Widdershins

  So I was having a good time, the band and crowd were having a good time, and even Siobhan—relegated to the merch table where Jilly had joined her—was grinning and bobbing her head, though I knew she’d rather be up here on stage. I didn’t blame her. I love going to see a good band, just sitting back and letting the music wash over me, but there’s always a part of me that wants to be up there playing, it doesn’t matter how good the music is. When you’re a musician, you want to play.

  We had Siobhan up for a few songs in the first show—singing lead on one and harmony on the others—and again in the earlier part of the evening show. Near the end of our last set for the night, with the Corona clock over the bar reading twelve-thirty, she got up to sing “The New Doffing Mistress” with Lizzie. I stopped her before she could leave the stage at the end of the song.

  “What’s your favourite tune?” I asked.

  She gave me a puzzled look. “God, I don’t know. There are so many great ones.”

  “Sure. But if you were going to play a tune right now, what would you play?”

  “Something fun and fast,” she said, “like ‘The Mouth of the Tobique,’ or maybe ‘The Bucks of Oranmore.’ ”

  “Hold that thought,” I told her.

  I went to the back of the stage, put my fiddle in its case and got her fiddle out of hers. I gave the tuning a quick check, adjusted the E string, then brought it back to the front of the stage and handed it to her. We could have used my fiddle, but I wanted her to be as comfortable as possible. And I know, fiddles and bows all seem pretty much the same, but they’re not. Every player gets used to the minute variations and idiosyncrasies of his or her own instrument.

  “I really can’t play,” she said, “though lord knows I want to.”

  “You just have to do the fingering. I’ll do the bowing.”

  She grinned. “No way.”

  “Come on. Aren’t you game?”

  “I’m sure to mess it up, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “You won’t mess it up,” I said as she got her fiddle up under her chin.

  I got in close behind her, brought my arm around in front and stroked her fiddle’s strings a couple of times with my bow. The crowd roared with approval when they figured out what we were doing.

  “I’ll need you to count us in,” I said.

  “Andy usually does that.”

  So I turned to him.

  “We’re doing ‘The Mouth of the Tobique,’ ” I said. “Would you count us in? And don’t hold back—she wants it fast.”

  Andy shook his head, but he smiled. “This I’ve got to see. One-two-three-four!”

  And we were off.

  Except we weren’t, because Siobhan’s fingers stumbled in the first couple of bars. She turned to Andy.

  “Again!” she cried.

  This time she got it, and we really were off, blasting through ‘The Mouth of the Tobique’ at hyper-speed. Con joined us on his guitar when we got to the third part of the tune, but Lizzie and Andy waited till we’d gotten through the whole tune once on our own before they came in as well.

  I thought the roof was going to come off the place when we finished. Siobhan was beaming from ear to ear. She put her mouth near my ear, said “Thank you” over the roar of the crowd, then kissed my cheek.

  “Couldn’t let you sit out the whole night without playing a tune,” I told her.

  She handed me her fiddle and waved to the crowd as she made her way back to the merch table. I caught Jilly’s gaze and smiled at the approval I saw in it. I replaced Siobhan’s fiddle in its case, retrieved my own, and then we were off with another set of reels.

  The easy camaraderie between the four of us up here on the stage got me thinking about my conversation with Christy yesterday. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to put together a real band and do some touring. I loved the music and I didn’t really mind travelling. So I’d have to record a CD to get the gigs and have something to sell after the show. Was that really such a big deal? Everybody else did it, so why shouldn’t I? I could even put some of my own music on it. For that matter, I had enough tunes I’d written over the years that I could fill a CD with them and still have some left over.

  Con sang a song after we finished the reels, then Lizzie led us off on a truly magnificent version of “The Stray away Child.” Slow and stately, filled with heart and grace.

  I switched to harmonies in the second position when we began to repeat the tune. Lizzie looked at me and smiled, then closed her eyes again, leaning into the music. I let my gaze drift over the crowd until it was drawn to a tall figure standing by the door at the back of the room. I couldn’t really see much of him, what with the dim lighting and the cigarette smoke, but something about him grabbed my attention, and it wasn’t because he was wearing sunglasses. It took me a moment to realize what he was. The dark glasses were a typical fairy touch, considering how they can see as well in the dark as we can in the middle of the day. But fairy like to stand out, even when they’re playing at being human.

  At the end of the tune, I stepped closer to Lizzie.

  “Is that your friend Grey?” I asked. “Standing over there by the door—the tall guy with the sunglasses.”

  She looked for herself.

  “I don’t see anybody,” she said.

  She was right. The tall man was gone, though a hint of his presence remained in the room, like an afterimage in your eyes when you’re momentarily blinded by a car’s headlights.

  “What made you—” Lizzie began.

  But Andy was already counting us into our last set for the night, and there was no time to talk again until much later. We finished the set, did a couple of encores. The band signed their CDs and chatted with their fans. I started taking down the gear, putting away instruments and mikes, coiling cables. I was almost done before any of the others could join me to help finish up. Then we commandeered a couple of tables near the stage: the band, Jilly and me, Eddie, and a few hangers-on—local musicians that the band had met over the weekend.

  The others were having a rousing discussion about the merits of various single malts when Lizzie pulled a chair over to sit beside me.

  “What made you think you saw Grey earlier?” she asked, finally getting to finish the question she’d started earlier.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know it was him, exactly, just that it was somebody who walks between the worlds. I guess I assumed it was him because of the way he was watching you play—if anybody from the otherworld was going to be that interested in you, he seemed the best bet.”

  “How could you tell that’s where he was from?”

  “You learn to recognize it after awhile. They carry a shimmer—like there’s a heat mirage pushing up against the edges of where they interact with the world.”

  “Is that like an aura?”

  “I suppose, only without the colour. It’s not something that’s very obvious, unless you know to look for it.”

  “How did you learn?” she asked.

  “Nobody taught me. It’s just something I picked up. I’ve spent a lot of time in a fairy court over the past couple of years.”

  “What’s that like? God, I’m so full of questions, aren’t I? I must be driving you crazy.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “So what is it like?”

  I smiled. “The music’s better on a regular basis and people generally look different. Sometimes so different, they’re not even people.”

  “I still can’t believe all these stories my grandfather told Siobhan and me are actually true.”

  I gave her another smile. “Well, like my brother says, ‘Just because one impossible thing is true, doesn’t mean they all are.’ ”

  She gave me a slow nod. “So they all have this . . . shimmer about them?”

  “Everybody does who’s spent any amount of time in the otherworld. I’ve got it. Jilly’s got it, though she has another kind of shine, too—like her spirit’s too big for her body, so it escapes thro
ugh the pores of her skin.”

  Lizzie looked across the table to where Jilly was laughing with one of the local players. I think Con told me his name was Neil.

  “I don’t see anything,” she said.

  “Like I said, it takes time to learn how to see it. And it’s not of much use, except to tell when some fairy or one of the animal people is wandering around in human skin.”

  Her eyes got wide at that.

  “Come on,” I said. “You saw it for yourself the other night when you met that deer man.”

  “Except he had a deer head, so it was pretty obvious he wasn’t human.”

  I nodded.

  “Look,” I said. “Don’t get all caught up in trying to figure out who’s human and who’s not, or what it all means. Mostly—at least when we’re talking about the ones that interact with humans—they’re just like us. There are certainly amoral fairies out there—and I’m talking real nightmare material—but it’s not like the human race is all sunshine and light, either. Just treat whoever you meet the way you’d want them to treat you and you’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t know that I want to meet any more of them.”

  “Well, the bogans I can understand, but Grey sounds interesting and a deer man like Walker is just amazing.”

  “I know. It was totally special meeting him. But mostly, I think that kind of thing would just complicate my life way too much.”

  “I understand,” I told her. “But the trouble is, once you start interacting with the otherworld, it’s not so easy to shut it out again.”

  “That’s what Grey said. And then he told me I was going to have to choose sides.”

  “Choose sides?”

  She nodded. “He seems to think there’s trouble coming between his people and the newer fairies—I mean the ones newer to this land.”

  I thought of happy little Hazel giving the finger to some native spirits when I drove her into town the other morning, the disgust in her voice when she spoke of them. I’d never seen her like that before, but then I’d never seen her around native spirits before, either.

  But all I said was, “Oh, I doubt it’ll come to that,” except I couldn’t put any real confidence in my voice.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Jilly’s new friend Neil asked.

  “Yeah,” Andy said. “You’ve had your heads together for ages. I hope you weren’t working up a critique of our performance tonight because I totally blew my harmonies on ‘The Flowers of Red Hill.’ ”

  I smiled at them. “I was just explaining to Lizzie why I don’t care for single malts.”

  They all got shocked looks.

  “What do you drink?” Siobhan asked.

  I tapped my mostly untouched glass of Jameson’s. “Only Irish whiskey, if you please. No water. No ice.”

  “My god, man,” Andy said. “You need to be educated.”

  “Oh, please don’t let them go off again,” Jilly said.

  But it was too late. Lizzie and I smiled at each other, then I let the conversation wash over me.

  “That was really nice what you did for Siobhan,” Jilly said when we finally got back to our room. “She was so dying to play.”

  “I know. She must have thanked me a half-dozen times.”

  “It’s what I like best about you, Geordie, me lad. Your generous nature.”

  I smiled. “I think someone’s tipsy.”

  She shook her head, then frowned and put her hands on her temples.

  “No, someone’s quite drunk, thank you.”

  “Then we’ll have to get you to bed.”

  I helped her into the bathroom, waiting outside until she was done, and then walked her to her bed. She’d dropped all her clothes on the floor in front of the sink except for the T-shirt she was still wearing, but it was long enough to save her modesty. I felt sad seeing the scars on her legs because it brought everything back to mind again. How that damned hit-and-run driver had left her life in shambles. How she couldn’t paint, couldn’t dance, couldn’t be the mad, wild Jilly I’d known for more than half my life now. But you’d never hear a word of complaint from her.

  “I’m really glad you came,” I told her as I tucked her into bed.

  “Don’t you go all maudlin on me,” she said, “or I shall probably cry.”

  I leaned down and kissed her brow.

  “Goodnight, Jilly,” I said.

  When she made no reply, I looked closer and smiled. She was already asleep.

  I went into the bathroom and picked up her clothes, laying them down on her bag. Before I went to bed myself, I stood and looked out the window for a long time, wondering about Galfreya, what she was doing, if she missed me. I wasn’t sure I missed her. There was an empty feeling inside, but I thought it might be more from knowing she’d put some spell on me. Or maybe it was me missing what the two of us had never really had—missing the potential, rather than the reality.

  That made me think of what she’d told Christiana, how danger would find me if I stayed away from the court. I wondered if it had anything to do with the growing animosity between the native spirits and the fairy tribes.

  Well, there was nothing I could do about it except keep my eyes open.

  I turned from the window and my gaze fell on Jilly, peacefully asleep in her bed.

  I couldn’t believe she’d actually broken up with Daniel. With everything else that was going on—knowing what I knew about Galfreya and her enchantment to keep me going to the mall, this trouble the band was having with bogans, trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life—Jilly’s breaking up with Daniel was what I kept coming back to.

  I felt terrible for her. Then I felt terrible for Daniel because I knew what it felt like to be blindsided by the person you loved. But Jilly’d been my friend for longer than I could remember and when I thought of that, I felt bad for her all over again.

  I knew how hard it was for her to open up and let someone into her life the way she had with Daniel. And Daniel was perfect. Or that was the way it had certainly seemed, looking in from the outside. Which just went to show you that nothing was ever necessarily what it seemed.

  I went into the bathroom, washed up and brushed my teeth, then lay down in my own bed. Just as I was starting to drift off, I remembered the man I’d seen watching Lizzie while we were playing “The Stray away Child.”

  If it hadn’t been Grey, then who had it been?

  Grey

  It’s a funny thing. Sorrow and joy are both emotions, but they couldn’t be more different in how they take hold of a person. Joy’s always fleeting, while sorrow runs hard and deep when it’s got you in its grip. And if I’d ever needed confirmation, all I had to do was take a look down below to see just how hard and deep it can run.

  I’m standing in a wide stretch of the between, outside the world where my people were born, outside the spiritlands, too. Long grey shoulders of rock fall like steps from a deep pine wood to the shores of a lake so wide you can’t see its far side. Where the water meets the granite, a driftwood fire burns, bright and tall, almost smokeless. Gathered around the fire are a couple dozen cerva—male and female, some in deer form, others standing like men but with deer heads.

  There are even more standing in the shadows, out of the fire’s light. I see the taller shapes of moose spirits scattered here and there among them, their heads lifting from the crowd of deer men the way pine trees rise above the rest of the forest. Buffalo, too, broad-shouldered, their hair shaggy and dread-locked. Drums sound, creating the backdrop for voices raised in a sorrowful chant, feet and hooves stomping in a slow, shuffling dance around the fire.

  One tall figure stands motionless, back to the lake, gaze on the fire, the tines of his antlers rising high into the night air. Walker. The sadness coming off him has an almost physical presence.

  Like I said, hard and deep.

  This is a blessing ceremony for a dead cousin. The first night’s for family, the second for everyone whose life the departed h
ad touched. What I’m looking at is the second night ceremony for Walker’s daughter and, judging by the turnout, she’d been well loved.

  “There’s no body down there,” a voice says from behind me.

  I don’t bother to turn. I’d already smelled the stranger’s coyote blood, heard his approach as he came soft-stepping out from under the pines, boots almost silent on the stone. I’ll admit my shoulders went a little tighter, but I didn’t allow myself to be concerned. Who would bring a new death at the edge of a ceremony such as this?

  The stranger joins me on the outcrop and looks down on the proceedings below. I glance at him. Tall and lean, the dog-headed man is dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, buckskin jacket. His flat-brimmed black hat has a leather band that’s decorated with turquoise and silver. Two long braids frame his canine features.

  “So there won’t be any feed,” the stranger adds.

  “I know.”

  He grins. “Makes me wonder, then, what a corbae’s doing at the goodbye do for some poor dead cerva girl.”

  “Paying my respects,” I say. “Just like you. We’re not all about carrion.”

  “I’m never about carrion,” he says. “I can’t hunt for myself, I don’t eat.”

  “Whatever.”

  He takes a tobacco pouch from the pocket of his buckskin jacket and rolls a cigarette, lights it with a shiny Zippo lighter. After a couple of drags, he offers it to me.

  “I’m corbae, you’re canid,” I say, making no move to take the proffered cigarette.

  “So?”

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Not that chip on your shoulder.” He gestures with the cigarette, offering it again. “I learned a long time ago to take people as they are, one at a time, not judge them by their tribe or clan or blood. You should try it—it’s very liberating not to be tied down to how people think you’re supposed to react to every damn thing.”

  I give him a slow nod and take the cigarette, draw the smoke into my lungs.

  “My name’s Whiskey Jack,” the stranger tells me.

  “They call me Grey.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Oh, you’re that blackbird.”