beeline for it, picks it up reverently, and smooths his fingertips across its strings—a parched man reaching for water. There are more strings than he’s used to, and the body is bulbous and pear-shaped like one of those little bush mandolins made out of a gourd. But this sucker is big and built out of smoothly joined pieces of wood. There’s a lot of it to hang on to. N’Doch cradles it in his arms.
The long neck is fretted in a more-or-less familiar way,but the head with its many wooden pegs is set at a sharp angle to the neck, so at first it looks to N’Doch as if it’s broken. He hauls a chair back and sits. The tone is sweet and resonant. It sends shivers of desire across his back. He hasn’t played an acoustic anything for a long time, but the thing comes up into his embrace like a lover and he’s sure he can get the hang of it.
The moment he curls his fingers onto the frets, he feels the dragon inside his head, waiting. He knows what she wants, so he ignores her, fiddling with the strings, learning the spaces between, the shape of the chords. He’s amazed how easily it comes to him, and he suspects that she’s helping. N’Doch doesn’t mind. Not this. This is the thing that works best between them, after all, the making of music.
He works the strings, light and fast, his ear bent close to catch their whispered thrum. There’s a tune been bothering him a while, one he couldn’t make come out right, so he stuck it away in the back of his head. But here it is now, coming right out through his fingers. It’s been there all along, only waiting for the proper instrument to play it. N’Doch stops, slaps the flat face of the box lightly with his palm and stands. He’s ready. He can do it now. This’ll be one way of thanking them. A soft woven strap is attached to the neck and the base of the box. N’Doch slips it over his head and moves toward the door.
The cold hits him like a wall as he steps out onto the terrace. But he knows if he doesn’t freeze solid before he gets to her, he won’t be cold for long. He shuts the door quietly and eases across the stones, down the steps and into the snow. He’d like to give the snow some time—it’s his first, after all. And the cold, too, as well as the dark, spiky pines—he recognizes those. He’s seen ’em lots of times in vids. But all that’ll have to wait. Right now, he’s intent. On a mission.
He pulls up behind the circle of women. He counts at least a dozen of them, all in their old-timey clothes and their braided hair, murmuring the alien syllables of their native German. Their laughter is not like the laughter of the women N’Doch knows. It’s full-out and boisterous, like they don’t care if there’s a man listening. And, he notices, he’s the only guy in sight—unless you count one big brown dragon.
So he guesses it’s time. He settles the instrument more comfortably, so familiar, so strange, then gives her the briefest of warnings.
Hey, girl . . .
She’s way ahead of him. No big soppy greeting. No oh-thank-god-you’re-alive. She rolls her big eyes toward him and arches her silvery neck.
Yo, bro. You all warmed up? I need a voice to talk to these people.
N’Doch grins. One day he’ll catch her out. Maybe.
So do I. Think these ladies are ready for this?
My brother, this here’s your ideal audience.
He runs off a short riff, and the women turn and notice him. Something about him, his thin, muscled height or the darkness of his skin, makes them fall back a step. But he sees no fear in them, only respect and readiness. Maybe it’s that he was all but dead last time they saw him. Or maybe the dragon called it right: they’re the ideal audience and they’re only waiting for him to perform. Will they care that he’s singing in French? No one but the dragon needs to understand the words.
He’s nervous now that the moment’s at hand. The new song is there ready to go, but the accompaniment will be real thin until he gets
The long neck is fretted in a more-or-less familiar way,but the head with its many wooden pegs is set at a sharp angle to the neck, so at first it looks to N’Doch as if it’s broken. He hauls a chair back and sits. The tone is sweet and resonant. It sends shivers of desire across his back. He hasn’t played an acoustic anything for a long time, but the thing comes up into his embrace like a lover and he’s sure he can get the hang of it.
The moment he curls his fingers onto the frets, he feels the dragon inside his head, waiting. He knows what she wants, so he ignores her, fiddling with the strings, learning the spaces between, the shape of the chords. He’s amazed how easily it comes to him, and he suspects that she’s helping. N’Doch doesn’t mind. Not this. This is the thing that works best between them, after all, the making of music.
He works the strings, light and fast, his ear bent close to catch their whispered thrum. There’s a tune been bothering him a while, one he couldn’t make come out right, so he stuck it away in the back of his head. But here it is now, coming right out through his fingers. It’s been there all along, only waiting for the proper instrument to play it. N’Doch stops, slaps the flat face of the box lightly with his palm and stands. He’s ready. He can do it now. This’ll be one way of thanking them. A soft woven strap is attached to the neck and the base of the box. N’Doch slips it over his head and moves toward the door.
The cold hits him like a wall as he steps out onto the terrace. But he knows if he doesn’t freeze solid before he gets to her, he won’t be cold for long. He shuts the door quietly and eases across the stones, down the steps and into the snow. He’d like to give the snow some time—it’s his first, after all. And the cold, too, as well as the dark, spiky pines—he recognizes those. He’s seen ’em lots of times in vids. But all that’ll have to wait. Right now, he’s intent. On a mission.
He pulls up behind the circle of women. He counts at least a dozen of them, all in their old-timey clothes and their braided hair, murmuring the alien syllables of their native German. Their laughter is not like the laughter of the women N’Doch knows. It’s full-out and boisterous, like they don’t care if there’s a man listening. And, he notices, he’s the only guy in sight—unless you count one big brown dragon.
So he guesses it’s time. He settles the instrument more comfortably, so familiar, so strange, then gives her the briefest of warnings.
Hey, girl . . .
She’s way ahead of him. No big soppy greeting. No oh-thank-god-you’re-alive. She rolls her big eyes toward him and arches her silvery neck.
Yo, bro. You all warmed up? I need a voice to talk to these people.
N’Doch grins. One day he’ll catch her out. Maybe.
So do I. Think these ladies are ready for this?
My brother, this here’s your ideal audience.
He runs off a short riff, and the women turn and notice him. Something about him, his thin, muscled height or the darkness of his skin, makes them fall back a step. But he sees no fear in them, only respect and readiness. Maybe it’s that he was all but dead last time they saw him. Or maybe the dragon called it right: they’re the ideal audience and they’re only waiting for him to perform. Will they care that he’s singing in French? No one but the dragon needs to understand the words.
He’s nervous now that the moment’s at hand. The new song is there ready to go, but the accompaniment will be real thin until he gets
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