Exit Unicorns

by Cindy Brandner

  She closed her eyes, salt-rimed lashes pressing down against flushed cheeks and reached for her dress which was placed gently in her hand. So he knew then and was likely embarrassed by that which she could not keep secret.

  “Pat’s turned back. I’m just goin’ down the shore a ways to be certain I can keep a clear eye on him.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to actual speech.

  She managed the rest of the day fairly well. Pat came back to shore, exhausted and blue from cold and when he’d warmed sufficiently, they ate their lunch while Casey went out of his way to be charming. Her past considered, it was a form of behavior she found somewhat humiliating, it had been done as a salve over naked feeling before. She understood the play in all its acts now, and didn’t particularly want a part.

  Devlin Murphy had the face of a dissipated choirboy and the voice of a gelded angel. Over the years, his throat, having seen a river of whiskey and the smoke of thousands of tobacco fires, had begun to slip from a pure gold registry into the cooler tones of silver, mellowed and sweetened by the earthier base notes of bronze. Regardless of its place on the chart of precious metals though it was a voice heaven sent that sat in the base of its listener’s spine and spread tendrils of ether into the blood and cells and bone.

  He had at one time been an actual choirboy, possessed of cherubic curls, melting blue eyes and a voice that was surely meant for Gabriel. Beautiful enough in his youth to make priests, who still recalled the echoes of the flesh, pray for long hours on very hard floors. He was famous for a variety of reasons; a homegrown boy from the meanest part of Belfast, he had made it his primary occupation in life to record through music the entire history of the Republican movement. Among the favorites were a ballad about the Rising called ‘The Best of Intentions’, a long narrative song sung in two parts about the slaying of Michael Collins called ‘The Mouth of Flowers’ and ‘The Lord of Cork’ a lament for Terence MacSwiney who’d died on hunger strike whilst serving as the mayor of Cork. He was internationally known, internationally loved and still chose to make his home in Belfast. It was this last that made him most beloved to his Irish audience.

  Pamela, having been deprived of said dulcet tones all her life, was completely entranced. Devlin, a notorious womanizer with a nose for beauty, had spotted her by the end of his third song and proceeded, to the dismay of her escorts, to sing her a song ripe with double entendres. As he slithered his way into the ending of the tune, he espied something or someone of equal interest to her it seemed for his gaze, tenderly drunk, had lit on an aspect near her own and sobered swiftly.

  The next song, launched rapidly and with no remnant of the sozzled bard, was an onslaught. Irish pipes, Irish fiddle played to the farthest reaches of their keeper’s talents, lit the air with fire and rebellion, recalling every uprising, every wrong, every drop of blood shed on Irish ground. It was a call to arms. At the apex of the music that shot and sundered the night, Devlin Murphy, former choirboy and defiler of priestly dreams, rose and tipping back a headful of lusty yellow curls howled into the night. It pierced the air, took aim at the stars, drowned the pipes, washed away the fiddle and sat sharp and primitive in the marrow of all who heard it.

  “Now some of yez will have heard the tale I am about to tell before an’ some of yez will not,” Devlin’s voice had taken on an incantatory swing, his eyes fixing them to the ground with the force of hammered quartzite. “’Tis the tale of a black eyed boy,” his voice had lowered to a whisper, his eyes narrowed, one nicotine stained finger sweeping across his audience, “an’ the love he one time lost.”

  “Christ have mercy,” Casey’s groan was heartfelt, “he’s seen us.”

  “What’s going on?” Pamela whispered to Pat who sat scrunched against her right-hand side.

  “’The Black Eyed Boy’ is a poem—”

  “Callin’ it a poem is flattery,” Casey interjected.

  “Written,” Pat continued unperturbed, “by Devlin’s grandda’—”

  “A man of absolutely no talent,” Casey supplied.

  “In honor of our granddad Brendan, who—”

  “Was not so much honored as entirely humiliated by this particular bit of music.”

  “Nevertheless it was a well-intentioned piece of work even if Devlin’s grandda’, whose name was also Devlin by the way, was a bit left of center.”

  “Left of center?” Casey snorted, causing the people ahead of them to turn round and glare at him. “The man was stark ravin’ mad, thought he was the king’s own musician in the court of Finn MacCool. Ran naked down the lanes with nothin’ but ribbons in his hair half his life.”

  “Don’t exaggerate; he only did that on Sundays for religious reasons.”

  “So now runnin’ about in the altogether with roses an’ lace in yer hair is an accepted Christian practice?” Casey said bitingly.

  “Why did he write a poem about your grandfather?” Pamela hastily asked.

  “He thought,” Casey drew his eyebrows together for emphasis, “that grandda’ was Finn MacCool.”

  “Hush, the song is startin’,” Pat said as the musical lead up began its winding down into words. The pipes and fiddle had hushed to a soft moan when Devlin’s voice hissed like a rush of velvet into the atmosphere:

  A black-eyed boy

  Came he down

  From Carrickmore

  And Callagmaghtown.

  The way was dark

  The night uncertain

  When God’s finger

  Drew nigh the curtain,

  Revealed He fire

  Through that door,

  And the moon sat shivering

  On a foreign shore,

  Aye, the moon sat shivering

  On a foreign shore...

  The song wound on through a tale of war, defeat, love found and love lost, the tale of a black-eyed boy who near to died for the love of a redheaded girl. By the end of it, Pat’s jaw was slack and Casey’s face a stark white.

  “What in the name of Christ was that?” he asked no one in particular as the song ended in an eruption of clapping and cheering.

  “I have no idea, it sure an’ hell wasn’t his grandda’s version though,” Pat said, “that one began with ‘there was a boy named Finny MacCool’ an’ suffice it to say the rest is not fit for a lady’s ears.”

  “Ye’ll perhaps have noticed,” Devlin began, putting out his hands to still the applause, “that my wee song has been re-vamped somewhat an’ given a more serious tone, an’ though,” he smiled with cream coddling charm, “I’d like to take credit for the revisions I must bestow credit where credit is due, this new an’ may I say masterful version was compliments of our great poet, the last revolutionary to wield a pen, Mr. Jack Stuart. Many of yez will have no doubt heard the rumor that Jack was to be here tonight,” he paused as the expected gasp rose from the audience, “an’ though I am loathe to disappoint such a fine bunch as yerselves, I must sadly an’ with regret announce that Jack was detained in Paris an’ could not be here.” There was a great deflation of lungs and stomachs as disappointment sat down heavy on the shoulders of all assembled. To have been a part of history, to have been the first people to know whom Jack Stuart actually was, to have that hope dangled in one’s face and snatched back just as fast, well it was perhaps more indignity than even Devlin Murphy could cure. There were mutters and murmurs as Devlin inclined his head to one side and held up a hand once more.

  “Now I know ye all are sore disappointed but tonight, to my own surprise as well as yer own, I’ve discovered that we’ve the descendant of the real, original black-eyed boy here in the audience.”

  “Shit,” said Casey and Pat in perfect and profane unison as a murmur of curiosity rippled across the crowd.

  “Our country,” Devlin said once again commanding the audience’s attention, “is standin’ on the fissure between the grievances of the past an’ the promi
se of a new future. A bright,” he twisted the word sharply, “future, bright with neon signs an’ shiny new cars, bright with regular paychecks an’ a garage attached to a three bedroom in the suburbs, bright with the light of television screens. So bright in fact that we’ll be hypnotized, they’re bettin’, by all the things we can purchase with our regular little paychecks. So bright that we’ll not be able to look away from the promise of prosperity to the past, to that which lays just over our shoulders. They are certain we’ll forget what our ancestors fought an’ died for, that we won’t care why five years out of a young man’s life can be taken away from him as this young man’s was, Casey stand up.”

  Casey muttering curses that encompassed the names of half the population of the New Testament, slowly got to his feet. The audience turned and eyed him in complete silence. “For the last five years this boy has been incarcerated in Parkhurst Prison, on British soil, by British law and judgment a terrorist. This boy,” Devlin strode out into the crowd with measured steps, “whose father died in service to this country, whose grandfather was the man who almost brought the British to their knees during the civil war, this boy has already had to give them five years of his life merely for the bein’ the wrong race in the wrong country at the wrong time.’

  ‘But we,” he smiled cannily, “why should we care about these things, these wrongs, we with our full bellies an’ electrical lightin’, with our four door cars an’ entertainment to be had for the price of twistin’ a knob. The past is after all the past an’ everyone, ourselves included, tells us that that’s where it should lie, in the past,” Devlin’s voice had become deceptively soothing, hot gravy being poured over an otherwise unpalatable meal, “There’s only one problem with sleeping dogs, though, people, they leave their throat exposed for the wolf to come an’ tear out. An’ we know who the wolf is, don’t we? We have always known the wolf even when he paraded in the dress of a lamb. We have known,” he shook his head sadly, “an’ yet we have opened the door an’ given him our throat again an’ again.” Devlin sighed, a melodic outpouring of air that seemed to encompass the pain of every Irish existence. Casey, looking extremely uncomfortable, shifted from one foot to the other, the very picture of glowering misery. “We’ve been told by the deal-makers in their German made automobiles that this is ground zero, starting here, starting now Ireland can begin again, she can put her hands in the pot an’ take her share of the booty this time an’ all its gadgets an’ baubles has to offer. But I ask at what price, that of her soul? Is that a fair price for a car, a house, a holiday in Spain? Is it? So the question becomes, do we surrender to a new sort of oppression, is servitude more bearable if it comes wrapped in tinsel an’ ribbon? Do we,” Devlin’s eyes, narrowed and hard, pinned each person in turn, “give them our throats once again? This young man,” he seized Casey’s elbow and thrust him forward, “says no an’ so do I. What say you my brothers an’ sisters, what say you?” He allowed a long moment to lapse and then in an altogether more genial tone said, “I’ll be takin’ a break for now, avail yerself of the refreshments as I certainly intend to.”

  “What the hell,” Casey muttered as the usual hot-eyed groupies began to cluster and move towards Devlin with intent, “was that for?”

  Devlin smiled smoothly, a shark’s smile for the girls advancing on him. “Ye smell like ye’ve been swimmin’ in a vat of herring, shall we go an’ have a drink?”

  “Aye,” Casey sighed, “I suppose we might as well, just let me fetch my brother an’ my—” he halted suddenly.

  “An’ yer what?” Devlin cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “My brother’s friend.”

  “Pat’s doin’ rather nicely for himself these days,” Devlin smiled knowingly at Casey.

  For a man who decried the ravages of modern comfort so stirringly Devlin had a very comfortable, very large trailer. And the very finest of whiskey, which he told them to help themselves to while he ‘signed a few autographs, kissed a few lips an’ dealt with his public.’

  “You know him?” Pamela asked from the depths of an orange velveteen couch.

  “In a manner of speakin’, our da’ used to see his older sister at one time,” Casey said nonchalantly, peering through the bead-fringed curtain to what looked to be a bed of mammoth proportions in the back end of the trailer.

  “Saw her quite frequently, she was our mother,” Pat said, voice tight, whiskey Casey had poured lying untouched before him.

  “That man,” Pamela coughed around the harsh fumes of her drink, “is your uncle?”

  “Aye,” Casey drew the syllable out with great reluctance, “that he is.”

  “We shouldn’t have come here tonight,” Pat said angrily, “we were just askin’ for trouble, ye know the sort of company Devlin keeps, ye knew this might happen.”

  “Aye, I knew,” Casey replied mildly, meeting his brother’s stare unblinkingly, “as did you.”

  “Why are we here?” The air around Pat was charged with tension.

  “To hear one of Ireland’s finest musicians sing, don’t read anything else into it.” Casey’s tone was still mild but the look in his eyes was not.

  “Ye let him use ye out there an’ now yer in here drinkin’ his whiskey as if not a thing was amiss in the world.” Pat stood, white-faced, body one long fuse of anger.

  “The appearance of a thing,” Casey said coolly, “is not necessarily the truth of it.”

  “Ye bloody bastard,” Pat whispered face incredulous, his hands curling into fists, “why the hell did ye even come back, if this is what ye had in mind?”

  “Sit down Pat an’ calm yerself.”

  “I don’t take orders from ye anymore big brother,” Pat spit the final two words out as if he could no longer bear the taste of them in his mouth. “An’ make no mistake if ye an’ Devlin are cookin’ some mad scheme up between the two of ye I want no part in it, no part at all do ye understand?” With that, he flung open the door and strode out into the night, slamming the door so hard behind him that the entire trailer shook.

  “I’m sorry ye had to hear that.” Casey drove his hands through his short curls, rubbing his scalp until his hair stood on end like an electrocuted hedgehog.

  “It’s alright,” Pamela said, “I haven’t got the slightest idea what’s going on. And,” she added as Casey parted his lips to speak, “I think for now I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “As ye like,” Casey said sounding relieved. “Would ye care for another drink?”

  Pamela, who felt like butter left to melt in the sun, said she would. Casey grabbed the bottle and came to sit beside her, still smelling distinctly fishy. He refilled her glass and his own generously and placed the bottle back on the table.

  “How is it,” he asked quietly, “that I’ve spent days in yer company now an’ I’ve never yet heard ye speak of where yer from or of yer family?”

  “I don’t have a family, not anymore at least,” she said, “and I’m not from anywhere in particular, though right now I suppose I could say I’m from Belfast.”

  She let her head fall back into the cushions and turned it to the side, only to find disconcertingly, that Casey had done the same and was a scant few inches away from her. She could smell his scent, the one that underlay the reek of whale oil and blood and found it warm and comforting. As if right now it was safe not to lie.

  “I was born in County Clare, spent my summers there as a child occasionally but for the most part I grew up in New York. I don’t know my mother, my father’s dead and my grandparents were gone long before I was born. So there’s only me,” she giggled, feeling like a legless puddle, “you see.”

  “I see,” he reached out a hand and ran a thumb softly along the line of her jaw, “that you are very drunk.”

  “Am I? I thought I was only very,” she hiccoughed, “tired.”

  “Aye well,” his dark eyes were swimming in and out of foc
us, “a nap wouldn’t be amiss I’m thinkin’. I’ll take ye home after Devlin gets back.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly sleep in front of,” her eyelids seemed to be closing of their own accord, each the weight of a large and immovable stone, “a stranger,” she said blearily, vaguely aware of a hand brushing her hair back from her forehead.

  “Hush, ye could do with a sleep.”

  It seemed, though the words came from far away, very sensible advice, so she, very sensibly, took it.

  He had watched Devlin Murphy’s little performance and wanted, for a moment, to throttle the nervy bastard there on the spot. However it would have been a disastrous move on his part and he had after all enjoyed the spectacle somewhat. ‘Must announce sadly an’ with regret that Jack has been detained in Paris,’ he’d enjoyed that bit, the bugger had balls he’d grant him that.

  Raising his face to the night sky, eyes the tint and hue of half-lived stars, Jack Stuart wondered what the people would have thought if they’d known he’d stood in their midst all night. And reflected as he turned his feet homeward that it wasn’t something he could afford to find out.

  “Shush,” Casey said to his uncle, who having been sufficiently adored was back and ready for a drink. “She’s asleep.”

  “I can see that,” Devlin said, “Pat’s girlfriend eh?” He raised an eyebrow at the salt-encrusted curls and flushed cheeks, like those of a child, that lay across Casey’s lap.

  “She fell over,” Casey said by way of explanation, “pure exhausted.”

  “Mmphm,” was Devlin’s only reply. He disappeared into the back of the trailer only to re-emerge moments later, heady with expensive aftershave and appearing every inch the unrepentant lecher in a gray cashmere sweater and Italian silk pants to match. Casey let out a long, low whistle.

  “Hot date?”

  “Aye, ye could say so. I’ll not be needin’ my trailer tonight so yer welcome to the use of it.”