-grandmother. Regret, as always, they hadn’t ever seen
eye-to-eye. Her great-grandmother had refused to speak to her after she’d
legally changed her name to Jikata, had hated that she’d become a pop singer.
At eighteen, Jikata had left the dust of Denver for L.A. and prospered.

Well
enough that she could buy whatever she wanted, keep her great-grandmother in
style. Which, of course, Ishi had refused, liking the little house in east
Denver she’d bought a few years after leaving the internment camp in southeastern
Colorado. Both of Jikata’s grandmothers had died before she was born. Both her
grandfathers had been unknown, a bond between her parents who were killed in a
car accident when she was fourteen.

Sad.
Jikata felt it, mostly for the lost opportunity to reconcile, though she’d
known in her bones that was wishful thinking.

Now
she was truly alone. No more family.

She
wondered what to do. Knowing Ishi, all her affairs would have been arranged.
Jikata was ambivalent about seeing the old house. At the end of a tour, she
usually found the nearest bed and fell into it. But lately her sleep had been
troubled by dreams that had her sweating and tangled in sheets when she woke.
Or, worse, visions that were pure beauty she strove to put into words and sing.

Those
songs always bombed. She did much better when she sang others’ melodies and
lyrics, and that was a raw spot in her soul.

The
pipes creaked and water cooled and she turned the shower off. At least the
makeup and sweat of the last show, of the tour, was finally gone.

Wrapping
herself in a large towel, she stepped into the dressing room. The mirror was
foggy with steam so she opened the door, dressed quickly in jeans and a blue
silk blouse and packed a small suitcase, put her backpack in order and swung
one strap over her shoulder.

She
turned to do a sweep of the room and froze.

The
birdcage door was wide open. Jikata blinked—could the bird have unlatched it
herself? Apparently so. A very valuable, rare bird.

Her
gaze trailed to the open door of the dressing room. Shit! She looked wildly
around the room, but it was small and a foot-long scarlet bird was not evident
against the cream-and-gold background.

Dammit!

She
hadn’t seen or heard the wretched bird leave. No trilling of a goodbye song. No
soft
whoof
of feathers.

Sliding
her feet into ballet slippers, she opened the door wider, then heard a tinny
chime. She glanced at the table where the chiming-ball necklace Juliet Philbert
had given her when they’d met had been. Pretty and shiny on a gold satin
ribbon, it was gone, too.

Jikata
grimaced. She was ambivalent about chimes. She’d included them in her own
compositions that hadn’t been successful, then the last one that had made it
big. It was hitting the top of the charts now. The strange concoction of bells
and chimes and an occasional gong tone. She’d sung—chanted—a mishmash of words
in English and Japanese and French and had layered her voice in the track again
and again over four octaves. She barely had a full four-octave range and had
worked hard on that track until each note was strong and perfect.

“Come
to Me” was going platinum.

The
tune wasn’t really her composition and that’s what bothered her. She’d heard
odd patterns of notes, of chimes, of chants, the occasional gong beat in her
head over the past two years. It had started here in Denver, her hometown, two
years ago February. A February as dreary as her life. Ishi hadn’t wanted to see
her then, either.

She
shook the thought away. Stop dithering! Go hunt the bird. She stepped to the
door, called, “Chasonette!” Would a bird come to her name? Cockatoos were
supposed to be intelligent for birds, weren’t they?

Another
chime. Faint. But her hearing was good and she was sure it came from the stage
area. She hurried past the greenroom, angling toward stage left, which had more
space than stage right. A bird would want more space to fly in, wouldn’t it?

Only
a few dim bulbs were on and she moved through light and shadow. She pushed
through the curtains to look into the house—even dimmer—and saw a flash of a
red wing through the door to the lobby someone had propped open with a broom.

Damn!

So
she hopped from the stage and ran up the plush maroon aisle, through the door
to the equally elaborate lobby.

Then
she heard the wonderful song of a woman’s voice, with the slightest of quavers
that made Jikata think the singer was old. An elder and perfect master of her
craft. The wordless Song compelled Jikata to
listen.
Not to hear, but
listen, and the mistress of that voice had the range of Jikata’s own, a full
four octaves, richer for years of use.

Other
music lilted. Crystal singing bowls, chimes, and the jangle of Chasonette’s
ball melded perfectly into the whole.

“Chasonette?”
she called.

Chasonette
chirped. Jikata ran after her, misjudged the distance of the sound and went
through
the mirrored wall.

No!

That
couldn’t have happened. Could it?

She
stood in a gray mist. Wind whipped at her hair. There were no walls around her,
just an echoing distance. Where
was
she? Her toes curled in her shoes,
felt solid ground through the thin soles of her slippers. Shouldn’t it be new,
plush carpet?

She
hesitated, but more chimes and the voice and the bowls and the sheer
magnificence of the sound drew her. How often did a person hear this sort of
concert?
Never.

There
were cadences and tones to this Song that outclassed all her composition
attempts. As if she’d…heard through a mirror darkly…. She chuckled, but she
yearned. This,
this
was what she’d been trying to achieve for the past
year. If only…

Another
questioning chirp and Jikata realized she was humming her “Come to Me” hit.
Light was ahead and walls looked cut from rock. That reassured her a little.
Everyone knew there were tunnels under Denver. She’d somehow made it into one
of them.

Then
the woman’s voice twisted the melody and the notes seemed to hit physical
points inside Jikata. She literally
felt
her heart squeeze. So
wonderful, and there was more, she heard the reverberation of the chant she’d
included in her own work.
Come to me.

The
woman’s voice caressed her with a soothing cadence. Jikata blinked, she saw the
woman, a tiny, aged, Asian woman standing in light that reflected off mist
around her, giving her a glow. Chasonette perched on her shoulder, the ribbon
of the chiming ball in her beak. She shook it. The sound shivered over Jikata’s
skin. She glimpsed people behind the woman, playing singing bowls.

Stranger
and stranger, but not threatening.

Jikata
hurried forward, met a thickness in the air like a membrane, surged through it.
More wind. In a tunnel or dreaming. She could have fallen asleep on the
Victorian fainting lounge in her dressing room after her shower. But she
plunged ahead. Then she was with the woman, and Chasonette hopped from the
woman’s shoulder to Jikata’s, dug in her claws. Ouch, she felt that!

“Welcome
to Lladrana,” the older woman said in English. She gestured and cymbals clashed
and chimes sounded and a shudder went through Jikata.

Brightness
flared before her eyes, blinding her. She flung out her arms, trying to keep
her balance. Another clang as if from a gong, but the percussion was slightly
off and she knew it came from many cymbals.
What the hell was going on?

A
dream. Just a dream.

Hair
had risen over her skin, and she’d gone clammy. The air she sucked in smelled
like incense and was heavy and humid. She shook her head, trying to think
beyond the sound.

She
couldn’t.

The
music strummed her as if she were a taut string, vibrating through her.

Another
clang of cymbals and she fell, panting, to the floor. Starburst. Darkness. Then
Chasonette was beside her on the ground, rubbing her head against Jikata’s
cheek. So soft.

Jikata
could see the bird’s yellow eye and thought she was finally back to reality.
She leaned on an elbow, but her support didn’t feel like a padded lounge, or
carpet. It felt like rock.

She
looked around and saw a large cave, people wearing long robes standing in a
circle. Some had small tables holding crystal bowls before them and held the
thick glass wands to set them humming. Others held cymbals of brass, silver,
gold…?

Her
mouth was open so she sucked in deep breaths. The small woman gazed down at her
with triumph, crinkling deep wrinkles around her eyes even as her throat moved
with renewed song, music that lowered down the scale as if ending a long piece.

We
are here! I am back!
A warbling voice came in her head and Jikata slowly turned to see Chasonette.
She could have sworn the bird winked at her.
There’s magic here,
the
bird said.

Jikata
sat up, craned to look around. Just beyond some people she saw the pale pink
and deep maroon lobby of the Ghost Hill Theater amidst a blue fog in the
distance. Strangled noises came from her throat as she jumped to her feet.

Then
that glimpse of
known
vanished and she was in a cavern, large enough to
hold the musicians surrounding her, all taller and sturdier than the old woman,
than Jikata herself.

Chasonette
fluttered to her shoulder. The bird’s fragrance was the same, as if her
feathers held a faint lavender oil.

Once
more the bird took wing, and the chiming necklace was dropped over Jikata’s
head, rattling to shine silver against her dark blue blouse. Then Chasonette
was on her shoulder again, yellow gaze serious.
You are where you belong.

“I
am the Singer,” the old woman said.

She
certainly was.

“Now
to test your tuning,” she continued. That didn’t make sense. But she opened her
mouth and hit high C with ease. At the same time the cymbals clashed, someone
rang chimes and the singing bowls sounded. Every note reverberated in Jikata
until she felt like only pure vibration.

She
crumpled. She didn’t understand anything.

2

Lladrana,
Singer’s Abbey, a few minutes later

L
uthan Vauxveau,
the Singer’s representative to the warrior Marshalls, stood in the green
landing field just downhill from the Singer’s Abbey. He’d been about to return
to the Marshalls’ Castle, when he’d
felt
it, the Summoning of another
Exotique from their land to Lladrana.

The
soles of his feet had tingled with a joyous outpouring of Amee, the planet,
that her last savior had arrived. His winged horse and the rest of the herd had
trumpeted.

A
shout tore from him, joining other exclamations.

Even
as he felt the planet’s joy, his own anger welled and the back of his neck
burned with humiliation. He hadn’t felt this stupid since before his father had
died. The Singer had manipulated him, used him, played him for a fool. Again.