Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  Now, this smack in the back was the final gesture and “will you ever cop on” warning I was going to get. It was time to give up. Wearily, I made my way to the bus stop and joined the queue of the late afternoon shoppers. My phone rang. I looked at it and saw it was Jilly. I smiled, feeling a little better.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s things?”

  “Hey. How’s the job hunt going?”

  I made a mewling noise.

  “That good?”

  “Worse.”

  “You poor thing. What you need is cheering up. The session’s tonight. Why don’t you come? We can go back to mine after and really drown your miseries.”

  I’d lost track of the last week or so. I knew I’d spent a few days getting lost in the sofa, watching films on my tablet and then finally, yesterday, had decided I would try for coffee shops like I’d promised myself the first days I’d been at the house. The session had seemed too much effort then, despite the texts and phone calls from Jilly inviting me over and inviting me out and about. I finally told her that I was job searching and wanted to focus all my time on that, when in reality any searching I was doing was confined to the box set menu on Netflix.

  But now, the session and some time spent at Jilly’s afterwards seemed like the perfect choice to forget what had been a really shite day.

  “You’re right,” I said. “That sounds just the thing. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Fab! They’ll be overjoyed to see you. As I keep telling you, they miss you at the sessions. And last week you’ll never guess who showed up and asked after you.”

  For a moment a flush of pleasure rushed through me as the completely irrational thought that Smithy might have gone there looking for me. That Maura would have told him where I played.

  “Luke!” she said, a moment later. “Sexy, hot Luke. Asking for you. And wasn’t Eileen looking daggers when he did.”

  Luke. The blond surfer. Larger than life, could play the uilleann pipes so they’d make you weep with the purity of it. Could turn his hand to any instrument. Crystal blue eyes, a fringe of lashes. A body that would sing you home, no doubt.

  “Did he, though?” I grinned. “Well, we’ll see if he’s there tonight.” And if he was, there I would be, playing right along with him and I would see if he could sing me home. Smithy could go to hell, or wherever his sort went.

  By the time I walked into the pub my spirits had lifted considerably, compared to earlier that day, even though it took me longer to get here and involved more public transportation than I’d liked. I’d had plenty of tunes to keep me company, ones that set me up for the evening of music and banter. Myself and my flute were ready for it all.

  The music was only getting started. I could hear a few still tuning as I made my way through the pub. Finbarr looked up and saw me.

  “Saoirse. We thought you’d deserted us for warmer climes.”

  “Ah, no. Just visiting the lower orders. Gathering tunes.” I smiled at him, determined for the banter. This would be my night. A good night. I would let the music rule. Let the tunes dance outside and inside, beat a rhythm.

  “Here,” he said, indicating a half pulled pint of Guinness under the tap. “That’s for you. On the house to welcome you back. And to make certain you stay.” He leaned forward, big grin on his face. “Unless you’d rather a Murphy’s, now that you strayed into Cork territory?”

  I made a face in mock horror. “Now why would I be doing that? Guinness is fine. Thanks.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring it over to you. In the meantime your fellow musicians await you.”

  Happily I continued on to the back and saw Declan sorting out his concertina. Beside him was Cormac, twisting a peg on his violin. Across from him I spotted Eileen’s springy curly hair. Ah well, not every session could be perfect. Mícheal and Finbarr were there on either side of her.

  I felt a tug on my sleeve.

  “Hey there,” said Jilly, slightly out of breath. “You just get here too?”

  I nodded. “Feckin’ buses. Took me ages.”

  “Well, you will live in the posh area. Never mind, though. You can stay at mine tonight and worry about the buses in the morning.”

  “I can’t argue with that logic,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She leaned in closer to me. “Well, is he here?”

  “Who?” I made it innocent but, I knew, so I did. Who else could she mean? It certainly couldn’t be Smithy.

  I shook my head. “Probably giving it a miss tonight. But no bother. I’m happy to play with my old friends. And Eileen.”

  Jilly laughed and hit my arm. “You devil. But I have to agree. Sometimes I want to take those bangles and flush them down the loo.”

  “Ah, now Jilly. You know it’s her own music she makes when the bangles get going.”

  “It’s like being part of a Morris Dancing group. Doesn’t she know that there are no bells in trad music?”

  “Tsk. Are you going purist on me now?” I said.

  She laughed. “There’s a difference between purist and not wanting pure shite.”

  “And only a few wouldn’t agree.”

  “Everyone wouldn’t agree.”

  “What are you two discussing so intently?” said a deep voice behind me.

  I turned and saw it was Luke. As usual, his long sandy hair was becomingly dishevelled and his startling blue eyes just as piercing. I smiled, thinking the promise of the evening had just increased from a mournful tempo to a reel and then some.

  “Hello,” I said and Jilly echoed me.

  He leaned over and kissed my cheek and after a brief hesitation kissed Jilly’s.

  “Hey, stranger,” he said, directing his gaze to me. “Good to have you back. We’ve missed you.”

  Jilly laughed. “We? You’ve only been the once since she the week after she left.”

  “That’s a few more times than she has.”

  “Oh, but the sentiment is there, I’m sure,” I said in a teasing tone.

  “Of, course, what else?” He said. “Come on then, let’s see what you have for us. I presume you didn’t waste your time down in the remote regions of Cork and you have at least one tune to share with us. Or do they all just copy us?”

  I laughed. “Ah, you are bad. I have one or two, maybe.”

  “Maybe?” said Jilly. “There better be no maybes about it. You owe me.”

  I smiled at her. “I do, of course. And I will repay the debt then with a tune, if that’s what you want.”

  “Oh? What debt is this?” said Luke. “I hope it can be repaid tonight. I’m ready for new tunes, all right.”

  “She stayed with me when she came back from Cork,” said Jilly. “Well, only until she could get the keys to her own house.”

  “Not my house yet,” I said.

  “Not yet your house?” asked Luke.

  I shook my head. “My father’s. And until the will is settled it’s still technically his. I think.”

  “Will?”

  “My father died a little while ago.”

  “Oh, shit, Saoirse,” said Luke. “I’m so sorry for your loss. A huge loss.”

  And he did look sorry. His eyes were filled with compassion and the hand he put on my arm felt comforting.

  I shrugged. “We weren’t close,” I said.

  My words may have been a little sharp but I didn’t want to go into it any further. He seemed to sense it because he shifted the subject slightly.

  “And weren’t you good to give her a place to stay,” he said, looking at Jilly.

  She reddened slightly and smiled. “Of course. What else would I do?”

  He smiled at her. “What else.” He eyed the musicians up ahead who were just beginning a tune. “We should go to the others before they think we’re starting a rival session in the front here.”

  I laughed and followed him, of course I did, as though the flute wasn’t in my case waiting to be played, but instead he was playing it and playing me at the same time. I didn’t care, though.
It felt good, just like the music that was starting up in my head. I would fly tonight. I was determined to.

  A few hugs, “how are yous”, “how’s things” with a pinch of “it’s good to have you backs” and I was seated, my pint in front of me, and to my surprise, a whiskey too. I raised my brow and scanned the group, skipping over Eileen and received non-committal shrugs all round except for the cheeky innocent grin on Luke’s face. I opened my eyes wide and did a “you shouldn’t have” shake of my head and got down to the business of unpacking my flute.

  I placed the case on my lap and saw the bulge of the pocket on top and realised the low whistle was in there, where I’d placed it carefully wrapped when I’d left Smithy’s house two weeks and a bit ago. It seemed like an age since then, a century, an era. In fact it seemed like it happened to a different person altogether. But there it was, the evidence that I hadn’t imagined it all, as much as I might want to believe.

  With a determination of the brave or foolhardy I brushed the thoughts aside, opened the case, assembled the flute and then took a long drink of my Guinness, even contemplating the whiskey chaser. I would save that for later, when the music got going, and my body and mind were solely filled with the music.

  I joined in the music mid-stride. The Blarney Pilgrim migrated soon enough into another set of tunes and I smiled to hear an old favourite set of Bill Malley’s Barndance, Kilnamona Barndance and Bill Malley’s Schottische, It was old Martin Hayes all over and I gave it welly with the sheer joy and love of the tunes and the musicians who gave voice to them.

  Luke and I gave each other eyes the whole time, (sitting next to Eileen that he was, where she’d placed him), winking and laughing with it, feeling the hum run through us. Luke had picked up the bouzouki and was finding the flair and the flourish of it, the jig and reel of it, as we made our way through the set. And after a while, even the descant dissonance of Eileen’s bangles faded away.

  This was what I’d come for, and the set of blue eyes and cheeky smile that came with it added to the time out of time that led me away from the past and all that wasn’t ever me or meant to be. I was here with the music, flirting and tapping, laughing and bouncing.

  We finished with a flourish and the night went on. My Guinness never seemed to disappear nor did the whiskey that I only sipped and savoured as the night wore on. A polite request got Eileen singing and her rendition of the battered old song, She Moved Through the Fair, and after it, Declan declared a break.

  “Not before Saoirse gives us a tune,” said Luke.

  I looked up in surprise. I thought it had been forgotten in the rush of the playing.

  Jilly’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, we need that first. Saoirse, you have at least one new tune for us, don’t you?”

  “I think a few tunes and an air are in order,” said Luke. His eyes were full of teasing and a “go on” look.

  Go on yourself, I thought. I was just about to object but Declan added his voice.

  “Now, we’re not having you decline, Saoirse, so just pick up your flute and work away.”

  I nodded and in face of their encouraging looks and interest I lifted the flute and started off with one of the tunes I’d heard at the Inchigeela session. It started out harmless enough and I ran away with it for a bit and the humming came on, the whirling inside, the jiggiddy jig and beyond. I kept on and Luke joined in with the bouzouki, Declan with his fiddle, followed closely by the others. It was a gas and I felt the smile in me and the unease seemed to disappear.

  I finished the tune and went on to another, one from the other session, the one in the village, edging around the hum and the dance stirring inside. I played on, the sound growing bigger, the dance and rhythm swirling around me, filling me up inside and out, but reaching out, searching for the other dancer, the other half of the beat. A faint beat met me and the eyes I hadn’t known I closed opened and found Luke’s. His were wide, and filled with a glimmer of fun, a hint of puzzlement and a whole lot of wonder.

  I played on, looking at Luke, making the exchange while the faint beat found mine and the jiggiddy jig continued. I finished finally, half filled with the thrill of it, but knowing there should be more. Impulsively, before the comments could even begin, I reached for the wrapped whistle in my case and drew it out.

  “A new addition?” asked Declan.

  I nodded. “I know my old one wasn’t what it could be. So, I have this one now.”

  “A present to yourself?” asked Patrick, stroking his guitar, a beauty gifted to himself, much to the dismay of his girlfriend whose own left finger had needed gifting more.

  “No, a friend made it for me.”

  “A great friend to have,” said Mícheal.

  I forced a nod and a smile and lifted the whistle to my lips. What tune, what tune, ran through my mind, but all I could play was one that Smithy had taught me that night. A long soft air that filled my head with everything and too much. An air that rose in my soul and stirred too much of myself. I played on and it was only after a while that I realised that Luke had started playing a low soft drone on his pipes, illuminating and illustrating the sorrowful beauty of the air. The drone played in me and wrapped me up, gave me support in the sorrow that drenched my soul and left me empty and aching. The balm was there in the low sound. Strong arms, strong sound, there to hold me up.

  I finished the air before it finished me, leaving off the final refrain, a refrain I didn’t want, not in a million years or a thousand fantasies. I lowered the whistle, but my head was down and I found the cloth to wrap it in. The silence was there, a hush of appreciation, but there was only “no”, in my mind. The “no” of please don’t mention that air, please don’t acknowledge the layers I peeled back, the curtain I drew open on my thoughts, on myself.

  “That’s a low whistle we would all wish for,” said Luke lightly. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  I took a deep breath and glanced up at him, plastering a smile on my face. His own expression was carefully neutral, taking care for me, I thought, and was grateful. I leaned over and handed it to him, glad really to hand it over to someone else, to give me time to break the connection.

  He fingered the whistle and turned it around, examining closely. “A real crafted piece of work, this,” he said.

  I nodded, not wanting to comment further.

  “Can I?” he asked, his eyes locking with mine.

  I nodded reluctantly.

  He lifted it to his lips and began to play an air. It was one I hadn’t heard before, I thought in the one breath—and in the next, it was one I thought I knew, but couldn’t find the name for it. It wasn’t long, but it had a haunting beauty. When he’d done he lowered the whistle and gave me a speculative look.

  “You say a friend gave it to you?”

  I nodded.

  “That friend wouldn’t have made it, would he?”

  I nodded.

  “A great friend to have,” said Jilly. “It has an amazing sound.”

  “It does,” said Declan. “We’ll all be lining up for one of his whistles, no matter that we don’t play.”

  “Oh, so true,” said Jilly.

  I laughed uncertainly, but said nothing more. I wouldn’t and couldn’t add anything more, for there was no point to it. I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

  Declan declared the break with a voice that said “there will be no changing my mind.”

  I was glad for it, for all the reasons that crowded my thoughts and was glad when we all rose as one. Jilly and I threaded our way through to the toilet as a few regulars grabbed my arm and we exchanged the “glad to be backs” and “aren’t you great girl, yourself with your flute.” It was good, it was grand to hear those words and feel that this was home.

  The warm feeling was still there with me when I’d left the toilet and a few others nodded and spoke words to me on my way back through. The seats were still empty so I veered out the side door to the alleyway. It was hot enough and the air would be welcome.

 
I let the cool air bathe my face when I stepped out. The light was gone now and only a dim lamp lit the area where I stood. I saw a few down at the end, near the front of the pub, smoking and chatting. In a moment I’d go for a wander up and have a chat, but for now I would just savour the feelings and music that wrapped me in their blanket.

  A figure broke away from the group at the end and sauntered up towards me. I didn’t need to see his face, or even his sauntering manner to know it was Luke. When he came in range of the dim light the sparkle in his eyes was evident, as was the growing smile on his face.

  “Saoirse. Just the one.”

  “The one?”

  “Oh, yes, mostly definitely the one.”

  I laughed and sank into the pleasure of his attention and the banter that went with it.

  “Ah, no. Not the one. Without a doubt you have many more ‘ones’.”

  He shook his head. “No ‘one’ who has the music in them as you do.”

  “Go on yourself,” I said. “There are plenty of musicians who have more skill and talent then I do. You yourself have more than enough for anyone.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But tonight, that was special.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” I said softly.

  He stood in front of me, so close I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Had they always been there?

  “That low whistle of yours is magic.”

  I flinched at his words, though I knew he didn’t meant them literally.

  “It is good, isn’t it? It puts the other one in disgrace.”

  I said the words, but in my heart I wondered if I could ever play it again. The absolute pain and joy of the playing, the spin and whirl and utter bliss of those times with Smithy were never to be recaptured again, but still the feel of it, the sound of it, gave me a ghost of the experience that I knew I couldn’t bear being repeated.

  He rested his arm on the wall above my head and studied me intently. “It’s more than good. You’re more than good.”