The Prince of Neither Here Nor There (12 page)

At that point, the lights began to dim and a ripple of excitement coursed through the audience. This was the part of every show that Brendan loved the most, the moment before any note had been struck, before judgments were made, when all the audience perched on the edge of their seats, eager to be delighted. After an endless instant, the thrum of a harp was heard. The stage blazed into being as if conjured into existence by some magical power. The wail of a violin and the pounding of an Irish drum throbbed in counterpoint to the lilting, dancing tones of the harp. The musicians had taken their places in the darkness and now they sat or stood on the stage, playing feverishly.

Effortlessly, Deirdre D’Anaan commanded the focus, her red hair hanging about her gorgeous face as her fingers danced across the strings of her harp, resting between her knees. She wore a long gown of forest-green velvet embroidered with twining vines of golden thread that chased each other along her arms and around her neck. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and her lips curved ever so slightly in a faint smile. She looked like a dreaming angel.

Brendan wasn’t aware of anything but the music. The sound was like nothing he’d ever heard before. He had seen Celtic musicians before, heard reels and jigs and Irish ballads, but the music Deirdre played was something altogether different.

He had no idea how long the song went on, but it ended with a final flourish of the drum. The hall echoed with the last note for a long moment before the crowd erupted into applause and roars of approval. Brendan fell back against the bench. He was breathing hard, and his clothing was soaked with sweat. The scar was aching anew, burning and prickling as though the wound were fresh.

Brendan’s father sat down, still applauding. He turned to Brendan and said, “Wow! That was incredible. Thirty-five minutes non-stop! I …” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Brendan? Are you okay?”

“Huh,” Brendan mumbled. “Yeah. Fine … just a little … I don’t know … tired?” Brendan pushed his fingers under the frame of his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

His father frowned. “You don’t look fine.” He laid a hand on Brendan’s forehead. “Whoah. You’re really warm. Are you sick?”

“Nah. I don’t think so.”

“Maybe we should go …”

“No!” Brendan sat up. He was suddenly aware that he had spoken quite loudly and immediately felt very self-conscious. In a more quiet tone he added, “No. I’ll be okay. Let’s stay.”

His father frowned. “You sure?” Brendan could tell that his father wanted to hear more but would leave if Brendan asked him to. But Brendan didn’t want to go. Despite the weird way he was feeling, he wanted to hear more, had to hear more. There was something in the music that he needed.

“Welcome.” Deirdre D’Anaan’s voice filled the hall. She didn’t shout or raise her voice, but it was as though she were speaking directly into his ear. Her voice was rich and vibrant with a lilt of accent that Brendan couldn’t place. “Old friends and new, we’re glad you’ve come. What a grand hall and glorious night. On such a night we may bring the seen and unseen together. Can you feel it?” She raised her arms. “The spirits gather. They are drawn to the sound.”

“Oh brother,” Brendan’s father snorted. Others nearby looked at him sharply. Brendan felt the urge to join them in disapproval. It sounded hokey but there was something happening here. He could sense it. He believed she was telling the truth. He believed that she was talking to him.

“This is a special night for those who choose to see. Open your eyes and your heart. I’d like to sing a special song tonight. It’s called ‘The Misplaced Prince.’”

Some members of the audience sighed aloud at her words. Brendan felt tempted to sigh as well.

Having spoken the words, she lowered her hands to the harp and struck a chord. Brendan shivered at the sound. The woman raised her clear voice in song. The words she sang were in a language he didn’t understand, soft and sibilant, full of yearning. But as she sang, the words became clearer. He began to understand.

Who is he that left his home

Cast out in the world alone?

To live his life in strangers’ care?

The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.

His glory hidden, dark and deep

His spirit leaden, forced to sleep

Who will wake him? Who would dare?

The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.

Come back, my prince, and join us soon

Your people wait beneath the moon

To welcome you back in the fold

With gifts of amber, jade, and gold.

Come home.

Come home.

The words and the music were so haunting that Brendan couldn’t resist joining in the song. He looked about him and saw there were others singing as well. His father looked at him wide-eyed.

“Since when do you speak Gaelic?”
³⁸

Brendan didn’t understand at first. Had he been singing? In a language he didn’t understand? “I don’t … I must have heard this song before, or something,” he answered. Something above caught his eye, and when he looked up into the vault of the domed ceiling, he gasped.

The air was alive with lights like tiny flitting fireflies chasing one another about. As he watched, the lights became more defined. He saw that they were tiny winged figures fluttering about in the upper reaches of the hall. The variety of little creatures was astonishing. Dark-eyed snouted creatures with the leathery wings of bats flapped among them. Here and there, tiny human figures covered head to toe in colourful feathers soared on invisible air currents with exquisite bird wings. They moved in time to the music.

He pointed upward. “Do you see them? It’s beautiful.”

Brendan’s father followed his gaze with a worried expression. “See who? See what?”

All the while, the music continued. The chorus repeated, “Come home! Come home!” The harp and the fiddle kept up a counterpoint with the drum, throbbing in Brendan’s chest, infusing his whole body with the rhythm. He began to sway, holding his arms out to the sides.

“Come home! Come home!” he sang. He felt a powerful surge of joy. He wanted to move! He wanted to leap and run and shout. He pushed past his father into the aisle.

“Brendan,” his father said sternly, grabbing his son’s arm. Brendan twisted free and stepped down the aisle toward the stage, where Deirdre D’Anaan sang the next verse, her voice like a magnet to the young boy. Her eyes were blazing grey stars. Her fingers flew over the harp strings, and as Brendan watched, he saw that a tiny creature wove in and out of her fingers as she played. It was like the others inhabiting the upper air of the vault, but when it stopped to stare, perching on the top of the sound post of the harp, its tiny eyes were fierce and it grinned in an unpleasant way that chilled Brendan’s heart.

See him come and take his place

At last to join the noble race

Sound the trumpet! Split the air!

The Prince of Neither Here Nor There!

The Dark and Light shall be as one

The children of the Moon and Sun

Shall be redeemed, the world to share

The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.

Brendan looked about him, his father forgotten. In the crowd, some people stood out. They were more vibrant, more powerful presences. They were as different from the others around them as wildflowers are from blades of grass.

He turned his attention back to the stage and found himself staring directly into the bottomless eyes of Deirdre D’Anaan. The tiny creature perched on her shoulder was pointing directly at him. She sang and it was like a fist clenching around his chest, constricting his breathing.

It’s time to rise and take your place

To feel the sun upon your face

To face the truth if you may dare

Oh Prince of Neither Here Nor There!

Suddenly, the scar on his chest flared, obliterating his senses. He fell backward into someone’s arms. He looked up and expected to see his father but he was shocked to see it was Kim.

“Did you see them? Did you see them?” he gasped.

Kim just shook her head. “Can’t you ever stay out of trouble?”

³⁶
 
Streetmeat
in Toronto parlance is a sausage from a street vendor. A local ordinance prohibits the sale of any hot food on the streets of Toronto save for the hot dog or sausage. The limitation on the choice of cuisine has led to fierce competition between vendors to provide peripheral enticements to attract customers. These include offering a wide array of types of sausage, from the Polish garlic to the spicy Italian, presenting a bewildering array of condiments, and even one instance when a vendor offered a free kitten with each sausage sold. The vendor in question had his licence revoked in short order.

³⁷
 The
tabla
is an instrument originating in Northern India. It is a small drum played with the hands, as opposed to a drum that is played with the feet called the footbla. This latter is played by a very few people who have acute control over their feet. The footbla is not as popular because it is both difficult to master and incredibly stinky.

³⁸
 
Gaelic
is the native and ancient language of Ireland. Few people speak it as a native tongue any more but Irish children are taught it in schools. Despite the efforts of the Irish government, the language is slowly dying out.

THE DREAM

Kim and his father helped him out of the hall. He was a little dizzy, but the farther he got from the sound of the music, the more stable he felt and the more he was sure he’d experienced some kind of hallucination.
I mean, little creatures? Flying things? Give me a break, right?

The concert had continued despite his episode. Deirdre D’Anaan hadn’t missed a beat. To his relief, he wasn’t the only one to be transported by the music. Though some had taken to the aisles to dance spontaneously, none had been affected as deeply as Brendan had. Between Kim and his dad, they had managed to steer Brendan to the exit.

Standing out in the fresh, cool air, Brendan felt a little better. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t felt bad in the hall—quite the opposite. He had felt completely alive.
That was amazing. I was totally going to make a fool of myself! I was going to go up on the stage and dance around like a lunatic but … I didn’t care!
Part of him regretted that Kim and his father had pulled him away.

“Are you okay?” his father asked for the umpteenth
³⁹
time.

“I’m fine,” Brendan assured him. “I just … needed some air.”

“You really gave me a scare there, bud.” His father was clearly trying to sound unconcerned but his laugh rang a bit false. “I thought you were gonna do some stage-diving.”

Kim stood back, arms crossed, and said not a word.

“What’s your problem?” Brendan asked.

“No problem,” she said evenly.

“You look pissed.”

“Well, I’m not. Not at you anyway.”

“Well, who are you pissed at, then?” Brendan was feeling belligerent and a little tired of her odd behaviour. “And what are you doing here anyway?”

“Hey, Brendan. Just hold on,” his father interjected. “Your friend Kim was a big help.”

“I’ll bet,” Brendan muttered.

“As I said,” his father repeated, “Kim was a big help. I don’t think you should be so disrespectful.”

Brendan wanted to say
, Dad, butt out! She’s been sneaking around and talking about me behind my back. I’m sick of it.
Instead he muttered, “I guess so
”

“You’re welcome,” Kim snorted. “I’d better be going. See ya, Mr. Clair.” She plunked her helmet on her head and tightened the strap.

“Thanks, Kim,” his father said. “See you soon.”

Brendan watched her disappear around the side of the building and he heard her scooter cough to life and roar away.

“You’ve never mentioned her before,” his dad observed.

“She goes to my school.”

“Really?” His father arched an eyebrow. “Hmmm. Like I said: I’m surprised you’ve never mentioned her before. She’s cute.”

“Dad!”

“Come on! I’m just thinking she’s cute, is all.”

“She’s just a friend of mine, Dad.”

His dad winked knowingly. “I see. Say no more …”

“Dad,” Brendan groaned. “It’s not like that.”

“Like what? Who said anything about anything being like anything?”

“Well, it isn’t like that.”

“Gotcha.”

“Oh, brother.”

“You okay to walk?” His father’s face was suddenly full of concern. “We could take a cab …”

“Dad, relax.” Brendan rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. We could go back in if you want. I promise, I’m okay.”

His father looked at him critically then said, “Naw. Let’s go home. I have an early day tomorrow anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I ruined your night out.”

“Not at all. I’m not really into that Celtic stuff, y’know. I like the rock and roll.” He punched Brendan in the arm. “I say we get some barbecue pork and head home, huh?”

“Okay.”

An hour later, after a delicious stop at the Golden Stone Barbecue Restaurant, Brendan climbed into his loft feeling totally exhausted. He was still reeling from the concert experience.

Leaving his father and mother talking in the kitchen, he went upstairs to his room. They’d both been looking at him a little too closely as he kissed them good night like they were expecting him to freak out or something. He knew his father would be telling his mum about his episode at the concert. He groaned at the prospect of their concern.

Picking the iPod up off the dock, he flung himself down on the bed. He didn’t feel in the mood for the Ramones.
Too harsh.
He clicked over to the
RECENTLY ADDED
playlist and scrolled down to find the new Wintersleep he’d downloaded before going to school. There it was, down at the bottom. He sat up suddenly, bumping his head again on the sloping roof.

“Ow.” He rubbed his scalp and peered at the screen of his music player. There was a new entry. He froze in mid-rub.