Chapter 8

            Vince sighed contentedly as he settled onto the picnic blanket. In a few weeks, Memorial Park would be covered in faux-medieval stalls and booths as costumed visitors swarmed in from the mainland. It was good for the town’s coffers, but it tended to drive the locals out of the south end of the island.

For the time being, the world was on its normal schedule, which meant it was time for one of the weekly outdoor concerts. A local rock band, the Fin Island Experience, almost always played a setlist of classic rock cover songs on Saturday nights. It was a local institution, and the park had even been modified for their sake. At some point twenty years before, their drummer had become mayor and pulled some strings to get the small stage constructed, with a backing shaped like a shell to make sure the music went where it was intended.

            Was it corrupt? Technically. But nobody really minded. The Ren Fair got good use out of it, and the local high school orchestra ran their Christmas concerts there, too.

            Vince saw the tension flow out of Bayla’s shoulders as she joined him. “This is much more manageable. There are many Landmen, but we are more spaced out.”

            “Yeah, you really didn’t like that crowd, did you?”

            She shook her head. “So many of you.” She rested her head on Vince’s shoulder. “How do you deal with being surrounded all the time?”

            “I don’t,” he replied. “It’s why I was hiking when we met.”

            She blew a raspberry at the thought. “Hiking or being trapped by a crowd? I cannot decide which is worse! You Landmen are all mad.” She waved towards the woods that boxed in the park. “There is plenty of room you are not using! Live there, not like sardines in a school!”

            “Wish it was that easy,” he said. “It’d make things simpler.”

            She warily scanned the crowd. “There are still too many Landmen around. I feel like they’re looking at me. Like they know I don’t belong.”

            A group of concertgoers, all older men, had set up shop on a patch of grass beneath a lone pine tree. They had come prepared, with collapsible lawn chairs, a table covered in snacks, and multiple coolers. One of them tended to a small, charcoal grill, reminding Vince all they had eaten recently was some cotton candy. Oh well. A problem for later.

Vince shook his head, flashing her a smirk. A striking young woman with white eyespots dyed into her hair? I can’t imagine why they would stare. “You have the opposite problem. They think you belong over there.”

She cocked her head, letting out an inquisitive squeak. “Oh? Do you know them?”

He shook his head. “No, I think they’re from the mainland. If they think like me, though, then they’d rather have you close. Like I said, you’re a beauty.”

            The line was corny, but it struck home; Bayla’s pale skin reddened about her face. “O-of course I am, though you don’t need to point it out so often. It is unseemly.”

            Vince smirked. He lacked Luis’ track record, but he had a good read on Bayla. She kept throwing him for a loop, so fair was fair.

Bayla played with the ends of her hair, studying the barbeques. “What are they drinking?”

            “It’s called alcohol,” replied Vince.

            “It must be delightful; they are quaffing quite a few of them.”

Vince gulped, imagining the unnaturally strong young woman with a few beers in her. She’s tiny at that, so she’d have no tolerance. “Probably best to not try those just yet; they’re basically a drug.”

“Drug?” She cocked her head at him.

“Intoxicant?” Her blank stare did not waver. “It’s a magic drink that will make you lose your senses.”

“Ah, I see. Wait… I thought the music was pleasant. Why would you want to lose your senses before hearing it?”

“They’d say it enhances the experience.”

Bayla pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should acquire some? We are here to be entertained, after all.”

Vince scratched the back of his head, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Let’s, ah, have you try the show without the beers first. So you can compare next time.”

Bayla rolled her eyes at him. “You make no sense sometimes.” She sniffed the air. “Is that smell coming from them?”

            “It sure is,” he replied.

            She nodded once. “Finally, something pleasant to smell! No wonder you don’t cut your blowholes off.”

            Vince could not help but smile. Sometimes he had to remind himself he was sitting next to a whale. Other times, though? Bayla took care of that herself.

            The curtain rose, revealing the Fin Island Experience in all their glory. They had been entertaining locals since the eighties, and it showed in their greyed hair and expanded waistlines. Their leader, Dave, still had a set of pipes on him, though, and the others were no slouches either. They launched straight into Hotel California, which would then be followed by Twist and Shout. It was the same set every week, but that was part of the charm. The Fin Four were part of the rhythm of life on the island. Nothing ever changed, which normally drove Vince to distraction.

            However, Vince was ready for familiarity. He settled back on the picnic blanket, letting the music wash over him. It had been a long, strange, day. What had Bayla called it? Stormy? That word seemed appropriate. But now, he could unwind a bit.

            ***********

            Bayla had never heard the like of this Land-music. The baleen whales her people hunted sang hauntingly beautiful songs that could fill the whole Kelp Forest during their migrations. More squeamish members of the pod had questioned if it was proper to rip out their tongues for dinner. After all, was it right to silence such heavenly voices?

Bayla was not one of them; they had a lovely sound, but they also had a lovely taste.

            The Fin Island Experience’s music was of a different sort entirely. Each held a different tool, blending the sounds together and sending them through huge, black devices on either side of the stage. The rhythmic thunder of the drums flowed up her body where she sat. Added to that were the tones of the singer, who changed his style from song to song to blend in with his fellows. She could tell they were singing words, but she lost most of them in the wail of their stringed tools.

            Still, she caught snippets. “Vince, what is this song about? What is a ‘deuce coupe’?” She did not look at her guide, keeping her eyes fixed to the stage, as though seeing the singers would help her parse the strange words.

There was no reply.

“Vince?” Bayla reluctantly turned from the performers. Vince’s chest moved up and down rhythmically, and when she came close, she could just make out a faint buzzing noise from his nose over the music.

Bayla bit her lip nervously, which was again a painful mistake. “Vince? Are you ill?” She shook him, but she might as well have addressed a stone. She tried again, more forcefully this time, but with the same result.

What happened? He was speaking one moment, and then the next… this! She scanned the concertgoers, which she estimated at around a hundred Landmen and Landmaidens. None of them seemed to have noticed Vince’s plight. I heard they could be cold to each other, but this is unbelievable!

Fear tied her stomach in a knot. Vince needed immediate help. What did you do with humans who were unconscious? Push him up to the surface so he doesn’t drown? No, wait. What surface? She smacked her cheeks. Calm down. The Landmen must have some sort of healers.

She caught the Landmen who were quaffing beers looking their way. She sprang to her feet and tried to wave them over. They responded by waving for her to come to them.

“Can’t you tell this is an emergency?” Her words died as the Fin Island Experience started a new song. She would have found it delightful, if she were not in the middle of a panic attack! “Very well, if they will not come to me…”

She dashed over. Bayla was still learning the finer points of human features, but she instinctively knew the three men were older than Vince. They reminded her of the blacksmith from before, though his name escaped her mind. They also had excess blubber around their middles like Luis, which seemed to be a common trait with everyone she had spoken to, save Vince.

“Why didn’t you come help Vincemeyer?” she demanded in an imperious tone.

The tallest of them turned from the grill, revealing a stubbly beard. He looked down at her through his bifocals. “I’m sorry?”

She pointed at her fallen guide. “Don’t you see? He’s fallen unconscious and I cannot rouse him!”

The griller frowned, peering at Vince’s prone form. “Hey Jerry, you want to check on her boyfriend? I’d do it, but these brats are just about ready.”

“Don’t worry little lady.” The shortest of the three nodded, adjusting a satchel about his prodigious waist. He had to speak to be heard over the music. “He probably just had a few too many.”

“A few too many what?” asked Bayla as she followed.

Jerry lifted his can of Budweiser and swished it around. “Good night for a brew.”

“Oh, those? Vince said we ought not to drink those, since they would ‘enhance the experience’ too much.”

Jerry’s eyebrow raised. “Wait, what sense does that make?”

“None,” admitted Bayla as she latched onto Jerry’s forearm, “but even if Vince never makes sense, please, we have to get him to a healer!”

Jerry mouthed the word ‘healer’ to himself as Bayla released him and ran ahead, looking at the woman like she had grown another head. He knelt down next to Vince, studying him closely. “Hey, kid? You alright?”

Vince snored on.

Jerry pasted on a smile. “He’s just asleep, darling.”

Bayla grit her teeth together in frustration. “A-what? Speak sense! Are you going to heal him or not?”

Jerry stood, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, I thought that bullshit wasn’t for a few weeks. Go LARP somewhere else; it’s been a week, and I just want to enjoy the concert.”

“Go what somewhere else?” She grabbed Jerry’s hand and planted her feet in soft soil. What she lacked in traction, she made up in raw strength, stopping Jerry in his tracks. “Please, I am desperate! If you will not help me, who will?”

Jerry seemed split between being concerned and irritated. “Look, he’s asleep. Y’know, sleep? That thing you do every night?”

“Huh? Vince is not in a night-trance; it would not look like that.”

“What, then, do you look like when you sleep?”

“I swim with my pod and surface when I am a-trance.” Realization dawned on her face. “Oh, it is how you humans trance? You shut down completely?”

It was Jerry’s turn to grit his teeth. He struggled against her grasp, wondering where the tiny woman got such a strong grip. “Yes. Now that you’re done roleplaying, can I go back with my friends?”

She let out a startled click as she released his hand. “My apologies, Jerry. I am new to this land and its ways.”

Jerry, confused by where that unnatural noise had come from, looked at Bayla again, as though for the first time. He gave her a once-over, lingering a moment longer than was polite. The irritation vanished from his face in a flash. “Apology accepted, Miss…”

“Bayla,” she declared, sticking out her hand.

Jerry accepted it. Of course she had some strange fantasy name; she was definitely a few weeks early. “Well, if your boyfriend can sleep through all that commotion, he must need the rest. How about you join us for some food and drinks? Looks like he didn’t bring anything for you.”

“That he did not,” she admitted, giving the air a delicate sniff. The ‘brats’ the headman had mentioned did tickle her blowhole delightfully. “I do not think Vince will mind. He is a-trance, after all.”

“Great,” he said, following behind. “How’d you like a beer?”

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