[I'm not in control of my Muse. My muse does all the work – Ray Bradbury.]
Bright sunlight, high noon in the Waking World. The Vietnamese coastline was littered with miniature islands, coves and hidden beaches – Ha Long Bay was a poet's paradise. Crystal-green waters gently lapping at a million small locations, each only accessible by the locals but each one a hidden treasure. Step, rounded, mountainous figures looming up over the most beautiful of oceans as far as the eye could see. On days like this, when the sky was clear and the wind non-existent, it had a wonderful tropical pulse. Birds danced overhead, waiting for the fishermen to pull their wares to the surface, diving down at incredible speeds to steal morsels away.
Cristie Atkinson mixed oils on a canvas, leaning down across the bow of their rented boat as she tried to capture the scene before her. She was annoyed at the colouring and try as she might the feel of the ocean just wasn't translating into the painting the way she wanted. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and finally sat down near the helm, feeling very low. It just wasn't coming together at all for her today.
But she had a strange feeling – like the beginning of something, an electricity of the mind. She'd woken up humming a song that wasn't necessarily something she could recognise but it sounded so familiar. Cristie decided to just try and paint the emotion she was having instead of staring into the beauty of the Bay – something less intimidating and less lifelike might get the creative spark going again. At the end of her patience, she shrugged and picked up the brush again, this time just trying to find the colours she was feeling inside. Instead of the green of the tropical islands, the palest shade of mint crossed her canvas in huge, floating waves. There wasn't a set object in the painting, but something started to emerge, in soft hues of lavender and gold.
"Cristie?"
She blinked and looked at her phone. Almost two hours had passed since she'd given up on the landscape painting. She stopped and took stock, aware of her dry throat and sore arms. There were flecks of paint everywhere.
Her mother Amelia emerged from the cabin to find her daughter staring blankly at a beautiful abstract painting she'd made, wild with pastel colours and strong shimmering lines.
"That's lovely," Amelia commented, with so much surprise in her voice that on any other day Cristie would have been insulted. But she just marvelled at the warm feeling of pride building back up, the hope that she could actually do art and not just for fun, as a profession.
On the island they had docked to, very close to the edge of the water but obscured from Cristie's line of vision, Melete drew a startled breath, watching closely. As Amelia gave her daughter a one-armed hug and marvelled over her artwork, the Muse drew back slowly. Close behind her, coasting in the air, Matthew landed not far from the sandy path.
Melete called out his name and Matthew hopped after her.
"Sorry to barge in on you like this…" he began but he stopped at the white-faced, horrified expression Muse had.
"I'm not supposed to be able to…" she was whispering to herself rapidly, so soft that Matthew had to walk all the way up to her feet to hear even a bit of it.
"Slow down," Matthew remarked, ruffling his feathers. "You're okay."
"Matthew…" She drew a shaky breath. "I'm fine but… Somehow… I don't know how… I've inspired a visual art." She shook her head, pacing in the undergrowth. "That was never me. All artists that use the visual medium, they were always inspired by Mneme and… If she's dead… And I can still do that then…" Melete wrung her hands. "I don't know how my power works anymore."
Matthew cocked his head to the side. "I remember something about the muses but I don't recall what you all did as such…"
Melete, the last Muse, crossed her legs and sat in the sand. Matthew perched nearby to glance over her shoulder.
"We each had different strengths," she murmured, drawing the symbol of a stringed instrument and a book. "Mneme who holds history, inspires heroic acts and lessons learnt from time." Melete turned to the side and drew another symbol, this time of a flute. "She brought about the whole renaissance, she made sure that things brought to life were never lost, she recreated skills across mediums." Next came a matching picture of a theatrically upset mask. "Aoide, muse of the tragedy, the inspiration behind great orators throughout the world, mistress of the spoken word and song without voice." A maypole, covered in flowers. "Mistress of the dance, muse of joy and expression in movement. She was incredibly beautiful too." Then came a crude depiction of pencils in a jar. "Protector of the divine art or the visual arts. Muse of the visual mediums, what we can see and feel." She stopped drawing, one finger still deep in the sands.
"And you?" prompted Matthew. "What do you do?"
She sat back, staring at the images, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I was just poetry and vocal expression – the mortal voice lifted in song, the one who learns about the world through practice. Sometimes I could inspire storytelling – you know, anything coming from a person's inner voice – but that was my limit."
The little raven cocked his head. "You inspired the woman on the boat to paint."
Melete nodded.
"Huh," was Matthew's only insight. "You've never done that before?"
"Never." Melete's voice was small. "We used to make a game out of it, testing how far we could encroach on each other's talents but although there was a lot of crossover, I could never have done something so vastly different from what I was good at…" The Muse gave a deep, musical sigh. "We complemented each other. That was always the way of things."
She stared up into the sky overhead, watching the birds circle and call out to one another. "It's just frustrating, Matthew. I don't know what I am anymore. I don't know where to be."
"Neither did I, at first. How did you know at the beginning?" Matthew asked frankly.
"You didn't?" Melete asked, her expression stricken. Matthew retold his anecdote of dying in his sleep only to be reborn into this body without thumbs, the way Morpheus had cleverly turned his utter confusion into an argument for the bird to leave his side. That got some of Melete's gloom away and Matthew repeated his question about the muses at the very beginning.
Melete gave a shrug. "We met Destruction. He was very articulate about us as the opposites to him and his influence in the worlds." She gave a shy little grin which didn't quite meet her eyes but made Matthew feel a whole lot better. "He would challenge us to do more, to teach him how to create art even though it runs so counter to what he does. He was a lovely person. Do you know where he is?"
Matthew shuffled along the ground. "No one does. All we know is that he's still missing."
"He abdicated. I remember now." Melete dragged herself out of the undergrowth and leant on a tree. "Speaking of, I guess you're here to get me back over to the Dreaming."
But the raven cawed. "Not exactly. I was just sent to keep an eye on you."
The Muse gave him a broad smile and tossed her long hair out of her face. "Follow me, then."
They left the sun-kissed beaches and travelled faster than thought over land and sea until the sky grew grey with cold and the shapes in the ocean weren't islands, but vast plateaus of ice. Snowflakes twirled through the air instead of birds, for there seemed to be little life anywhere. On the tundra was a manmade cavern – an impressive feat of weather-resistant metals, tarps and electricity. Melete took Matthew onto one arm and walked along the icy tundra, looking for the opening to the research tents. Voices emerged from within the closest structure, and she leaned in closer to observe.
"It's my birthday Friday," a woman with long, fair hair said, her eyes wide with glee. "You did promise me a gift."
"I did," her male companion, heavily attired in warm clothing, replied.
"Well?"
"You cannot rush genius," the man returned, laughing at her. He pointed at the opening to the structure. "And it needs privacy."
With a long, playful sigh of fake frustration, the woman donned herself in more layers of insulated clothing and waved her friend goodbye before trudging out into the icy wilderness, making for another one of the sophisticated huts nearby. Melete took that moment to sneak inside, letting Matthew hop to the floor to conceal himself amongst the equipment that lay within.
The man hummed something, quick and light under his breath. He took a moment to power down the computer he had been working on then, ignoring Melete as though he didn't see her at all, he started hunting around for his guitar. Jean-Marc tuned the guitar with the help of an application on his phone, and stared out into the night, unfeeling of the cold, unknowing of the being standing so close to him, willing that she held the right inspiration for him. Matthew watched as the Muse offered a trinket to Jean-Marc and, as though sleepwalking, he took it from her before plucking the strings.
It lit some sort of spark in Jean-Marc. Like he was possessed, he bent down and played the string on the guitar. Notes rose and fell in rapid succession and his voice joined in, with lyrics he plucked from the air. After one playthrough, he raced for his IPad, desperate to get it all down before he forgot all of it. He had that look in his eye, one of raw discovery and the amazement that something from nowhere with little effort was of high quality. His smile was of wonder and delight. Jean-Marc played it again, grinning like a fool the entire time. There was a relief in his body now, as though something he'd been holding onto forever had finally fallen into place. He stopped only to tie his long hair back and to check that he'd recorded everything correctly on his device.
Melete backed away silently, picking Matthew from the floor as she went. She whispered into the bird's ear that if he was touching her, he would be invisible to the human eye, as they were so engrossed in the inspiration whenever they were close to her.
"So a mortal has never seen you before? As you are, I mean?" Matthew queried.
As the Muse judged their next direction, she shrugged a little. "Only if I've been visiting a lot and even then, it's hard to say. They try to talk to me sometimes." She paused. "Can they see Dream?"
"As he wants them to," Matthew answered after some thought.
They left the frozen wastelands behind them and this time the scenery was full of billboards and bright neon signs, scrolling screens on enormous skyscrapers.
"Times Square!" Matthew marvelled as thousands of people walked down crowded streets, pushing past the rows of traffic leading out from where they stood. It was summertime, so the heat and the noise were incredible as packs of tourists yelled at each other through the throngs of city-natives. Smoke billowed into the sky, sending a foul stench from the top of a food van.
Melete didn't hesitate but darted into the crowds. Some people brushed past her, stopping in their tracks, their eyes glazed and turned inwards at something they had only just felt or thought. Others who touched her shook their heads as though dispelling water, hurrying on by. But her destination was inside a little theatre just a few streets away. Matthew followed overhead, having to avoid other birds in his passage. Melete flicked a door open and held it, watching Matthew dive through before closing it gently behind him.
When the iconic Times Square Theatre had been converted into more shops and businesses, Paul Walker had set up a local arts centre just out of the way with some money left by his departed parents. It was a small, intimate place – hardly known and certainly not on many tour guides seeing as there were more productive and expensive options on offer close by. Paul let agents host auditions or smaller productions borrow the space to rehearse, and on that day, he lent it out to a singing group to try and practice for their upcoming album. Jessica, Nicholas, Carter and Taylor didn't think that their band 'Imperator' was incredible, but they were just confident to try releasing their first album. Carter was the best songwriter of the lot, but on this afternoon the Muse decided to visit Taylor and bestow a little token that had them lost in thought for a good long moment.
"Tay?" Jessica twisted the neck of the microphone stand, worried it was too loose. "Ready?"
"Just a second," Taylor called back, scribbling madly on the back of a magazine page they had found crammed in the back of their kit bag. Nicholas, curious and in no rush to begin a proper rehearsal, wandered over with his hands in his pockets.
"Whatcha' got there Tay?" came Nicholas's drawl. There was the harsh screech of feedback for only a moment but the screaming of the machine broke Taylor out of their concentration and they offered their bandmate a grin.
"Something. Maybe." Taylor raised their voice. "Oi, Jess? Can I try something with you?"
Taylor hurried to Jessica's side and quickly outlined what the scribblings meant. Jessica, dubious but willing, slung her guitar over her shoulder and started to play. Seated at the piano, Carter watched on, his glasses sliding down his nose as he frowned in concentration.
Taylor picked up the bass guitar. Nicholas retreated to behind the drum kit, gum in his mouth. But whatever Taylor had managed to scrawl down in a few moments hit something inside the band. They started to nod at each other as the rhythm kicked in, and Carter was also touched by Melete's gentle hand. Lyrics started to form. Carter leant into the microphone and Jessica laughed, improvising her own lines along with his. The tired, reluctant energy was dispelled and in their place were whoops, cheers and cries of joy as the band seamlessly came together as one to create something wonderful, something entirely new. The synergy of sound and form and improvisation took incredible turns and featured each of their skills as though the world had just been waiting for the right moment to bring the song to life. When the last note rang out there was a celebration – Nicholas slapped Taylor a high-five – and vibrancy to their rehearsal from that moment onwards.
Back out on the crowded street, Matthew whistled.
"That's some gift you got there," he said. "No wonder people want you around."
The music began again from inside the theatre hall, but it was entirely drowned out by the noises of the street.
"Are all good songs... you?" Matthew asked her, perched on her shoulder. Melete laughed.
"Goodness, no! Plenty of great art comes from hard work, skill and persistence…" She touched his feathered wing with one finger. "I'm a spark that alights the mind."
Touched by her power, Matthew could only nod. His brain flooded with sounds, echoing from somewhere deep within that he had no ability to manifest but felt on a primal level. It had dropped like a diamond into his consciousness, but he would never hear it through any one of his other senses.
"It's… genius," gasped the bird, wishing he was human and alive again, to bring this gift forth from himself.
"But there has to be something within the person to hold it and make it real," Melete told him, walking across the pavement in pace with the other city-goers. "That's the problem with dreams in sleep… They fade so fast. It doesn't always take."
Although she was hesitant, Matthew rode along on her shoulder as she crossed into a diner and walked up to an older gentleman, gently snoozing against the windowpane. Melete didn't bring out any trinkets from the pockets of her dress or go anywhere near the sleeper, but instead bowed her head. Matthew felt rather than saw her vanish into the Dreaming, as though she was diving into deep waters, and took to his own method of returning to his master's realm through the skies.
By the time Matthew returned, there was a light in Muse's cottage. He circled enough to see her shadow cast on the window before taking flight to the palace. He had a report to keep, first to Lucienne and then, if she thought it pertinent, to Dream himself. But the raven was haunted by what he had glimpsed of the Muse's power, and it was a distracted and worrying report of what he had witnessed that he gave to Lucienne.
"This is unlike you," the librarian remarked. "Even with all the vortex business, I have not seen you this unnerved, Matthew."
"Well, you weren't there in Hell," quipped the raven. "Lucifer was plenty scary."
"Still." Lucienne snapped a book shut and came to seat herself at the table, opposite a tall perch Matthew often took. She fixed him with her customary dark stare, somehow both curious and discerning. "Do you think she is a risk?"
"I don't think so." Matthew thought about it a moment. "She's confused. She's doing things she said she couldn't do when her sisters were alive."
The librarian nodded. "I'm aware. But you are worried about this?"
Matthew struggled for a moment before settling on, "well, she is."
Lucienne gave a short sigh and all but rolled her eyes. "Just… keep an eye on her. I am certain Lord Morpheus has other, more pressing things to occupy his time."