The smell of malted grains and boiling wort carried along with perfumes and dusty salted flesh tones. Popular local tunes where played on a variety of stringed, wooden and metal instruments ornamented to mimic the geology and myths of this place. Horns played like the howling dogs who wander the streets of overcrowded cities. Blase Emiliani works her powerful brain and stiletto heels counting out Spring rhythms set against the plain chants of old relatives. She knows all the words.
On a makeshift platform of Genesis wood and imported purpleheart, Felicity catches the stringed light glow and spotlight glare. She begins the recitation of the Introitus in throaty overtones and drones.
Two miles down from the show, in a very small canyon cut by an ancient river, Grimbald sits with a couple pints of brown ale. He fiddles with his transistor radio while scribbling a letter to an old friend. Carmichael. Leonids streak overhead and Grimbald reminisces how funny things used to be.