Riverworld Anthology - Tales of Riverworld Part 5

"Dante empties himself; he confesses his guilt and sin. Continue to suffer your rightful punishment!"

Then the pope, slaves, henchmen, and dog pack left. Four guards stayed behind to make sure that he did not find some means of killing himself.

Tonight, as every night, it would rain so hard that he could lie down in the water and drown himself. To do that would be to commit an unforgivable sin, one that automatically d.a.m.ned a soul. Would that be a sin in this world? Here, when a man died, he rose to life twenty-four hours later, though far away from where he had 68.

died. Was it then a sin to kill himself? Logic said that it was not. Yet he could not be sure. What G.o.d forbade on Earth should also be forbidden in this world. Or had the commandments been changed somewhat here to fit the situation?

Unheeding the soft squishy stuff under his feet, he paced back and forth. His mind went from the unanswerable question of suicide here to the conflicts raging during his lifetime. When he was calm and logical, which was not often, he told himself that the b.l.o.o.d.y quarrels between Ghibellines and Guelfs and between Black Guelfs and White Guelfs over politico-religious issues no longer mattered.

The huge majority of resurrectees had never heard of these conflicts and would yawn if they did. Only in this area, where Italians of his era lived, did the hatred burn fiercely. Yet it should be forgotten. Far more important things stalked the Rivervalley and should be dealt with. If they were not, salvation would be beyond their reach.

But he could neither forget nor forgive.

At high noon, the grailstones thundered. The echoes from the mountains had just ceased when he heard the dogs coming toward him. Presently, the barking and the howling, mixed with the crack of the dog-tenders' whips, were above and around him. Dante looked upward, shielding his eyes against the sun. He cried out and sank to his knees. He said then, "Beatrice!"

Boniface, standing naked by the edge of the pit, a leash in his hand, said, "Your long quest is over, sinner! Your beloved wh.o.r.e was brought in this morning by slave dealers! Here she is, a lovely b.i.t.c.h who must surely be in heat!"

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Dante had averted his eyes, but he forced himself to look again. Once more, he cried out with horror.

She was naked and down on her hands and knees. She was weeping, her face so twisted that he should not have been able to recognise her. Something, some divine element, a sort of lightning flash between heaven and earth, had flashed from her to him. He had known instantly that she was Beatrice.

Boniface, grinning like a fox about to eat a chicken, pulled on her leash and kicked her, though not hard, in the ribs. She obeyed his orders to place herself parallel with the edge of the pit and very close to it. Then he gave the leash to a guard and got down on his hands and knees behind her.

"A b.i.t.c.h must be mounted from behind!" he shouted. She cried out, "Dante!"

A whip wielded by another guard cut her across her shoulders. She cried out again.

"Do not speak!" Boniface said. "You are a soulless dog, and dogs do not speak!"

He eased himself forward over her. She screamed when he penetrated her.

Dante was leaping upward again and again and yelping like a dog. But he could not jump high enough to grab the edge.

"Look, look, sinner!" Boniface cried. "I am no dog, yet I am humping doglike the b.i.t.c.h you love so much!"

Dante wanted to close his eyes but could not.

And then Beatrice heaved upward and lifted Boniface with her. Though the guard jerked savagely on her leash, he could not stop her. She was at this moment as strong as if an avenging angel had poured his holy fierceness into her. She turned around and grabbed Boniface. Both 70.

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screaming, they fell into the pit, the leash jerking loose from the guard's hand. She landed on top of the pope and knocked the wind out of him. Immediately, she began tearing at his nose with her teeth. She ceased biting when a spear cast by a guard from above plunged deep into her back.

She gasped, "Mother of... wish... die forever," and died.

The guards shouted at Dante to stay away from the pope. He had pushed the woman's corpse aside and was scrambling to his feet. Dante, crying out with grief and rage, jerked the spear from the beloved flesh and drove its point into the pope's belly. Then he yanked it out and started to turn.

A guard who had just dropped into the pit ran toward Dante, his spear held level. But his feet slipped in the filth, and he fell hard on his face.

Dante raised the spear to stab the guard. He hesitated. If he spared the guard, he, too, might be spared. But the pope's men would only do that to torture him and then, probably, cast him again into the pit.

As the guard, slipping in the filth, tried to get up, Dante cried out, "Beatrice! Wait for me!"

He rammed the spear b.u.t.t against the log wall and pushed the blade into the pit of his stomach. Despite the agony, he kept on pushing until the blade was buried in him.

He was committing the sin of suicide. But it was the only way of escape. Someday, he would find out if it was unforgivable. If he eventually went to h.e.l.l because of his evil deed-if it was evil-he was willing to pay the full price.

Beatrice had been little more than an arm's length from him. Then, within two minutes, she was gone.

But she could be found again.

Though he might have to search for a hundred years, he would find her.

Surely, G.o.d understood his great love for her. He would not be jealous because his creature, Dante Alighieri, loved Beatrice more than he loved his Creator.

Dante's last thought dwindled into darkness. Forgive... didn't mean tha...

GRACELAND.

Alien Steete

"...strange days, it seems...""I miss me gold tooth," Keith said.

He was sitting on the edge of the oak stage, his bare legs dangling over the bamboo-slat front. The Mersey Zombies were taking a break during the sound check. A couple of t.i.tanthrop stagehands were making themselves busy, checking the electrical cables for burn-throughs in the fish-skin insulation and rearranging the ma.s.sive stacks of speakers. In the sound booth, located in the middle of the open-air amphitheater's seating area, the King was haranguing some luckless techie about the recurrent feedback problems from the mikes; they couldn't hear what was being said, but the King's ring-encrusted forefinger was jabbing back and forth and the techie's head was alternately nodding, shaking, nodding, shaking, as if keeping time: yes sir Elvis, no sir Elvis, yes sir Elvis, no sir Elvis...

"You miss your tooth." Sitting next to Keith, his bare back resting against a monitor speaker, John lit a limp 73.

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joint with a firestarter and sucked the smoke into his lungs. "So what? I miss my gla.s.ses...."

" 'Coo, you always looked like a fairy with them on...."

"I most certainly did not," John croaked. He held in the toke for a second, then slowly exhaled. Behind them, Sid was sullenly practising the opening riffs of ' 'Anarchy in the U.K." on his ba.s.s. Brian was nowhere in sight, as usual. "And just for the record, I never believed that story about how you busted your mouth after your drove a Caddy into a Holiday Inn swimming pool...."

"It wasn't a Caddy," Keith insisted, "it was a b.l.o.o.d.y Lincoln Continental, and I did so break out me front tooth, when I climbed out of the water and slipped on the pool deck while running from the coppers...."

"Yeah, yeah. We've heard the whole sodding story many times." John pa.s.sed the joint to Keith. "And I didn't look like a f.a.g with my gla.s.ses on. I loathed those contact lenses Epstein used to make me wear...."

"Heard from him again lately?"

"Not since he joined the Dowists... besides, Yoko liked the gla.s.ses...."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, man, when are you going to stop talking about your old lady?" Keith picked up one of his drumsticks and idly scratched his sunburned back with it. "I mean, you're getting more p.u.s.s.y than Frank Sinatry...."

"Lord!" John looked at him sharply. "Is Sinatra here?"

Keith shrugged. "Not that I've heard. It's just a line I picked up from one of the Yanks." He took a quick hit off the joint and pa.s.sed it back to John. "Pigpen told me that one," he gasped. "Or maybe it was Lowell...."

"Okay, so I get laid regular." John gazed dismally at the rows of empty bamboo benches in front of the stage.

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He absentmindedly reached beneath his kilt and scratched. "But I miss the missus, all the same," he said softly. "She was a good woman. Good singer, too."

Keith made a face, but wisely kept his mouth shut. They were both quiet for a moment, listening to Sid as he struggled through the bridge of "G.o.d Save the Queen," the punked-out version that the three other members of the Mersey Zombies refused to play during their shows. Keith c.o.c.ked his head toward the kid. "I mean, you think young Mr. Ritchie there misses Nancy?" he asked softly. "The b.l.o.o.d.y wench was nothing but poison. Even when she showed up here two months ago, he told her to shove off or he'd stick her again...."

Sid's head jerked up. "I did nor!" he shouted.

John looked over his shoulder at him. "Easy, lad," he murmured. "The Moon here was only joking."

Sid wasn't satisfied. He unplugged his guitar, hauled the strap over his shoulder, and threw the instrument down on the stage, startling one of the t.i.tanthrops. "You geriatric old farts make me want to vomit," he muttered as he stalked toward the curtained door leading to the backstage area.

"Then go vomit," Keith called after him. "Just make sure you don't do it in your lunch pail again. Ah-ahaha-hahaha!"

Keith's maniacal laugh was one of the few traits that endeared him to John. He shook off the lingering memory of his wife's face as he reached over to pluck the joint from Keith's fingers. "He doesn't miss Nancy," he said, "but I think he does miss riding the old white horse."

"Just as well. The s.h.i.t killed him in the end." Keith frowned, pensively tapped his drumsticks between his 76.

legs. "Come to think of it, so did all the booze I was putting away...."

"You both bought it within weeks of each other, as I recall...."

"Yeah. So it did." The wicked smile reappeared on his homely face. "But at least I managed to get old before I croaked. The kid, now, he was barely old enough to shave...."

" 'Hope I die before I get old....' " John sang.

"Roger was full of s.h.i.t and so was Pete. Ox didn't say enough to be full of s.h.i.t...."

"S'truth. Way I felt about George."

" Ah-hahahahahahaha! Lord love a duck... or a ba.s.s player!" Keith reached up to touch his youthful, undamaged front teeth. "But I still miss my front tooth, you know. It was quite cla.s.sy. The birds thought it had s.e.x appeal. You reckon I may find another one from... ?"

"Hey! What're y'all think you're doing up there?"

John and Keith looked up at the sound of the baritone, southern-accented voice. The King was stalking down the right aisle from the sound booth, clapping his hands for attention. "s.h.i.t," John murmured, discreetly stubbing out the roach behind him and palming it.

"I thought I told you," the King bellowed, " no drugs while we're working!"

Keith looked at him blandly. "But we're not working, mate," he said in a maddeningly mild tone of voice. "We're having tea." He pointed up at the midafternoon sun. "See? It's teatime."

The King's face became livid. "I don't see any tea up there, son! All I see is that G.o.dd.a.m.n mari-hoochie I told you not to smoke during rehearsals! Now you get Sid and Brian back up there and you make sure you can play your 77.

a.s.ses off tonight, 'cause we got a riverboat coming in this afternoon, now you hear me?"

"Who's the headliner?" John asked.

"The other band!" the King yelled. "And they're gonna headline all week because you English a.s.sholes can't get your s.h.i.t together and an American band can and I don't like your att.i.tude and I think y'all play like a bunch of English queers and I don't give two s.h.i.ts if you were one of the Beatles...!"

"Frankly," John calmly interrupted, "neither do I."

That shut him up, but John couldn't resist twisting the knife a little more. He cleared his throat as he rested his chin in the palm of his right hand. "Tell me," he inquired, "are you still blaming me for your movies?"

The King scowled at him but said nothing; he was never good for a wicked comeback. Keith hid his bemused smile behind his hand. "G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king English eel-suckers," he finally muttered as he turned around and began stalking back toward the soundboard. "Think you invented rock 'n' roll...."

Sunlight off the letters embroidered in semiprecious stones across the back of his redfish vest: TCOB. Taking Care Of Business. John watched the King walk away, feeling somewhat sad for him. A couple of years ago, when Elvis had started managing them, he still had his just-resurrected slimness and handsomeness, a s.e.xuality reminiscent of his Sun Studios vintage years. Now he was becoming an obese wad again, much to everyone's disgust, only worse than before: he had let his hair grow unchecked and his mammoth a.s.s stuck out from beneath his kilt. Worst of all, he had developed into a mirror image of his old manager, albeit without the Colonel's redeeming qualities. And he couldn't sing worth a d.a.m.n.

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But he was the King of Graceland; if you didn't want to be a dragonfisher, a farmer, or a slave, you played by his rules.

"He was a lot more fun before he died," Keith whispered.

John popped the roach into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully, savouring its burnt-herb flavor on his tongue. He stood up, giving the drummer a rough slap on the shoulder. "We were all more fun," he replied. "C'mon now, mate. Back to the grindstone."

"Rock 'n' roll," Keith murmured."...long live rock..."The island was known as Graceland.

Thirty years after Resurrection Day, it was the only place in the new world where live rock 'n' roll could be heard, and its existence was largely due to Elvis's considerable influence and charisma. Through the course of many high-level trade agreements, the enlistment of a handful of loyal t.i.tanthrops, a couple of years of seeking out resurrected musicians, and (so it was rumoured) at least half a dozen translations, Elvis had managed to establish a small colony on a small island a hundred miles up-River from Parolando, an undiscovered rare bit of dirt and rock where two unclaimed grailstones lay. Not unexpectedly, he had decided to call the island Graceland. This was the way it was listed on the riverboat charts, the name by which it was known to hundreds of thousands of Valleydwellers who had heard of it.

Graceland had only one industry: rock 'n' roll, played live and loud. Elvis had been canny enough not to put his bands on riverboats to tour up and down the great river; there were too many uncivilised places where his groups could not only lose their grails and hard-won equipment, but also their lives. Instead, he settled an island and sent out word that two supergroups performed there six nights a week, eight months a year, and let everyone come to him. Tickets were bought at the dock through barter: whatever Graceland's fifty permanent inhabitants needed-fishmeat, cloth, refined metals, tools, open grails, new firestarters, precious and semiprecious stones, riverdragon products, extra liquor and cigarettes, groupies (especially groupies)-were gained in trade for a week's admission into the stockaded Graceland amphitheater.

Each week, another riverboat landed at the dock, unloading another hundred-odd pa.s.sengers who had bartered their way up-River or down-River to Graceland. They surrendered their goods at the dock, then went to the lean-to cabins on the island's leesh.o.r.e, where the visitor's grailstone lay. Admission to Graceland was for exactly a week, with admission to the amphitheater coming extra. However, since all weapons were confiscated at the dock by the t.i.tanthrops and the accommodations were relatively pleasant, few minded the cost. It was the closest many of the resurrected could get to having a real vacation in the new world.

Of course, Graceland had its own dues to pay. Not only did neighbouring river-nations have to be consistently bribed to keep them from contemplating invasion, but all of the amphitheater's belongings-from the electric guitars to the relatively sophisticated sound equipment to the upstream hydroelectric generators that powered everything- 80.

had been custom-built by the inhabitants of Parolando and New Bohemia, who in turn received the lion's share of Graceland's gate receipts. There were few creature comforts available to Graceland's permanent inhabitants as a result of the system. However, as the King was known to frequently observe, it beat h.e.l.l out of working. If picking one's fingers to the bone each night on crude copper strings couldn't be considered working, that is....

There were two regular house bands on Graceland, alternating sets each night during the concert season. One was the American band, the Wonder Creek Revival: Lowell George on local vocals and rhythm guitar, Duane Allman on lead guitar, Berry Oakley on ba.s.s guitar, Rod "Pigpen" McKuen on harmonica and keyboards, Dennis Wilson on drums and -when she was sober and able to take the stage-Janis Joplin as guest vocalist. The Creeks had a laid-back, Marin County sound that appealed to most of the Valleydwellers, considering the agrarian circ.u.mstances they had faced since Resurrection Day; it was easy to relate to a rendition of "Proud Mary" or "Watching the River Flow."

The Mersey Zombies, on the other hand, were at an inherent disadvantage. Given the mixed heritage of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, and the s.e.x Pistols, the quartet could manage a few numbers that were palatable to the average Valleydweller, but then-sound was more geared toward British Invasion (both of them), guitar-driven hard rock, which seemed to be unsettling to most audiences. Songs like "Cold Turkey" and "I'm So Bored With the U.S.A." didn't have much to say to an audience far removed from either heroin withdrawal or Uncle Sam. And then there were the contradictory reputations of the two bands. If Janis was 81.

incoherent and mumbling off into a bluesy, lichen wine-ramble, there was always her old boyfriend, Pigpen, to sh.o.r.e her up. On the other hand, the Mersey Zombies had a nasty rep for breaking into on-stage bickering, backstage fistfights, short huffy sets... and Sid couldn't be restrained from sometimes spitting into the front rows when they began to jeer.

More than a few times, Elvis had been asked by Graceland's patrons why other resurrected rockers couldn't be found and hired. Elvis usually mumbled off with one of his usual excuses-"good idea, buddy, I'll work on it" or "we're straightening out the contract, y'know"-but the fact of the matter was that the musicians who had been found during his long talent search were the only ones who still considered themselves to be music people. Jimi Hendrix was alive, but he now lived in Soul City, where he played an occasional blues duet with Robert Johnson; no one who didn't live in the African-heritage nation-state had ever heard them perform. Hank Williams and Patsy Cline were married and owned a farm far downstream, as did their nearby neighbour, the Big Bopper. Ronnie Van Zandt and Steve Gaines were dragonfishermen; Buddy Holly and Richie Valens co-owned a small airship company flying out of New Bohemia. Bob Marley was reputed to be a revolutionary, secretly travelling along the Rivervalley to infiltrate and foster rebellions within slave-nations wherever he and his gang of Rastafarians could find them. Bon Scott was a hopeless dreamgum addict without a grail, squatting wherever he could and begging for the basic necessities in whatever village would next accept him.

And no one knew what had happened to Jim Morrison 82.

... if, indeed, he had truly died in Paris when everyone thought he did."...please to introduce myself..."Shortly before sundown, the grailstones had delivered dinner with all its usual sound and fury. Once the audience had removed their grails, the t.i.tanthrops had opened the wooden gates of the amphitheatre's stockade and allowed the newcomers inside. Now, beneath the torchlight surrounding the seating area, a hundred of the resurrected were standing or sitting on the bamboo benches, waiting for the first band to come on stage. The summer-evening breeze carried mixed odours-fried fish, lichen wine, tobacco and marijuana smoke-along with the low buzz of voices, impatient whistles, and hand-clapping. The sounds and smells of rock 'n' roll....