CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Orcus thread can never sundered be. Oh, it may be cut for bonds and such, but the ends do forever talk
and touch, though miles may separate thou and me.
—Cython Catechism,Eighth Year
I met Lynn,Chase, Chris, and Wood halfway to the drum riser. We stood a few moments together on the biggest stage in London, just looking at one another. I did steal a few glances into their shadows and, other than a fair number of occlusions, caught the shape of a coda in Lynn’s.
“Hey, listen,” Lynn finally said, “we heard about Henry. Guy gave us our start. Hell, the number of people he helped could practically fill this place. Everybody loved him.”
“No truer words,” I said.
“They didn’t tell us they’d called you to fill in,” he told me. “But, man, that’s the best I’ve ever heard you sing. I mean—” He rubbed his beard for a second. “I’ve never heard that third verse, Jack. Might be the best thing you ever wrote.”
“Took a while,” I said.
The whole band laughed kind of low.
“I guess I’m not really surprised they called you,” Lynn said. “Their replacement singer was a junkie, and we all started to panic about finding someone who could learn the material.”
“And do it justice,” Chris added.
I laughed and looked back at the management team. They were conferring with one another.
“I won’t lie,” I said, turning back. “I was pissed about getting kicked out. But I also didn’t want to be the reason you guys don’t make it. We’ve been through too much. I couldn’t let it go down that way. So, I told them I’d do the show if that’s what it took. But I didn’t know they hadn’t asked you guys first.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between us then. We just didn’t know what else to say.
Then Lynn laughed and said, “Kind of chickenshit for us to fire you by email, I guess.” He looked away a second. “It’s just that you were always putting something else ahead of the band, man. We felt like you?—”
He was right about that. “I know.”
“But then you come here when you don’t need to, save our show, save our chance in front of the labels.”
Wood slapped my chest with the back of his hand. “And you finished the tune, man. Not just a little, even.”
Lynn looked me in the eyes. “Come back. Permanently. We’ll tell Sixth Angel that we won’t play without you. What are they gonna do, tell Sabbath we won’t open their festival?”
The other guys laughed, then nodded.
After all the hours spent writing songs, all the nights playing venues, carrying gear, hoping, waiting, encouraging others along . . . my shot was right here. My songs had helped the Hounds get the right kind of attention. And those songs might now get a chance to help others the way I’d always hoped theywould. This was what I’d come to London for. What I’d been working on since Mama left.
But . . .
As much as I’d sunk myself into this dream, and as much as I loved these guys, I now had the Iron Horse and Henry to do right by. The future of so many lives, of the city itself, might depend on it. And if I let this dream pull me away from people who needed me . . . isn’t that what Mama had done? “It means a lot that you’d ask,” I said, “but I can’t. I’ll sing the show if you still want me to. And I’ll help you find a permanent singer when it’s done. Hell, I’ll even work with him on the songs.”
Lynn stared a moment, then smiled. “Well, I wish you’d think it over, but doing the festival is more than we deserve.”
We shook on it, and I told them I had to get going. Lynn gave me a shoulder hug. The other guys did the same. I thanked them, waved goodbye, and stepped back to the front of the stage.
For a moment, I just stared out at the vastness of Wembley Stadium. I’d get to play here in a few days, but it still felt like I was saying goodbye before I’d even been here, like Henry had got it wrong and my band days were really done, even if I got past the Shiguan and my trial.
Then Cassius was at my shoulder. “It is the philosopher’s paradox, Jack: Doing what is right stirs the deepest pain, and the deepest pain promises the most lasting joy.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. Something about his big old mitt made me a little steadier. “And I believe I now understand what metal is, Jack.”
“Yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”
“It is much like my war cry. It comes not from the mouth or lungs, but from the soul.”
