Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  “You’re very quiet,” said Maura.

  “Oh, sorry. Mind gone wandering.”

  We’d just crested a ridge and I looked at the vista in front of me. The light was beginning to fade, but in the approach to summer and the solstice, the day ended late. The streaks of sunset stretched out across the landscape, casting the rolling hills in an almost peach light. In the distance I could see a small lake shimmering. It was so settling, so peaceful. Except to the right, towards the west, where I could see wind turbines, dotted across the landscape, rising like triffids, still and threatening.

  “Jesus, aren’t they just awful?” I said before I could think. “Those turbines look like an army invading.”

  Maura gave me a quick glance, frowning. “They do, all right.”

  “Is it a big thing around here, then?”

  “Wind turbines?”

  “Yes. They just look so awful, feckin’ up the landscape like that.” I sighed. “I suppose I sound like a typical Dublin visitor— ‘don’t mess up my view’ while I suck up all the power they provide.”

  Maura laughed. “Ah, no, you’re grand. It’s a not a pretty sight, I grant you. And many would echo the sentiment. It’s supposed to be environmental and all that craic, but, I don’t know. I’ve heard that they use more energy to produce those huge things, pouring the concrete, creating the roads to them, then they’ll ever generate.”

  “Just more fat businessmen getting fatter,” I muttered. “Subsidised by the government.”

  “And a few farmers getting fat, too. Well, maybe not as much as the businessmen. And many around here have struggled terribly in the past. They feel it’s their time, I suppose.”

  “It’s so feckin’ frustrating,” I said. “I mean I support renewable energy and all that…”

  I let my sentence trickle off in the midst of traversing a very bumpy stretch of road that stole my words.

  “Sorry, this back road is used by log lorries and they just tear it up.”

  The road, which was barely wide enough for one car, was twisting and turning. On either side was bog land with a few sheep grazing the sparse grass. It was definitely a time out of time place, with no house or dwelling of any kind in sight.

  “Is this road used much at all?” I asked after we drove over a load of sheep droppings.

  “Not much,” she said. “But it’s the quickest way to the village. Cuts the journey by half. Besides, at this time of evening we won’t see many, if any, cars.”

  I shuddered to think what would happen if we did right now. We’d have to reverse at least a 100 metres, if not more. But there was nothing ahead, as far as I could see, I suddenly found the whole situation funny. Maura was already proving to be the key to adventure.

  We hit a straight patch of road and then dropped down a bit. I looked over to the right and a short distance away, at small copse of sparse trees, I saw a group of men standing around. I stared and looked closely. It was the men. The Twa’ Corbies. Standing there, in their dark clothes, talking to someone. A man, tall, gesturing firmly. I tried to make out the man who held their attention. One of the corbies handed him a small bag and the imposing man took it, tucking it into his jacket. He turned and began walking to the road. It was then I noticed a motorbike parked at the edge of the copse in a little gravel clearing. The figure took the helmet that rested there and put it on his dark head. But it didn’t matter now. I’d recognised him as soon as he’d turned from the men. I’d know him anywhere. It was Smithy.

  The pub, when we entered, was noisy and busy. There was no music yet, but I could see a few musicians gathering in the corner near the front. Behind the bar there was an older woman with curly fair hair caught back by a tie at her neck. She looked up when we entered and her mouth tightened, then forced itself into a pleasant smile.

  Maura grinned and nodded at her. We went over to the corner and put our instruments down by a padded bench that leaned against the wall. I looked dubiously at the bodhran Maura had brought and hoped that she had some notion how to play it. The three musicians greeted Maura.

  “How are you, lads?” she said.

  “Grand, so,” said a young red faced fair lad. He was fiddling with the concertina on his lap, unfastening the straps that held it closed.

  “Who’s your friend there, Maura?” asked a large older woman with brilliant purple hair that hung thick and straight to her shoulders. She wore a flannel shirt, jeans and lace up boots. She was tuning a fiddle.

  Maura nudged me. “Ah, this is Saoirse. She’s staying up the road to me, so be kind to her.” She turned to me. “Saoirse, that young lad who loves to squeeze things hard is Cían, our whiz on the concertina, Catherine there is an enthusiastic fiddle player and this here,” she indicated the thin wiry man with shaggy auburn hair plucking a few notes on a guitar, “is the beautiful Finn.”

  Finn looked up at me with his large blue eyes and high cheek bones and gave a brief nod before returning his gaze to the guitar. I could see why Maura called him beautiful, though I would call him more ephemeral, elusive? Or maybe timeless? It was difficult to explain or describe.

  I nodded to all of them and removed my jacket, placing it on the empty seat at the bench.

  “Drinks first,” said Maura. “What are you all having?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I’m fine, Maura. I have one.”

  Cían declined too, his pint of lager nearly full on the table in front of him.

  “I’ll have a pint of Beamish, thanks Maura,” said Finn, looking up briefly again. His mouth curved into a smile and then Maura’s earlier descriptor came true. There was a definite beauty to his face.

  Maura pulled on my arm and I turned to follow her up to the bar, weaving through the people. It was a fair sized pub and, judging from the crowd, maybe the only one in the village. There was no theme, no trace of anything but the usual dark stools and tables, the long bar with the drink and optics lined up behind and the pumps in front. No fancy ales promoted on slates or beer mats. There was a fridge with a few bottles of what seemed to be fancier fare. I sized up the few options at the pumps and tried to decide.

  The woman behind the bar came up to them.

  “Hanny. Didn’t expect to see me tonight, did you?” said Maura.

  “Ah now, Maura. You know you’re welcome whenever you do turn up,” Hanny said. “Now what will you be having?”

  Maura ordered her drink and Finn’s, turned to me and asked what I wanted. I surprised myself and ordered a Bulmer’s Cider, something I never drank. Maura raised a brow, as though she was as surprised at my choice as I was. I ignored her and studied Hanny while she filled the glasses.

  When we returned to the table the others were chatting quietly. Maura handed Finn his drink and set the sparkling water down in front of her place. I slid into the bench that I had marked for my perch and reached down to begin the process of unpacking and assembling my wooden flute. I’d had it for years and liked the way it felt in my hands and the tone it had was good, considering it had come to me via an online ad in a music magazine. I blew a few notes once I was ready to test it out and was happy with the response. Catherine took that as her cue and set off on a familiar reel that I was soon able to join. Cían followed suit and Finn added his guitar, slowing down Catherine’s near manic pace with his strumming. Maura had the bodhran up and, striking it confidently with the tipper, matched Finn in a more subtle manner than I would have given her credit for. She was good. No bin lid banging sound for her. I watched her for a few moments then switched my assessing gaze to Finn, appreciating his fine fingers that strummed the guitar with graceful confidence. I wondered for a moment what it would be like to hear him on his own, playing a lyrical tune, rather than supporting someone else’s melody.

  The door opened. I didn’t glance up at first, too intent on the music and the musicians. I felt a presence near and saw an instrument case placed on the bench to my right side out of the corner of my eye, but my raised elbow blocked the view. It was only l
ater, when I glanced up at the bar and saw the familiar head through the numerous people that crowded the room that I realised who owned the instrument by my side. Smithy. And he was staring right at me, his gaze filled with surprise and something else.

  It unnerved me for some reason, though I knew I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d turned up. After all, I’d only just seen him a short distance from here earlier on. But the very thought of that recent memory of him in the middle of some kind of exchange with those men only added to my anxiety.

  The tune ended and Smithy approached. I felt myself tense.

  “Saoirse,” Smithy said, placing his Guinness on the table and taking the seat beside me. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  I gave him a nervous smile. His words were pleasant but his tone was hesitant, uncertain. He studied me carefully.

  “Your hair.”

  I looked at him, puzzled. “My hair?”

  “It’s …not the colour I thought it was,” he mumbled.

  “No?” I was still puzzled. “What colour did you think it was?”

  “Uh, brown?”

  I laughed. I don’t think I’d ever been mistaken for a brunette. “No, it’s not brown,” I said wryly.

  “No,” Smithy said flatly.

  “Titian,” I said, continuing the light tone in the face of his cautious expression. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for,”

  He nodded slowly. “I guess because your hair was wet, I thought it was brown.”

  I considered this unlikely, but maybe, given the gloom and the wet hair it might be remotely possible. I nodded agreeably. “Probably.”

  He shifted a little and began to busy himself with his fiddle case, removing the instrument and the bow to start the tuning process. As he proceeded I realised he’d distanced himself a bit from me. For some reason he was as wary of me as I was of him. Did he know that I’d seen him earlier, talking with the men?

  “We don’t see you here that often,” said Maura, a slight challenge in her voice. “What brings you out this way?”

  Finn raised his brow and exchanged glances with Catherine and Cían.

  Smithy smiled at Maura blandly. “Last time I was here for a session, Maura the Rookery, I don’t remember you being here. Or the time before, for that matter. Anything in particular bring you out here?”

  Maura laughed, delightedly. “Ah, Smithy, Smithy,” she said, emphasising his name with the same strength as he’d given hers. “I’ve brought Saoirse, of course. Show her a bit of the local music. She’s visiting. But then I think you already know that.”

  I reddened at the mention of my name. There was clearly something going on between the two of them, but I couldn’t make up my mind if it was complete hostility or a dark kind of teasing.

  “You’ve a fine flute there,” said Finn, directing his words to me. “And you play well. We’re happy to have you. Do you have any tunes you’d like to play? We’ll do our best to pick it up, so.”

  “I’m sure you know all the tunes I do,” I said. I was grateful for Finn’s deflection. The tension had lessened considerably now. “But here’s one that I play often up in Dublin and I’m sure you know.”

  I launched into Jenny Picking Cockles. It was lively and set even the hardest person’s foot tapping. I’d chosen it because of that and because it was well known. We played along, lively and in rhythm. Smithy joined us after a short while, his fiddle tuned up. I could hear this confident bow strokes, and noted his subtle note changes, his fingers flying and sliding. He was a cut above Catherine, there was no doubt about it, her scraping and attack with the bow almost an assault on the poor instrument. It was difficult to watch.

  I turned away from her slightly and caught Maura’s grin, as though she could read my mind. I shifted my gaze, unwilling to get the giggles, and focused on Finn. He caught my glance and his face assumed an innocent look, his mouth set firm. His guitar strum suddenly increased in volume and I knew he’d picked up on the humour between Maura and myself. I felt the giggle rise up again, becoming a snort. I would have to take the flute away from my mouth before I strangled the note or myself. A kick against my shins startled me out of it and the giggle receded. It took me a moment to realise that Smithy had been the one to administer the kick. I glanced at him, angling the flute slightly and he widened his eyes at me and then made them cross-eyed. It caught me by surprise and stirred the giggles to such enormous proportions that I took the flute away and began to cough. The others continued playing. I took a sip of my Bulmer’s and glanced at Catherine, praying she hadn’t noticed but she played on, oblivious, her bow still attacking the fiddle as though some assailant had just tried to grab her.

  I joined the group again when they bridged onto another tune. It was less well known, at least to me. I’d played it once or twice, but after a few bars I was able to catch it and raised the flute to my lips. I watched with interest as Catherine sat it out, obviously finding it unfamiliar and beyond her ability to pick up at this point. I suddenly wondered if there was more to Finn’s request for me to start a tune than pure politeness. The tune continued and it caught me up. We were flying it. The instruments and musicians in sync as we entered a different world where the only thing possible was to hear, feel and live the music.

  When it ended I felt almost deflated. Dropped from the sky, fallen off a winged horse. That was as close as I could come to describing it. I looked around, blinking. The others seemed just as dazed as I was. Except for Catherine. She looked puzzled, irritated.

  “Will we take a break?” asked Finn.

  It seemed at once a terrible idea and the best idea. I wanted to carry on, find that place once again. But I also wanted to savour it. Recover from it. Give myself some time to reconnect to the pub, the people around me. After a while I managed to get myself up and off to the loo, but the music still sang through my body.

  9

  Smithy

  Smithy returned from the bar and took his seat. Saoirse still hadn’t come back by the time he’d been served and returned to his place. He took a deep drink from the glass. He never had a second pint when he was on the motorbike, he didn’t like to appear to be going over the limit. But tonight he’d made an exception. Though whether it was down to the set they’d just played or the shock of seeing Saoirse, or rather Saoirse’s hair, he couldn’t pinpoint it. Earlier, he’d tried to brush it off. So her hair was ginger. Or titian, as she described it. It wasn’t even the exact shade. It didn’t match Bríd’s hair colour, not really. Was it the coronet hair style? Bríd had worn her hair in that mode as often as she’d worn it flowing freely. A surge of grief overtook him and he nearly retched with the force of it. He pushed it down with a deliberation and frowned. Where had that come from? He’d not had such a violent reaction in a long, long time.

  Finn took his place to Smithy’s immediate right. “How’s things?” he asked. “You still riding the bike?”

  Smithy smiled wryly, glad for the distraction. “Just because you haven’t the skill for the roads around here, that’s no reason to cast aspersions on my vehicle of choice.”

  “Ah, you’re only turning green there, Smithy. You know my Miata is a classy car, sure to turn any girl’s head. Whereas your bike…well, maybe a certain kind of…chick? Isn’t that the term?”

  “That’s the difference though, Finn me lad, I don’t need the Miata or the bike to turn a lady’s head. I can do that on my own.”

  Finn burst out laughing. “The state of ye, Smithy. The state of ye. Turn a lady’s head? I love the phrase. Sure, you need more than a classy car to turn a ladies head.”

  Smithy looked down at his ripped jeans, rumpled T-shirt that had a trace of black grease on it. “What? They love it!”

  “Oh and I can see them all queuing up for you.” Finn shook his head. “Sad, sad, sad.”

  Smithy shrugged. He took little notice of Finn’s ribbing normally. But somehow tonight he’d felt a tiny sting at the last comment. He
rarely took anyone home with him. And he couldn’t remember when he had what would be called a girlfriend. What was the point?

  “Why so glum, Smithy?” asked Maura as she slid onto her stool.

  “This is my face, Maura,” he said, turning to her. “If you read glum there, it might be because it’s what you’re feeling.”

  “Me? Glum? Ah, no.” Maura gave a peal of laughter. “I’m having great fun tonight.”

  “I am as well,” said Saoirse.

  She squeezed past Smithy and resumed the seat next to him. Her legs had bumped his in the process and he nearly flinched at the touch. There was something about her that unnerved him and yet drew him to her. He didn’t know why. Before he could stop himself he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “What are you drinking?”

  She turned to look at him, her hazel eyes pinning him into paralysis. The eyes were different, he told himself. The hair was a different shade too. She was smaller, slimmer, almost lanky. There was no comparison. The smile she gave him was a near grin and he caught his breath.

  “Thanks, Smithy. I’ll have a Bulmer’s.”

  He nodded and asked the others for their orders. At the bar he gave the drinks order and made himself do some deep breathing. He’d just been carried away by the brief bout of grief. All the pressure he’d felt from the work at the forge, trying to get the blades and hilts to do his bidding, probably added weight to the disturbance of his usual placid demeanour.