The Book of Dreams (26 page)

The music was fast and frenetic. They played as if their lives depended upon it. In a dazzling display of virtuosity, tune chased after tune without stopping for breath. The tin whistle trilled like birds at dawn. The drum rumbled like thunder. The fiddler’s bow skipped over taut strings, a dancer leaping.

Standing in a half-moon around the musicians, the audience jiggled and jittered like puppets on a string.

“Ize the bye!” someone shouted, and everyone cheered at the Newfoundland expression.

“Newfies go home!” cried a lout from an apartment balcony up the street.

When some of the crowd shook their fists at him, he quickly retreated.

Oblivious to all, the red-haired fiddler was bent almost double as he strained and sweated over his instrument. He finished the medley of airs with a frenzied flourish. There was an uproar of applause. Coins cascaded into his open case.

Dana edged to the front of the crowd. The men were less comical close up. There was a wild and disreputable air about them. She could smell the alcohol wafting from their direction. Then the fiddler caught her eye. The look he gave her drew her up short. As if he knew her somehow. And there was something sly about the wink that made her uncomfortable.

He suddenly broke off what he was playing and began a new tune. First came a shivery quiver across the fiddle strings. Then all three of them let out a high-pitched whoop. Now they burst into song together. Their voices were raucous. The words and the music rushed toward her in a wave.

Cold wind on the harbor

And rain on the road

Wet promise of winter

Brings recourse to coal

There’s fire in the blood

And a fog on Bras d’Or.

THE GIANT WILL RISE WITH THE MOON.

With a breath-stopping pull, Dana no longer stood on the street in Toronto.

She was somewhere else. A damp, green place cupped by a range of hills. Behind her, a wintry sea crashed onto the shore. She could smell seaweed. The taste of salt was on her lips. With a surge of joy, she thought she had been transported back home to Ireland. Then she caught the sharp scent of pine in the air. The hills were sparsely dotted with fir. The landscape was more bleak and rugged than any she knew.

The wind’s in the North

There’ll be new moon tonight

And we have no circle to dance in her sight

So light a torch, bring the bottle

And build the fire bright.

THE GIANT WILL RISE WITH THE MOON.

It was evening time. The light was dusky, but no stars were out. On her right, in the distance, was a scatter of houses. To her left, a rough road meandered into the hills. Her eyes followed the worn path that wove from the road to the highest peak in the hills. Her heart beat quickly. On top of the hill was an ancient stone circle. Jagged rocks stood out against the sky like a great crown. At their heart burned a bonfire. The stones flickered fitfully, illumined by the flames. Dana blinked. The stones became men; short, stocky men like the street musicians! They were singing and shouting and waving bottles in the air.

’Twas the same ancient fever

In the Isles of the Blest

That our fathers brought with them

When they went West

It’s the blood of the Druids

That never will rest.

THE GIANT WILL RISE WITH THE MOON.

With a dizzying lurch, Dana found herself back on the city sidewalk. The musicians had finished their song and were packing up to leave.

She ran over to the fiddler as he closed his case. “

Wait,” she said. “Please. Are you here to help me?”

The three stopped to stare at her. All had gray eyes, like the sea in her vision and just as cold. Though they barely reached her chin, she suffered the sensation that they were immense. As tall as the stones she had seen on the hilltop. She was completely unnerved. How could she have thought them comical, even for a moment?

“I … I’m about to go on a journey,” she stuttered.

They continued to regard her stonily.

“But I don’t know where I’m going,” she said desperately.

Still they kept silent. Their looks were veiled.

“The song you were singing … about the giant?”

“It be one of Stan Rogers.” The fiddler spoke at last. His voice was flat, as if to deliberately discourage her.

“Where does he live?” she asked.

“He don’t bide here no more,” came the answer.

Looks were exchanged between the musicians, but she couldn’t fathom their meaning.

Dana could have cried with frustration. It was obvious they weren’t going to divulge their secrets. Regardless, she was grateful for the music and the clues it seemed to provide. She had already taken out some money to give them. Since their cases were shut, she handed it to the fiddler. The red-haired man grinned with sudden mischief.

“Ho byes. A generous hand, a generous heart. When I thinks about it, maybe we ought to tell her what she wants to know.”

The drummer shook his head. “You knows it ain’t like that. We can’t do no more.”

The tin-whistler agreed. “We’ve done our bit, that’s for darn sure.”

Dana caught her breath. “Do you have a message for me?” she pleaded. “Are you here to help? Are you Companions of Faerie?”

She was met with blank looks.

The drummer smirked. “A little birdie told us about ye. Asked a favor. And now we’ve done it.”

More questions rushed into Dana’s mind, but before she could open her mouth, the fiddler raised his hand.

“Look, lass, what’s to be said was said in the song. You seen the Place of Stones in the music. You’ll know it when you sees it in the world.”

Though the fiddler’s tone was almost friendly, the other two were growing more agitated by the minute. Fidgeting impatiently, they looked at their watches and then glared at her. Though she wanted, needed, to know more, she found her courage failing. The three were rank with the smell of whiskey and there was a dangerous edge to their annoyance.

“
Go raibh míle maith agaibh,
” said Dana, thanking them in her own language as she backed away.

With a last glance at his watch, the tin-whistler eyed the Irish pub up the street and smacked his lips. Tipping his cap in farewell, he dashed away, running across the road against a red light. The drummer raced after him without another word to Dana. Only the fiddler lingered.

“Don’t be afeard where ye go, lass,” he said quietly. “The morning star shines in the east and there be my own country.”

Then he, too, darted across the road, dodging the traffic, ignoring the blare of horns from irate drivers. Arms and legs akimbo, he held his fiddle above his head as if he were forging a river. When he reached the other side he turned back to her, beaming.

“Mind now,” he shouted, “we are all family!”

• • •

Dana couldn’t wait to ring Jean with the news. There was no question now about which way they should go. To the east it was. And the song was the other clue. What was the place mentioned? She had heard them say “Bradore.” It sounded French. Somewhere in Quebec? Jean was bound to know.

“Bras d’Or?” he repeated, when she called him. “
Oui, je connais.
It’s not Québec,
non
. It’s a big lake on Île Royale. Cape Breton Island. I never see this place but I think you will like it. They say it look like Scotland and also your country.”

“Well, that’s where we start,” Dana said, delighted.

They were both over the moon that they had a destination.

“So how we do this?” said Jean.

“There’s someone who might help.”

Dana told him about the note from Ms. Woods.

“So, she do know about the mission,” he said. “Remember she try to talk with you? What do you think?”

“I’m not sure I trust her, but between you and me we should be able to tell if she’s an enemy or not. Maybe one could ask questions while the other watches her reactions.”

“Good cop, bad cop?” Jean suggested.

“Something like that,” Dana said with a laugh.

“
Bon,
” said Jean. “We do this tomorrow.”

• • •

As it turned out, Ms. Woods had already moved to help them. Dana discovered that fact when Gabriel got home from work.

“Your teacher rang today. Radhi got the call before she went out. Something about a field trip this weekend? Did you forget to tell us?”

Dana was too surprised to answer right away, but her father didn’t notice.

“That rules out Thanksgiving in Creemore. Your gran will be disappointed but it gets me off the hook. Don’t repeat that.”

“So,” said Dana, recovering, “can I go?”

“Sure. It sounds good and I can’t believe there’s no cost. She says she’s looking after transportation and everything. Talk about last-minute arrangements. Do you have a list of things to bring?”

“No, but I know what I need. The usual stuff.”

Dana’s head was spinning. Between the musicians and Ms. Woods, things were happening very fast. It seemed forces were moving at last to help her. Or was it that she had finally let them? The words of Lord Ganesha echoed through her mind.
Your gods are all around you, child of Faerie, you need but open your heart.

She rang Jean back only to find he was about to call her. His parents had just come home and Ms. Woods had rung them too.

“So, she’s put the two of us together in this,” Dana said uneasily.

She was not happy that Ms. Woods was taking charge and making plans on their behalf. But Jean was pleased.

“This is good, eh? We take the help she give us. But still we go and demand who is she and what is she. We do this tomorrow.”

In the end, Dana agreed to the plan, as it obviously made sense.

But they didn’t get the chance to put it into action.

For earlier that day, Gwen Woods had met Crowley.

T
he day Gwen was offered a teaching job at Dana’s school, she went straight to Laurel to tell her the good news. The porter at Massey College recognized her and waved her through the gates. As she hadn’t called ahead, Gwen caught Laurel off guard. There was no time for the other to hide that she’d been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen from weeping.

“I need to be alone,” Laurel mumbled, keeping the door half-closed.

“I don’t think so,” said Gwen, gently pushing her way through.

By the time they were both sitting down with cups of green tea, Laurel was ready to talk.

“I can’t stop thinking the worst. If everyone in Ireland was attacked, then Ian would have been too. He could be lying somewhere in a coma or …”

Gwen listened with sympathy. The same thought had occurred to her also, but she had kept it to herself. “He could also be safely in Faerie,” she pointed out. “You said he lives in both worlds. If he was there when the portals went down, he’d be stuck on the other side.”

Laurel nodded and blew her nose. “That’s what I believe on good days.”

Gwen glanced around the room. This was obviously not a good day. Given that Laurel was a perfectionist, the state of disorder spoke volumes. Clothes littered the floor. Books and papers were strewn everywhere. Gwen had already noticed the photograph on the desk, which hadn’t been there before. Encased in a silver frame was a young man with raven-black hair, striking features, and the startling blue eyes of Faerie. He looked thoughtful and romantic, but also moody; like an Irish poet.

“Ireland’s a small place,” Gwen said. “Do you want me to ask Dara about him? Maybe he and Granny could do some kind of search, with or without magic. I’m sorry, I should have thought about this before.”

“You have enough to think about,” Laurel said, “and so do they. The mission is the important thing.”

“Ian’s important too,” Gwen argued. “Everyone is. She reached out to squeeze Laurel’s hand. “We need to hold on to hope. It’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

Laurel sighed and admitted quietly, “My hope is to see him again.”

“That a girl. Are you ready for some good news?”

Laurel was delighted to hear about the job. She rallied immediately, looking stronger and happier. The tide appeared to be turning in their favor at last.

“You’ll be Dana’s teacher!” she exclaimed. “This can’t be a coincidence!”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence,”
they said together, then laughed.

Gwen was glad to see the change in Laurel. “It’ll be a piece of cake to approach the girl now. She’s far more likely to trust her teacher than some stranger off the street.”

• • •

Dara was also overjoyed when Gwen rang him with the news. All of them needed a boost to their spirits. Despite every effort to date, Granny had been unable to counter the spell that held the Irish Companions in its grip. Katie and Matt were still unconscious; she and Dara were still blind. Nor had she divined a way to restore the gateways. Though her auguries continued to point to Dana, they showed little else.