by Sean Cullen
“Um … yeah, I guess. The substitute teacher, Mr. Greenleaf, was weird again.”
His father laughed. “Then everything was as it should be, eh?”
“Yeah.” For an instant, Brendan was tempted to tell his father about Mr. Greenleaf, the walk in the park, the weird feelings he had been having, but he decided against it. They wouldn’t get it. Delia would rip him mercilessly. His parents would think he was just having some teenage freak-out or something, and make him sit through a prolonged analysis. Ugh. He shovelled some pasta into his mouth. It tasted good. He felt a little better. He started to relax. After all, everything was right with the world: his sister was being a total brat, his dad was cracking horrible jokes as his mum shook her head and rolled her eyes. This was his family. This was normal.
Still, as he looked around the table at the people he’d known all his life, he couldn’t suppress a feeling that things were going to change, that his life would never be the same. Something was coming that would alter the life he had known.
Brendan, would you chill? What is wrong with you? One smack with a ball and a kooky teacher and you totally lose it. Come on. He made a conscious effort to throw off his gloomy state of mind, concentrating on his father’s accounts of the strange customers he’d served that day. Usually, his father’s hilarious stories cheered him up, but the dark feelings lingered all through dinner.
The dinner ended with Brendan washing the dishes and Delia drying. He was just putting the last dish in the cupboard when his mother said, “Wow. Have you been using something new on your skin?”
“No,” Brendan replied, confused. “Why?”
His mother frowned and reached out to touch his cheek. “It just looks clearer today than usual.”
“Yeah,” Delia interjected. “Most days your face makes me want to barf, but today, I just gagged a little.”
Brendan whipped the wet dishtowel at her, but his sister ducked easily out of reach. “Too slow, Dorko!”
“Why are these people my children!” Mum sighed.
Delia laughed and ran out of the kitchen, in a hurry to get her homework done and get to her rendezvous at the rec centre.
“You need any help with anything else, Mum?” Brendan asked.
“No, you go do your homework. And your skin does look a lot better.”
Brendan felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He wasn’t used to compliments from girls, even if the girl in question was his mother. He went back down the hall to retrieve his books. As he passed the mirror on the wall by the coat rack, he decided to take a look to see what his mother was talking about. He leaned in close to the mirror and studied his face.
“She’s right,” Brendan whispered. The usual cluster of zits that plagued the corners of his mouth was fading. The giant angry, potential- Siamese-twin34 pimple between his brows was half the size it had been that morning. “Wow.” Well, one thing had gone right today, even if he had absolutely no control over it. Brendan grabbed his books off the hall table before his mum saw them and went up to his room.
Brendan’s room was at the very top of the house, a converted attic that he reached via a steep set of narrow stairs that were more like a ladder than a real stairway. Brendan had begged for the room even though his mother and father had been dubious. The steep steps and his natural clumsiness were a dangerous mix. In the end, he’d prevailed. Delia was fine with him taking the attic room. She had a room with a tiny balcony to herself looking out over the street.
Brendan hoisted himself up into the room and tossed his books onto the small single bed. He stood up and immediately cracked his skull on the roof.
“Ow,” he grunted aloud, rubbing his scalp. He’d lived in this room for years and he still banged his head every day like clockwork. Shaking his head in self-disgust, he went to his desk and sat down at the computer, being careful to duck beneath the slanted wooden beams that sloped overhead. He’d cracked his skull even more lately as he had shot up a foot in the last couple of years.
The room was small and cramped. As a result, Brendan had to keep the place meticulously tidy. His sister’s room was liberally carpeted with dirty clothes and half-eaten food. Brendan had always been a neat freak. His cleaning habits gave Delia further fuel for her nerd insults, but Brendan didn’t care.
The slanted roof was plastered with movie posters, mostly sci-fi films. A small bookshelf held comic books and paperbacks. His bed was small and narrow, tucked under the eaves next to a tiny bedside table. On the table sat a combination iPod dock and clock radio. He reached over and switched on the iPod; after a few clicks, music filled the small room.
Brendan had a wide range of musical interests. At school, everyone fell into categories: punk, goth, metalheads, emo kids, euro house music fans. Everyone seemed to feel the need to lock themselves into a certain genre. For comfort, he supposed. Belonging to a group made things easier in high school.
Brendan found it funny that a school like the Robertson Davies Academy, even though it was a melting pot of nerds and misfits gathered from the four corners of the city, was still full of cliques and clans. Some were thought to be nerds by other nerds.35 You’d think a nerd was safe to be a nerd at nerd school but no such luck. Brendan had so far managed to remain outside any group. He had banded together with Harold, Dmitri, and Kim. Together they formed their own group. He and his friends were like the ubernerds, ultranerds, and nerd untouchables.
Which made it even weirder that Kim had latched onto them. He couldn’t figure it out. Maybe she was a nerd on the inside. Kim always seemed a little exasperated with him and his friends, but she hadn’t dumped them so far. The year is young, he reminded himself.
HE JUMPED when his father knocked on the ladder—he didn’t have a door for his room. Sitting up, he managed not to knock his head again. His father’s head and shoulders popped up through the hole in the floor.
“You ready to go?”
“Go? Go where?”
“The concert tonight. Remember? I got the free tickets.”
Brendan had forgotten. He groaned inwardly at the thought of going to see Deirdre D’Anaan at Convocation Hall. Going to see a show was the last thing he felt like doing. He’d rather just lie down and take it easy tonight after all he’d been through today. He opened his mouth to try to beg off but stopped. The picture on the poster loomed in his mind. He recalled how he had felt when he’d seen it in the bus shelter by the pizza shop: like destiny was calling.
“Let me change out of my school stuff.”
“Cool. Ten minutes in the lobby, Mr. Clair.”
34 Brendan is exaggerating, of course, but there is one documented instance of a man growing a twin out of his forehead in Eastern Turkey. That is to say, the man was in Eastern Turkey, not his forehead. Well, to be accurate, both the man and his forehead were in Eastern Turkey. And the twin as well.
35 Nerd is a term that first appears in the Dr. Seuss opus If I Ran the Zoo. It has come to refer to a person who passionately pursues intellectual activities, esoteric knowledge, or other obscure interests that are age inappropriate rather than engaging in more social or popular activities. To be judged a nerd by other nerds is a sad situation to find oneself in. There have been some pretty wonderful nerds throughout history: Socrates, Copernicus, Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci. I don’t care if Galileo could carve on his snowboard: he observed that the Earth revolved around the sun, which is way cooler, if you ask me.
THE CONCERT
They walked through the chill of the autumn evening. Brendan was basking in the afterglow of his streetmeat,36 a special treat that he and his father had picked up on the way. Soon they were standing in front of the polished wooden doors of the concert hall.
Convocation was one of Brendan’s favourite buildings on the whole university campus. As a little kid, Brendan had come here to see Christmas concerts and hear chamber music with his mother, and he always looked forward to being inside the place. The seats, already full of buzzing concert-goers, were dark
and polished oak, arranged in a circular pattern around the central stage.
Brendan’s dad presented the tickets to the usher, who guided them to their seats, a bench about halfway to the stage.
As they sat, Brendan’s dad pointed at the stage. “She doesn’t have any drum kit,” he observed. “All acoustic. This should be interesting.”
Looking at the stage, Brendan took stock of the instruments. The stage was arranged in sections, each devoted to a type of instrument. One area had a number of stringed instruments: fiddles of various sizes, a mandolin, and a guitar. Next to that was a rack of small drums and percussion instruments: tabla,37 bongos, bells, and blocks. A rack full of different woodwinds glittered under the house lights: whistles, flutes, and fifes. Finally, in the centre of the stage was a simple, low stool. There were no microphones at all.
“There’re no amplifiers,” Brendan said. “How will they fill the hall?”
“I don’t know.” Brendan’s dad frowned. “The hall’s pretty good acoustically, but that’s the thing with this performer, she insists on playing halls with no amplification. She’s a bit eccentric. She’s a recluse, and she doesn’t perform live very often, but she has a dedicated, almost cult following.”
At that point, the lights began to dim and a ripple of excitement coursed through the audience. This was the part of every show that Brendan loved the most, the moment before any note had been struck, before judgments were made, when all the audience perched on the edge of their seats, eager to be delighted. After an endless instant, the thrum of a harp was heard. The stage blazed into being as if conjured into existence by some magical power. The wail of a violin and the pounding of an Irish drum throbbed in counterpoint to the lilting, dancing tones of the harp. The musicians had taken their places in the darkness and now they sat or stood on the stage, playing feverishly.
Effortlessly, Deirdre D’Anaan commanded the focus, her red hair hanging about her gorgeous face as her fingers danced across the strings of her harp, resting between her knees. She wore a long gown of forest-green velvet embroidered with twining vines of golden thread that chased each other along her arms and around her neck. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and her lips curved ever so slightly in a faint smile. She looked like a dreaming angel.
Brendan wasn’t aware of anything but the music. The sound was like nothing he’d ever heard before. He had seen Celtic musicians before, heard reels and jigs and Irish ballads, but the music Deirdre played was something altogether different.
He had no idea how long the song went on, but it ended with a final flourish of the drum. The hall echoed with the last note for a long moment before the crowd erupted into applause and roars of approval. Brendan fell back against the bench. He was breathing hard, and his clothing was soaked with sweat. The scar was aching anew, burning and prickling as though the wound were fresh.
Brendan’s father sat down, still applauding. He turned to Brendan and said, “Wow! That was incredible. Thirty-five minutes non-stop! I …” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Brendan? Are you okay?”
“Huh,” Brendan mumbled. “Yeah. Fine … just a little … I don’t know … tired?” Brendan pushed his fingers under the frame of his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
His father frowned. “You don’t look fine.” He laid a hand on Brendan’s forehead. “Whoah. You’re really warm. Are you sick?”
“Nah. I don’t think so.”
“Maybe we should go …”
“No!” Brendan sat up. He was suddenly aware that he had spoken quite loudly and immediately felt very self-conscious. In a more quiet tone he added, “No. I’ll be okay. Let’s stay.”
His father frowned. “You sure?” Brendan could tell that his father wanted to hear more but would leave if Brendan asked him to. But Brendan didn’t want to go. Despite the weird way he was feeling, he wanted to hear more, had to hear more. There was something in the music that he needed.
“Welcome.” Deirdre D’Anaan’s voice filled the hall. She didn’t shout or raise her voice, but it was as though she were speaking directly into his ear. Her voice was rich and vibrant with a lilt of accent that Brendan couldn’t place. “Old friends and new, we’re glad you’ve come. What a grand hall and glorious night. On such a night we may bring the seen and unseen together. Can you feel it?” She raised her arms. “The spirits gather. They are drawn to the sound.”
“Oh brother,” Brendan’s father snorted. Others nearby looked at him sharply. Brendan felt the urge to join them in disapproval. It sounded hokey but there was something happening here. He could sense it. He believed she was telling the truth. He believed that she was talking to him.
“This is a special night for those who choose to see. Open your eyes and your heart. I’d like to sing a special song tonight. It’s called ‘The Misplaced Prince.’”
Some members of the audience sighed aloud at her words. Brendan felt tempted to sigh as well.
Having spoken the words, she lowered her hands to the harp and struck a chord. Brendan shivered at the sound. The woman raised her clear voice in song. The words she sang were in a language he didn’t understand, soft and sibilant, full of yearning. But as she sang, the words became clearer. He began to understand.
Who is he that left his home
Cast out in the world alone?
To live his life in strangers’ care?
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
His glory hidden, dark and deep
His spirit leaden, forced to sleep
Who will wake him? Who would dare?
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
Come back, my prince, and join us soon
Your people wait beneath the moon
To welcome you back in the fold
With gifts of amber, jade, and gold.
Come home.
Come home.
The words and the music were so haunting that Brendan couldn’t resist joining in the song. He looked about him and saw there were others singing as well. His father looked at him wide-eyed.
“Since when do you speak Gaelic?”38
Brendan didn’t understand at first. Had he been singing? In a language he didn’t understand? “I don’t … I must have heard this song before, or something,” he answered. Something above caught his eye, and when he looked up into the vault of the domed ceiling, he gasped.
The air was alive with lights like tiny flitting fireflies chasing one another about. As he watched, the lights became more defined. He saw that they were tiny winged figures fluttering about in the upper reaches of the hall. The variety of little creatures was astonishing. Dark-eyed snouted creatures with the leathery wings of bats flapped among them. Here and there, tiny human figures covered head to toe in colourful feathers soared on invisible air currents with exquisite bird wings. They moved in time to the music.
He pointed upward. “Do you see them? It’s beautiful.”
Brendan’s father followed his gaze with a worried expression. “See who? See what?”
All the while, the music continued. The chorus repeated, “Come home! Come home!” The harp and the fiddle kept up a counterpoint with the drum, throbbing in Brendan’s chest, infusing his whole body with the rhythm. He began to sway, holding his arms out to the sides.
“Come home! Come home!” he sang. He felt a powerful surge of joy. He wanted to move! He wanted to leap and run and shout. He pushed past his father into the aisle.
“Brendan,” his father said sternly, grabbing his son’s arm. Brendan twisted free and stepped down the aisle toward the stage, where Deirdre D’Anaan sang the next verse, her voice like a magnet to the young boy. Her eyes were blazing grey stars. Her fingers flew over the harp strings, and as Brendan watched, he saw that a tiny creature wove in and out of her fingers as she played. It was like the others inhabiting the upper air of the vault, but when it stopped to stare, perching on the top of the sound post of the harp, its tiny eyes were fierce and it grinned in an unpleasant way t
hat chilled Brendan’s heart.
See him come and take his place
At last to join the noble race
Sound the trumpet! Split the air!
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There!
The Dark and Light shall be as one
The children of the Moon and Sun
Shall be redeemed, the world to share
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
Brendan looked about him, his father forgotten. In the crowd, some people stood out. They were more vibrant, more powerful presences. They were as different from the others around them as wildflowers are from blades of grass.
He turned his attention back to the stage and found himself staring directly into the bottomless eyes of Deirdre D’Anaan. The tiny creature perched on her shoulder was pointing directly at him. She sang and it was like a fist clenching around his chest, constricting his breathing.
It’s time to rise and take your place
To feel the sun upon your face
To face the truth if you may dare
Oh Prince of Neither Here Nor There!
Suddenly, the scar on his chest flared, obliterating his senses. He fell backward into someone’s arms. He looked up and expected to see his father but he was shocked to see it was Kim.
“Did you see them? Did you see them?” he gasped.
Kim just shook her head. “Can’t you ever stay out of trouble?”
36 Streetmeat in Toronto parlance is a sausage from a street vendor. A local ordinance prohibits the sale of any hot food on the streets of Toronto save for the hot dog or sausage. The limitation on the choice of cuisine has led to fierce competition between vendors to provide peripheral enticements to attract customers. These include offering a wide array of types of sausage, from the Polish garlic to the spicy Italian, presenting a bewildering array of condiments, and even one instance when a vendor offered a free kitten with each sausage sold. The vendor in question had his licence revoked in short order.