Green Eyes Page 0,90

on, arising from the wreckage of evil. A futile transmission like the buzz of a half-crushed wasp.

Clea faltered, a high note shrilled. 'I can't sing when he's grinnin' at me,' she said, gesturing at Downey. 'He's makin' me too nervous.'

'Oh, hell!' said Downey. 'Lemme help her.' He stalked over and took the guitar from her.

'If it won't interfere,' said Otille. 'Will it interfere?'

Clea could not hide her delight. She blushed, casting a furtive glance at Downey. 'Maybe not,' she said.

He pulled up a chair beside her, picked a fancy introduction of chords, and this time the song had the courtly feel of a duet between a country girl and a strolling balladeer.

'... Beauty is everywhere, they say,

But I can't find a beauty like thine.

Beauty, I love you so much more

Than I do truth, which only lasts for a moment,

While you live forever,

Eternal and fleeting,

And without you no truth

Has any meaning...'

Some of the birds were fluttering up in their cages, chirping, agitated; others perched on the bars, trilling, throats pulsing in a transport of song. Donnell felt Otille tense beside him, and he focused on Clea. Her magnetic field was undifferentiated by arcs, a nimbus of white light encompassing her and Downey and sections of all the cages. Through the glow, she looked like an enraptured saint at prayer with her accompanying angel. The face of her gros bon ange was ecstatic, a mosaic of cobalt interlaced by fine gold threads. Nearing its end, the song grew more impassioned and the white glow spread to surround the cages and every one of the birds was singing.

'"... Beauty, you've come only once to me,

And now you've gone,

you seem so rare and inviting,

A chalcedon lady,

Gold glints in your dark eyes,

Admitting no imperfections,

Miraculous diamonds

Clasped round your slim throat,

Where the pulse beats in the hollow

And the blue veins are showing

Their cryptic pattern

Leading to somewhere,

An infinite gleaming

Trapped here forever

Here in my song,

Pure paragon.'

Otille was disappointed at song's end. She praised Clea's effort, acknowledged the result, but her displeasure was evident.

'Lemme have a crack at them birds, Otille,' said Papa. He popped his knuckles, eager to get started.

'We all know what you can do, Papa,' said Otille. 'It will prove nothing to see it again. I was hoping for something more... more out of the ordinary.'

Clea hung her head. Downey picked out a brittle run of blue notes, uninvolved.

'It's obviously a matter of mood,' said Simpkins. 'When poor Pavarotti was struck down, I recall Sister Clea as bein' in a snit, whereas today, makin' music with her heart's desire.,.'

'He's not!' squawked Clea; she leapt up and pointed at him, fuming. 'Lessee what you can do with 'em! Nothin', I bet!'

Downey smiled, strummed a ripple of chords.

'If I begin to tweet,' said Simpkins, 'then indeed we have a proof positive of Sister Clea's talent. But frankly I'm more interested in seein' what Brother Harrison can achieve with our feathered friends.'

Otille pursed her lips and tapped them with an ivory finger. She cocked one eye towards Donnell. 'Would you mind?' she asked.

Donnell stretched out his legs and folded his arms in imitation of Simpkins, returning his bland smile. Simpkins was obviously a force to be reckoned with, despite his failed gift, and Donnell did not want to establish the precedent of following his orders by proxy. 'I'll pass,' he said. 'I didn't come here to kill birds.'

'You don't have to kill them,' said Otille, as if that were the furthest thing from her mind. 'I'm much more interested in the variety of psychic powers than their repetition. Why don't you just see what you can do. Experiment. I won't hold it against you if nothing happens.'

But you will if I don't try, thought Donnell. 'All right,' he said. He took Clea's place in the midst of the cages, and she and Downey settled into chairs.

The birds appeared none the worse for wear, bright-eyed and chirping, swinging on their perches. Their plumage was beautiful - pastel blues and pinks, snowy white, bottle greens - and their magnetic fields were hazy glimmers in the air, easy to influence at a distance like the fields of telephones and cameras. He found if he reached out his hand to a cage, the birds within it stilled, quieted, and their fields glowed. But he could produce no other effect. The two cages closest to him contained nine birds, and by spreading his fingers magician style he managed to still all nine controlling each with one of his fingers, feeling the tug of the fields.