crazy.”
“Unique geographical isolation,” Micah explained, “and that it stayed undiscovered for so long after the collapse.”
“No, it was their magic powers,” Songh insisted, arranging the mugs in a precise oblong on the tray.
The word
power
keyed a memory. I had heard of Tuatua before, or something like it.
Crispin ambled over, tightening the red bandanna that wrapped his glorious shoulder-length hair. “Stayed undiscovered until fifteen years ago, when some enterprising Tuatuan saw the profit to be made in fresh foodstuffs, packed up a war canoe with papaya and bananas, and sailed two weeks to the nearest neighbor to set up a fruit stand.”
“Instant fame,” nodded Howie. “Relative prosperity.”
“And tourism,” Micah added. “For those with dangerous tastes.”
“And touring companies!” Howie gloated. “Or one at least.”
Micah was wary. “Not another ethnic traditionalist dance company?”
“Hey! Would I do that to you?”
Micah shrugged delicately.
“Naw, they’ve done a lot of dance and folk drama, but they have this play they want to add to their repertory, expand their horizons a little. Reede Chamberlaine saw them in Kyoto and came to me with the idea of starting the new piece here. They call themselves the Eye.”
“The Eye?” repeated Crispin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Howie smiled. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Songh brought the coffee, balancing the laden tray as if his job depended on it, which in Micah’s studio it did not. I tried to picture this undomed yet living island. I was glad it was unique. That it could exist at all raised too many disturbing questions.
Howie leaned into the table to wrap his big hands around a steaming mug as tenderly as a lover. His nails were clean and professionally buffed but bitten to the quick. “The very name Tuatua will be a big draw, but I got to tell you, this is no booking agent’s idea of an easy sell—these guys are on the very brink of civilization, schizoid mystics deep into the magic and legend and taboos of yesterday, yet struggling to embrace the cold logic of today.”
“Ah,” remarked Micah, always at his driest when weighing a decision. “A preview of an upcoming press release?”
“Press, schmess! Micah, I’m talking a revolution in style here!” Howie rose, the famous Marr energy brimming like water at a spillway. “Away with your holograms and lasers! The power of the Eye will be the power of the live actor alone. Voice, movement, the transcendence of the word!” He threw out his arms like Moses receiving the inspiration of God. His sleeve toppled Jane’s lamp, and her lunge after it scattered scale rule, pencils, and eraser to four points of the compass.
Micah hugged his coffee mug protectively. “Down, Howard, down.”
“The time is right for it, Mi! A return to elegant simplicity! A new look! The history books will credit you.” Howie bent to join Jane in pursuit of the lost implements.
Jane crabbed sideways and stood, beet-red, clutching her tools to her thin chest. She hated being involved in clumsiness, in case it might be held against her. “It’s all right, Mr. Marr. I have them.”
Howie clambered to his feet. “Gad, so early in the morning and already I’m exhausted.” He dusted his expensive slacks, pulled their creases into the best order possible on his pudgy thighs. “Tell me, you guys believe in omens?”
“Oh yes,” chirped Songh. Crispin snorted.
“Not so fast, now.” Howie fished a yellowed tatter out of a silver card case and held it up between two fingers. “Newspaper, the real thing. A genuine scrap of history. I found it stuck inside a pre-Dissolution atlas I picked up years ago. Added it to my idea file. Thought it might make a play someday.”
Micah took the clipping and scanned it while Howie fidgeted.
“You see it? The remote island? The native tribesmen with their strange religion? Micah, it could be
them!
I’ve had that clipping for ten
“Unique geographical isolation,” Micah explained, “and that it stayed undiscovered for so long after the collapse.”
“No, it was their magic powers,” Songh insisted, arranging the mugs in a precise oblong on the tray.
The word
power
keyed a memory. I had heard of Tuatua before, or something like it.
Crispin ambled over, tightening the red bandanna that wrapped his glorious shoulder-length hair. “Stayed undiscovered until fifteen years ago, when some enterprising Tuatuan saw the profit to be made in fresh foodstuffs, packed up a war canoe with papaya and bananas, and sailed two weeks to the nearest neighbor to set up a fruit stand.”
“Instant fame,” nodded Howie. “Relative prosperity.”
“And tourism,” Micah added. “For those with dangerous tastes.”
“And touring companies!” Howie gloated. “Or one at least.”
Micah was wary. “Not another ethnic traditionalist dance company?”
“Hey! Would I do that to you?”
Micah shrugged delicately.
“Naw, they’ve done a lot of dance and folk drama, but they have this play they want to add to their repertory, expand their horizons a little. Reede Chamberlaine saw them in Kyoto and came to me with the idea of starting the new piece here. They call themselves the Eye.”
“The Eye?” repeated Crispin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Howie smiled. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Songh brought the coffee, balancing the laden tray as if his job depended on it, which in Micah’s studio it did not. I tried to picture this undomed yet living island. I was glad it was unique. That it could exist at all raised too many disturbing questions.
Howie leaned into the table to wrap his big hands around a steaming mug as tenderly as a lover. His nails were clean and professionally buffed but bitten to the quick. “The very name Tuatua will be a big draw, but I got to tell you, this is no booking agent’s idea of an easy sell—these guys are on the very brink of civilization, schizoid mystics deep into the magic and legend and taboos of yesterday, yet struggling to embrace the cold logic of today.”
“Ah,” remarked Micah, always at his driest when weighing a decision. “A preview of an upcoming press release?”
“Press, schmess! Micah, I’m talking a revolution in style here!” Howie rose, the famous Marr energy brimming like water at a spillway. “Away with your holograms and lasers! The power of the Eye will be the power of the live actor alone. Voice, movement, the transcendence of the word!” He threw out his arms like Moses receiving the inspiration of God. His sleeve toppled Jane’s lamp, and her lunge after it scattered scale rule, pencils, and eraser to four points of the compass.
Micah hugged his coffee mug protectively. “Down, Howard, down.”
“The time is right for it, Mi! A return to elegant simplicity! A new look! The history books will credit you.” Howie bent to join Jane in pursuit of the lost implements.
Jane crabbed sideways and stood, beet-red, clutching her tools to her thin chest. She hated being involved in clumsiness, in case it might be held against her. “It’s all right, Mr. Marr. I have them.”
Howie clambered to his feet. “Gad, so early in the morning and already I’m exhausted.” He dusted his expensive slacks, pulled their creases into the best order possible on his pudgy thighs. “Tell me, you guys believe in omens?”
“Oh yes,” chirped Songh. Crispin snorted.
“Not so fast, now.” Howie fished a yellowed tatter out of a silver card case and held it up between two fingers. “Newspaper, the real thing. A genuine scrap of history. I found it stuck inside a pre-Dissolution atlas I picked up years ago. Added it to my idea file. Thought it might make a play someday.”
Micah took the clipping and scanned it while Howie fidgeted.
“You see it? The remote island? The native tribesmen with their strange religion? Micah, it could be
them!
I’ve had that clipping for ten