Day Divides the Night (RPF)
Written in, I think, 1997, at the behest of the very same Kvetina mentioned. This story names, but does not slander I hope, the great Prince of Rock and Roll, Jim Morrison.
Jim stared down at the pad of paper on his leather-clad knee. The show had been fantastic, the fans poured energy into him. The sweet gift of fame. He had heard poetry coming out of his mouth that he’d swear came from outside of himself. Riding in the limo, he scribbled down as much of it as he could remember.
As the band became more and more famous, though, the backstage security got tougher, and this time it had gone too far. The band had been so isolated — where were the girls? The only women who had made it into the holy sanctum were the wives of local radio personalities, and the secretary of a record mogul. Jim felt heavy in his body, pulled down with need and unfulfilled lust. Not only his own — It felt as if Rock And Roll itself were crying for release.
“Hey, check it out,” someone said. Jim looked up. They were passing a park — and here were the women. In the sundappled green, a celebration of life, an easing of the heart. The driver slowed, unbidden, the better to enjoy the parade of joy outside the big white car. Nearby, two girls were playing. One, a petite blond, was walking along the back of a park bench, as best she could. Her girlfriend, a brunette, was attempting to steady her — but the giggles overtook them both, and the blond leapt into the air, twisting in a vain attempt to land on her feet. Jim exhaled — he’d unknowingly held his breath in sympathetic communion with the little acrobat. And in the grace of her flight, he realised, her age had been revealed. The girlchild was older than he’d thought.
“Stop here,” he ordered the driver. There was a ribald chorus from his bandmates. “No, look,” he overrode them; “These girls are special somehow. Dig?”
“But there’s only the two of them, man,” moaned the keyboardist. Jim swung around.
“Ray, if you take that black haired girl, you’d better treat her like a goddess, man.” He spoke as if he were repeating orders from somewhere else. His drug-sodden, music-weary bandmates fell silent, looking at him in a familiar mixture of awe and exasperation. But when Jim spoke like that, to disagree was dangerous. Jim rubbed his hand along his black leather thigh, and swung himself out of the limo. The girls, picking themselves up from the grass didn’t see him at first. The brunette was first to see the tall, dark man striding towards them. She looked astounded, and her blond friend turned to see. Oddly, she looked as if, somehow, she had expected him. Her greyish eyes were serious in their gaze, the blond hair was nearly strawberry, and her skin was so pale.
“Princesses,” Jim said. “will you ride with us?”
“It’s Jim Morrison!” the brunette whispered to her friend. “Kvetya, it’s really him!”
“Yes, Rose, I see.” The blond returned. Her voice had a lilt to it, an accent that carried the smoke of gypsy campfires. “I don’t think we should,” she said to him, her eyes steadily upon his. “There are bad stories.”
“Yeah, there are,” he agreed unhappily. “But I swear, I would never ever hurt you, Kvetya.”
“My name is Kvetina,” she corrected him. “Can’t you stay here? This park is wonderful, there are many secret places. There are places that no one knows.”
His gaze wandered to the other girl, called Rose. She was looking right past him — the band was spilling out of the white vehicle, and as he’d already forseen, Ray Manzerak was commanding all her attention. His men were standing, the warmth of a California summer day around them, looking as if they had landed on a new world. The driver, too was opening his door. The joyful women of the park awaited them. Jim looked down at Kvetina. Her shaggy head reached his breastbone — barely. How could she contain the power that was waiting to unleash itself from him?
“Listen, baby,” he said unwillingly. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“And why no?”
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you — I don’t know…”
Kvetina shrugged. “Ah, that,” she said calmly. “That is only love. There is no hurt there. Come, you must carry me,or the secret place I have won’t show itself to us.”
She reached up her mouth to him. Jim bent to kiss her, gathered her into his arms. At the touch of their lips, a great gasp tore through him — echoed in her voice. Kvetina wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs frankly around his waist. Her wieght was barely noticeable.
“Walk down the hill,” she directed. “You will see two Rowan trees, and a Thorn, go between them.” She lay her head on his shoulder. Her fly-away hair filmed his vision momentarily. Grinning to himself — How was he to know which trees were what? — the Dark Prince carried his girl into the sunlit woods.
