Dreams and Shadows: A Novel

by C. Robert Cargill

  “Yeah,” said his drummer.

  Ewan looked at both of them, a bit confused. “Yeah?”

  His bassist smiled. “Get down there, asshole. We’ll finish up.”

  Ewan hopped offstage almost a hair faster than his bassist could catch his guitar. He was off, speeding to the table before realizing he had nothing at all to say, his mind suddenly blank. He swerved instead to pass by, only to see that she was no longer there. Both flustered and disappointed, he stopped dead, staring thunderstruck at her empty seat.

  “Looking for someone?”

  He turned and found himself towering over her. Their eyes met. She smiled, slowly raising the straw of a soft drink to her lips before taking a single, dainty sip.

  Ewan stammered. His chest seized up, choking his heart, his whole body shaking with the pound of each beat. Thumthum. Thumthum. Thumthum. Eight heartbeats into the conversation he came to life. “Hi,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Ewan.”

  “I know,” said the girl, rolling her words into a smile. “You’re the lead singer of Limestone Kingdom.”

  “You’ve heard of us?” he asked, surprised.

  She looked at the stage with a cool grin, amused by how rattled he was. “Um, yeah, I might have caught a show.”

  He turned, looking at the stage, his face now a reddish purple. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. Ewan floundered for a moment more before she dove in to save him. “I’m Nora.”

  “Nora. Hey, I’m Ewan.”

  She laughed, finding him adorable. “Yes. And before you run through it again, you’re in Limestone Kingdom, and yes, I’ve seen you perform.”

  He blushed redder still. “I’m blowing this, aren’t I?”

  “Oh no,” she said reassuringly. “I haven’t been insulted or called another girl’s name yet, so it could get much, much worse for you. Right now, you’re still in that charming, dorky, you-don’t-realize-I-find-you-as-attractive-as-you-find-me territory. You’re doing fine.”

  Ewan scuffed the floor with his feet, his hands fiddling behind his back as if he were hiding a valentine.

  “Look, you want to go somewhere or something?”

  “Go somewhere?” he asked. “Like where?” Then a light went on. “Oh! Yeah! Yes I would.”

  She flirted with a flutter of eyelashes and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  It was cool and crisp outside, damp enough to leave dew, but not so much as to chill the bones. The club emptied right onto Sixth Street, only a light scatter of couples and cliques drunkenly wandering between each bar. Nora gracefully spun about, occasionally walking backward to maintain eye contact, quizzing Ewan on the details of his life story. She had a playful way about her, confident but effervescent, as if she was a woman already in love.

  She giggled. She flirted. She shamelessly complimented him with her eyes. There was no mistaking that this girl was throwing herself at him—except, of course, for Ewan. Everything Ewan understood about girls was gleaned almost entirely from a lifetime of magazine articles and television—all of which was useless now. He was as clueless as ever.

  They turned a corner and walked south, making their way across one of the wide bridges that crossed the lake, carrying them on toward south Austin.

  “So, I’ve gotta ask,” said Ewan. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Nora, cocking her head, giving him a now you’re blowing it look.

  “Who are you? How does an insanely good-looking girl end up alone at a bar, listening to a bunch of nobodies, before wandering off into the night with their lead nobody?”

  Nora smiled, looking out over the water. “Maybe I like nobodies. Especially lead nobodies.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Sure. Do you know how hard it is to land the lead singer of a band when they’re already famous? Impossible. You have to find them before they blow up, when they appreciate you as the girl who loved them when they were just a dishwasher.”

  “Hey, how’d you know I was a dishwasher?”

  “You’re a dishwasher? Oh, I can’t date one of those.” Nora turned back toward the bar.

  “Hey!”

  Nora spun back around, pointed a finger pistol at him, and fired it with a wink and a click of her tongue. “You really think tonight is my first night in that rat hole?”

  “You’ve never been there before,” he argued.

  “The hell I haven’t,” she said. “I’ve been in there a number of times. You’ve never noticed me, which explains why I was alone tonight.”

  “How does that explain why you were alone tonight?”

  “Because maybe if you’d noticed me earlier, we could have done this weeks ago.”

  “I’m telling you, you’ve never been in my club.”

  “Your club? Is that why you’re always helping the bartender?”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve never been there.”

  “Then how do I know you like blondes?” she asked, putting one hand squarely on her hip. Slowly she ran her lithe fingers through her short brown hair.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t like blondes,” he said sheepishly.

  “You do. You check out every blonde who walks in that place like you’re looking for someone.”

  “I do not!”

  “You totally do. And you’re totally busted.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re on our first date and you’re already lying to me.”

  “This isn’t a . . .” He trailed off. Nora waited patiently for what he had to say next. Her reaction hinged on the very . . . next . . . word. “Wait, is this a . . .”

  Nora nodded.

  “So, we’re . . .”

  She nodded again. “You can say the word.”

  “On a date?”

  “There it is. Yes, Romeo, you’re on a date, though you’re not faring as well at this point as you were just a little while ago.”

  “But I didn’t ask you out.”

  “No, genius,” she said, shaking her head. “I asked you. Remember? When you ditched your buddies back in the bar to stroll off with some beautiful girl into the night? Alone?”

  “Beautiful, huh?” he asked slyly, trying somehow to regain the upper hand.

  She stepped toward him, bringing her face close to his, slowly running her fingers up and down his chest. Ewan’s eyes widened, his cotton mouth returning, his leg again twitching, tingling sensations rippling through every cell in his body. Nora leaned in close, standing on her tiptoes, whispering hot breath into his ear, almost knocking his knees out from under him. “Yes,” she said. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re not unbelievably turned on by all of this.”

  Ewan swallowed hard. “Okay. Just don’t stop.”

  Nora stopped. “Oh, too late.” She turned, continuing to walk across the bridge. Ewan shook off the daze and followed her, wearing the daffy grin of a lovesick schoolboy.

  “So how many times have you been to the club?”

  “Enough,” Nora said. She was seemingly aloof now, as if she’d lost interest in him—but only in jest. She wore a funny smile, clearly expecting him to follow, as if dangling from a string tied to her waist.

  “I don’t know how I’ve never seen you.”

  “Well, I might have looked different at the time.”

  “Really?”

  “You never know.”

  “Well, why haven’t you ever spoken to me before?”

  “Because, silly,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I was waiting for you to notice me. It’s no fun if it’s the other way around.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah. Fun.”

  Ewan narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re trouble.”

  Nora smiled big and bright, then slid her arm around his waist, pulling herself close. “Yeah, but I’m your kind of trouble.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, but you’ll have to trust me on that one.”

  They walked aglow, in silence for a mo
ment, neither saying anything to spoil it.

  Then, as if they’d never stopped talking, she looked at him. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He shook his head. “No. Never.”

  “Really?” She crinkled her nose a bit. “Never?”

  “Nope. Never met the right girl.”

  “The right girl?”

  “All right, smartass. I’ve dated before.”

  “But not successfully.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, expecting something witty to fall out. Instead, his gaping maw sat mute, unable to form a single syllable. Then he shook it off, saying matter-of-factly, “No, I suppose not.”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said. “You have that new car smell to you.”

  “It’s my aftershave.”

  “You don’t wear aftershave.”

  “What don’t you know about me?”

  She smiled shyly. “Less than you think.”

  Ewan stopped at the end of the bridge. “Oh, really?”

  “You’re not all that complicated, Ewan.”

  “How do you know? I could be dark and mysterious. I could be a serial killer for all you know.” He pointed to the swelling green park just off to the side of the bridge, along the banks of the lake. “That’s why I brought you out here.”

  “I brought you here, Ewan.”

  “That’s only what I made you think. That’s how dark and mysterious I can be.”

  Nora took a few steps toward Ewan, shaking her head. “You’re not dark, Ewan. You’re not mysterious. You’re cute. And you’re sweet. And you would protect me from the Devil himself if he showed up right now.” She tapped his breastbone with a single finger. “That’s what’s in that heart of yours. Inside you’re just a little boy who feels that somewhere out there is a place where he belongs, but he’s lost it and wants only to find it again.”

  Ewan peered closely into Nora’s eyes. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I know what that feels like. I want to find that place again too.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Once,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “He left.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t have a choice. But I screwed it up. I should have known he was going to leave, but I was young and stupid and we had no idea what we’d gotten ourselves into.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He forgot me and went on with his life.”

  “And you?”

  “There came a time when I realized that the only way I’d be happy was if I went out looking for happiness. So I did. That’s how I found myself in Austin.”

  “And me?”

  She looked into his eyes, smiled, and, with alarming speed, swooped in, planting a sweet butterfly kiss on his lower lip and whispering into his ear. “You’re it,” she said. Then she sprang away into the bushes, running headlong into the park. Ewan remained, speechless, confused both by the tingling kiss and her sudden disappearance. Then it dawned on him what she was doing. Tag. And he took off into the darkness after her.

  She was quick. Every time Ewan thought he had her, she would duck his tag or slip around a tree. Once she even managed to drop under a branch that Ewan failed to see, flooring him. When he rose to his feet, he caught sight of her standing a few paces away, smiling blithely, with a twinkle in her eye. “Come on,” she taunted. “I know you can do better than that.”

  He bolted at her like a charging stallion.

  She turned too late to get away, his arm wrapping around her waist as they tumbled together to the ground. They rolled around in the thick grass for a moment until he found himself on top of her, looking into her big brown eyes, his hand holding hers.

  “Why do I feel like I already know you?” he asked.

  “Do you believe in past lives?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “No.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. Then she kissed him deeply. Their lips met and fit together as if they had been molded as a set. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, one arm around her back and the other cradling her head. His body jolted to life, electric. This wasn’t his first kiss, but it sure felt like it. Everything in his body tingled, his mind drifting away, floating in felicity. Ewan could feel lips and the light brushing of tongues and a thousand tiny explosions swarming over every inch of his body—but there was nothing else in the universe. Nothing at all. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

  And then gently, lovingly, she pulled away. Together they smiled like goofy children, lost in each other’s eyes. Then she whispered softly, “I have to go.”

  “No you don’t,” said Ewan. “Stay here.”

  “No, I really do need to go.”

  Ewan sat up. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No!” she said. “No, you did everything just right.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “Because I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Can I tell you next time?”

  “I get a next time?”

  “Yes,” she said with a nod. “You’ve earned yourself a couple of next times.”

  “Can I call you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll find you.”

  “What?”

  She stroked his cheek delicately with the backs of her fingers. “Trust me,” she said. “I will find you.” Then she jumped to her feet, adjusted her clothing, and took a deep breath. “Good night, Ewan.” Before he could protest any further, she was gone, sprinting off into the dark. Ewan rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars.

  “Nora,” he said quietly. And as he thought of her, he could hear music spring from his heart and poetry spill off his tongue. Words became phrases and notes became melodies. Ewan smiled. He had to get home and write this down.

  NORA RAN FULL speed through the trees. She made little noise, her tiny feet barely kicking up any fuss. Then, when she felt she’d gone far enough, she darted around a tree, arched her back against it, and smiled dreamily. Her eyes twinkled, her skin shimmering in the blackness. For years, she’d dreamt of this evening, never imagining it would actually go so well. There was always the lingering fear that she couldn’t connect, that the spark that had existed before couldn’t reignite. But it had. And now it was ablaze.

  Nora shook her head—curly, thick blond locks spilling out in the place of short brown wisps, a deep azure washing like a wave over the brown of her eyes; her skin stretched, filling out the contours of her face into a much slimmer, more elfin, shape; her lips puckered and swelled, becoming full and bee stung. In a few brisk shakes, Nora melted away and Mallaidh the Leanan Sidhe was all that remained. She was fully grown—a shapely, ethereal, demure woman standing naked in the shadows cast by branches in the moonlight.

  Nora was an ephemeral dress she wore—woven of glamour, culled from hints of the mortals Ewan had admired at the bar. Mallaidh had probed his heart and seen what he desired most; Nora was her best approximation. After half a dozen trips, she had at long last built up the nerve to weave herself a cover. This dark, little, pixyish construct had done its job. Now it was entirely up to Mallaidh.

  After fourteen years, she had finally found her hero. And she wasn’t going to lose him again. No matter what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE CURSED AND THE DAMNED

  Hidden amid the bars and shops of downtown, situated in a back alley, near a particularly pungent Dumpster fed rancid scraps of fish from a nearby restaurant, there is a solid metal door that looks as if it would take a log and a dozen strong men to break down. The door sits completely unmarked, scratched, rusty, and scuffed from years of abuse. It appears to be no more than the back loading entrance of another business, though no one claims it and no truck has ever backed up to it. If you know how—if you have somehow been gifted with the secret—a simple push on the door will open it. Otherwise, it is entirely unmov
able.

  Beyond that door is another door—a simple wooden one—with a small, dimly lit foyer separating the two that can accommodate no more than three people snugly. The walls are dingy, poorly kept, showing their age without the slightest attempt to hide it. Above the second door is a sign, written in whatever language the reader happens to speak: ONLY THE CURSED AND THE DAMNED MAY DRINK HERE. ALL OTHERS MAY POLITELY FUCK OFF. Behind that door is a bar. And while that bar has no official name, the locals have named it for its greeting. The Cursed and the Damned.

  This was a magical pocket that time forgot—a twenty-by-twenty-foot room with a shoddily assembled bar top, stray barrels and crates for seating, the walls stained, the lighting from a series of buzzing old bulbs dangling perilously from black cables and exposed wiring. There was no artwork or other decoration save for a single, cheaply framed rendition of Dogs Playing Poker on black velvet. Just a hollow, drab space two antidepressants shy of suicide. But the beer was cold, the whiskey Irish, and the wine a hundred years old.

  On any given day a dozen or so of the same faces, all killing time, waited there for the sun to rise or set. The bar was run by Old Scraps, a wily cluricaun of indeterminate age. At twenty-three and a half inches tall, Scraps was known to challenge to a fight men three times his size and win. He wore a weathered, brown, three-cornered hat atop his wrinkled head, and a bright green waistcoat festooned with large, shiny buttons that he would unconsciously twiddle and polish while talking. When he spoke, he did so through teeth clenched tightly around a pipe, which he removed from his mouth only to wave around when making a point. His cheeks were rosy, his nose bright red, and no one could remember ever seeing him sober.

  Old Scraps kept the bar stocked with the finest top-shelf liquor, borrowed as part of his tribute from an adjacent bar he kept tabs on. The wine, however, was stolen from the cellars of selfish men—regularly replaced with younger, inferior vintages, knowing the owners would rarely, if ever, discover the swap. It was said that there wasn’t a wine cellar within fifty miles of Austin still possessing its own original stock. Old Scraps placed that range at closer to seventy. And on nights when the wine ran low, he would drunkenly stagger out into the street, lure a stray dog close, then ride it madly through the night in search of unmolested wine cellars. He always returned on an exhausted hound with the best wine money could buy.