Kitty Steals the Show

“Thanks for inviting me.” He was young and jittery, bouncing a foot and tapping a hand on his knee. A DJ— anybody in the music business—ought to know better than to make noise like that during a recording. The sound didn’t carry, fortunately. Dressed modern hipster, he wore a T-shirt for what must have been a band, though one I’d never heard of, a jacket, and fashionably distressed jeans. He had a regional British accent, northern and industrial if I had my broad strokes right. I’d tracked him down via his blog and invited him on the show.

“You have some interesting ideas about how modern music and tales of the supernatural intersect,” I said. “You want to give me the rundown?”

“Yes, right. Do you know anything about, well, the Folk?”

Oh, that he should ask me that now … “Fairies, right?”

He squirmed in his chair. “We don’t like to use that word, but yes, just so. But you’ve heard of them.”

I debated telling him about last night’s adventure, but merely smiled encouragingly. “Yes, a bit.”

“In the old stories, the Folk love music. Playing it, listening to it, dancing to it. People still play traditional jigs and tunes rumored to come from the Folk. Some stories say they’d use music to entrance people, lure them Underhill, or set them dancing until they collapse with exhaustion. What if that still happens, but on a much larger scale?”

“All we have to do is figure out which bands are torture to listen to,” I said.

“Yeah! Well, no, not like that exactly. Today, with as much music as we have, and as many ways to play and distribute it, they must be involved somehow. They’d hardly be able to stay away. Which brings me to the Beatles.”

My eyes widened. This hadn’t been on his blog; he’d saved it for the show. Awesome. “The Beatles were fairies?”

“Please, don’t say that word. Maybe not like that. Not specifically them, maybe. But all those screaming insane crowds? The reactions they got? No one had ever seen anything like it. They must have had some kind of crazy magic. What if it was a case of elven magic intersecting with modern rock and roll?”

Or maybe they were just really talented songwriters and musicians … “Hmm. It would certainly give a whole new meaning to ‘I Am the Walrus.’”

“Yeah. Or no—wait a minute. I’m not talking about the lyrics so much as the effect.”

“The screaming hordes of teenage girls we’ve all seen in the concert footage.”

“The Beatles started an epidemic of that sort of thing,” Martin said with obvious awe. “Almost had to be supernatural, don’t you think?”

I rather thought it may have had something to do with the widespread availability of television ushering in an era of hyped-up pop culture and mass consumerism. But I was willing to humor him.

“You may very well be onto something. Let me ask you a question: should there be an effect with recorded music, or is it only live?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? It would seem to only have an effect on live audiences, but they’ve sold millions of records. In fact, I’m developing a study that would examine this exact question. If only I can find the funding for it. I’ve applied for several grants. No luck yet, I’m afraid.” He slouched a little.

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone steps forward to help out.” Coming on my show certainly wouldn’t hurt. I wondered if I’d opened a can of worms.

“That’s just it—this isn’t frivolous research. It’s an investment.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes! If I can figure out what the magical thing is, package it somehow, then sell it—can you imagine?”

“Didn’t they do that already with the Backstreet Boys? And the Spice Girls?”

He frowned. “Oh … oh, someone’s already done it is what you’re saying?”

Many times over, I thought. “Fairy magic really is the only explanation for some of that music, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to have to think about this.” He was staring at the microphone, wide-eyed, contemplating whole new vistas of potential, undoubtedly.

“And I think we’ll wrap it up there,” I said. “Thank you very much for coming to talk with me, Martin.”

“Oh—yes. Thank you!”

A familiar, back-of-the-neck chill crawled along my spine. I’ve created a monster …

My toughest guest came right in the middle of the session, for good or ill. I let the studio staff deal with her, figuring she’d be more at ease. I wanted this woman to talk. One of the techs ushered her in and guided her to the guest seat at the other end of the table.

She was human, average, in nice jeans, a blouse and blazer, a thin gold necklace and stud earrings. Her hair was short, dyed dark blond with highlights. In her forties, of average height and build, she looked utterly normal and nondescript. I never would have picked her out of the crowd on any street in any town in Middle America.

I thought about approaching her, to try to get her to shake my hand—or to make her refuse to shake. But I could tell by her frown and the hard edge in her stare how that was likely to go. I let the tech deal with her, fitting headphones and showing her the mike, while I sat back and smiled.

As soon as she was settled, the sound guy gave me a cue, and I launched in.

“I’m feeling a tiny sense of victory in even convincing my next guest to come on the show. But she’s here, and I’m very much looking forward to our chat. Tracy Anderson chairs an organization calling themselves Truth Against the Godless, members of which have been out in force picketing the conference. They’ve gone on record denouncing government recognition and public acceptance of people with supernatural identities. Ms. Anderson, welcome to the show. Thank you for being here.”

She and her group had chartered a plane to bring them and their protest banners to London. They’d been planning and organizing to come here for a year. The level of commitment was almost admirable.

Calmly, hands folded on her lap, she said, “I want to make clear that I’m only here because you offer a chance to speak to the audience that most needs to hear our message.” She sat as far away from me as she could and still reach the microphone. I had thought she would avoid looking at me at all. But she stared at me, lines of tension around her mouth. I couldn’t help but stare back.

“Well, I know I’m taking you away from your busy protest schedule, and I appreciate it,” I said.

“My work calls for many sacrifices.”

“So does mine, oddly enough. My first question. You’re one of the founders of Truth Against the Godless. What prompted you to start this group in the first place?”

“Frankly, we started the group because we were appalled. I find it reprehensible that evil has been given such a free rein in today’s world. To speak, to act, to corrupt our youth—”

“Evil. I understand you mean something pretty specific by that, and it’s not people who set fire to kittens.”

She scowled at me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“My listeners may not, so if you’ll just spell it out so we’re on the same page.”

“People like you. Werewolves and vampires. Monsters. Satanists. Threats to God- fearing people everywhere.”

“I always feel the need in conversations like this to point out how often God-fearing people themselves have been threats to God-fearing people, and everyone else.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about—you think having a platform gives you a right to twist my words. Someone has to stand up to people like you. To denounce you.”

“Well, good luck with that. I do need to say, though I always seem to make the mistake that it’s blazingly obvious, that part of the whole point of this conference is identifying the underlying causes—and biological implications—of vampirism and lycanthropy. These things have a mechanism. God and Satan have nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, but they do! These aren’t diseases, they’re the marks of Lucifer. It’s the same story—science is leading you astray.”

“I’m going to ask you the same question I ask all of you who express these beliefs—if I was an embodiment