Luna Basswood's Arc

Chapter 2 of 14

Luna stayed in the practice loft after the blonde bass player left. The room smelled like solder and old carpet. Her fish-shaped bass hung against her belly, in tune, quiet. Outside, the field kept humming. In here, nothing moved. That was the problem. She needed the ground to shake, and she needed to hold the E while it did. She unplugged and stepped back into the field. The dozen bass players had grown to twenty. The low chord rolled up through her boots. Her fish shivered. The E slid flat before she'd even set her fingers. She twisted the peg. Flat again. She twisted harder. The peg spun loose in her hand. A girl with black hair and drumsticks stopped beside her. Chains hung from her belt. She watched Luna wrestle the peg for two seconds, then spoke around a grin. "You're fighting the wrong thing. Peg's fine. It's the body." She tapped the painted scales with a stick. "Hollow fish. Whole thing's a drum. Every hum in the field lives inside it." Luna's ears flattened. "So what do I do." "Kill the resonance." The drummer shrugged. "Stuff it. Rag, foam, anything. Deaden the belly, the strings stop dancing." She walked off before Luna could answer. Luna stared at the fish. She'd never opened it. She wasn't sure it opened. She found a service panel behind the tail fin, held by two screws. She pried them out with a coin. Inside, the body was empty except for wiring and dust. She pulled off her flannel, balled it up, and packed it against the back wall of the fish. She screwed the panel shut. The chord rolled again. Her fish sat still against her belly. She plucked the E. It held. She waited for the next wave. The ground shoved up through her boots. The E held. Her tail lifted off her jeans. She grinned and struck a full line, walking notes under the field's chord. The bass locked in. For the first time in three summers, the fish did not fight her. A red-haired singer with a guitar slung on her back drifted past, listened for a bar, and nodded. "That's the sound. Save it for tomorrow." Luna nodded back. Then her thumb caught a rough edge under the E string. She looked down. A hairline crack ran along the seam where the panel met the body. The flannel had killed the hum, but the fish was old, glued, and now unscrewed. Every note she'd just played had pulled the seam wider. She pressed the crack with her thumb. It gave a little. The bass was in tune. The bass was breaking. Auditions were in the morning. She had one instrument, one slot to chase, and a fish that would split the first time she leaned into a chorus.