Two Birds, One Feather: The Lives and Times of Lorewyn & Rhianyn in America

by C. J. Pearson

  “You gotta get this carriage moving,” the officer was explaining, motioning with his baton. “We can’t have a horse getting violent out here on the street.”

  “Whaddya think I’ve been trying to do?” the driver was insisting, his accent revealing his Irish heritage. “Yeah, I need to get her back up to Clinton, but her shoes musta been put on wrong or something. She’s in a lot of pain! I can’t drive her that far.”

  Several pedestrians were pausing now to observe the scene. A few drivers of automobiles had stopped, and the corner was getting backed up. Motor cars were becoming more common in the city, but there were still plenty of horse-drawn carriages in use up and down Manhattan. The horse seemed to calm down for a moment, and the driver got back up on the seat, trying to get the carriage moving again. The horse took a couple steps then neighed loudly once again, shuffling suddenly and kicking her fore legs up in defiance. The cop very nearly got slammed by the hooves but dodged just in time. The driver dismounted again, shaking his head in frustration.

  Rhianyn had been watching and setting her tea down she made her way over to the carriage. The driver saw her approach.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” he exclaimed apologetically. “This one’s out of service. I got a mare with an attitude!”

  “Attitude or not, you need to get this carriage moving or I’ll have to cite you,” the officer said again.

  “It’s not like I’m poking this philly in the arse with a hot-iron trying to rile her up!” the driver shouted, getting very defensive.

  Rhianyn stepped up closer to the horse. She reached out with her hand, but the mare jolted back. Rhianyn stopped, gave it a second, then moved in a bit closer, this time, extending her mind toward the animal.

  Sssssssshhhh. Her skill with unintelligent beasts wasn’t as keen as Lorewyn’s, but she had practice from long ago with a bonded mount, Pypp, who was in all fairness more intelligent, but the principle was essentially the same. It was a matter of projecting calm and promoting trust in what for the horse was no doubt a stressful situation.

  Let me come closer, she reached out with her mind. Allow me to help you. You’re in pain. I can sense that. I can ease your pain, but you need to trust me. Can you trust me? I’m not quite like these others around you… try to feel that.

  The horse seemed to respond after a moment, and she stopped her agitated neighs and jolting movements. Rhianyn was able to place her hand along the mare’s neck and offered a soothing rub. The horse blinked, let out a more docile snort, then appeared to be more at ease. The people nearby were obviously amazed, especially the driver and officer.

  “Hey, lady, how in the world did you…?” the driver started to say, but the cop quickly hushed him with a wave of his hand and kept his attention focused on Rhianyn and how she was handling the horse.

  Seeing that the horse was calmer, Rhianyn knelt and took a closer look at the shoes. As she had suspected, the rear two shoes had been put on hastily. The farrier might’ve been inexperienced or rushed, but the shoes weren’t the ideal fit and as such were beginning to slip a bit. This was causing the nails to be hot. No wonder the animal was in pain! Rhianyn could think of only one course of action.

  “Do either of you have a knife?” she asked the driver and officer. “Something sturdy but sharp?”

  “What do you need a knife for?” the cop inquired. “Wait, you’re not going to try to… right here? A dame?”

  “Please,” Rhianyn asked again, trying not to lose her patience after a day of dealing with enough “dame” comments for one lifetime. “A knife.” She turned to the group of onlookers. “Anyone?”

  A teamster who had been watching stepped forward and handed her a utility knife. Rhianyn thanked him and inspected the item… it would do the trick in a pinch. She gently took hold of one of the horse’s hind legs and got to work.

  The mare was obviously caught off guard and started to jerk, almost knocking Rhianyn back. She centered herself, closing her eyes, once again trying to reach the horse telepathically… and then she started to sing.

  Rhianyn’s first impulse was to sing something in her native Elvish tongue, Old Sylestian, especially given that she was trying to help an animal. However, she caught herself, realizing that uttering that particular language given the circumstances would definitely not be a good idea. But she remembered something from long ago, during her centuries in Europe. And so, she sang a traditional melodic folk tune in Gaelic.

  The driver’s Irish, she thought. He’ll appreciate it.

  Rhianyn sang mainly for the mare, to calm her, to distract her while she performed the task of removing the nails from the rear shoes. With a song in Old Sylestian, she could’ve added an enchantment aspect to it, something magical to tranquilize the horse. However, with the Gaelic she lacked such arcane knowledge, but she still had her singing voice… and Rhianyn’s singing voice was practically an enchantment in and of itself.

  And so she sang, her voice resonating soft and beautifully there on that street corner as she worked as quickly as she could. It definitely did the job as far as the horse was concerned… the mare remained relaxed and didn’t fight Rhianyn’s efforts. But the effect wasn’t just limited to the horse. All around her, the driver, the cop, and the others who had stopped to watch were captivated by her singing, and for a few minutes it was as if time just stopped on that busy street corner in Manhattan, and everyone who heard was mesmerized.

  ’Sé mo laoch mo ghille mear

  ’Sé mo Shaesar, ghille mear,

  Ní fhuaras féin aon tsuan ná séan,

  Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghille mear.

  It didn’t take Rhianyn terribly long to remove the two rear shoes. And… she knew it would be a bit risky, but she used a bit of magic to help her; the knife wasn’t as sufficient as she had hoped. But her back was turned to the crowd, and she figured it was a safe bet. She finished singing and stood up, the two shoes in hand. With people applauding, Rhianyn handed the knife back to the tradesman and the shoes to the driver. She wasn’t sure whether the applause was for her skill and speed with the shoes or for her singing!

  But the driver had tears in his eyes. “That was the most beautiful singing I think I’ve ever heard!” he exclaimed. “You have the voice of an angel! And Gaelic… I haven’t heard that song since I was a wee lad back in Kilkenny. Where are your people from, lass? You don’t sound like you’re from the old country yourself.”

  Rhianyn just smiled and accepted the compliment. “She’ll be okay with just the two front shoes for a while. Enough to get her back to the livery, or… stables, or… Clinton you said? She’ll make it just fine.”

  The officer tipped his hat and thanked Rhianyn as well, moving along as the driver got back up on the carriage and began guiding it north on Broadway. Traffic started to resume, but several people paused to compliment Rhianyn as well, still astonished at what they had seen and heard.

  Rhianyn was about to get a cab herself for the trek back across the bridge to Brooklyn when a slender middle-aged man carrying a cane approached her. The crowds had dispersed by this point.

  “I must say, that was a remarkable feat,” he said. “Pure magic if you ask me.”

  Rhianyn was startled at his terminology. Had he seen something in her work that she had tried to conceal? But she was beginning to understand American colloquialisms better, and it occurred to her that he was likely speaking figuratively.

  “For a woman, you mean,” she added with a hint of sarcasm. “Remarkable that a woman could handle a horse and shoeing like that, right?”

  The man let out a slight chuckle. His accent had an Italian flavor to it, although he himself had the appearance and mannerisms of someone from Greenpoint, Brooklyn’s dominantly Polish neighborhood.

  But that’s why America’s called a Melting Pot, Rhianyn had to remind herself. Especially here in New York.

  “Actually,” the man continued, “I was referring to your singing. Enchanting. The Mick driving the carriage wasn’t exagg
erating. Like an angel. But for the record, your work in handling that horse and dealing with her lousy shoeing was quite remarkable as well… for a man or woman!”

  Rhianyn smiled and lowered her head humbly. “That’s kind of you to say. I was just trying to help out in a difficult situation. I had an uncle who was a farrier and when I was a little girl he…” She tried to conceive a plausible story on the spot.

  “How would you like to put that beautiful singing voice of yours to better use than just being a pied piper in a pinch?” he asked, breaking in, seeming not at all interested in what Rhianyn considered to be the more unusual part of her recent display of skill.

  “Better use than…?” Rhianyn was uncertain for a moment, then caught on. Her eyes lit up. “Are you talking about a job performing? Singing in front of people?”

  “There you go!” the man grinned. “Sharp as a tack.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a card, handing it to Rhianyn. “I got a new club over in the Bowery. Trying to spice up the neighborhood a bit, if you know what I mean. I’m trying to draw in a clientele that enjoys spending money… money that they can’t easily spend in this current climate of ours that doesn’t get much rain, if you get my meaning. You know?” He offered a subtle glance, tilting his hand back and forth in a suggestive way, as if he were holding a glass or mug.

  Rhianyn nodded. “I see… hard to spend money when it’s… dry… like this time of year.” She raised an eyebrow and grinned a bit.

  The man smiled and nodded back. “Exactly, exactly! Yeah, you get it. My place turns up the humidity a bit. It’s good business. But I need a headliner, a class act. Someone who’s got the looks, the chutzpah, and most importantly, the voice. And my dear, you got an abundance of all three.”

  Rhianyn glanced down at the card he had given her. The name read “Antoni Symanski… Owner, The Raven’s Nest.” She just grinned and let out an amused laugh.

  “Mr. Symanski,” she stated, “I’d be honored to sing in your establishment.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Symanski replied. “My number’s on that card. Call me in the next couple days. We’ll set up the details and get you in front of an audience that’ll be hanging on your every note and syllable!”

  Rhianyn shook his hand graciously. They were about to part ways when he suddenly remembered.

  “You know, in all my excitement to meet and recruit you after hearing you serenade that philly earlier, I forgot to ask your name!”

  Rhianyn paused. No, it was her chosen name. She and Lorewyn weren’t novices when it came to this sort of thing. They had spent centuries in Europe going through the routine. You move to a new place, you choose an identity, you stick with it for as long as it’s feasible without drawing suspicion. That was their M.O. She wasn’t going to tempt fate so casually!

  “My name’s Rachel,” she answered. “Rachel Selinger.” And she said it with a degree of pride that likely surprised Symanski.

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady with a beautiful voice,” he commented. “Call me. We’ll get you in the Nest, you’ll be the Queen Bird! Although given what I saw today, I think I already have the perfect stage name for you.”

  “And what’s that?” Rhianyn asked, assuming it would be something related to a Raven, given the club’s name, her hair, and the uncanny coincidence already observed.

  “Lady Godiva!” Symanski exclaimed, stepping away and walking into the park, his arms spread in anticipation.

  Rhianyn offered a bit of a surprised gasp, then chuckled to herself, but Symanski was already out of ear-shot.

  Oy vey! she thought. She’d have a story for Lorewyn tonight!

  ***

  The apartment they shared was in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn, just a couple blocks from Union Avenue. It was a good find, lucky in fact, roomy with a nice balcony, and an ideal view of the park that had recently been built by the city. It was a working-class neighborhood, a lot of families, plenty of children, a mix of German and Jewish residents, which seemed to be a good demographic fit for Lorewyn and Rhianyn, based on their physical appearance.

  “I guess I thought America would be different from Europe in terms of how and where people lived,” Lorewyn had commented as they were getting settled and learning the ropes of the boroughs. “But it’s really not. People tend to stick with their own kind, the neighborhoods are largely homogenous… Germans, Dutch, Italians, Polish, Jewish, Blacks, Puerto Ricans… there’s not a lot of mixing, is there?”

  “People are people no matter where you go, I suppose,” Rhianyn suggested. “But even in our home realm it was like that. I mean, Elves, Dwarves, and Humans all sort of clung to their own kindred, right?”

  “In much of New Sylestia and neighboring realms, yes,” Lorewyn agreed. “But I remember my home village of Foxglove Falls as being quite integrated. People of different kindreds lived side by side in harmony… for the most part.”

  “True, but Foxglove Falls was an anomaly, you have to admit,” Rhianyn added. “But a nice anomaly… it produced you, after all.”

  They rode the subway into Manhattan for work, sometimes together, but the jobs they had acquired, Lorewyn now working for Scribner’s and Rhianyn performing nights at the Raven’s Nest, caused them to work at different hours from each other. Lorewyn would try to work later hours when possible, riding in with Rhianyn when she did rehearsals, staying in the city for dinner with her, and once in a while coming to see her perform. But it wasn’t an easy schedule.

  “I miss our evenings together,” Lorewyn said at one point.

  “I do too, Yellowfeather,” Rhianyn agreed sympathetically. “It’s the business I’m in. I perform at night, when the clientele is there. Believe me, I wish it were different at times. I do love the singing; you know I do… but I sure could do without the smoke! What is it about Humans and their cigarettes and cigars? Ugh. But I could find something else, something that aligned better with your hours at the publisher, and…”

  “No, Blackbird,” Lorewyn insisted. “Please… don’t give up something you enjoy just because we’re having a difficult time making our schedules work. I know you love singing, and I love hearing you sing. Others do too. You’re building quite a fan base at the Nest! Don’t throw that away. Your opportunity with Symanski, like you told me, that day near City Hall? It was meant to be, just like my timing with Perkins. We’ll make this work; I know we will. I just miss spending time with you, that’s all.”

  Rhianyn smiled and put her head on Lorewyn’s shoulder affectionately as they were walking home from a vaudeville show they had seen in Bushwick during one of Rhianyn’s nights off. “It seems a bit silly, doesn’t it?” she mused. “All those centuries together in Cordysia, our travels in different realms during the life we shared after that, and then the millennium and a half in Europe before we came here… and in the end, we still can’t get enough of each other can we? I would’ve thought by now we’d be in a perpetual state of melee and missile combat with one another!”

  Lorewyn laughed, briefly and playfully pushing Rhianyn away from her on the sidewalk and taking a few steps back. She made the motions of pretending to fire an arrow from a make-believe bow, aimed right at Rhianyn’s heart. Rhianyn played along, of course, clasping her chest and offering a feigned cry of being hit… just like she had done ages ago alongside a certain river… when she and Lorewyn had first met.

  They were on their block now, approaching their apartment, laughing softly together and reminiscing when they both saw a teenage boy on the fire escape, just one floor down from theirs. They also saw the broken window on their own balcony.

  The boy, perhaps 15 or so, was carrying a knapsack that appeared to be weighted down. A cat burglar!

  He had just caught sight of the two women approaching below and hastily changed his course of action, aborting his descent and beginning to scramble up the other direction. Lorewyn pointed above.

  “He’s making for the roof!”

  “Take th
is end,” Rhianyn exclaimed, starting to run for the building. “I’ll hit the stairwell and catch him up top!”

  Lorewyn nodded and sprinted over to the bottom of the fire escape. The ladder was up, and it was at least a ten-foot jump to grab the bottom of the railing. She did a quick check to make sure no one was watching, whipped off her coat to put it aside, then leaped up with her uncanny Elven agility and took hold of the railing. A couple of acrobatic moves later and Lorewyn was nimbly climbing up the fire escape… and gaining ground on the unsuspecting lad!

  Rhianyn had entered the building using the delivery entrance in the rear. She knew that there was a stairwell heading up to the top floor and then a maintenance ladder to a portal that granted access to the roof. The delivery door had been locked, but Rhianyn activated a minor spell effect that tripped the mechanism and allowed her to open the door. It had been agreed upon quite a long time ago, even before they came to America: Subtle magic was okay if used sparingly and with confidence that the Humans here on Earth wouldn’t perceive or become suspicious.

  Like Lorewyn, she cast off her coat at the bottom of the stairwell and began dashing up like a spiraling zephyr. She reached the top floor in just a few moments, scurried up the ladder, then emerged through the portal onto the roof of their apartment building… just as the boy was running in her direction from having climbed the fire escape. Rhianyn shut the portal behind her with a clang, to be sure that the boy was aware of her presence.

  “So, what now?” she asked with a sarcastic rhetorical tone. “You’re a dozen stories up. You plan to jump? Ill-advised. Thinking of leaping to the roof of the adjacent tenement? Also ill-advised. I could probably make it… I know of one other who could as well. But you? Especially with a bag full of stolen property? Not likely.”