So, that’s how it was going to be. Play the old tunes, or end up homeless on the bitter winter streets.
“Fine,” he said, though it was so far from fine he wanted to weep.
One more wave of commuters left. If he were going to do this, he’d do it all the way. Just once.
This time he played from his heart, the way he hadn’t let himself before. The sweet notes unfurled from beneath his fingers, the body of his cello resonating against his chest as he played one of his best tunes; Farewell to Ireland. The crowd flowed past, fingers drumming in time against legs, against briefcases. One lady held her phone out toward him for a moment before moving on. Though nobody lingered—they almost never did—it took longer than usual for the station to clear.
When the last set of heels disappeared up the stairs, Jeremy looked in his hat. Blinked, heartbeat pounding in his throat. The fedora was overflowing with bills, and not just singles.
“Damn,” he breathed.
He counted the money out into a neat stack. One-hundred-sixty-five dollars and twenty-two cents. Unbelievable.
An unearthly giggle from the far platform, the glitter of a fey eye—it was past time for him to leave. Shivering, Jeremy shoved the money in his pocket and jammed his fedora on his head.
He closed his cello case, snicking the latches shut. The sound echoed, louder than it should, and a chill clutched the back of his neck. Something was watching from deep in the subway tunnel. A murmur built, like the sound of the sea. Keeping his gaze averted, Jeremy shouldered his cello and dashed up the stairs into the neon-broken night above.
But the next afternoon he reluctantly hauled his cello back to the grubby corner of the West Avenue Station. He was still short on the rent, though another few hours’ playing should do it. Then he could stop; for good.
What if he didn’t stop?
He tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, but it kept surfacing. The possibilities froze him with terror, burned him with hope.
If he played another day or two, gritted his teeth and tried not to see the creatures the music brought, he could make enough to help with Dad’s next treatment. The fair folk already haunted his nightmares, after all. He could bear it a little longer.
Maybe.
Jeremy rosined his bow, the faint scent of old sap tickling his nose as he pulled the horsehair back and forth across the dark rectangle of rosin. Even before he started playing, he glimpsed them lurking in the shadows—misshapen bodies and legs that bent the wrong way, the starlit sheen of wings.
“I don’t believe in you,” he told them. The lie grated in his throat.
He waited to play until the trains disgorged their passengers, and stopped his music the instant the last person passed. Then began again at the next wave of commuters. Jaw tight, he played the hardest tunes he knew: complex five part slip-jigs, rambunctious reels pulsing in duple-beat rhythms, polkas that ratcheted his bow from string to string.
The fair folk watched. And listened. And came closer, their numbers growing.
Tens, twenties poured into his hat. Even a fifty, from a man who wore a suit worth ten times that amount. Jeremy didn’t feel too guilty. People only put in what they could spare. A single bill, multiplied by a few hundred, added up.
He went home with over a thousand dollars, aching shoulders—and an unearthly escort. A chime of fey laughter in a dark alleyway, something flitting between parked cars, a black dog trotting down the sidewalk half a block behind, tongue lolling.
Jeremy whirled. “Leave me alone!”
Just another crazy yelling on the Manhattan streets. Nobody even looked his way.
Bitter knowledge sifted through his body, speeding his heart, drying his mouth. In all the old stories Gran had told him, there was no escape from the fair folk.
Not when they wanted you.
***
The next day, Jeremy paused at the top of the West Avenue Station stairs. Cello case straps digging into his shoulders, he tilted his face up to the wan winter sun, trying to memorize the feeling of sunlight against his skin.
Chill fingers combed through his hair, icy wind-borne maidens invisible to the passers-by on the street. Creatures leaned out from the bare-twigged bushes to clutch at his jeans with long, crooked nails.
Jemmy Cahill. The syllables of his name in the squeal of brakes, the cries of children, the sudden thrum of pigeon wings as a flock arose from the stained sidewalk.
Whether he returned to the light of the human world, or disappeared forever into the shadows, this had to end.
With a deep breath, Jeremy headed down into the closed-in dimness of the station. The air changed as he descended. The haze of oil and exhaust stayed up on the streets, but a different smell wound up from the platform below—something wild, tinged with the salt of the sea.
He didn’t look at the metal rails of the tracks, tried not to think about the darkness they disappeared into.
That morning, he’d woken up knowing what he had to play. The oldest tunes, the eerie modal ones that wept and sang through his cello. The ones that spoke of loss and heartbreak and magics disappearing forever from the world.
He walked past his corner and went right up to the edge of the platform. Quickly, he unfolded his stool, unpacked his cello, and began. An ancient, nameless air to start, the notes vibrating low, soaring up into the high part like a woman weeping. When that tune ended, he moved into a dark, twisty jig called The Orphan.
The air in the station stilled. The light shifted, shading to amber. Jeremy looked up at the station sign and his fingers trembled, nearly dropping his bow. Instead of WEST AVENUE the sign now read WIDDERSHINS.
He ended the tune, the last note fading away into a world that was no longer his own.
Gran would tell him to have courage. Jeremy stood, his cello balanced beside him on the slender silver endpin, the embodiment of all his hopes. All his fears. He didn’t want to be sitting down when he faced whatever was coming.
A sound issued from the dark tunnel, a high keening that had nothing to do with machinery. Jeremy’s pulse throbbed queasily at the back of his throat. Whispering a desperate, useless Hail Mary, he squeezed his eyes closed.
When he opened them again, a train sat at the platform. He hadn’t heard it arrive. It resembled the usual A-line cars—white and red, and filled with passengers—but the differences were enough to make his breath tighten in narrowing circles of fear.
He clutched the neck of his cello as if it was the only solid thing in the universe. Oh, he’d set things in motion he had no idea how to end. All he knew was that the fair folk must be faced, or they would drive him to madness.
The train doors silently opened, and the riders stepped out.
Pale maidens with moth-tangled hair, gowned in cobwebs. Twig-jointed creatures with staring eyes. Goblins wearing caps of blood. Sharp-fanged, sinuous hounds. The hollow-eyed banshee. The shambling bog horse.
All the lovely, horrible creatures he had tried not to see his whole life.
And behind them…
Behind them strode a figure clad in midnight. A band of silver encircled his moon-pale hair, and his face was sharp-planed and merciless. Nothing human shone in those starlit eyes.
A shudder crimped Jeremy’s spine, and he looked away, wishing he’d brought something—an iron cross, even a handful of salt—to defend himself.
Gran had whispered stories to him once, of the Sidhe lords and ladies gone far to the west, taking their magic with them. The knowledge of what he now faced lodged deep in Jeremy’s lungs. He breathed through the stabbing truth of it.
“Jemmy Cahill,” the elf-lord said, his voice like frost and famine. “Do you think you can deny us the taste of your music for seven long years without paying a price?”
Swallowing back the sharp tang of fear, Jeremy dug in his pocket and brought out the roll of bills he’d earned busking in the station.
“Here.”
The lord laughed, a sound like metal scraping bone
. “What use have I for such? You must offer better coin than that.”
What else did he have to give? Fingers cold with fear, Jeremy reached beneath his shirt and pulled out Gran’s charm. He tugged it from his neck and held it out.
One of the twiggy creatures crept over and snatched it from his hand, and Jeremy flinched back. The watching fair folk laughed, their voices chiming and barking, a cacophony echoed back from the curved ceiling overhead.
The creature delivered the charm to his liege, and the elf-lord held it up, a pathetic scrap of soiled linen and tarnished string.
“A spent ward?” The lord’s voice was hollow with fey mirth. “This counts for less than nothing.”
He tossed it into the air. A bright flash, the afterimage seared on the inside of Jeremy’s eyelids, and Gran’s charm was gone.
“Hey! That wasn’t fair.” Anger made Jeremy straighten, though he couldn’t quite look upon the beautiful, terrible face of the elf-lord.
“Do not speak to us of fairness. Is it fair to deny the Sight that runs through your blood? Is it fair to bind your music so tightly it withers to nothing, when we starve to hear it?” At his words, the watching fair folk nodded and murmured. “Your time has run, mortal child. Choose your path.”
Jeremy held his cello in front of him like a shield. For a stark moment he considered setting the instrument down and walking away.
Far away, to a place where music didn’t matter. Where his soul could shrink and shrivel into normalcy. Where the stuff of nightmares didn’t stalk through the shadows of the subway tunnels, or whisper from the corners of alleyways.
The stuff of nightmares.
And dreams. Dark and light entwined, like the night-brilliant lord standing before him, and all his dancing, dreadful court.
Jeremy took a deep, ragged breath flavored with the scent of the sea. Gran would have wanted him to choose the magic that ran in their shared blood. This was his heritage, his very soul. Clamping his fingers hard around his cello, he met the elf-lord’s fathomless gaze.
“I will play for you,” Jeremy said. “I will give you my music. Just—don’t take me away with you.”
He couldn’t simply disappear on his parents. It would break them beyond repair.
Something shivered over the assembled fair folk, relief and avarice mixed together in the sweet feral eyes turned upon him.
“I accept,” the lord said, his voice resonant with triumph. “You may remain in the mortal world. For now. But each new moon the fair folk will come for you, Jemmy Cahill, to be our bard until the sunrise ends our feasting. Be ready.”
“I will.”
Dear God, what had he just done?
Cold air pressed his skin, then heat. Sound returned—the screech of train brakes nearly deafening in the brightly lit station. Jeremy swayed, the taste of starlight and ashes on his tongue.
The crowd, the blessedly human crowd, surged out of the train and headed for the stairs. They brushed past Jeremy, heads bent to screens and phones, heedless.
“You okay, man?” A guy about his age paused and caught his elbow. “You might want to get your instrument out of the way.”
Blinking hard, Jeremy scooted back into the shelter of his corner. He settled on his stool, then toed his upside-down fedora a few inches out. Glancing down at his cello, he caught his breath at the smooth, unmarred surface.
Not everything could be mended by magic, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.
Setting his bow on the strings, he began to play.
Introduction to “The Sound of My Own Voice”
Dayle A. Dermatis, an Amazon Princess through and through, is having more fun than you are; at least that’s the impression I get when I read anything she writes. In “The Sound of My Own Voice,” I’m sure she’s the lead character, and this is her real life, and it needs to be a novel because I would read it in one sitting and beg for a sequel.
Dayle’s short fantasy has been called “funny (and rather ingenious),” “something new and something fresh,” and “really, really good!” Under various pseudonyms (and sometimes with coauthors), she’s sold several novels and more than 100 short stories in multiple genres. She lives and works in California within scent of the ocean, and in her spare time follows Styx around the country and travels the world, all of which inspires her writing. To find out where she is today, check out www.DayleDermatis.com. About this story, Dayle writes:
“Years ago a humor blogger relayed a tale about drunkenly singing karaoke with friends, to the point of rolling around on the stage. Sadly, there’s no logical progression to how my brain forms ideas—it’s rather like the Underpants Gnomes on South Park (Phase 1: Collect Underpants. Phase 3: Profit). Here, it was Phase 1: Drunken Karaoke. Phase 3: Woman Who Has No Idea She's a Siren Because She’s Been Told Never to Sing Gets Drunk, Sings Karaoke, Then Hot Guy Stops Her, and Then Stuff Happens. I found the rest of the story as I wrote it.”
The Sound of My Own Voice
Dayle A. Dermatis
So my boyfriend of several years had just dumped me after we’d finished eating at a new pho restaurant, and when he left, he forgot his phone, which was unfortunate because his new girlfriend (surprise!) chose that time to sext him some naked pictures of herself.
I flagged down the Vietnamese waiter and asked for a refill on my iced tea. Then I dropped the phone in the tea, sloshing some on the table in the process, left a generous tip, and walked out.
Los Angeles on a sultry summer night. It wasn’t quite dark yet, the sky still showing a pinkish-yellow glow in the west. Except in downtown proper, there aren’t any high-rises (what with earthquakes and all), so except for the traffic, sometimes it didn’t feel as city-ish in places.
There’s always traffic, though. On a Saturday evening like tonight, it was bumper-to-bumper, but it was moving, unlike during rush hour.
I wasn’t ready to go home, especially since Randy had gone there to pack (and I couldn’t call to see if he was finished, because he no longer had a phone. Snicker.). I wanted to stomp around on the sidewalk for awhile, scowl, maybe kick the side of a building or two, and…
Hey, look, a bar!
I hadn’t thought about having a drink (or three) until now, but what a fabby idea. I would sit and drink and curse Randy’s name and flirt like hell.
Despite it being a few blocks from the apartment, I’d never been here; it wasn’t really my kind of place. It was downscale trying to be upscale, casual trying desperately to be hipster. Instead of traditional booths, there were padded benches along one wall with half-dividers between them, each bench with a table in front of it and stools on the other side of the table. The benches were high to match the stools, and they looked semi-impossible to climb onto. Everything was lacquered black wood except for the tabletops, which were glass. Because you want to see your friends’ feet when you’re pounding Jaeger shots or eating mozzarella sticks.
The stools at the black-lacquered bar were also covered in a sturdy upholstery fabric in a shade of green that was either retro or had been found in the back of a dusty fabric warehouse and sold for pennies. I surveyed the bottles of alcohol displayed in front of glass, spotlighted by round bulbs, like perfume in front of a makeup mirror.
I ordered a shot of whisky and a Blue Moon Belgian White, made short use of the whisky, and nursed the beer as the place filled up. A few guys hit on me, but it became quickly apparent that I was still too scowly and surly to flirt effectively.
I tipped the bartender, though. (Always tip your bartender.)
I brooded.
My first therapist—back when I was a teenager—said I had abandonment issues. Well, no shit, Sherlock.
My younger, half-sister is Ophelia. Yes, that Ophelia. The mega-million pop star, hottest thing since Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber (oh, c’mon, you’ve always thought it, too) combined.
My parents doted on her, leaving me to feel like the redheaded stepchild once Ophelia’s talent became obvious. While the
y were schlepping her to voice lessons and hiring her manager, I was redecorating my bedroom and teaching myself how to make Roman blinds. By the time I found out that I was the product of my mom’s first marriage (my real dad died before I was born), I already felt like an outsider.
The greater irony? I have a terrible voice. Can’t hold a tune, shouldn’t even try. At least, that’s what my parents told me from the time I first opened my little toddler mouth and burst forth in song. I learned early to never, ever, ever make a noise like that ever again.
So while I never sang except in the shower when nobody was around for miles, or in the car with the windows rolled up and the radio cranked, Ophelia sang like the fucking bluebird of happiness and was worshipped by millions.
I get that I don’t have talent. I’ve made peace with that. I’m good at what I do—interior design—and I love doing it, and I was in the works to have my own series on HGTV.
I just…really loved music. Loved. It. When I was younger, I stole my parents’ CDs (not that they’d ever have noticed) and immersed myself in the glitz and excess of the ’80s. A Hispanic nanny introduced me to Latin American and salsa, a high school teacher shared the joys of Zeppelin and Floyd, and I found show tunes from watching The Sound of Music eighteen million times. If you sang it, I probably knew it.
And I really, really loved to sing, and it made me sad that my voice was hideous. (I didn’t think it was hideous, mind you, but what parents lie to their two-year-old?)
And it made me even sadder that my parents had been all about Ophelia, and Ophelia had been all about Ophelia (and still was).
Now Randy had left me, too. Although that just pissed me off. My twenty-twenty hindsight was saying “Good riddance.” No doubt it would settle into my psyche and add to my abandonment issues at a later date.
I ordered another beer, thinking maybe I should start scaling back, and that’s when they took the cover off the karaoke machine.
Fiction River: Hex in the City Page 12
