Solstice Song

by Colleen Charles

  “Can you fix it?” I ask, peering out the front windshield. A rickety road sign passes through our headlights. I barely make out the white reflective lettering. Wintervale 8 km.

  “I’m a driver, not a dot.com techie. Probably just the weather interfering with the radio waves. There’s a town up ahead,” Mel says, pointing at the sign. “Maybe we can call from there.”

  “Can’t you just get him on your cell? We pay enough for network service,” I say, praying that some divine entity will bestow the heavenly rays of a cell signal upon him.

  Mel shakes his head. “Where’ve you been? No cell service the last two hours. Haven’t seen a tower for miles, either.”

  Wracking my brain, I come to the conclusion that the last time I used my phone for a live call was at the hotel in Waterford this morning. Jesus, even the North Pole has cell towers. What kind of country is this? No sooner did the words leave Mel’s lips when a shuddering ‘clunk’ jolts the bus sideways, and me along with it. I shriek as I nearly slip off the padded seat and into the aisle in a tangle of petrified limbs.

  “What the fuck?” Mel curses a few other interesting expletives, jerking the wheel to keep us on the road.

  I straighten back up and glare at Mel in abject terror. “What was that? I feel like I’ve stumbled into some alternate universe. Kind of like an Irish version of the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Hang on, pretty girl, we’ll get back on the road in no time. Never fear, Mel is here.”

  A series of gut-wrenching thuds from deep within the vehicle’s core follow his bright and shiny message, bringing us to a jittery halt. Mel works the gears in an attempt to get us moving again.

  “Oh my God,” I say on the breath I’d been holding. “Don’t tell me we hit something. Don’t tell me we killed something.”

  “I don’t think so. Engine’s still running. Could be just a flat, I’ll check.” Mel dons a coat and ball cap and opens the doors. A blast of wind and snow rush in, almost knocking me back on my ass again.

  A flat? It feels like more than a flat tire. I make my way to the back windows, praying I won’t see a dead animal in our wake. I love all God’s creatures big and small. In fact, I wanted to bring my Yorkshire terrier with me on this trip, but my assistant didn’t procure the appropriate vet paperwork in time, so Daisy’s with my bestie, Anne Lawrence. Luckily, Anne loves the little munchkin like her own. We’ve even Skyped since I left L.A., but seeing my sweet girl go a little doggy cray-cray when she hears my voice breaks my heart, so I’ve kept the check-ins to a minimum.

  The red glow of the tail lights reveal nothing but rutted road and swirling snow. I feel Mel kicking the tires as the small bus gives a little shimmy in response to his booted foot. After several thumps and muffled curses, he climbs back into the cab.

  “Tires look fine but weren’t made for this kind of weather.” He shakes the snow from the brim of his hat. “This has gotta have an emergency frequency,” he says, reaching for the radio handset again and punching buttons on the dashboard.

  I swallow hard. I don’t do emergencies—I have people to take care of them for me so I can keep myself off the Xanax and Zoloft I so richly deserve. People like Mel. But he’s just one man, and I feel sorry that somehow this is all falling on his shoulders just like the soft snowflakes from outside. Still, he’s the calm one. I listen to his systematic, monotone hails into the radio, attempting to raise the emergency network.

  As minutes drag on without a response, I stem my growing apprehension by reaching for Helen, my acoustic guitar. She never strays far from my sight. Helen is my anchor, my lighthouse in times of stress, and even more so in times of happiness and creativity. I hold her lightly against me, stroking her neck and strings with a nervous energy I can’t really explain. Even though the situation’s frightening, I’m sure there aren’t any serial killers wandering this stretch of isolated road in a blizzard. But I don’t like it. And I’m not comfortable with my own discomfort. Drawing calm from the old guitar, I just hold it but don’t play as Mel works on the radio.

  Finally, a scratchy blip of noise issues from the speaker. I hug Helen’s curvy body in relief. I named her after my mother. Since I can’t hug the pillowy bosom and drown my sorrows against the soft curves of the real thing when I live so far away from her, constantly touring or sequestered in a recording studio, I hug my guitar in her stead, convinced she’ll feel my love and longing through her.

  Mom, I could really use your comfort right now.

  “Roadside assistance,” crackles the voice over the radio. “Location, please.”

  Mel gives our route, destination, and position to the dispatcher, and we look at each other with wrinkled brows as we attempt to decipher the responder’s thick brogue speech. After several minutes of muddling through the conversation, I get the impression there isn’t a rescue vehicle capable of towing a bus our size readily available, and the weather conditions are already triggering a large volume of emergency calls. Just like if you have to call your credit card company, they answer them in the order in which they’re received. The dispatcher’s advice?

  “Stay put and keep the frequency open.”

  Mel acknowledges her and sits back in his seat. “Fuck. Lot of fucking help they’ll be. I’m starting to like your horse and wagon idea.”

  “It was a joke,” I say with a sigh, plucking a random tune softly from Helen’s strings to settle the mounting tension we both feel. Even though Mel hasn’t let on to his internal thoughts, there’s a negative energy crackling between us that isn’t normal.

  “This country is a joke,” Mel scoffs. “How can a nation with such a thriving internet industry still have highways the size of one-lane horse trails within a hundred miles from a major city and no cell towers where you need them? Un-fucking-believable.”

  I frown and focus on the feel of the guitar strings against my fingertips. If I allow my mind to slip elsewhere, I’ll lose it for sure. Mel will know what to do. He always does. Since I lost my dad to a heart attack, Mel’s stepped in and stepped up as a surrogate of sorts. He’s been with me since I played gigs in dive bars behind chain link. I can trust him.

  I feel the air temperature falling even further but concentrate on keeping my fingers moving and my mind from wandering down roads featuring darkness and certain danger. Music always protects me, keeps me sane. As I free my thoughts, a new melody floats from my guitar, enveloping me in a blanket of musical protection. Familiar, yet foreign. I haven’t composed anything like it that I recall, but it repeats over and over again in my head and flows naturally from my instrument as if it’s been placed there by some sort of divine inspiration.

  Without warning, Mel bangs his fist on the dashboard. I jump, startled out of my creative trance by his outburst. Oh no. If Mel’s lost his cool, I won’t have a hope in hell of keeping mine.

  “What?” I say, worried that something else, something even worse has gone wrong.

  “The battery won’t last if we keep the systems running. I have no intention of freezing to death out here or letting the famous rock and roller Savannah Starr miss a gig and disappoint her fans.” He stands and pulls his Rams cap down firmly on his head. “I’m walking into town.”

  “Mel!” I cry, setting Helen aside. “You can’t. They say to stay put. The snow’s getting worse.”

  “Exactly, it’s going to drift us in and make it impossible to tow us out if we wait for the locals to come to us. So, I’m going to them.”

  “You don’t know where you’re going—don’t be crazy. There could be wild animals out there.”

  Mel laughs, but it sounds tinny and more like a pathetic cry for help. “On this lump of rock? Any self-respecting predator would have cleared out centuries ago. Besides, it’s only a few kilometers to that next town, Winterston, according to the sign back there.” He gestures out the back window.

  “Wintervale.” My lower lip forms a dubious pout. “How far is that in miles?” If it’s only a couple, I’d understand, but kilome
ters is foreign to me. I have no idea if that’s more or less than a mile, and I can’t even look it up on my phone to avoid looking stupid.

  “Oh, seven or eight thousand yards. Less than five miles, no sweat.”

  Mel’s a big enough man, hearty and in his mid-forties. Experienced. He can do it. Now isn’t the time to pull the self-absorbed, needy pop star stunt. I have to let him know how much I trust him.

  “If you’re sure,” I relent with a sigh, then wag my finger at him. “But if you’re not back in two hours, Tobin, you’re off the payroll.” My threat is weak, and he knows it. Nothing short of a felony could make me cut Mel loose.

  “If I’m not back in one hour, you can dock my pay. For now, I’m locking you in, so don’t step outside or you’re screwed.” Mel salutes and hits the controls to open the door once more. “I shall return!” he announces, a la General MacArthur. I return his salute with more confidence than I truly feel inside. The door closes, and I watch him march away from the bus, my heart constricting in fear.

  “You damn well better,” I mutter. I’m not about to lose another father, even if it’s only a quasi one.

  Just as he disappears from view, I hear a noise, like a distant, haunting moan. Adrenaline shoots through me, spiking in my brain. Fucking hell, is that a wolf? I’d rather take my chances with the Leprechauns and Gypsies. Hell, I’ve watched “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.” The worst they can do is wrap my body in yards of pink tulle embellished with enough rhinestones and twinkle lights to give Clark Griswold a seizure. With a shiver, I dive flat onto the padded bus seat and close my eyes. I grope for Helen with an outstretched hand and draw her over me like a shield.

  Music always protects me, and in this case, I hope that run of good luck continues.

  Chapter Two

  Ronan

  I sense the storm but didn’t expect it would descend so rapidly. Already, the snows obscure my path through the forest, making my task more difficult. The plants I need remained hardy through the autumn, but will certainly freeze if left under snow cover overnight, rendering them useless to me. With a holly switch, I brush away the new-fallen flakes from the undergrowth as I walk along, scanning for the familiar leaves and roots required for the upcoming Yule celebrations.

  The wind picks up, its high-pitched gusts whistling in the upper trees to remind me I should hurry up and get the hell back home before the weather worsens, and I can’t see my own hand in front of my face. My woven sling bag is nearly full of herb sprigs, corms, and cuttings, but I press on, determined to find an elusive specimen that’s not native to the island, but somehow found its way here on some ancient trading vessel. Its berries will be of ideal ripeness right now.

  I’m nearing the road that leads into town, though it’s not much wider than a single vehicle. I decide if I don’t find any Skimmia Japonica between here and the roadway berm, I’ll turn back and tell Caris we’ll have to skip that ingredient for her wassail this year. She won’t like it, but I don’t see her out here making an effort to help. She has better things to do, like meeting the brewery truck for the weekly delivery. If I ran the local, I’m sure that’d be my priority too. Come to think of it, a pint of Guinness would go down nicely right now. Perhaps if the snow tapers off, I might ride into town and pay my lovely sister a visit. Nothing like a pint to chase away the icy cold fingers of a winter storm.

  But that prospect looks none too promising. The overcast skies allow even less light than usual through the forest clearings, and the snowflakes fall fat and wet on the pine boughs, weighing them down. They cling to my eyelashes and beard, blurring my vision and forming icicles around my lips. Dammit, I knew I should have worn a hat. What I really should do is get my stupid arse back to my cottage and hunker down until this shite blows over. I shield my eyes from the oncoming sleet, searching for the end of the trail where it meets the road. I blink away the melting flakes to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Something big’s blocking the roadway—something that has no business being there.

  Little enough traffic comes this way at the best of times and certainly nothing the size of what I see in front of me now. It’s perched in the middle of the road at a slight angle, snow caked onto the windows, wheels, and headlights. As I draw closer, I can hear a diesel engine running. What in the hell is a thirty-foot motor coach doing anywhere near Wintervale? Why isn’t it moving? This multi-wheeled, exhaust-belching beast belongs on the M-74 several kilometers to the east, not here, polluting my staunchly guarded forest home. My anger rises as the foul fumes assault my nostrils.

  I move out of the trees and onto the roadway, giving the vehicle a wide berth, approaching it from the rear and stepping in a wide circle until I reach the front and stand in the beam of the headlights. The wipers pivot in a weak arc against the oncoming snow. Just as I look into the pitiful patch of cleared windshield, the engine stops.

  Then a blood-curdling scream pierces my ears.

  I step back, glancing left and right into the woods, but the sound comes from inside the coach. I stare into the glass again, just in time to see a pale face recoil from my sight and into the darkened interior. Shite! Someone is inside. A shrieking female with a high-pitched voice which can only mean one thing, and I hate it.

  The dramatics.

  I step to the driver’s door and give it a solid knock. Away from the cover of trees, the wind howls straight-on and turns the snowflakes to hard pellets that whip against my back. I’d like nothing better than to retreat the way I’ve come, get back to the shelter of my cottage before darkness sets in. But the motor coach looks warm and dry inside, and its occupant is clearly not from around here. In Wintervale, there are no strangers, only neighbors. This one might need help. Or directions. Or a good lecture for obstructing the roadway and polluting the virgin forest air. I pound on the hinged door again, annoyance fueling my grip.

  Finally, it opens with a mechanical hiss. I peer inside, barely making out a figure cowering behind the driver’s empty seat as the pelting snow crosses my vision. “What do you want?”

  Just as I suspected, a woman’s voice. What the feck is a female doing in there all alone? Does she actually drive this thing?

  “To get in from the cold, for a start,” I say, placing one foot on the step. It appears that I can add rude to her list of faults before I even know her name. Who lets a man shiver from the cold when there’s a warm haven a few feet away?

  If Cos were here, he’d call her a townie tramp and spit in her face. But Cos likes to stay in Wintervale common and never ventures out for a visit during any type of weather. Cos doesn’t have much time for strangers.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she breathes, her American accent noticeable. All the pieces are falling into place. Rude. Check. Inhospitable. Check check. Go the feck back to your garish country, woman. “I don’t know you. Who are you?”

  Fecking hell. In the middle of a raging snowstorm, in a foreign country, and the molly wants me to produce some kind of physical identification? She’s the intruder here. “Freezing me arse off, so I am.” I take another step up. “Mind?” I say, closing the folding doors behind me to stop the wind and slush from spoiling the toasty warm inside.

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  “There.” I turn to have a closer look, but the lass shrinks herself down to a wee midge peering out from behind the seat like a frightened sheep. Jaysus, you’d think I just asked her to lick Stinker’s Bridge.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she whimpers.

  “Hurt yer?” I ask, squinting in her direction. As I wipe the wet from my eyes, I realize I must look like Sasquatch in my fur mack and icicles crusting in my beard. “I won’t be hurtin’ nobody, woman. But I’ll thank yer to move this beastie along, out of my forest.”

  “I can’t,” she squeaks, sounding on the verge of a crying jag. I shut my eyes, not wanting to witness even a single tear. I can’t take it. If women would stop for one fecking second, they’d realize their holes are meant to play the flute and not spew
their incessant demands. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s broken, and the engine just died. I’m waiting for a tow truck.”

  “Yer be havin’ a long wait, then,” I say, assuming she means a lorry with a winch. I look around the bus and see no one else with her. What’s she doing here? “Yer all by yer onesie?” Her green eyes widen, as though my reason for asking is to do her a nasty. At that moment, something strikes me as familiar. Those eyes and the heart-shaped face framed with silky, long hair black as a raven’s. Have I seen her somewhere before? Impossible. But she looks a fine ride, for all of that. The kind of woman who looks best on all fours with my cock splitting her wide open.

  Her pretty forehead spurs a wrinkle. “You mean alone? No,” she says, shakily rising to her feet. “Of course not. My driver’s gone to get help.”

  “On shanks pony?” I say in disbelief. “Is he daft? That’s a fool’s journey with weather settin’ in. There’s nair a town for eight kilos. Yer best come with me afore the storm gets worse. In good faith, I can’t leave yer here to die. My sister would ‘av me hide, just like me long-sufferin’ ma afore her.”

  “I’m sorry. I can barely understand you,” she says with a shake of her dark head. Truth be told, I have to strain my ears to fathom her speech as well. But I can’t help the way I talk in my thick brogue, and I can’t help but notice the tight-fitting threads she’s wearing underneath her open coat. Almost indecent, that. The neckline of her blouse plunges in a deep vee, her ample tits nearly hanging out. Not that the view isn’t savage, the kind to harden my tool if it weren’t so damn blistering cold. But any lass around here would have more kit on. These American girls give a new bent to the word indecency. “Please leave, sir. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”