Disclaimer: Still not mine. I threw a tantrum and everything.
A small measure of foreshadowing in this installment.
Part VII
I find it easy to distract
and just as soon as you turn your back,
I'll be gone again.
True, The Frames.
Sarah mumbled a weak excuse and dashed from the pub, nearly forgetting to pay her tab and knocking over a fellow patron in the process. When she'd gone several blocks, she slowed. It felt like she was always running - running from something or running towards something. Running the Labyrinth. She was tired of it all. When would it be someone else's turn to run?
Pulling her wrap tightly around herself by habit, or with a measure of apprehension, she fumed silently. These coincidences were becoming difficult to ignore and grated on her already frazzled nerves. Ireland was supposed to be a retreat and so far it had been everything but relaxing.
That old carver had been harmless enough she reasoned. Her mind was no doubt projecting warning signs where none existed; she had always had an overactive imagination. Just as it was plausible that it was merely a legend she had never stumbled across before. After all, her academic focus had always been literature, not folk tales. And if, as the man said, this particular tale was isolated to a rural part of Ireland that prized oral tradition it would be natural that she'd never heard it.
Moreover, if you looked at the story objectively it was nothing new. Pretty young women were always tempted away in stories – hell, she was teaching a course on that very subject. The young girl always represented order and innocence tempted by chaos and knowledge, usually knowledge that the Church deemed either carnal or outright heretical. The stories simply served as a warning, admonishing women to remain pious, woefully ignorant and above all virginal - knees safely locked. It was a romantic notion to make the heroine young and beautiful, just as it was thrilling to have the villain fall in love with the girl - made it easier to justify the lengths he'd go to get her. The Greeks and Romans had their Persephone, the Christians had their Eve, Spenser had even given the Brits their Britomart – though she supposed the latter had successfully resisted. It was pure fantasy that made Sarah believe the fallen Persephone had been the happiest one. Because wasn't being loved, no worshipped, not worth the crown of Hell?
Sarah shook her head ruefully at the thought. She had paused in front of a shop during her musings, the nearby lamplight illuminating her lost reflection in the glass. Her own experience even mirrored this classic parable. She had been been young and innocent. She had been pursued by a villain fallen in love with her. A sad mockery of love, but a love all the same. And He had tempted her…
"Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that the child be taken. I took him. You cowered before me, I was frightening. I have re-ordered time. I have turned the world upside-down. And I have done it all for you!
Look Sarah. Look what I'm offering you— your dreams.
I ask for so little. Just let me rule you, and you can have…everything… that you want. Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave."
But she had resisted. She'd been so close to failing, so close to falling. She had tasted the goblin's fruit and been enraptured… for a time. But every story had to have its proper ending and every heroine her victory. She had delivered her lines with the ease of a consummate actress. And she'd been happy… no elated with her triumph. She had vanquished no less than a king. It was only afterwards that…
Sarah shook her head again. Declan's tale was really nothing new. It was simply imbued with the Celts' warrior spirit, viewing the most powerful as the most fit to rule. Fairness had nothing to do with it. Love in Ancient Eire was never sweet. It was often brutal, always passionate and mostly tragic. She had probably looked like a fool to the man, running away like a scared little girl. If she'd been a true academic instead of a child playing at being an adult, she would have taken notes to use in her class.
And really, piece of cake was a common enough expression after all.
Still, something just didn't sit right…
"Well after all me years o' practice Miss Williams," said the older man, "you could say they were a piece of cake."
She hadn't told him her last name was Williams, had she?
Distracted, Sarah almost knocked into a small crowd of people watching a street musician play. Pausing to apologize to a young couple who dog she'd almost trampled, Sarah turned to leave when the first bits of a song reached her ears:
"I find it easy to pretend that we're not
Heading for our end…
I find it so hard to be true
But I'm gonna try my best for you
And every distance that we've known will disappear
Before too long and every line we've ever drawn
Will be erased before we're gone…
This I swear to you.
Take it back, take it back.
Those words that you never can help.
Will you dance and dance
Don't have me repeating myself
Because you came by chance
And I'll bring you right down again…"
Sarah's mouth fell open and the blood froze in her veins. It couldn't be… Pushing through the throng to reach the singer, Sarah was suddenly reminded of another time and another place when she'd madly followed a song. Her heart thumped loudly as she slipped to the front of the crowd…
It wasn't him.
She had known it wouldn't be, but she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Tired of feeling like a frightened bird, she'd felt defiant and had itched for a good fight. She would have also liked confirmation that she wasn't losing her mind. Surely there was a point when coincidence became redundant? Surely all these signs pointed to something?
The busker had finished the song and his set, and the crowd dispersed accordingly. Counting the coins in his case, he was surprised to see a young woman still standing before him. She seemed lost in thought beneath a furrowed brow. The woman made no move to leave and no move to speak to him. He assessed with a practiced eye that she couldn't have been more than mid-twenties at most and that she was unusually attractive. He was damned if he was going to let an opportunity like this pass by.
"Are you trying to decide if me sad attempt at crooning deserves a coin or a swift kick in the arse?"
Sarah blinked, registered his comment and then laughed lightly. She fished in her clutch and pulled out a one pound coin, dropping it in his case.
The young musician winked with a rueful grin. "I think you made the wrong choice, love."
"Why would you say that?" Sarah demanded, rattled by his choice of words.
The man held his hands up. "I only meant that ye probably should've kicked me in the arse and saved yer money."
Sarah mentally shook herself. It was clear the musician was jus flirting with her, not serving as a portent of evils to come. Sarah allowed herself to relax, and to be disarmed by his easy manner and open smile. She noted his handsome face and tousled auburn hair with interest. He seemed so… splendidly normal! She smiled at the concept.
"No, I really liked your song. It was very… poignant. Did you write it?"
The young man coloured modestly. "I did indeed. Just sort of came to me." He held out his hand. "Finn."
"Pleased to meet you, Finn." She returned the handshake, liking the way his long lean fingers wrapped around hers. "Sarah".
"So yer American then?" asked Finn, looking genuinely interested.
"Accent gave it away?" Sarah laughed and then nodded. "I'm here for a year teaching at Trinity."
Finn's eyes widened momentarily. "Well I can't say I've ever had the pleasure of asking a professor if she would like to have a cup o' coffee with me, but there's a first time fer everything. So what do ye think?"
Sarah smiled. "Sounds perfect. But don't worry I'm not a professor yet." The banality of a simple cup of coffee was irresistible.
Wrapping up his guitar, Finn sighed dramatically, "Well thank Jaysus! I won't have to worry about ye giving me a failing grade for 'lack of originality and depth'."
Sarah grinned wickedly. "We don't know that yet, now do we?"
As they strolled companionably along St. Stephen's Green, Sarah drank in the crisp autumn air with something akin to satisfaction and relief. They had enjoyed a great conversion over a rather pitiful cup of coffee, which neither of them really noticed. The evening lamplight lent everything a warm inviting glow, and for once everything seemed to be right in the world. She slyly eyed the musician beside her.
Perhaps this was that romantic Irish encounter she was hoping for.
Almost immediately after the thought entered her mind, Finn's guitar case was violently wrenched out of his hands and disappeared into the park. The Friday night crowd was thick, and neither of them caught a glimpse of the culprit. Cursing, Finn tore off in the general direction of the would-be thief. Sarah tried following, but couldn't keep up with his longer strides. After waiting fifteen minutes, she walked back through the park, before giving up when a crack of thunder rent the evening air. It figured. Cursed. Dejected but hardly surprised, Sarah made her way to the Dart station, hoping that he had found his guitar at least.
Later, as Finn made it back to his flat, guitar case in hand, he quietly poured himself a stiff drink and shakily lit a cigarette. He had been hallucinating. It was the only thing that could explain his experience in the park that evening.
Running madly through the green, he'd overheard some odd snickers from a group of bushes and the distinctive twang of a metal string. Figuring that some teenagers had grabbed his guitar, he dove behind the shrubs… to be met with what he could only describe as little gargoyles. Inhuman eyes, sharp teeth and claws of various sizes greeted him. Before he could say or do anything except squeak in fear, the little beasts had him painfully pinned to the ground.
A shadow fell across his prone form and an unseen voice, low and cruel, warned him to forget about the girl if he wanted to keep the tongue to earn his living. Ear-splitting thunder punctuated the order. All he could do was nod emphatically against the din. He was no fool and whatever or whoever controlled the creatures holding him was clearly far more dangerous. His life was not worth a lay, even a beautiful one, and besides, he wasn't sure when his balls were going to drop back down again anyway.
Just as suddenly as it happened, he was free. As he rose on unsteady limbs, the creatures scattered and seemed to steal into the night. But not before one took a sizeable bite out of his guitar for good measure.
He hadn't bothered to look for Sarah with an excuse, he'd just headed straight home with his ruined instrument. When friends asked what had happened to his guitar, he would just cryptically remark that some things are not what they seem.
Author's Note: The heading quote and the song Sarah hears played in this chapter are both by the Irish band 'The Frames'. If you haven't heard them – go hear them. Their songs are all available online. The lead singer of the band, Glen Hansard, used to busk on Grafton St – hence the inspiration for this piece. I don't own anything and the busker in this chapter is in no way meant to be a characterization of the band or Glen – who I also don't own. Check out the movie Once. The music is all Frames songs and some of the characters are played by members of the band.
The italicized lines are verbatim from the movie Labyrinth
The song Sarah hears is an amalgamation of the songs True and The Side I Never Get to See by the Frames.
Thanks to all who have reviewed. Your lovely words encourage me to continue writing and to post quickly. So far, this story has been a pleasure to craft and I am itching to get to the exciting action ahead. Many of you have guessed the direction this story is taking and you're mostly right… but some surprise twists lie ahead. Mums the word.
