a bit.
She found Ramon in a room with floor-to-ceiling paned windows, giving a partial view of the water and the city. He stood atop a ladder, centering a four-foot tall painting on the wall.
Even though he was the brugh's enthralled human dreamer and her ceile , she gave him a wide berth of independence. Hard work led to inspiration. So did suffering, and he got enough of that on his own, without her help.
" Jett!" he exclaimed when he saw her. He jumped down to give her a kiss. "Almost done." He grabbed another picture from the pile.
The paintings were large, featuring broad brush strokes, colorful, like cartoon characters. Jett closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the room, not just old paint dust and distant mildew, but the blas na haislinge , the taste of Ramon's work.
" They're beautiful as always, my enchantment. You will sell a few of these tonight."
" Not that I need the money, Jett. You provide for me well enough."
" The spring rains will one day turn to the barren of winter."
Eventually, Ramon would grow old. Or burn out. Jett inspired him, yet sooner or later, he would be unable to provide the toradh that made him useful to the brugh. His geas ensured he would obey her command to save money when he could.
" In that case, here's to hoping I sell a painting," he said, hanging the last.
" You will sell more than one," she asserted.
A few small groups wandered in and gazed at the paintings, commenting with enthusiasm. They wore clothes in autumn colors even though it was spring, and various tactile textiles: loose knits, smooth silks, tweed, corduroy, hats, piercings, and perky hairstyles. The quirky Seattle fashions gave off little bursts of their own aisling like released steam
Ramon hung back and listened to their comments, mostly positive. Now and then he would insert himself into the conversation. People liked to meet the creator; that was one of the draws to art walk.
One couple looked ready to buy a bright green and orange painting of a pelican gulping down a fire hydrant. She sampled the small sliver of toradh they gave off in appreciation. Delectable toradh.
But soon the tiny rivulets were overwhelmed by another source, in another room. Was someone painting?
Then she heard it: soft notes from an acoustic guitar fell upon her ears, carrying with it a rich blas na haislinge . A dreamer, and a potent one at that.
The music's call lured her through the maze of studios to a tiny room on the east side of the building. There, in front of a microphone, eyes half-closed in ecstasy, stood a young woman singing a soft ballad. Orange city-light shone through the window, glinting off her silver nose ring and tinting her hair.
The aisling of a newborn song washed over Jett like warm water. With every sense heightened, she felt tense and relaxed at the same time. There was too much to absorb, so she let it pass through her and around her like an abundance of mead going to waste. Jett closed her eyes and just listened. The moment seemed to last forever.
When the song ended, Jett opened her eyes to the sound of applause.
" Hi, my name is Jina Harper," the woman said into the mic. "I wasn't on the schedule, but my friend Brandon asked me to play a little. And I'm always eager for an audience, even an intimate one like this. Here's one of my favorites." She began another song, but the aisling had the patina of something oft-played - yet still powerful, like Mozart's Symphony No. 40.
Jett watched until she finished the short set, and waited until Jina began to pack her instrument.
Then Jett stepped forward. "Excuse me," she began.
" Yes?" Jina looked up.
" Your music... It fell on my ears and sank below the surface of my soul. Yet it is I who drowns."
CHAPTER 12
----
...this torrid affair, fire torrents aflare.
You can act and pretend, but I know you can't care.
Just leave me aquiver, a burn victim, forgiver,
but what is this life, empty of you,
charred heart, melted bone, blackened sinew?
Jina
She found Ramon in a room with floor-to-ceiling paned windows, giving a partial view of the water and the city. He stood atop a ladder, centering a four-foot tall painting on the wall.
Even though he was the brugh's enthralled human dreamer and her ceile , she gave him a wide berth of independence. Hard work led to inspiration. So did suffering, and he got enough of that on his own, without her help.
" Jett!" he exclaimed when he saw her. He jumped down to give her a kiss. "Almost done." He grabbed another picture from the pile.
The paintings were large, featuring broad brush strokes, colorful, like cartoon characters. Jett closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the room, not just old paint dust and distant mildew, but the blas na haislinge , the taste of Ramon's work.
" They're beautiful as always, my enchantment. You will sell a few of these tonight."
" Not that I need the money, Jett. You provide for me well enough."
" The spring rains will one day turn to the barren of winter."
Eventually, Ramon would grow old. Or burn out. Jett inspired him, yet sooner or later, he would be unable to provide the toradh that made him useful to the brugh. His geas ensured he would obey her command to save money when he could.
" In that case, here's to hoping I sell a painting," he said, hanging the last.
" You will sell more than one," she asserted.
A few small groups wandered in and gazed at the paintings, commenting with enthusiasm. They wore clothes in autumn colors even though it was spring, and various tactile textiles: loose knits, smooth silks, tweed, corduroy, hats, piercings, and perky hairstyles. The quirky Seattle fashions gave off little bursts of their own aisling like released steam
Ramon hung back and listened to their comments, mostly positive. Now and then he would insert himself into the conversation. People liked to meet the creator; that was one of the draws to art walk.
One couple looked ready to buy a bright green and orange painting of a pelican gulping down a fire hydrant. She sampled the small sliver of toradh they gave off in appreciation. Delectable toradh.
But soon the tiny rivulets were overwhelmed by another source, in another room. Was someone painting?
Then she heard it: soft notes from an acoustic guitar fell upon her ears, carrying with it a rich blas na haislinge . A dreamer, and a potent one at that.
The music's call lured her through the maze of studios to a tiny room on the east side of the building. There, in front of a microphone, eyes half-closed in ecstasy, stood a young woman singing a soft ballad. Orange city-light shone through the window, glinting off her silver nose ring and tinting her hair.
The aisling of a newborn song washed over Jett like warm water. With every sense heightened, she felt tense and relaxed at the same time. There was too much to absorb, so she let it pass through her and around her like an abundance of mead going to waste. Jett closed her eyes and just listened. The moment seemed to last forever.
When the song ended, Jett opened her eyes to the sound of applause.
" Hi, my name is Jina Harper," the woman said into the mic. "I wasn't on the schedule, but my friend Brandon asked me to play a little. And I'm always eager for an audience, even an intimate one like this. Here's one of my favorites." She began another song, but the aisling had the patina of something oft-played - yet still powerful, like Mozart's Symphony No. 40.
Jett watched until she finished the short set, and waited until Jina began to pack her instrument.
Then Jett stepped forward. "Excuse me," she began.
" Yes?" Jina looked up.
" Your music... It fell on my ears and sank below the surface of my soul. Yet it is I who drowns."
CHAPTER 12
----
...this torrid affair, fire torrents aflare.
You can act and pretend, but I know you can't care.
Just leave me aquiver, a burn victim, forgiver,
but what is this life, empty of you,
charred heart, melted bone, blackened sinew?
Jina
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