As conveyed by a care-worn woman of indeterminate age in a simple flower print dress stained brown with dust

I’m a Homesteader. That’s who I am.

You want to know why I don’t want to leave? Why I fight tooth and nail for my land, even as it blows away? Why I stay when my friends and my neighbors and even my children have left to find better chances in California or wherever? It is because this is my home. This is my identity. I have struggled through death and drought before. I have had pieces of paper claiming to remove me from my land before, and I am still here. I will fight the banks, the lack of rain, even the Earth itself if I have to, because this is who I am. If I were to give up and leave, what would that make me? Another Okie. Another poor soul making the long drive out of the dust. Someone else.

I’m not a Dreamer. I’m not a Traveler, or even just a Farmer.
I am a Homesteader, and this is my home.

How could I Sing away from it?

Overheard as a visibly-intoxicated man with over-long fingers lectures a cat with faintly glowing yellow eyes

Oh, go shove it. Most of the local folks don’t care much about what happens between upstairs and downstairs.

…Okay, that’s a lie.

We care plenty, we just…ignore it. Eh. That’s not quite right either. Look, the big dust up between the Divine and Infernal is all well and good, but it isn’t like it is anything new. They’ve been fighting for so long it just sort of drifts into the background. Sure, sometimes one of the local players gets recruited to one side or the other, but less and less these days. And both sides have avoided the sort of knock down drag out fight that got all the splashy press early on for years. So if the neighbors want to engage in a quiet war that mostly ignores us, we’re fine with mostly ignoring them. It’s not like we don’t have our own problems.

Things are changing, and far too quick for most of our liking. Humans are multiplying and spreading so fast these days. It is hard to find a place to call your own. Harder still to keep it. And it isn’t just competition among ourselves we need to worry about. More and more mortals have learned the Music over the generations. Sure, they may not be operating on the same level as we are, but they can also walk down the street without a second glance, and there are a lot more streets than there used to be.

So no, I don’t particularly care which angel beat up which devil this week. I’m too busy trying to hold on to my livelihood while everything falls apart around me. Or changes faster than I can keep up with. Which might as well be the same thing…

Relayed over drinks by a woman with too-blue eyes and boots that never sound quite right on wooden floors.

There are a lot of rumors and half-truths about the crossroads markets, but little that can be said with certainty.  We do know the markets have been around since…forever. Even the old timers talk about it in permanent style, and some of them are still coming to terms with railroads and gunpowder. Go back as far as you can and you’ll find evidence of them wherever two or more factions meet on a regular basis. Sea and shore. River and road. Farm and city. Human and, well…not. Some of them are trade hubs built to last, roots put down for long term relations. Others are a bit more fluid, carrying commerce on their back or in their pockets.

They have a sort of freedom lacking in the rest of the world. Better individuals than I have argued about whether it is because the Music is stronger or weaker there, but the fact of the matter is that things are possible at a market that just flat out aren’t elsewhere. Trading fates and selling ephemerals, for example, though I don’t need to tell you that both come with problems of their own. And swapping Songs, naturally. The bread and butter of the market. Of course, every transaction has a price, and ignorance of consequences isn’t the same thing as insulation from them. Make sure you know what you’re getting into before you shake.

All crossroads markets have the same rules, and they are pretty simple: all that can find their way here are welcome, no going back on a deal you shook on, no fighting, and the market stays independent. It doesn’t matter who you are or how you get yourself to the market, once you’re in you’re there. As long as you leave your fight at the door you’re welcome to drink, argue, buy, or sell to your heart’s content. Or whatever you might have instead of a heart…

Maybe they had to struggle to enforce those rules once upon a time. Maybe they had some sort of crew to keep things running smoothly. These days, the markets are so vital to our economy that other patrons usually take care of policing their own. Nobody wants to try to go it entirely alone, regardless of what their rhetoric might be. There are some things you just can’t manage on your own, some Songs too alien to play. We’re all in this together, after all.

Bah, but I’m drifting into politics, and that’s against my policy.

The state of the universe, as described by Emmanuel Hawthorne, an avowed white shirt

Maybe the universe was stable once. Maybe it could continue without help. A watch that could wind itself or a stream that flowed from the source without interruption.

But that was before. Before the Divine war. Before God’s mind was divided. Angels, the big ones, I mean, are more than just enforcers, administrators, or functionaries. Each one represents a concept of God; a portion, a self-contained thought or intention given personality, will, and drive. So yeah, maybe the universe worked the way that it was supposed to before the split. I dunno. I wasn’t around then.

What I do know is that now days, we need to help things out. Nudge things along, so to speak. Keep the spring wound. To do so, we sing. Sure, it might sound frivolous at first, but like the good book says “be filled with the Spirit; Speaking to yourself in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” We sing, play, give thanks, and raise our voice to the Lord. We know him, and in doing so, he knows us. We lend our small strength to him, filling in some of the gap left behind by the absence of those rebellious Archangels. Now I’m not saying that we are in any way equal to the personification of Divine will, but even a drop of water can cut through the hardest rock eventually. The more that hear, the more that know, and well that sort of…reinforces things. Keeps the water flowing, so to speak. Keeps everyone on the same page in terms of what is real and what isn’t. Or rather, what shouldn’t be real.

Spoken by the dark-eyed stranger you didn’t notice slumped across the piano until you you wander over to take a closer look at the worn keys and battered wood that seems to hum softly when you’re not looking straight at it.

I see ye’re clever enough ta poke around some. Not take anything fer granted.
That’s good. Might serve ye well. Might even keep ye alive, if yer lucky and not too rash.

Now I don’t know how well ye know the song. Heck, I don’t rightly know if ye’re a warbler or not. But ‘less you got yer head buried deep under somma that dirt been droppin’ outta the sky all regular-like, ye probably know somethin’ ain’t right round here. Maybe ya noticed that people and places ain’t where ye left em. Or that things don’t always keep fallin’ when ye knock em off the table. Sometimes ye can’t tell if yer awake or sleep fer days on end. Or maybe ye just have trouble carryin’ a tune these days.

Now I know what the holy-holies say, ’bout it bein’ the Devil cuttin’ the legs outta the good Lord’s plan, but I ain’t so sure about that. I’ve got a touch of the song myself, ye see. Not so much as to be all impressive-like or nothin’. ‘Xact opposite, fact. When things get hoppin’ I can get all low and quiet-like, and singers just sorta, well…gloss over me. Real useful.

So anyway, I’m walkin’ down the track the other night, and things start to go all red and brimstone-y. I maybe ain’t the wisest a’folk, but I know how ta watch my hide, so I starts hummin’. Just in time, too, cause this smilin’ bastard comes saunterin’ round the corner aheada me. It is just as happy as can be, laughin’ to itself and pattin’ its briefcase. Musta been a real raw sucker it got hold of at the crossroads, cause it was chucklin’ somethin’ good. And I’m just standin’ there hummin’ under my breath and hopin’ that the devil’s distracted enough by the payday that it don’t notice the twist in the song or the fact that my knees are knockin’ together loud enough ta keep time. Course I got no luck to speak of, so that don’t happen. It gets close enough to smell me and it just knows somethin’ ain’t right. They don’t rightly enjoy bein’ spied on, so I’m about to piss myself as it opens its maw to start singin’.

And that’s when things get weird. ‘Steada some song comin’ out, or that faint ache behind the ears ye get when ye hear somethin’ you can’t actually hear, there’s just this bursta noise. Like when yer changin’ the radio, ye know? Between the stations. Weird as hell ta hear. And then my song gets caught in my throat and I pop outta hidin’ thinkin’ I’m done for, but the devil goes flyin’ backwards like someone hit it in the chest with a sledgehammer. Then it gets up and just starts runnin’ off. Little furry legs goin’ like nobody’s business. Darnedest thing I ever saw. Funny lookin’, too.

Might evena laughed at my good fortune, if I hadn’ta seen its face.

Damned thing was scared.

What kinda thing can scare a devil?