CHAPTER 111 — O Holy Night

“Fall on your knees.”

Placide Cappeau,

Minuit, chrétiens, 1843

Shiloh.

One Hundred and Thirty-Eighth Street.

Wednesday, 24 December 2008.

Within the blocks around Shiloh, there lies a holy trinity of the faithful, whose influence extends deep into the annals of America’s darkest and brightest history, serving as a testament to the tenacity of the nation’s people, its sins, and its triumphs.

Shiloh lacked the clout of its sister churches, the Abyssinian, Mother Zion and Saint Philip’s, but it did not lack in history. It too had housed the fighters of the civil rights movement. Its congregation, as well, had once kept a stop on the Underground Railroad, in the days before Harlem was Harlem. It, too, held within its scarred stone walls the weeping history of a people who fought, and continue to fight, for representation and equality.

And it was the Church of David Cooper who had, on this Christmas Eve, invited Eppie to attend an evening of chorals.

Eppie had, as Lana, visited the Abyssinian and marvelled, as a tourist, at its architecture, and the wonders of its circular pews and gleaming white tiles. Comparatively, Shiloh was a modest church, a small Baptist house in the shadow of America’s most famous and most influential black church.

Inside, the heating failed to fight the cold, which was kept at bay instead by a congregation of two hundred bodies in decent coats, mostly sitting, some standing, still holding their hats.

They were here with Mrs Verna Sharpe, and they were known by the community. A space was made for them; eyes swept over Eppie, distracted for a second by her unnatural [Comeliness], then landed on her theatre director with greater respect and acknowledgement.

“Here is fine,” Verna said, sitting them somewhere discreet, but still having a good view of the choralists. “Up front is for the regulars.”

“You’re a regular,” Cooper smirked. “Or have you lapsed?”

Sharpe rolled her eyes, and Eppie laughed, a little self-consciously. She was the true outsider here. She wore her Loro Piana coat, the only coat she had for the deep winter, and with her fair skin, her balayage, and her camel coat, she stood out like a sore thumb.

Since the 18th, she had already spent days in the company of her faux-father, who had no extended family, of Vaughan, who had… no extended family, of Lim, who was away from family, and of Valorie, whose father came once, for a single afternoon, to assure her with hugs.

And now it was Cooper’s turn.

David Cooper had made peace with his family for the present Christmas and New Year’s, because he had a theatre to build, three scripts to oversee, and though Eppie paid very well, he’d rather spend the money on their ballooning mortgage than frivolous travel.

Eppie had immediately offered travel allowance—but Dr Cooper was a prideful man who did not take kindly to charity.

The choralists took to their places.

The choir was in simple blues, not uniforms, but enough blue to resemble the idea of uniforms. A few of the older women had robes, but most of them wore blue shirts, jackets, dresses; one lady had a tabard which Eppie strongly suspected was from an MMO game.

While Eppie strained to see, their party of three was accosted by a small, round-faced woman in a church hat and modest jewellery, sidling up not to Cooper or Sharpe, but Eppie herself.

“Good evening,” the lady with a familiar face spoke to her with an obvious familiarity. “You must be Miss Fontaine.”

Eppie wracked her [Memorisation] and turned up nothing.

“Mrs Grant.”

“Dr Cooper.”

“Mrs Sharpe.”

“Mrs Grant.”

“Bernice Grant.” The woman gave Eppie a gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Eppie shook the lady’s hand—then it all clicked. “You’re… Kel’s mother!”

“And you’re the one who got my boy interested in choirs again.” The woman leaned in, and Eppie answered. The hug she gave was full-bodied and warm. “You have no idea how grateful I am. The music business… it was just supposed to be business, not who he is, or aspire to become.”

Karmic Causality

Eppie felt a wave of relief that Kel’s mother wasn’t a [Usurper], but a helper. If she could get Bernice onside to get Kel on stage—resolving his [Parasite] status was a matter of time.

“He talks a little too much about you,” Bernice said, still smiling. “I thought… maybe… but no, that boy’s not in love. He’s in awe. I know the difference, and he thinks of you as a saint.”

“Aww…” Eppie gushed.

“I mean, something to be feared…” Mrs Grant clarified, and both Cooper and Verna swallowed polite chuckles.

The pastor came down the side aisle in preparation for the performance. He shook Mrs Grant’s hand, then Cooper’s, then Sharpe’s, then paused at Eppie and told her that he was delighted to welcome the singer of the shanty.

Reverend Calvin Ashby looked sixty, but was likely older, and he had the voice of a reverend from a movie.

“Miss Fontaine,” he said quietly. “Dr Cooper says you’re looking for actors.”

“I am indeed, Reverend,” Eppie confessed. “For a play about a black choir. I need teenagers who can sing well enough to move a cathedral. If you know anyone, please send them our way.”

The Reverend’s eyes twinkled; he gave her an affirming nod, then moved up the aisle in a way that informed her that he would keep his ear close to the podium and listen for the appropriate voices.

Karmic Causality

When she looked over, Dr Cooper gave her an equally approving nod.

Karmic Causality

What passed for understanding moved between them—though Eppie understood far more than her teacher could give credit. Her choice of opening with Saint Gospel St to consecrate The Ark Theatre had moved Cooper to no end, and the reason why had completely escaped Eppie.

It was only now, standing in the pews, that she recalled that, at least in Lana’s world, reality had a terrible, unhappy bias. She couldn’t remember the magazine or the institution that commissioned it—but she did indeed recall the outbreak of scandal when a longitudinal study revealed that following the GFC, corporate and big-venue theatres had received everything they needed to survive, while local theatres like Verna’s… received change, or nothing at all.

Their gladness… made her feel ambivalent.

The faithful settled.

The crowd hushed.

The reverend took his place on the podium and began to speak of Christ, charity, and sacrifice.

From the mouths of ladies who worked in community pantries, in kitchens, in schools, in the neighbourhood and blocks over, the notes of devotion rose into the air with a cadence that touched the soul.

Then the reverend spoke.

Then the choir sang.

First, the Devotion.

Then, Choir.

Eppie’s [Gospel] fired, then [Perfect Pitch], and she allowed the music, bone-deep and sky-high, to flow through her as though she were a channel. The women’s voices rose to the rafters and stayed there, then the children’s voices sang, high and nasal, like sharp bells, and the whole congregation clapped, and Eppie clapped with them.

Next came Jesus, What a Wonderful Child.

And following Shiloh’s signature song came the call and answer of Joy to the World.

Then Eppie’s [Perfect Pitch] picked out a voice, singular—and she knew the [System] had been toying with [Causality] once more.

The organ launched itself into the opening bars of O Holy Night—

And Eppie watched the hair on her arms stand on end.

Standing on her tippy toes, she looked past the coats and the shoulders, and spied, barely, a woman in her forties in a blue jacket that was clearly thrifted. The lady was swaying differently from the others, her face lost in what Eppie recognised as a state of [Sublime]. The lady was preparing herself.

This was to be her moment.

And then she opened her throat, and the voice came out, and Eppie’s head felt full of song.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;

it is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

Her Loro Piana coat grew far too stifling.

The [System] was howling in her ears to pay bloody attention. [Perfect Pitch] caught every tremble, every soaring note. [Gospel] told her that without this woman, Saint Gospel Street would not make it past the first choral scene. Like a curled cat, her [Songstress] purred beside [Sublime], teaching her the meaning of religion.

Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother,

and in His name all oppression shall cease.

The voice was sultry, thick, smoky and rich.

And yet… it was raw and untrained, operating on pure talent, running on unadulterated instinct.

The others may not have heard it clearly, but they were not Eppie.

They didn’t have a [System] rocking her world, and the [Perfect Pitch] necessary to hear the full body beneath.

Davis wanted a voice, didn’t he?

The voice of the old world. The voice of the working class. The voice of the downtrodden, unheard.

That was the thing.

What Delphine’s mother possessed was raw and natural. It was negative capability. Something from nothing. Not vocal training. Not schooling. Not musical theory. It was this rawness that had been blended with regret, anguish, frustration, isolation, and loneliness, in a house, with a daughter on her hip—in Louisiana.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

let all within us praise His holy name.

The final verse faded, and the room that beheld that voice as it rose above the rest nodded, as if this was indeed normal, that this familiar voice they had heard for however many years was no more special than the expectation of salvation from decades of faithful attendance.

The organ made a return.

The Reverend said “Amen,” and the room repeated after him, Eppie included.

Cooper looked like a salmon returned to the stream of its birth, satisfied and content, smiling at everyone, his height a head above the rest, his body completely at ease.

Verna regarded Cooper with her deeply set eyes, and Eppie knew that there was more than admiration, but Verna was a good woman, a kind woman, and her love of theatre was what drove her to put Cooper on a pedestal.

Eppie leaned in.

“Doc,” she nudged him.

“Do you know that lady?”

“Which one?” Cooper’s vantage was far better than hers.

“Second from the right, blue jacket, first row.”

Cooper pursed his lips. “I know the voice. Never met her in person. She does the solo part every Christmas, though; has been for a while. Verna? Do you know?”

Verna shook her head. “Just the voice.”

“I know who she is,” Mrs Grant, Kel’s mother, interjected.

Eppie turned to the woman with her enormous and hopeful eyes.

“Good lord.” Bernice made the sign of the cross. “Tone down the headlights, girl. I am not Kelvin.”

“Sorry.” Eppie cocked her head instead.

Bernice gave her a deadpan look that said, don’t you try that on me. “Right, that there is Mrs Georgia Truitt. She comes to us from Prospect Avenue, been here since ninety-five, when their church shut.” She looked at Cooper with more respect than she could ever afford Eppie. “It was a fine church, before it shut. They had a donated grand piano.”

“Is she a singer?” Eppie felt her heart rise to her throat.

“Good heavens, no!” Mrs Grant laughed. “She cleans offices, honey. She works weeknights on Lexington, raised a good boy who is now in the Navy.” Grant paused. “Story goes that when she was younger, she used to sing down in the local hotels, with the jazz bands that used to come through. That was a long time ago, though. I suspect nothing came of it.”

Eppie looked at the woman.

She looked at Mrs Grant.

Mrs Grant had Kel’s cheekbones, or had given him her cheekbones. Her figure was petite and elegant, her skin taut, despite her age. Mrs Truitt, unfortunately, in her blue jacket, looked like she had the figure of a muscular root vegetable.

Mrs Georgia Truitt...

The crowd was now dispersing.

She committed the woman’s name and face and most of all, her voice—to [Memorisation].

Then she walked out into the cold with Cooper and Sharpe, and went to find a cart that sold toffee-coated, sweet-smelling almonds.

The Belmont Building.

Thursday, 25 December 2008.

For her first Christmas in NYC, she had chosen to forgo Valorie’s invitation and instead spend it with her faux-father. Feeling mischievous and endlessly nostalgic about Lana’s parents, whose faces were growing blurrier with every [Dasein] spent, she had spent the morning dressing for Christmas.

Sony BMG had its own costumes department—and it was far too easy to acquire an outfit that would have been completely natural on the set of Mrs Carey’s All I Want for Christmas. A hit that transcends the causality of space, dimension and time to haunt every Christmas in every multiverse.

She had already given Curon a fish, and now, she would give him a slice of her life, because she was so thankful for everything he had done, and the oxytocin firing in her Philosophical Zombie’s brain was making her drunk with giddy joy.

Eppie had decided on the song the night after Shiloh, after she had dropped $50 on nuts and Dr Cooper had to pull her away from the sweating vendor so that others could have theirs as well.

And so, dressed as an elf, with a tassel-hemmed skirt bobbing about her knees, she sat a groggy Curon down on the couch in his studio, crossed her legs, took up the J-45, and started to play what was, in her opinion, the best Christmas song ever written.

With her ponytail swaying, her little skirt following, she played him a song of her old world, four simple chords, her left hand smoothly changing shapes on the neck while her thumb strummed to the beat of her [Clockwork Pulse]. Her voice came on, her [Songstress] filling the room, transmuting the warmth in her chest to Curon in a way that made his face glow.

Muse Acquired

Last Christmas

Written and produced by George Michael. Performed by Wham!

A small amount of [Karmic Reciprocity] has been paid.

Penalties of [Prophet of Profits] have not applied.

The Karmic Resonance of this artwork already exists in the present world.

[-4,925 Karmic Causality]

[Causality: 841,088]

She was fully ready to pay the whole cost—and was pleasantly surprised that the song did indeed exist in some capacity. Clearly, Eppie had vastly underestimated the cosmic prowess of Christmas shopping playlists.

“Is that your own arrangement?” Curon looked like he was blown away. “ZAP! Right? Man, that takes me back. Georgie Panopolus was a true genius.”

Her father slapped his knees.

Then moaned that he had forgotten to record how adorable she looked.

He then reached down somewhere, under the enormous coffee table covered with… food from last week, and pulled out an enormous, slightly obscene shape. What was more obscene was how poorly it had been wrapped, for it looked like someone had bought the best wrapping paper they could, only to realise they had not enough wrap, nor knew how to wrap, and so made do with brown packing tape.

It was obviously a guitar.

She gleefully received her new instrument and tore through the tough packing tape as if it were rice paper. After the bottleneck around the neck, the rest of the paper came off in a giant sheet, revealing the distinct shape…

Of a Fender.

A Fender Mustang.

It was a petite thing, perfect for someone of her size and figure, with the waist cut off-centre so that she could sit the curved body comfortably across one knee. The colour of the body was a pale blue, the same hue as her eyes, with a wood that was worn to the bone and frets that were polished from use.

“It’s beautiful,” Eppie said, and she was entirely serious.

“It’s Jay Perrin’s, from CordSmith.”

Eppie’s eyes widened. “This belonged to CordSmith?”

She knew now that this was a special instrument. It wasn’t so much that it was rare or that it even belonged to CordSmith, her alter-world Aerosmith—it was that Walk My Way, more than any other song Curon had produced, had single-handedly immortalised him in the halls of modern music.

Rock and Rap.

Two genres that should have never worked together, that no one would have thought would work together, somehow came together and created the greatest hit anyone could ever imagine, beating out even the King of Pop.

It was the progenitor song for future garage bands that meshed the genres of rap, grunge, soul, and RnB—the moment as someone moved a needle, the butterfly that flapped its wings at the right moment.

Her hands trembled a little.

The Fender was a musicological relic.

The old Lana would have just seen it as a beautiful collectable.

Eppie, with everything she had done, everyone she had thus met, with her [Sublime] licking the interior of her brain, felt as though adrift on a warm water sea.

Beside her, she could see, from the window light, the message from the [System], written in the interior of her J-45. This relic, this fingerbone of Saint Curon, would be her next cunning instrument for the creation of the Ark.

“Hey, don’t cry.” Curon beamed with pride.

“I am not crying,” Eppie choked. “I am just happy.”

Curon wrinkled his nose. He looked at the Fender in her hand, then sighed with relief. “I couldn’t… wrap the amp… ran out of paper… It’s behind the couch.”

“I love it,” Eppie said.

“Good.” Her father’s face was scarlet. “Now write me something…”

“NOW?” Eppie felt a sudden urge to set her life force on fire. For a father, for this guitar, she was willing to go all in on American Pie.

“No! Not now. Christ.” Curon waved a hand. “It’s Christmas, for god’s sake. You got a movie coming up, you got a shanty to sell, you got a theatre and three plays. Take your time. Jesus….”

He pointed at the thing. “Do you even know how to play this thing?”

“You’ll be surprised.” Eppie laughed. Then she sighed… and she looked her father in the face so pitifully that he melted like a wax Buddha in a furnace.

“Yes?” he asked cautiously.

“I want to help Val,” she said.

Curon raised both brows. “With Woodhouse?”

“Yeah…”

“For the boy? That Canadian one?”

“Partly…”

“You care too much.” Curon studied her, then relented. “How’s the kid doing?”

“Universal’s putting him through the paces, but he’s also got a tutor. He is attending school periodically. They gave him a place to live. Val says it’s going well; the kid’s a natural.”

“Fine.” Curon batted a hand at her. “Don’t give them anything too good. Trent took a real beating from Dr Earnshaw. His blood pressure…”

“How was your checkup?”

“Ahahah…” Curon looked away.

“Dad…”

Curon patted his belly. To Eppie’s critical eye for fashion, the belt had grown two notches.

Hmm… she mentally rubbed her chin. Yoga? Pilates? They certainly had a lot of space up here. And her father had nothing but time.

She looked at Frederick Curon.

Frederick Curon looked back at her.

Then her faux-father broke out in a fantastic cold sweat.

“Merry Christmas, kitty cat.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

It was time, Eppie felt, for a New Year's Resolution (™).