Chapter Twelve

Savannah

I rise early to make sure I’m ready if Mel comes for me. Other than the usual pot of tea and some muffins Caris baked that he’d left on the table, Ronan is nowhere to be seen. It’s still dark out, and my heart pumps with a little unwelcome worry for him. Where could he go at such an early hour? I’d left him sitting by the fire when I went to bed.

But since I have nowhere to go myself or any way to get there if I did, I nibble on a muffin and sip my tea, thinking about the turn of the seasons. It’s amazing how we take it for granted that spring will come, crops will always grow again, and there will never be a shortage of animals in the fields or water to drink.

One look at the news proves that those ideals aren’t always true. The powers that be claim global warming is shifting the weather patterns, places receiving snow for the first time in recorded history. More animal species become extinct every day, and there are severe water crises all over the world, even in the US. What if a return to ancient ways and having reverence for Mother Nature like these people do, could reverse all of that?

I struggle to take it all in, Ronan’s confessions about paganism and sacrificial rituals. I begin to wonder if I’m dreaming some of it, conjuring it up because I want it to be true and have meaning. But wispy, vague memories of things my Nana Aislan said all those years ago ring true as Ronan explained his druidic rituals.

I get the impression from my mom that she thinks Nana’s ancestors were some kind of naked, fire-dancing heathens who practiced witchcraft, though she never said it to my face. She seemed to just want to pretend it didn’t exist, and therefore never talked about it. But I know differently now. And not only does Ronan practice this non-Christian religion, but the whole town of Wintervale does as well.

I called it a ‘godforsaken hamlet,’ not knowing how close to the bullseye that statement hits. It dawns on me that this culture—this religion—is part of my own heritage. Good heavens, these people could even be my distant relatives.

I haven’t been much for celebrating Christmas myself. I’m always touring, or doing some kind of benefit concert at this time of year. Church wasn’t a big influence on my family growing up back in Northern California either. The concepts of druidism fascinate me. If I could actually get a Wi-Fi signal I’d research it a bit more. I’ve always thought of myself as a fleeting Christian. But what if I believed something else entirely?

I rise from the table and fetch Helen from her case. The idea strikes me like a cannonball to the chest, so words and music began to swirl in my brain. I have to get them down while they’re clear. The sun peeks above the horizon and into a cloudless sky, and as I look out the front window, it appears the weather has improved, melting the majority of the snow. Birds flit about, and their calls add inspiration for the song that already brews inside me.

A solstice song.

I put on my coat and scarf and head out to the small porch that Ronan cleared of snow yesterday. My breath turns to vapor in the air despite the milder temperature, and I sit down on the hand-hewn wooden bench against the wall cradling Helen in my lap. Soft pinks and blues streak upward from the horizon.

I breathe deeply and catch the scent of wood smoke and forest pine, and of damp earth and leaves imprisoned under the sudden snowfall awakening underneath the rising sun. All of it mixes together to form an invigorating wild fragrance, one that could never be contained in a bottle or duplicated anywhere else but in this place. So, I’ll capture it with music instead.

My fingers dance across Helen’s strings, the notes meshing together in a tune that bespeaks all these new thoughts and feelings. They’ve also woven a message to my mom, telling her what I’ve learned of Nana’s ways, and that they’re not something to be hidden, but to be accepted and appreciated. Lauded even. A chorus and refrain flow effortlessly from my instrument, and after a few minutes, I realize I’ve already created parts of the melody before, on the bus as we waited nervously for help to arrive. It appears the muses were already at work in my subconscious even then.

The lyrics tumble about along with the music, but I don’t have a pen or paper. I reach in my coat pocket for my phone, which still has nearly a full charge. I perch it atop a pile of split logs and set it to video record. I start the chord progression over from the beginning, speaking the melody in words.

By the Light of Arthur here I stand

The long night as cold as my heart

Winter lifts the veil, giving way to the spring

Tearing the truth of my past apart

My fingers began to tingle with numbness as I play the chords over and over, fitting in the lyrics as they spill from my lips. Rarely has a composition come together so quickly for me. This tiny, mysterious vale seems to inspire me at the same time it holds me a virtual captive. I’m so swept up in my creative process that I barely notice when Ronan appears from inside the cottage and comes to sit on the bench next to me.

Suddenly, the chords come alive with a dual sound, the timbre of two disparate instruments blending in perfect harmony. I stop singing to glance sideways at Ronan. He’s rolled the beautiful Irish harp I’ve been admiring out with him and follows my lead in perfect time, matching every chord without a mistake. Our eyes lock, but he simply smiles and nods, encouraging me to continue.

I’m awestruck at the extraordinary ear he displays. I’ve worked with nearly every session musician in the US, and this unknown, untrained man from the middle of bumfuck nowhere has them all beat. I run through the chorus again, and to my amazement, on the next repeat, Ronan adds his rich baritone voice to mine, singing a countermelody in perfect pitch, improvising on the fly. He’s incredible, and I’m truly floored. I’ve never heard so much natural talent.

When I’m satisfied with four verses of the song, he seems to know instinctively how to modulate to the ending, slowing the tempo and arriving on a last, heart-rending chord. My heart thumps in my chest as it fades into the chilly air. I shiver with the excitement that comes with knowing I have something very special on my hands. Possibly a new hit record. And all because the damn rental bus broke down in the middle of nowhere.

Karma’s a bitch, and she’s having a heyday with me. Or perhaps it is the leprechauns. Either way, it’s something from beyond the physical plane.

Maybe, it’s my nana.

I realize the recording is still on, so I lay Helen aside and reached for my phone with trembling hands. I’ll be able to score the song from the playback.

“You’ve got to hear this,” I say, stopping the recording and switching to the replay. I hold the phone between us for him to see. “You have a magnificent voice.”

I start the recording and watch for his reaction. He leans in to look at the tiny screen, staring at it as if it’s sprouted a head.

Even with the limited sound quality of a cell phone video, the recording is clear, the rich and ethereal tones of our two diverse instruments and vocals together sounding nothing less than angelic. Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs, and not because of the cold. We sit shoulder to shoulder, the contact of our bodies echoing the harmonic connection that resonates throughout our impromptu performance. As it nears the end, Ronan stiffens, a dark and unreadable expression on his bearded face.

“You don’t like the song?” I ask. “The words can be changed, you know. They just came to my mind, and I went with them. I’m sorry if they say anything negative or inaccurate about your traditions.”

“’Tis a fine song,” he says, looking away from the screen. “I’m just not fit to be singin’ it with yer.”

I blink at him. “What? What do you mean? You were fantastic. We sounded great together. My producer is going to go ape-shit over this.”

Ronan tucks the harp under his arm. “Ape-shite?”

I laugh, wishing I could have the musical genius Ronan back. After that tempting glimpse, he’s disappeared again behind the mask of surly mountain man. “Just an expression. Means he’s going to love it.”

He shakes his head. “No, lass. I was just the accompaniment. Yer the performer. A damn good one at that.”

My hands drop to my lap, noting he’s at least dropped his chauvinistic use of the word woman. I almost drop to my knees and beg for domineering Ronan to return. With him, at least I knew what to expect. Why is he selling himself short?

“Without you, it was just the framework of a song idea. You made it come alive. I don’t think you’re aware of your mad skills. I’m going to send this recording to Jake as soon as I have internet access.”

Ronan glances up at the brightening sky and falls silent for a long minute. “Nay one has heard my music outside of Wintervale,” he says quietly. “I only play for family or the Wintervale grove. They won’t judge me. I wish yer wouldn’t send it to someone who will.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. “No one will judge you.” I reach for his hand, placing mine on top of his. “Except to tell you what an exceptional talent you have. Trust me, the world deserves to hear you.”

He fixes his blue eyes on me, and I see a curtain of sadness fall across them. “Please don’t share that recordin’ with anyone, Savie. Please.”

Holy shit. The man is shy. Six feet five and looking as fierce as a grizzly bear, and then he suffers from stage fright. I remember him asking me what it was like to perform before tens of thousands. Now I know why.

“Are you afraid to play in front of others?” I prod gently. “You shouldn’t be. You played for me.”

He bows his head. At his silence, another possibility occurs to me. And I don’t like this new thought at all. “Are you afraid to be seen singing…with me? You’re embarrassed by the flighty American girl, aren’t you?”

He raises his face to mine again, and shakes his head. “No.” A wistful smile forms under his brushy moustache. “But I think yer should be afraid to be seen singin’ with me, yer should. Think of yer…what does my sister call it? Avenue cred? Reputation and all that.”

I chuckle. “Street cred, you mean.”

My brow wrinkles under the strain of trying to understand the implications of this conversation, but a curious sound interrupts my thought process. We both look toward the path, the jolly tinkle of harness bells issuing from within. As it approaches the clearing, Mateo’s great head emerges from the foggy depths, snorting clouds of hot breath. On his back rides Caris, bundled in her shawl and scarf, looking straight out of an episode of Outlander. She leads a second horse on a tether who plods obediently behind.

“Ach, top o’ the mornin’ to yer, kids. What’s the craic?”

“What’s the what?” I whisper to Ronan.

“Means ‘how are yer, how yer doin’,’” he replies, setting aside the harp and rising to greet her. “Mornin’, sis. What brings yer out here with the larks?”

“I promised to bring Mateo out to yer, didn’t I? Brought Sully here along for the return.” Caris juts her chin at the second pinto-coated pony. “And a wee bit ‘o somethin’ to warm yer both up.” She unhooks a thermos from the saddle and hands it to Ronan.

“Yer hot glogg. Thanks, sis. Couldn’t come at a better time. Savie and I were just enjoyin’ some music out here in the elements.”

Claris rolls her eyes. “’Tis my special honey-apple mead, so ‘tis. Only yer call it glogg.”

“If it’s as good as your barmbrack, I’m sure it’s delicious.” I walk toward her and the horses. “Will I find another treasure inside?”

Caris laughs, and her whole face brightens under the strength of her warm smile. “Only the treasure of a warm belly and a good feelin’. And I also ‘av a message from yer man, Mr. Tobin. He’s been in touch with yer manager, and he says to sit tight. It appears another of yer transports has gone astray into a snowbank.”

I stare at her. “Seriously? And how is Mel?”

“Curse the luck of this weather,” she says with a cluck of her tongue. “Stomach still painin’ him, but he was good enough to ask Declan to run him up the road to Drogheda, to see about a rental car for himself. I don’t fancy his luck in light of the Yule, but if he can find somethin’, he said to tell yer he’ll pick yer up right here. Nay need to worry. Yer two just relax and enjoy yerselves ‘til then. But it looks like yer may be here another night.”

As excited as I am about the solstice song I’ve just written, my shoulders sag in disappointment. I don’t want the tour to fall apart completely because of our being stuck here indefinitely. More than that, I really don’t want the physical temptation that is Ronan O’Farrell leading me and my woman’s body astray.

Ronan takes Mateo’s reins and helps Caris down from the saddle. “I know ‘tis not what yer planned,” he says, turning to me. “But if it’ll lift yer spirits, how about I make yer a special supper tonight? To celebrate yer new composition.”

“Ach, a grand idea,” Caris concurs with a clap of her hands. “With all the provisions I sent along yesterday, yer enough to feed an army on pilgrimage.”

Ronan sends me a wink. I smile, rapidly getting the idea that fighting my situation is a waste of energy. Otherworldly forces have taken over. “Only if you’ll celebrate it with me,” I say. “With the harmony line you sang, it’s as much yours as mine.”

Ronan smiles in return and starts to lead the horses around the back. “All right. Would yer mind taking the gadgets, uh, instruments inside while I take care of this pair?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“And Caris? A word in private, if yer please.”

She looks at him funny, but doesn’t argue. “Aye, I need to talk to yer about somethin’ as well, so I do. In the barn.”

Finally, one female who does as he bids.

For the moment.