Luna Basswood's Arc

Chapter 11 of 14

The rain hit hard now. Luna stood on the dry deck under Susie's seal, but the wind cut sideways under the truss. At the next stage over, a cymbal stand went down. She heard it crash through the drum of rain. Then a guitar amp tipped. Crew ran to catch it. Her mic stand rocked. Just a small lean, but she saw it. The base was taped, not weighted. One good gust and it would go. If it fell mid-set, her vocals were done. No second mic. No time to reset. She couldn't leave the bass. The seal held because the fish-shaped bass sat at the deck's center, tail toward the crowd. Susie had been clear. Move it and the rain came through. Susie stood at the stage edge, hood up, watching the ridge. Luna called to her. "The mic stand. Wind's going to take it." Susie looked at the stand, then at the seal. "I can't split the anchor. One object, one spell." "Then I need weight. Something heavy at the base. Now." Susie scanned the field. "Sandbags are with the tarps." Luna looked past her. At the foot of the stairs, Riley Thorne stood with her black bass slung low, watching the storm like she was reading it. Thorne had lost the headliner slot to Luna two days ago. She had no reason to help. "Thorne," Luna called down. "Your bass. I need the weight." Thorne didn't move. "On your stand." "Hooked over the base. Twenty pounds of body. It'll hold." "That's my bass." "I know." Thorne looked at the mic stand. She looked at the fish-shaped bass pinned under the seal. She climbed the stairs. "Set ends, I take it back. Untouched." "Yes." Thorne unslung the strap and hooked it over the mic stand's tripod base. The black bass hung down, dead weight against the metal legs. The stand stopped rocking. Thorne stepped back off the deck without a word. The wind pushed again. The stand held. Luna checked the clock on the sound board. Six minutes to her call. The red-haired singer climbed up beside her, baritone already plugged in. Susie waited stage left with her sheet folded in her jacket. The rain slid off the seal in a curtain around them. Luna set her hands on the fish-shaped bass where it lay. She couldn't lift it. She couldn't pace. She could play. The mic wouldn't fall. The stage was dry. She had traded another piece of her set to keep the sound alive, and Thorne now had a claim on her closing bow. A crew hand waved from the pit. One minute. Luna bent to the strings and struck the first sustained note. It caught the field hum and held.