Egyptian Motherlode by David Sandner & Jacob Weisman

Author:David Sandner & Jacob Weisman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, General, Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Fairwood Press
Published: 2024-10-29T04:00:00+00:00

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The rehearsals we now went through became legendary, the sources of many stories told late at night among musicians after gigs.

It was hard to tell exactly how much of what we did was preparation for performance in public and how much of it was unorthodox musical therapy. The Prophet would demonstrate what he wanted us to play. If he couldn’t describe what he wanted, he’d resort to pantomime. It wasn’t unusual for him to physically move the musicians’ arms or feet, to straighten their posture or make them slouch, until he got just the sound he wanted.

He made us all write poetry, at first sonnets and then, when that didn’t seem to work, free verse. He had us beat on pipes or flooring. He made us act out scenes in which we were our own instruments.

We chanted nursery rhymes. We described scenes from our childhoods. We recanted our attachment to the natural world. We made costumes and props for non-existent shows.

We’d arrive not knowing what the day’s activities might bring. We might go running around Golden Gate Park, play capture the flag or do somersaults, or we might practice meditation and hardly move a muscle all day.

“Translate your spirit into music,” he told us. And we tried as best we could.

Star Baby, though, was smooth and seemed to handle all our exercises with an uncalculated grace. The Prophet tried to push him harder than the rest of us, but without, seemingly, much result.

Watching Janis rip apart the very air with a piece of chalk and open a door to The Prophet’s Egypt had unnerved The Prophet in a very fundamental way. Up till then he’d always believed that only musicians wielded the power he sought to control. And now that he knew that there were other methods he wanted to try them all, with us as his guinea pigs. So we went to the beach and drew childish pictures in the sand; we painted murals; roasted a pig in the park; performed Shakespeare for a family of four; went fishing off a pier and caught a giant stingray.

Even if we found that one of us had a talent like The Prophet’s or Janis’, I don’t think The Prophet would have been able to harness it, let alone recognize it.

He needed Janis, but Janis was on the road most of the time now and usually too busy to join us when she wasn’t. She had burst forth like a comet from the local scene to national notoriety and then to superstardom. She was our envoy to the real world and we all loved her for it. But we missed her just the same, The Prophet more than any of us.

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