BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

“Pale Dexter is right,” said Chief. “We’ve worked hard and accomplished much. I am confident we can compete with less danger of detection.” She looked behind her to find expressions of support. She turned back around, arms crossed. “My players and I are agreed. We are ready to compete at the earliest opportunity.”

Bend Sinister sighed. He looked to his players beside him, who each reached out and briefly touched his shoulder. “Then it is agreed. The Contest is on. We must each nominate an adjudicator. It will be the responsibility of the adjudicators to collaborate on the recording and verification of audience attendance. The Troubadour who attracts the largest number of followers over a sustained period of time will be declared leader. As in the past, we shall have a long week’s grace in which to prepare. We play eight days from tomorrow.”

“I shall bid our messenger come,” said Chief. “Bluemantle will call our judges forth.”

–

Having withdrawn, Bend Sinister sat on a rock in the centre of a small, dimly lit cave, his three players seated around him. They had been silent for some time. The enduring flow of water that, for centuries, had carved caves in stone, trickled in the distance. Beyond the ochre glow of gas lamps, darkness drenched the space, blending rock and hollow into a backdrop of perpetual night.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said eventually, his voice soft and low.

“And we trust you,” said the bassist. “We ask the question because we know you will speak plainly.”

“Then I will answer. Yes. I am afraid.”

Silence returned, seeping into the space between them, adding weight to the admission. The players waited for more but were denied.

The guitarist cleared his throat and said, “When we agreed to the Contest, it was because we could think of no viable alternative. But there is one option we did not, between us here, consider.” They all looked up, curious. “We could choose not to compete.”

“And let Chief and Pale Dexter fight it out between themselves?” said the keyboardist in alarm. “Are you serious?”

“Why not?” said the guitarist. “We’ve been content under the leadership of another for over forty-five years. Why the sudden need for control?”

“But Pale Dexter—”

“He wouldn’t be my preferred choice, granted.”

“Besides, it’s not about desire for control. It’s wanting what’s best for the Scene. If there has to be a leader, only under Bend Sinister could our situation be improved. And by that I mean the whole Scene, not just us. Pale Dexter would care only for his own.”

At this, the three players looked to Bend Sinister, their curiosity begging a response.

Bend Sinister studied the guitarist’s face. “I admire and respect your thoughts, my brother. And if it were a case of relinquishing our right to compete so that Chief may claim the title, then I would even go so far as to agree with you. However, as our keyboardist has indicated, Pale Dexter is the issue here. I fear life under his stewardship would feel in stark contrast to the harmony we enjoyed throughout Saltire’s reign.” He looked at his players with an expression both sad and kind. “Alas, our hand is forced, if only to prevent Pale Dexter from achieving his ambition. And this I concede in the context of the fear that I have admitted to you. I am afraid. But I will not let that influence my thoughts or deeds. It is a feeling I acknowledge and manage. I simply had not shared it with you as I did not want the emotion to assume an influence over your own. And I will not ask the same question of you. I can see the answer in your eyes.”

The keyboardist and guitarist dropped their gaze to the floor.

“Do not let it cause you shame,” he continued. “We have good reason to be afraid, have we not? Far more so than the others. For we know what it means to lose one of our own.” Bend Sinister hesitated, affording the subject space. “We so rarely talk about him. But perhaps this is one of those moments when we should, however painful, because his absence is always with us. His place among us remains empty; the hole that remains is something. A permanent lacuna that will never be filled. So, let us remember our drummer.”

The guitarist slowly rubbed his arms. “When the Authority raided our show and took him away,” he said, “we didn’t know what would happen to him. And we still don’t. That was twenty-six years ago.” He shook his head, his voice breaking. “For me, the not knowing is the hardest part. That and the image I have of when he was captured. I remember it as if it were yesterday. He knew. He knew he would never see us again. That’s why I’m afraid. I couldn’t bear that happening again.”

Bend Sinister reached out and put a hand on the guitarist’s shoulder. “We are family. Closer still. I share your fear.”

The bassist nodded. “We are the sum of our parts. To lose one is to lose part of ourselves, part of who we all are. Like you, I couldn’t endure another loss.”

“This is why we never talk about him,” said the keyboardist. “Because it’s not over. All the while we don’t know what happened to him, all the time we face the real and present danger of the same thing happening again, it can’t be over. Unless we leave here, that threat will remain.”

Bend Sinister looked up at her. “But you understand why we can’t leave. Don’t you?”

“I understand why we haven’t left before now. But we’ve never actually tried. I just wonder if there is a tipping point, where the conditions we endure here and the danger we face every time we play are worse than the prospect of leaving.”

“I appreciate that the perils of leaving may appear a more nebulous threat, but they’re not. To my mind, they are as dangerous as the risk of capture.