me to keep me close to her court.”
“I suppose . . .”
“And how am I supposed to figure out what it is?”
“Is there anybody new in your life?” Christy asked.
I shook my head. “But why does it have to come from someone new?”
“It doesn’t,” he said. “But it’s as good a place as any to start. Unless . . .” He looked to Christiana. “Is it a natural disaster?”
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I know less than Mother Crone does, and she doesn’t seem to know much of anything except that it’s there and it won’t happen if you stick close to her court.”
Right. Like I wanted to spend the rest of my life hanging around Woodforest Plaza Mall, knowing what I did now.
“This sucks,” I said and nobody disagreed.
Lizzie
The Custom House was hopping on Saturday night. Lizzie and Siobhan’s twin fiddles, backed by the lilting punch of Con’s guitar and Andy’s button accordion, filled the bar with one driving set of tunes after the other, much to the patrons’ obvious delight. They stomped their feet and otherwise kept time by clapping or banging on the tables. Directly in front of the stage, the dance floor was a thick press of valiant attempts at step dancing, with more flailing of arms and head bobbing than was usually called for.
The energy from the audience translated to the band’s upping the drive of each subsequent tune set. Siobhan, so unassuming off stage, was showing off by step dancing as she fiddled and at one point, Lizzie was sure that Con was going to jump onto the nearest table and do his impression of a rock guitar hero, but it turned out he was only teasing the group sitting at that table.
Finally, they slowed things down for a song, just to make sure that the floor didn’t collapse under the audience’s enthusiasm and send them all down into the hotel’s basement. Con stepped up to the mike and began an a cappella version of Cyril Tawney’s “The Blue Funnel Line” with the rest of the band joining in on harmony for the one-line refrains. They finished with an instrumental version of the song on whistles and accordion.
The ensuing applause was enthusiastic, but the audience made it obvious that they wanted more dance tunes by returning to the dance floor and clapping in reel-time.
Lizzie took her turn at the mike.
“My car broke down last night,” she said when the noise died down enough for her to speak. “Right out in the middle of bloody nowhere. I thought I’d be sleeping in the back seat, but then a Good Samaritan got me up and running again—lucky, too, or maybe I wouldn’t even be able to be enjoying this night with all of you.”
That brought a round of applause and Lizzie grinned at the crowd.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I don’t think my rescuer was a big fan of Celtic music—”
A few good-natured boos rose up.
“I know,” she said. “What’s up with that? But one good turn deserves another, so here’s a set of American fiddle tunes we call the ‘The Two Billys Set.’ They’re for my rescuer Grey, wherever he might be tonight.”
She stepped back from the mike to let Andy count them in, then off they went into “Billy in the Low Ground,” the twin fiddles growling on their low strings against the deep-throated rumble of Andy’s bodhran. Three times through, then they jumped keys into “Bill Cheatum’s” and Con joined them on guitar, playing a syncopated old-timey rhythm that brought out the American feel of the tune and kicked the energy up yet another notch.
They followed that with two sets of Irish reels, and then the set was over.
“Don’t go away,” Siobhan told the crowd. “We’ll be back with lots more music right after the break.”
Andy turned down the sound from the stage. When he flicked the switch that brought the house sound system up, Johnny Cash’s deep baritone filled the air. That seemed enough to soothe a few members of the audience who hadn’t wanted the music to stop. The band left
“I suppose . . .”
“And how am I supposed to figure out what it is?”
“Is there anybody new in your life?” Christy asked.
I shook my head. “But why does it have to come from someone new?”
“It doesn’t,” he said. “But it’s as good a place as any to start. Unless . . .” He looked to Christiana. “Is it a natural disaster?”
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I know less than Mother Crone does, and she doesn’t seem to know much of anything except that it’s there and it won’t happen if you stick close to her court.”
Right. Like I wanted to spend the rest of my life hanging around Woodforest Plaza Mall, knowing what I did now.
“This sucks,” I said and nobody disagreed.
Lizzie
The Custom House was hopping on Saturday night. Lizzie and Siobhan’s twin fiddles, backed by the lilting punch of Con’s guitar and Andy’s button accordion, filled the bar with one driving set of tunes after the other, much to the patrons’ obvious delight. They stomped their feet and otherwise kept time by clapping or banging on the tables. Directly in front of the stage, the dance floor was a thick press of valiant attempts at step dancing, with more flailing of arms and head bobbing than was usually called for.
The energy from the audience translated to the band’s upping the drive of each subsequent tune set. Siobhan, so unassuming off stage, was showing off by step dancing as she fiddled and at one point, Lizzie was sure that Con was going to jump onto the nearest table and do his impression of a rock guitar hero, but it turned out he was only teasing the group sitting at that table.
Finally, they slowed things down for a song, just to make sure that the floor didn’t collapse under the audience’s enthusiasm and send them all down into the hotel’s basement. Con stepped up to the mike and began an a cappella version of Cyril Tawney’s “The Blue Funnel Line” with the rest of the band joining in on harmony for the one-line refrains. They finished with an instrumental version of the song on whistles and accordion.
The ensuing applause was enthusiastic, but the audience made it obvious that they wanted more dance tunes by returning to the dance floor and clapping in reel-time.
Lizzie took her turn at the mike.
“My car broke down last night,” she said when the noise died down enough for her to speak. “Right out in the middle of bloody nowhere. I thought I’d be sleeping in the back seat, but then a Good Samaritan got me up and running again—lucky, too, or maybe I wouldn’t even be able to be enjoying this night with all of you.”
That brought a round of applause and Lizzie grinned at the crowd.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I don’t think my rescuer was a big fan of Celtic music—”
A few good-natured boos rose up.
“I know,” she said. “What’s up with that? But one good turn deserves another, so here’s a set of American fiddle tunes we call the ‘The Two Billys Set.’ They’re for my rescuer Grey, wherever he might be tonight.”
She stepped back from the mike to let Andy count them in, then off they went into “Billy in the Low Ground,” the twin fiddles growling on their low strings against the deep-throated rumble of Andy’s bodhran. Three times through, then they jumped keys into “Bill Cheatum’s” and Con joined them on guitar, playing a syncopated old-timey rhythm that brought out the American feel of the tune and kicked the energy up yet another notch.
They followed that with two sets of Irish reels, and then the set was over.
“Don’t go away,” Siobhan told the crowd. “We’ll be back with lots more music right after the break.”
Andy turned down the sound from the stage. When he flicked the switch that brought the house sound system up, Johnny Cash’s deep baritone filled the air. That seemed enough to soothe a few members of the audience who hadn’t wanted the music to stop. The band left
Similar Books
