Page 40 of The Scald Crow
“No.” She worried her lip and then returned her attention to Eamon.
“Aye, you’ll never find j, k, q, v, w, x, y, or z. Our language comes from the old Ogham alphabet. You’ll sometimes see runes inscribed in the odd fence post thereabouts.” He stared deeply into her eyes.
“It must be hard to learn.” She sipped her wine. Her attention belonged to Eamon alone.
“Aye, that it is. Do you hear that one over there?” He lifted his bushy eyebrows, jutting his chin toward the barber’s wife sitting at the bar. “You hear her before you see her. We call her noisy. Talk your ear off, that one.”
“What do you do for fun, Eamon?” She laughed, the cadence of her voice reaching over the din, touching me, folding over me.
I lapped up every intonation, her every expression. My thoughts scattered, and I knew I had lost. I ordered a whisky from the busy server.
“Woot. Woot. Eamon, sing us a song.” Someone shouted, noticing Eamon in the crowd.
“They say I suck all the fun out of the room. Aye, I do.” Eamon murmured to Calla and rose to the floor.
The place quieted, and all eyes turned toward Eamon. He sang of heart and country, blood-stained valleys and mud-soaked hills, his low voice consuming every breathing soul. He bowed his head for a moment of silence, and when he lifted his eyes, it was with a smile. “And now, how about a nice round of happy birthday for Ardara’s newest resident? The lovely Calla, with the voice of the angels.”
Her birthday? She hadn’t mentioned that, but why would she? We were not exactly friends. I pondered how many more birthdays she might celebrate, how immortality would affect a halfling like her. These were intricacies I knew nothing about.
Storey whispered in low tones something about long-term investments and hedge funds.
“Here you go, luv.” The server set a glass before me.
Eamon started the celebratory song. Faces turned, and voices rose. Wee Connor strummed his ukelele out of rhythm and off-key. Voices joined in, happy for something to celebrate. Everyone clapped.
“Thank you.” She offered an exaggerated curtsey to the crowd.
I imagined what kissing her would feel like. The top of her tousled head would tickle my chin. I would run my fingers down her slender arms, relishing in the honeyed softness of her skin. She would gaze into my eyes, wanting me as I wanted her. I studied her clunky white running shoes. Why would an otherworldly being be interested in a chancer like me? I threw back the shot and ordered another.
She whispered to Connor and then faced the crowd. “This young man would like to play a song.” She placed her hands on Connor’s hips, lifting the young fella onto the bar top. He strummed the first stanzas of “It’s a Beautiful World,” and a hush fell.
She sang out, her voice kissing every corner, enchanting every soul. I straightened in my seat, my gaze glued to the boy. He plucked each string as if touched by an angel himself. Her magic flowed through her fingertips into wee Connor, gifting him with newfound grace. Connor’s mother spoke to Breda, and Breda breathed to Polly.
Calla returned to her table, unaware of what she had done. Connor remained, kicking his legs, strumming the sweetest strains imaginable.
I looked into the shadows and found what I searched for—Da’s spirit threading through the crowd. I lifted my glass.
“Join us for a pint, bro?” Tadgh placed his brawny hand on my shoulder, tearing me from my fantasy.
“What?” I murmured, gazing into his wide blue eyes.
“Colm, will ye come by? Play a game, won’t ye?” Oisin yelled, calling me into the billiard room.
I slid from the bar stool, intent on stealing a look at the Faerie girl. Did Storey know what she was? Someone would have to tell him.
Oisin’s brow furrowed when I met his stare.
“What’s the bet, then?” I removed my suit jacket and tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons of my starched shirt, and rolled up the sleeves.
“Rounds. What else?” Cillian laughed.
“Aye. You break then.” I selected a cue, unable to shut out Calla’s silvery voice. It followed me around the pool table, echoing in my mind with every shot.
The server balanced six pints of the Black Stuff on a silver platter. Cillian dumped a handful of change into the tip jar. I added twenty euros to the mix.
“Brilliant shot, mate.” Tadgh held up the back wall, commenting on the bank shot.
The boys cranked it up, tossing back their pints and ordering another round.
