Copyright © by Paul Brandon 2004


THE WILD REEL

A finger-picked, classical guitar gently wove the melody.

As always, the player sat masked and invisible in one corner of the studio, its face hidden by an androgynous porcelain mummery that fitted so close it could really only be skin. A wide-brimmed, black hat cast a crescent shadow across most of its bone-white features except for the mouth, a painted-on slash that either curled up or down at the edges depending on what Natty was painting. Its body was wrapped in a shawl of a thousand patchwork colors that looked part Romany, part Tibetan, all Faerie. The instrument, a battered old friend from the foothills of Spain, was cradled across its lap like a child, and the hands that caressed it were ghost-pale and wrinkle-free. Ageless.

The guitarist was an inhuman virtuoso; the slides into the individual notes were perfect, the changes precise, and the dancing fretwork flawless. The sound was such that it seemed there were two or three more guitars there than just one solo performer.

Natty laid in the wash; a thin veil of cobalt blue that swept over the upper, dampened half of the large sheet of paper. The thumb-sized mop glided effortlessly, laying down the base on which the detail of the sky would be set. The wet paper sucked at the paint, spreading it away evenly, except for the patches of mask that she had applied earlier. The brush was cleaned, then charged with a different color for the ocean, this time a delicate mix of cerulean blue with the slightest touch of viridian green.

A side-blown, wooden flute, played by a willow-thin sylph with hair like brambles gently eased in over the top of the guitar, sliding effortlessly into its own place within the melody. For a time the two instruments were content; they sparred gently, teasing one another with an effortless abandon that was hypnotic.

Horizontal strokes put down the beginnings of detail within the waves. Shadow lines were added, strengthening the crests and wash of the waves as they struck the still unrevealed shoreline. She leant back, regarding the rectangle of paper, comparing it to the image in her mind, then edged forward again, brush moving of its own will. As always when she worked, her feet were bare, and they whispered over the floorboards as she continually repositioned herself around the table.

A seeping quartet of viola, cello and a pair of violins joined the other two instruments from the shadows over by the kitchen. The slow stroke of horsehair bowing across strings filled the studio with warmth. The guitar dropped back, content to settle in with the others while the flute sylph continued to spiral upwards. Tonight, because of the subject matter, the music was like the sea; gentle, rolling, yet with an undercurrent of urgency, like the tide before a storm.

The breath died in the flute as the girl fell gently to the ground like a ballerina, the guitar was strummed into silence, the brim of the hat falling down over the mask as the strings dissolved into the darkness like mist in the sun.

Silence.

Then, from the distance of the hills, the scattered, earthy patter of a lone bodhrán. The deep sound of the wood against goatskin swelled, filling with intensity as it came closer like a galloping horseman. The drummer arrived, moving past the other ghostly, curiosity-laden faces that peered through the fogged glass of the windows like an adult passing children at a sweet shop display case. He moved about the studio on cloven dancing feet, watching, looking. He was waiting on her, building the tension with the rapid flicking of his wrist and the click-clack of his feet.

The heavy brushes were discarded. Without even lifting her eyes from the painting, Natty reached over and took up the number four red sable. Loading the brush with neat indigo, she began settling in the minute detail she was famous for.

The sylph brought the flute back up to her lips suddenly, exploding back into life, matching the beat of the bodhrán instantly. For a moment, a heartbeat, they locked, then the flute was away, chasing the rhythm around the room like a cat. The guitar re-entered the fray, hat brim lifting to reveal a white face painted with a jester’s grin. Its rhythmic ferocity was mad, astounding. The strings were there too, providing the solid background, the paper onto which the other instruments drew.

The concert was well and truly away now. The tip of Natty’s brush danced over the paper, laying in sometimes imperceptible breaths of color. The music raged around her, swallowing her, almost deafening. She fed on its wild passion, drawing as much from it as she did her own mind.

The faces through the glass fed too as they watched, enthralled. A mixture of improbable legend and child’s imagination, some were little more than etheric outlines, suggestions, while other were more corporeal; small colorful sparrows with the heads of little old men, complete with miniature tweed caps, long-limbed, pinch-featured creatures with sackcloth-bound bodies and tiny, flittering nude women with blue-veined dragonfly wings on their backs, all watched, hypnotized by the raw magic.

Around them, night fell, the sun rose, then passed again.

Natty didn’t notice. She was on a burn now. All the earlier feelings of tiredness were gone, banished temporarily into some unknown place. She knew they would resurface again, but for the time being they were of no concern. All that mattered was the piece.

The Moment.

More players joined the wild reel; pipes, fiddles, mandolins, all blurring into one huge cacophony of marvelous sound that flowed through the air like the blood through her body. Paint smudged her face, dried in her hair, but Natty didn’t care. She took a swig from her coffee mug, unaware that she had emptied it hours ago. Swallowing anyway, she picked up an even finer brush and bent closer. Her face barely inches from the paper, she worked the detail into the buoy that floated in the bay, taking the same extraordinary care over the reflection in the still water. The clouds followed. Not content to leave the spread of the paint to chance, she worked each ripple, each curve of vapor, each smear of shadow in by hand.

The reel changed key and tempo flawlessly, slipping into a jig that was somehow even more raucous than the tune before. The instruments took turns to play solo pieces, each taking the whole further, farther. Other faeries made seats from her stacked paintbrushes and pencils and sat on the shelves watching, clapping their hands or tapping out the rhythm on tins and pots. The rafters above her head were crammed with oddly-shaped hopping, dancing bodies.

With the waves dry, Natty picked up the bare razor blade and began flecking out the foam on the tips of the small crests. She gripped the half-sheathed blade loosely, scratching away the paint to reveal the clean white paper beneath. Natty held her breath, judging exactly where the attention was needed. She was close now, not a lot more was needed. It was as much a talent to know when to stop as it was to . . .

“Jesus Christ! Are you fecking deaf or something?”

The music stopped. Instantly.

Natty screamed and span, the razor blade slicing effortlessly through the paper.

Like a knife through flesh.

Her heart was in her throat, beating madly, and her eyes were wide as she looked at the intruder. He was a young man, tall, and dressed in a thick woolen coat that hung over a pair of black jeans that had seen better days. His face was darkly handsome, with a half-day’s growth of stubble stippling his squareish chin. He leaned casually against the banister, hands in his pockets.

Natty managed to catch her breath, and the feeling of fright was gradually replaced by outrage. “What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled at him. “You scared the living shit out of me!”

His face instantly put on a display of mock hurt. “I came to see you,” he replied somewhat lamely. “And watch your mouth.”

Natty was stunned. “Watch my mouth?” she repeated incredulously. “You’ve just ruined days of work, scared me half to death and all you can say is ‘watch your mouth’?” She threw the razor blade to the floor and marched across the floor to stand before him, looking up at his impetuous face. She could see that he found the whole thing funny, and that only angered her all the more. “Get the hell out!” she told him.

“Aw, come on Nat, “ he said, taking a hand out of his pocket and laying it companionably on her shoulder. “Aren’t you just a little bit pleased to see me?” he smiled; an expression that for some reason Natty had once found charming, but now only served to fuel her rage.

She bit back a furious reply, and instead, in an icy voice, demanded, “How’d you get in? I took back your key.”

He pulled out his other hand. Between his fingers was a copper Yale key. “I got a spare.”

Before he could react, Natty’s hand shot out and snatched it away. “Not any more,” she said.

He grinned impudently. “Perhaps I’ve got more.”

“Come in here again and I’ll call the garda.”

“Natty, Natty, after all we’ve been through, you’d do that to me?” his voice was still mocking.

She put her hands on her hips, “And just what exactly have we ‘been through’?”

He smiled widely, “Well, you know. It was three months, after all.” Natty turned away from him, shaking her head. Nonplussed, he continued, “So where did I go wrong, then? Perhaps if I knew. . .”

She span, her eyes alight. “Where did you go wrong?” she repeated, incredulous. “For starters, how about fucking Mary Moran and Cath McDermott the whole time you were seeing me? At least, those are the two I know about. How many more are there, Sean?”
The amused expression fell from his face suddenly. Natty saw a flicker of embarrassment pass over his features, but as suddenly as it was there it was gone. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Natty said, “Don’t bother trying to deny it.”

“You’re full of shit. There’s nothing going on.”

“Christ Sean, wake up. If there’s nothing going on then I suppose it’s all right for me to go talking to Cath and Mary then.”

He shook his head and looked down at his shoes. “Who told you?” he asked calmly.

“Does it matter? Do you think I’m blind or something? It was pretty obvious. You’re too stupid to even be subtle. You’re pathetic really.”

She could see his anger rising, a twin to her own. He pushed himself away from the post, his face flushed. “Ever wondered why I did it though?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “Perhaps if you’d paid a little more attention to me and less to your bloody pictures then things might’ve been okay.”

Natty laughed ironically. “Oh come on, I know for a fact you’ve been seeing Cath for at least the same amount of time that you were with me.”

He stood before her now, halfway across the low-lighted room. A car passed along the street below the window, its beams momentarily playing off the rafters above them.

There was silence while they regarded one another with cold stares, then Sean said, “You know what your problem is? The lads down the pub are right; you’re fucking frigid. You come across at first as all friendly and the like, but when it gets down to it, you’d rather sit up here and play with yourself. That’s why you’ve not had a boyfriend for longer than a couple of months, you’re nothing but a tight cock-teas—”

She hit him.

Her balled fist smacked him fair in the mouth. She felt the soft flesh of his lips slap back against his teeth, and heard the satisfying wet clap. Sean’s head jerked back, the surprise and pain evident on his face. His hand went straight to his mouth, coming away spotted with blood from his split lip.

Before she had a chance to step back, he’d reached out with his other hand and grabbed a fist full of her jumper and yanked her violently close. The other hand hung back, cocked level with her face. For a moment, she honestly though he was going to beat her senseless.

They both stood still, Sean’s nostrils flared as he drew in breath, and Natty’s eyes were wide, fixed on his as she waited with the fear deep in her.

Sean lowered his fist, released the knot of her jumper then slowly touched his fingers to his lips again. He reached over and rubbed the thin trail of blood off on the shoulder of her sweater. He shook his head, the disbelief still evident in his dark eyes and said softly, “You bitch.”

Turning, he walked back toward the top of the stairs, turning as he reached the first. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear, I’ll kill you.”

For a moment, their eyes locked again, then he dropped down the stairs and Natty heard the door open then slam shut.
For a long minute, she stood there, her arms wrapped tightly around herself trying to stop the shaking. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t the first time she’d hit someone, but. . .

All she could see was the look in his eyes and the fist held ready. For an instant, he’d really meant it.

Natty took a deep breath. Dropping her arms down loosely by her sides, she walked slowly back to her desk. The single light suspended over it projected down a circle of yellow light that encompassed the workspace and a fair portion of the surrounding floor. Usually, it filled Natty with warmth. Tonight it looked more like the light over an autopsy table.

She reached the table and looked down at the painting. It had almost been finished too. At first glance, nothing appeared amiss, but as she lifted one corner clear, half of the painting stayed still, sliced cleanly through in a shallow arc. If framed properly, it could still be roughly salvaged, but Natty knew she would never let it out of here. It was imperfect, ruined. The magic lost.

Natty released the painting and slumped down into her chair. Putting her head in her hands, she gazed out of the window into the blackness of the night. For a moment, she thought she saw something there, strange distorted faces looking curiously in on her, but when she blinked they were gone, and she could see nothing but the muted wavery reflection of her home. She sighed, the pressure of the exhaustion suddenly falling down over her like a wet blanket, but she was fearful of sleep lest the dreams came again. Tonight particularly, she could do without them, but she knew after forty-odd hours of continuous work she’d have no choice but to rest.
She sighed again, and this time it ended in a slight shudder. She blinked back tears. Taking a rectangle of clean paper, she gently covered the spoiled artwork and folded her arms over it, resting her head down on them.

Only then did she let the tears come.

Outside, balanced perfectly on the inch-wide sill, the remaining creatures sat. The sparrow-men shook their capped heads sadly, their grey-feathered wings around each other. The sack-clothed hobgoblins were visibly angry, and they shook their fists and rained tiny stones down on the man as he walked up the street. The tiny winged sprites openly wept, the beautiful glow from their spiderweb wings subdued and still. Such potential, such power, destroyed by an ignorant.

The concert was over.

Each spitting a string of angry curses at the tall man, the hobgoblins stepped off the sill, walking vertically down the wall on loose legs until they reached the ground then, with a wild cry that sounded like the calling screech of an owl, they tore away between the houses. Dogs barked suddenly at their passing, then were silent. The three sparrow-men left shortly after, leaping into the air and fluttering themselves away back toward the shadowy surrounding hills.

The sprites lingered. They pressed their hands and faces to the cold glass, looking with sympathy at the woman crying within. But there was nothing even they could do. She was untouchable, the Lord himself’s orders. Observe, revel in her magic, but do not interfere.

The wind picked up suddenly, and although they didn’t feel its chill, they both shuddered involuntarily. There were other things that hunted at night, and without the protection of the hobs, or even the slight masking magic offered by the sparrow-men, they were vulnerable. Their own magic lay in healing and wonder, not defense.

The autumn-haired woman within rose from the table and crossed the room, moving out of sight. Satisfied that the man was not coming back, the wings on their backs blurred, effortlessly lifting them into the air. Like summer fireflies, they erratically wove their way down the street then on over the hill, toward the just-rising moon.

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