The January Dancer

An Craic

The harper frowns in dissatisfaction. “And what is the point of that tale? That to journey hopefully is better than to arrive? I hadn’t thought you capable of such banality.”

It is difficult to know when the scarred man smiles. His lips hang down the curve of his chin like an old sock thrown across a chair-back. “Why do you think anyone has arrived, or that they have journeyed with any hope?” He laughs. “But let them have their moment.”

The harper says nothing, but her mouth hardens. “Your humor is too cruel,” she says at last. “I think it has poisoned the story.” She stands to go, but the scarred man’s words, projected somehow by the geometry of the alcove, seem to whisper by her very ear.

“Where can you go to get the story, poisoned or not? Those who were in it are scattered, gone, or dead. It’s our version you’ll hear, or none at all.”

She picks up her harp case and slings it across her back. “Don’t be so sure, old man. I did not come here unschooled. Your lips are not the only ones that tell this tale.”

The scarred man lifts a clawed hand, as if begging. “Don’t go,” he says. It might have been a plea had it been said with more feeling; but there is little of feeling left in him and so it sounds more like a command. “Stay a while longer, for our loneliness.”

The harper shifts the burden on her back and half turns. But there are things she wants to know, questions she still needs to ask, and so with ill grace, she relents. “I will stay awhile longer—for your madness,” she tells him, and resumes her seat.

“Play me the journey through the creases,” the scarred man says. “I want to see what you make of it.”

The harper remains silent for a time. Then she bends over and retrieves the harp from its case. “The slide down Electric Avenue has been played before,” she says, “but perhaps there is one more variation on that theme.” Her fingers dance and notes swirl with almost superluminous speed. “I’ve always liked the image of the alfvens plucking at the strings of space,” she says over the glissando. “Space travel is rather like playing the harp.”

“Perhaps,” says the scarred man, “but the alfvens move the ship and…” He pauses, then smiles. “Ah.”

The harper shows her teeth and the arpeggio rushes into a desperate decelerando, slowing into a steady orbital rhythm whose measure is the “long line” of an ancient island poetry, and finally settles into a Lament for the Vale of Eireann so broad as to blanket a world. A drinker nearby cries out, “Oh, God!” and turns himself weeping aside. Others there are who hang down their heads or brush away tears at their cheeks.

The Bartender leaves his post and crosses the room to confront them. He says, “People come here to forget their sorrows, and not to have new ones added.” He gives the scarred man a sour look. “How long will you sit there? People think you’re part of the staff—or part of the furniture.”

“I’m waiting for someone,” the scarred man says.

“Oh, you are? Who?”

A shrug. “Don’t know yet.”

The Bartender purses his lips, but the amount of disapproval he can muster is as nothing to that normal to the scarred man’s countenance. “Another round,” the harper says, and the Bartender turns his gaze on her. “Try to play something more cheerful,” he tells her.

“I’d think that music that moves a man to drink would be more welcome here.”

“You’d think wrong.” And he turns away and returns to his post with large strides. Shortly after, a serving wench arrives with fresh bowls of uiscebaugh.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown you out long ago,” the harper tells the scarred man. She sips from her bowl, then frowns and regards the bowl with disbelief. “Either he is serving better whiskey now or I’ve lost the tongue for the difference.”

“He serves the worse drinks first, hoping to discourage the drinking. But most who come here can’t tell the difference anyway. Ol’ Praisegod won’t throw us out. I’m one of the afflicted he’s supposed to comfort.” His laugh is rough and broken, like shale sliding down a high mountain slope. He raises his bowl in salute to the Bartender, who affects not to notice. “Ah, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if we weren’t here every day. I’m his freakin’ touchstone, I am. The one constant in his life. We’re—”

The scarred man falls suddenly silent and his eyes widen. “No. You can’t,” he says between clenched teeth. He grips the table edge, first with one hand, then the other, and seems to vibrate like a plucked string of the harp. The harper watches with alarm and turns in her seat to see if the Bartender has noticed.

The harper’s sudden movement has drawn his attention. He looks at her; then past her to the scarred man; until, with a mirthless smile, he shakes his head and returns to his business.

He has seen this before. Ill-comforted by that thought, the harper turns once more to her companion.

And he is preternaturally calm. “Ready for the rest of the tale, darlin’? I warn you, there are parts of it that can’t be spoken of, even yet. But those are the parts I like best telling.”

The harper frowns. There is something strange about the withered old man. Something odd in his voice, as if he has just remembered something important. Or forgotten it.

“The thing to remember about a pursuit,” he says easily, “is that it always takes longer when you’re chasing. ‘A stern chase is a long chase.’”

The harper grunts without amusement and plays a few lines from a courtship dance on Die Bold. Surprisingly, the scarred man recognizes the tune and recites a few words.

“‘The labyrinth of my mind,’” he repeats more slowly. “Aye, maybe courting is the answer.” He looks at the harper and his smile is this time almost human. “It wasn’t always a courting song, you know. It’s from an old poem from ancient Earth.”

“You were speaking of a chase,” the harper says a little abruptly.

The scarred man appraises her, as if wondering what she is chasing down the labyrinth of his mind. Then, “A chase. Yes. Though no one quite knew it.” He slouches in his chair and waves an arm. “Come then, harper, attend my tale.”