Free Revenant Rising by M. M. Mayle

later, he’s thoroughly unprepared for what they’ve done to his song. He expected the bogus rendition to be weak—that was a given—but he did not anticipate that the production number would resemble an outtake from a horror movie with ghoulish figures wafting about as a female song stylist—she can’t be called a singer—executes a series of strenuous moves—calisthenics, they are—dressed in nothing but cobwebs apparently held together by bat spit.
    If Nate was aware of this and let it proceed without protest, Colin vows to have him killed. Although the song was inserted into the soundtrack of a film even the director agreed had its dark and eerie moments, the song itself was not associated with those moments. Played back as performed by the composer, it’s nothing if not positive and redemptive. So what he sees going on in front of him has to be the work of yet another director; one who—as someone long ago predicted might happen—has only one definition for the term “revenant” in his lexicon.
    “Shit!” Colin says loud enough that he’s overheard. Straightaway he feels a couple of pats on his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, sees some sympathetic grimacing going on. It’s doubtful they’ll point a television camera into the audience whilst this desecration is still in progress, but he nevertheless limits himself to the one outburst.
    The ghostly contortionist and the undead choir eventually finish and the monitors display a commercial break during the striking of the set.
    The introduction of former winners as presenters of the award for best new song from a motion picture produces an audience buzz. Colin remains dead still while subjected to reprises of the other four songs and winces only slightly during the repeat of a few bars of his own entry.
    Never for a minute has he considered that he might not win. His confidence is unflagging as the cameras omit him from the split screen spotlighting the other nominees, and the female presenter makes a major production of opening the envelope, then drags it out a bit more by cuddling with the co-presenter.
    “And . . . the . . . Icon winner . . . is,” she finally says.
    “Revenant!” the male presenter announces after another long theatrical pause. To his credit, he does not pronounce it “reverent” or “remnant,” but the orchestra gets no credit when they reprise the winning song with inappropriate undertones of mystery and malevolence.
    “Accepting for Colin Elliott . . . is . . . is . . . Colin Elliot!” The momentarily befuddled presenter gets the message from an off-camera stage manager making frantic hand signals and pointing at the audience. The audience reads the signaling as well and is fully ignited once the cameras focus on the winner.
    Colin is deliberate about getting to his feet—and not just because they hurt. He cautiously steps into the aisle and makes sure the cameras are still with him when he starts for the stage. Huggers and back-clappers stop him several times; some are a bit teary-eyed, as he could readily become. He ascends to the stage with sure, confident steps, pausing at the podium just long enough to snatch a hand mike from one of the presenters. From there he proceeds to the lip of the orchestra pit and cues the startled music director, whom he knows well.
    “Hey, Julius, let’s show ‘em how it’s really supposed to go—key of B-flat—on three.” He stamps out the count, the maestro’s keyboard quickly joins in with the orchestra in full agreement as Colin takes center stage to perform a chorus of “Revenant” the way it was meant to be—as a hymn to hope instead of a dirge for the dark side. He knows to the tenth of a second how long the chorus takes—about the same length of time an over-garrulous Icon winner spends thanking everyone but his or her pet goat.
    At the end of the musical interlude he’s approaching the red zone, so he can’t wait for pin-drop silence from the now wildly