Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 138

“It’s as if I can hear the soft grass rustling in the wind on the hill toward Breidablik,” he murmurs.

By the fifth song, the crowd’s dancing, body surfing, and singing along. Even though I don’t know the words, I join in, too, managing to hit one or two right. Some kid rushes the stage and dives into the crowd. Security guards scowl. And all I can think is Man, I want to do that. Yeah, why not?

“Here goes nothing,” I say, and rush the stage. I’ve got maybe four seconds tops, no time to think, only time to do. Arms out, I fall backward into the concert crowd.

“Holy shit!” I scream.

And then the most amazing thing happens. There are fingers under my body, passing me along. It’s incredible, like floating on a sea of hands. Nobody drops me. It’s absolute trust. It takes about ten minutes to work me to the back of the crowd, where I’m lowered gently to the ground.

I hug the nearest person, a patchouli-scented girl in braids, who hugs me right back. “That. Was. Awesome!” I shout.

She smiles. Her eyes are bloodshot slits. “You look like a dancing bear,” she says.

“That’s because I am a dancing bear,” I say back.

“Wow. Cool.”

A group of college kids yank me over to join their huddle. They lock arms around my shoulders, and we sway together, holding each other up and singing along.

“Because there’s so many, words for snow … so many, words for snow …”

When I look again, Dulcie’s sidled up next to me. Grinning, I throw my arms around her neck and we wobble over to a spot at the back. She leans against the weathered side of a beer shack and I lean into her.

“Hey, cowboy,” she says. “How’s the sky treating you?”

“Like I’m hauling a cargo ship full of trouble,” I answer in perfect Star Fighter response.

“Sounds like fun.”

My lips are on hers and there’s nothing but us and the music.

Dulcie and I take in the concert from our private spot in the back. But I don’t want to lose the others, so we start threading our way through the capacity crowd to the front. By the time we rejoin Gonzo, Drew, and Balder, the first set’s nearly over. My friends don’t notice Dulcie, but I’ve stopped worrying about that. I see her and she sees me, and that’s what matters.

The band finishes their song. The interpreter steps to the mike again. The band speaks. Murmur. Murmur. Murmur. Stop.

“We would like to play more for you. But first, there are sandwiches backstage. Do you know how long it’s been since we had a sandwich? We will come back in thirty minutes.”

Amid whooping and hollering and stomping, the band is ushered to the side of the stage. One of the band members turns, puts a hand up to block the glare of the lights. He sees Balder and waves. Balder waves right back.

“Dude,” Gonzo says in awe.

Balder’s expression is smug satisfaction. “I told you.”

The interpreter comes over to us. Balder says something in Norse, and he and the interpreter chitchat. At one point, they’re both chuckling. Gonzo, Drew, and I exchange glances. I look over at Dulcie, who shrugs. The next thing I know, we’re being whisked backstage to eat sandwiches with this world’s—and possibly some other world’s—favorite band.

The minute we step into the green room we’re bombarded. Reporters asking questions. Assistants offering Rad soda. Fans asking for autographs, which they clutch to their chests, then cry. The band takes it all in, answering in cryptic fashion: Yes. No. Maybe. Seals are shoplifters—you really have to watch them at parties.

Parker Day comes running up and pumps the hands of each band member. “Great to meet you. Big fan. Don’t know if you caught my special on The Backside of Music? We could totally do a follow-up.”

The band keeps walking.

“Call me!” Parker shouts after them.

Security takes us to a roped-off area. As promised, there are sandwiches and they are good. Balder makes introductions. Gonzo and Drew are so stoked they take the opportunity to sing one of the band’s songs to them at top decibel level. At one point, the Copenhagen Interpretation waves to somebody behind me, and I see it’s Dulcie. She wiggles her fingers back. To me, she shrugs. No one else even notices. And then the Copenhagen Interpretation tells us what they know about the night they disappeared.

“It was the Big Concert for Peace and Against Non-Peace,” the interpreter relays. “It had been a good show. Very good. Dinlitla’s guitar work was exemplary.”

He looks over at his bandmate, who smiles and goes back to her sandwich.