Forests of the Heart

by Charles de Lint

  Since the other members of Fall Down Dancing weren’t available for tonight, Miki had fallen back on the Wednesday night sessions at The Harp to find a couple of other players, enlisting Amy Scanlon on pipes, whistle, and vocals, and Geordie Riddell on fiddle and flute. Amy and Geordie often played together as a duo and all four of them shared enough material in common that the big problem in putting together the sets they needed for this gig had been in what to leave out.

  When they’d arrived at the community center for their sound-check, the society members had been carefully setting out rows of folding chairs in front of the stage. By now, halfway through their first set, the audience had folded most of those chairs back up against the walls and the seating area had been turned into a dance floor. There was even a kind of mosh pit to the right of the stage, right in front of where Miki was sitting, where various punky-looking kids, all piercings and tattoos, and baggy-clothed skateboarder types were pogoing and generally carrying on, not even trying to dance, but having a great time.

  Miki knew that the way they carried on bugged some of the more staunch traditionalists. This sort of thing didn’t show the proper respect to the music. But she didn’t care. So long as they were having fun and not interfering with the others who were dancing, let them do what they wanted. Why, she thought with a laugh, if the fancy struck her, she might even have a go at crowd-surfing herself.

  When the set of reels they were playing came to an end, Miki grinned at Amy, sitting at the other end of the stage with her pipes across her knees. The two of them had brought the tune to a close with exactly the same twiddly-dum-dee-dum flourish. A wave of applause and stamping feet rose up from the dance floor, drowning out the band’s thank-yous. Looking down at the set list taped to the floor by her feet, Miki wished, and not for the first time, that she could bounce around the stage the way Geordie and Emma Jean could. But she and Amy were locked to their chairs by their instruments.

  “Now,” Geordie was saying into the microphone, “we’re going to take you from County Clare, where that last set originated, all the way across the Irish Sea and up into the Shetland Isles for a set of tunes from the playing of Tom Anderson. We’ll start with a hornpipe he wrote for the pianist Violet Tulloch, then move on into a pair of reels….”

  The community center wasn’t set up like a regular concert hall. The stage had some extra lighting on it, but the audience wasn’t lost in the usual sea of darkness. Sitting where she was, Miki could actually see the audience. As Emma Jean started the hornpipe, fingerpicking the melody on her guitar, Miki studied the crowd, looking for familiar faces.

  There was her brother Donal with Ellie—shame things hadn’t worked out between them—and the rest of his Crowsea arts crowd, Jilly, Sophie, Wendy, and all. Here and there she spotted regular customers from the store—how had they even known she was playing this gig? The advertising had all been for the previously slated band with only small corrections running in the “What’s On” sections of the papers on Friday and this morning. She recognized some Fall Down Dancing fans, then spied Hunter standing off to one side, near the back.

  Amy had joined Emma Jean now, her whistle playing harmonies to Emma Jean’s guitar lines. Hunter lifted a hand when he saw Miki looking at him.

  Miki smiled, then looked down at her instrument and pretended to check the workings of her bellows. She could feel a flush coming on and hoped it wasn’t noticeable from the audience—or at least not from where Hunter was standing.

  Donal shouldn’t have started in on teasing Hunter at the session the other night, and she shouldn’t have kept it up, because things had been getting a little awkward at the store ever since. Where usually she and Hunter had such an easy rapport between them, now everything felt stilted. She kept catching him studying her, his face a mix of puzzlement and that look some of the regulars got when they were trying to build up the nerve to ask her out. By Friday it had been a relief to be able to have the excuse to take Saturday off to work on material for tonight’s show.

  The trouble was, she didn’t know how she felt any more than Hunter knew how he did. For him the idea that she was interested in him would generate the simple relief that, okay, Ria had dumped him, but he wasn’t a complete loser; other women still found him interesting. She could almost see him working out the difference between his pal Miki and the woman Miki he’d probably never really looked at all that closely before. Certainly not in this way. One thing you could say about Hunter: He was steadfast and true. The whole time he’d been living with Ria, Miki had never once got the sense that he was in the least bit interested in another woman.

  For her own part, well, she’d been joking with Hunter at the session, taking it up where Donal had left it off, not at all serious, but it had been cozy, snuggled up beside him at the end there. She’d always looked at Hunter as a friend first, then her boss. Nothing else. Not because she didn’t find him attractive, or charming. Or fun, when it came down to it—the past few weeks notwithstanding. Part of the reason she’d not even considered him as boyfriend material had been because, well, he was taken, wasn’t he? And he was, what? Ten years older?

  Except that gap in their ages didn’t seem all that terribly wide—at least not anymore. When she was younger, yes, but now… And if they could get along as well as they did as friends, why should a closer relationship be any different? She’d always believed that lovers should be friends as well, because otherwise—

  She looked up suddenly, realizing that the band had jumped into the reel that followed “Violet Tulloch’s Hornpipe” and she’d missed her cue to come in with them. The audience wouldn’t know, but Emma Jean was giving her a puzzled look. Miki shrugged an apology to her bandmate, then waited for the “B” part of the tune to come around. It’d sound better if she came in then— like it was part of the arrangement.

  No more woolgathering, she told herself.

  When the others came to the end of the “A” part’s repeat, she was ready and joined in. Actually, she thought, that sounded pretty good. Gave the second part of the tune a nice little lift.

  She made herself stop thinking of anything but the music then, concentrating instead on the wash of sound coming back from the monitors, letting it pull her back into that fey state she could fall into so readily when a great tune banged up against a great audience. It didn’t take long before she was jigging in her seat once more, grinning wildly as she worked the bellows, the fingers of her right hand dancing up and down, and back and forth, between the two rows of melody buttons.

  It wasn’t until after the break, when they were playing their second set, that she noticed the line of tall, dark-haired men standing at the very back of the community center. Six, no, seven of them. She recognized them immediately from the sessions at The Harp. The hard men. Dressed in their dark broadcloth suits, cans of Guinness in hand. Appreciating the music, no doubt, though it was hard to tell from the guarded look in their eyes.

  She hoped they weren’t here to cause trouble.

  Well, it wasn’t her problem if they were. Jigabout had only been hired to play the music tonight, not deal with security as well.

  The a cappella song that Amy and Emma Jean had been singing came to a conclusion. Next up was a set of Johnny Doherty reels that she and Geordie started off as a duet before the others came in. She looked away from the hard men and raised an eyebrow to Geordie.

  “Anytime,” he said.

  She counted them in and they were off, fiddle and accordion playing the first tune on their own until Emma Jean joined them on guitar for the second time through. Miki cocked her head, smiling when Amy’s pipe drones cut in at the beginning of the second tune. She loved the way they bottomed a tune with their bass hum. By the time Amy had joined them on her chanter, Miki had put the hard men right out of her mind.

  8

  “I don’t get it,” Ellie said to Donal.

  They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, waiting in line to get a drink from the makeshift bar
that the Newford Traditional Music Society had set up in the community center’s kitchen. Donal had already wrinkled his nose earlier at the idea of Guinness in a can, though that hadn’t stopped him from finishing one and probably planning to order another.

  “Why hasn’t Miki made an album yet?” Ellie went on. “For that matter, why isn’t she off on tour somewhere instead of working at the record shop and only playing her music part-time?”

  Donal shrugged. “I know why she hasn’t recorded. She figures the tunes already exist on enough tapes and CDs by other artists and she doesn’t see the point in recording one more version of them.”

  “But they’d be her versions.”

  “I know, I know. Only try telling her that. It’s like trying to argue with a drunk—you’ll get no sense out of her.”

  The man in front of them stepped away with his order and it was their turn.

  “I’d like a Kilkenny Cream Ale, please,” Ellie told the woman taking orders. She glanced at Donal. He offered up a weary sigh. “And a Guinness,” she added.

  She pushed his hand back into his jacket when he tried to pay.

  “I feel like a kept man,” he said.

  “You should be so lucky.”

  After getting her change, she left a couple of quarters in the tip jar and they went and claimed a section of wall to lean against. From where they stood they had a good view of both stage and dance floor. Jigabout were in the middle of a set of Kerry polkas. Out on the dance floor, Jilly and the others they’d come with were doing impressions of mad Irish dervishes, combining spins and twirls with their own rather curious ideas of stepdancing. Riverdance it wasn’t, but they were obviously having a great time.

  “They’re like bloody dancing machines,” Donal said. “I don’t know how they keep it up.”

  “You’re just jealous because you don’t have their stamina.”

  “I suppose that could be one theory,” he said. He popped the tab on his can, pulling a face when he took a sip. “Thanks,” he added, toasting her with the can, eyes mournful.

  “Oh, at least pretend you’re enjoying it.”

  “Never tasted better,” he assured her. “At least from a can“

  Ellie shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.” She had a sip of her own drink. “Anyway. So Miki won’t record. But why won’t she tour? I mean, listen to them.”

  “I know,” Donal said. “Bloody magic, isn’t it? And they don’t even play together regularly.”

  Ellie nodded. “Exactly. Fall Down Dancing are even better.”

  “Or at least different.”

  “But easily as good.”

  “Easily.”

  “So why does she stick around here?”

  “I don’t know.” Donal reached forward and tapped the shoulder of a man standing in front of them. “What do you say, Hunter?” he asked. “Is it true that the only reason Miki doesn’t go off touring is because you’ve got her locked into some fairy-tale contract that she can only buy her way out of with her firstborn child?”

  When Hunter turned around, Ellie recognized him from the record store. He was of medium height, an inch or so taller than Ellie herself, with green eyes and short brown hair. She’d always liked his features—there was so much character and kindness in them—but she’d never gotten up the nerve to ask him to pose for her. He smiled a hello to her, then frowned at Donal.

  “I think I’m supposed to be irritated with you,” he said.

  He didn’t really seem to be put out, Ellie decided, since the frown didn’t reach his eyes.

  “What for?” Donal wanted to know. “It’s not about the other night, is it? Jaysus, can’t you take a joke?” Turning to Ellie, he explained, “I was telling him at the session how much Miki fancies him.”

  “And does she?” Ellie asked.

  “Who knows? I only said it for a bit of a laugh.” He winked at Ellie before turning back to Hunter. “But I’m thinking someone took it seriously.”

  Hunter nodded. “See, I knew there was a reason.”

  “I’m the one who should be annoyed,” Donal said. “After all, you gave your solemn word to keep it to yourself, only the next thing I know you’ve told Miki herself and who knows how many others.” He glanced back at Ellie again, adding, “A word to the wise. Never trust your man here with a confidence.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Ellie told Hunter. “As I’m sure you know, he has no sense of propriety or manners.”

  “I’d resent that,” Donal said, “except it’s true.”

  “And he’s surly, too,” Ellie added.

  “No, I draw the line at surly,” Donal said. “Morose, yes. Even bitter. But I’m a bloody artist.” He patted his pockets with his free hand. “And somewhere I’ve got the license to prove it. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Actually, if I read it right, I’m supposed to be melancholy.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ellie said. “And he can also get very defensive.”

  “Do you think he has to work at?” Hunter asked.

  She shrugged. “I hope not. Think how depressing it would be if it turned out he actually wanted to be the way he is.”

  “This is true.”

  “Right,” Donal said. “I’m off to the loo. Will someone hold my drink?” He held the can of Guinness out, but pulled it back when Ellie reached for it. “Never mind,” he said. “The mood you two are in, you’d probably drink it yourselves. Or give it away. Waste of a good drink, even if it does come in a can”

  He wandered off to the men’s restroom, his voice trailing along behind him. Ellie and Hunter looked at each other, then they both began to laugh.

  “I think you owed him that,” Ellie said.

  Hunter nodded. “Of course it won’t stop him from doing the same thing again, given half a chance.”

  “Of course.”

  Hunter took Donal’s place by the wall, his shoulder next to hers, and the two of them listened to the band play through a set of jigs.

  “What were you saying about Miki and touring?” he asked when the applause died down.

  “I was just wondering why she doesn’t. She’s so good.”

  Hunter looked up at the stage where Miki had launched into an improbable story about the origin of some tune’s name.

  “You see,” she was saying, “ The Gravel Walk’ is actually from China, not the Shetlands. The clue’s in the misspelling of the title. It’s supposed to be w-o-k, not w-a-l-k.”

  “All lies,” Geordie put in.

  “No,” Miki assured the audience with a grin. “This is all true. I hope you’re taking notes. Anyway …”

  “I think she’s got a phobia about traveling,” Hunter said, returning his gaze to Ellie. “You know what it was like for her growing up, staying with relatives all up and down Ireland, and then emigrating here.”

  Ellie nodded. The same pattern had been repeated once the Greers had moved to North America, except they didn’t have the same extended family to fall back upon here as there had been back home. Then Miki and Donal’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn girl and their father had taken to drinking worse than ever. He was rarely home, abusive when he was. Eventually he simply stopped working and was always home, always drunk. When they lost the last apartment they’d been living in, Miki and Donal had taken to living on the streets to escape Miki’s being put into a foster home. Miki had been fourteen, Donal six years older.

  “I never saw anyone so happy as Miki was when she got that apartment with Judy,” Hunter was saying. “She was so proud of having her own place. Of having a home.”

  “I guess you’ve known them longer than I have,” Ellie said.

  “I suppose. I first met Miki when she was playing at one of The Harp’s sessions. Thomas would turn a blind eye when she’d sneak into the pub. I mean, she was just this raggedy little girl—all bones and thick wild hair in those days. Too young to be able to order a drink, but lord could she play.” His gaze drifted back to the stage where the band had begun another set of t
unes. “I wish she would take the music further, too, but for all that she acts like such a free spirit, she’s in serious nesting mode. The very idea of having to pack up and leave—if only for a short tour—terrifies her.”

  “It’s a shame,” Ellie said.

  Hunter shrugged. “Well, yes and no. She’s happy the way things are now, so why should she change? Besides, there’s something to be said for playing music for the love of it, rather than it being merely the springboard towards fame and fortune.”

  “I guess you see a lot of that in your business.”

  “Lots of one-hit wonders,” Hunter agreed. “That’s why I admire musicians like them,” he added, nodding towards the stage. “They haven’t lost track of the music yet.”

  This was reminding Ellie of her own feelings this morning, weighing commissioned work and the steady money it promised against following her own muse and being broke.

  “But can’t you have both?” she said. “A career and still be true to your art?”

  “Well, sure. But it only seems to work at a grassroots level. For every multi-platinum artist, there are any number of bands making far more interesting music that have trouble selling even two or three thousand copies of an album.” He shrugged. “You can still make a living at it, but you have to be willing to do most of it on your own—all those things the labels and a good manager used to be able to do for you. Promotion, setting up the tours, even getting together the money you need for recording and then pressing your CDs.”

  Ellie supposed it was depressingly true for all the arts. The only thing that was different was the medium one picked to work in. Some chose music, some dance, some fine art…

  Don’t focus on it, she told herself. She’d come here tonight to get away from that kind of thinking, however true it might be.

  “One of the things I like about this music,” she said, to change the subject, “is how it appeals to such a diversity of people while still remaining true to itself.” She looked out at the dancers. “Yuppies and punkers, rich and poor, old and young. There’s a complete cross section of people out there on the dance floor—not to mention those who’d rather just listen. Like those guys standing at the back there. I mean, do they seem to be the sort of people you’d expect to like this music?” She laughed. “Though maybe ‘like’ is too strong a word. They don’t seem to be having much of a good time—at least not nearly so much as the dancers.”