Moon Song (17 page)

‘I think,’ Isoldé was just getting her breath and her act back together. ‘I think that was quite a compliment.’

‘Uhuh.’ Mark nodded. ‘It was.’

‘Proper job!’ Gideon put on the local accent even more strongly. ‘Proper job!’

Isoldé and Mark were left alone then for a little while as the musicians struck up again with a fast dance tune. Lots of folk came out into the open square, whirling and stamping feet. It was the wildest thing Isoldé had ever been too despite being on the folk scene all her life. There was a lot of unaccompanied singing as well as a couple with squeezeboxes, a girl with a fiddle, another with a set of Breton pipes, a tall, bald young man with a mandolin, lute and whistle, and an incredible person with a set of drums, including a djembe. He was tiny, a dwarf, about four foot tall. When he got behind the djembe you could hardly see him, just his hands flashing over the skins.

The locals were very good and Isoldé knew many of the songs and joined in. They even got her to sing Thomas the Rhymer. She did Tristan’s version and it was well received. A man with a beautiful voice sang The Twa Magicians. It was a fine night, people wanted to dance. The fiddler girl and the one with the pipes plus the man with the mandolin set off with some fast tunes and people began to whirl. The couple with the squeezeboxes spelled them after a bit and then the dwarf came out with the djembe. Somebody set up a platform across a couple of barrels and he was off. Isoldé had had a couple of turns of jigs and reels with Mark but she could feel the drums getting into her blood.

Gideon came across. ‘D’you mind?’ He smiled at Mark.

Mark grinned and shook his head. ‘Go on Zoldé, you’ll enjoy this,’ he told her.

Gideon pulled her onto the floor and they were off. He was an amazing dancer, as he’d suggested when she met him at the kieve, and she found he gave her feet wings. The dwarf’s hands flew so the djembe pounded, thudding through the air. Gideon lifted her, swung her round, a mix of jiving and salsa, things she’d never tried before. Eventually the pounding rhythms stopped and she fell into his arms. For a moment he held her, then ducked his head and pressed his mouth on hers, he tasted
of blackberries and the sea. After a moment Isoldé struggled slightly and he let her go, laughing, looked into her eyes.

‘I’ll be seein’ of thee,’ he whispered as he steered her back to the edge of the dance floor where Mark stood watching. He handed her over with a bow.

‘Well …did you enjoy that?’ Mark’s eyes were laughing, open, he didn’t seem at all jealous.

‘Yes, I did!’ Isoldé felt reassured. When Gideon kissed her she had, for a moment, completely forgotten about Mark. ‘Very much. It’s the best sing I’ve ever been to.’

The band struck up with a slow ballad. Mark stood up, took her hand.

‘Come on, let’s dance,’ he said, catching her in his arms and pulling her close. ‘Gideon is a far better dancer than I am but I can do this slow stuff real well,’ he whispered into her hair. She snuggled against him as they smooched around the dance floor.

The evening finished after midnight with a Tintagel resident offering them a lift home.

They stood in the road waving the car goodbye then Mark opened Caergollo’s gate and let them in. A rustle in the bushes greeted them and the hare came slowly out, sat up on her haunches and looked at them. As Mark watched, she began to shift. Now the fae figure of the hare-girl stood in front of them. She reached one paw-hand up to the sky where the moon hid behind a cloud.

‘I need my song,’ she said softly. ‘Please find my song.’

‘How did you know to do the Fith Fath song?’ Mark asked over breakfast the next morning.

‘I’ve always known it …’ Isoldé began tentatively. ‘Uncle Brian taught it me, told me about it, the meaning of the seasons and the chase. And the “Good God” is what the name of the Dagda means in Gaelic. It’s the eternal story of the Spring Maid bringing the seasons to life again after the darkness of winter.’

‘That’s right,’ Mark was smiling. ‘You know, I’d forgotten – if I ever knew – about the meaning of Dagda, the All-Father, the Good God.’

‘The chase isn’t about chauvinism,’ Isoldé went on. ‘It’s the goddess testing her mate, her guardian, to see if he’s up to it, capable of looking after her, fetching her home.’

‘Yes, that’s how we tell it here too. The old way.’ He laughed. ‘In the old ways the woman was in charge, led the way. The man is guardian, keeper. It’s what the Morris men are too and their dancing comes out of old martial arts exercises, hidden from the overlords in dance.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Isoldé said, smiling at him. ‘But it makes sense.’ She began to collect the breakfast things and put them in the dishwasher. ‘But …again …we were reminded last night that we have a job to do. You said Tristan’s manuscripts are up in the cottage at the head of the waterfall …right?’

‘Ye-ees …’

‘And that you can’t go there, not at the moment?’

‘Yes …’

‘So, I will.’

‘OK …’ Mark watched her, a frown on his face. He got up. ‘I’ve got to practice.’ He left the room, heading for the library and the piano.

Isoldé watched him go. He might not be jealous of Gideon but he was certainly crotchety this morning. He didn’t like the idea of her going where he could not.

‘I wanted a job,’ Isoldé muttered to herself as she finished loading the dishwasher, ‘and now I’ve got one. And he’s cross because he can’t help. Men!’ she muttered. The job wasn’t anything she’d ever dreamed of doing, it sounded like what Uncle Brian called a soul retrieval, but there was no way she either could, or wanted to, turn it down.

The sun was shining, time for a walk. She would go to the cottage. It was what had set Mark off, when he’d stomped out of the kitchen. She sighed. Relationships were like that. You had a fabulous evening and the next day things went all to pot. It was only temporary, she knew that. It would be good to keep out of the way for the time being. Yes, she would go to the cottage. She might see Gideon there too, a warm flush flowed through her as she said his name over in her mind. Hmmm! After last night, singing and dancing with him, that’s how it was, was it?

She went to the hall and pulled on walking boots. Listening, she could hear Mark practising; he seemed to be all thumbs today and by the sound of the swearing quite crotchety. Isoldé was already learning to duck and run when her beloved had problems with himself. He was well used to sorting them without assistance, a very independent soul, as she was herself. That was good, they fitted that way and, she hoped, they wouldn’t get in each other’s way.

The birds were quiet, post-prandial snooze after breakfast, she thought. She walked in the soft, green-gold, dappled sunlight of spring and got to the bridge almost before she realised. Setting her walking stick, Tristan’s stick, on the planks she knocked three times. A groan of moving wood, along with three loud plops in the water, answered her.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she said out loud.

She managed the path better this time, pacing herself well, and arrived at the top not too out of breath. She pushed her way through overhanging branches and found a gate. The latch creaked and the hinges groaned with all the vigour of a horror film as she pushed it open to find herself in a courtyard. Wisteria hung all round the walls along with the remains of last year’s Old Man’s Beard. The wisteria was in flower already, that was the Cornish climate for you. It was scenting up the courtyard along with bulbs and forget-me-nots crowded amongst the ragged paving. To her right, the white walls and black timbers of a cottage showed through the undergrowth. It was beautiful. A hideaway.

She made her way towards what must be a door hiding under a rickety wooden porch that was probably held up only by the wisteria itself. She lifted the latch …it opened. This door creaked suitably too and she had to shove quite firmly to get it open as it had swollen with lack of use and the winter rains.

It opened directly into a large living room, full of light. The wall opposite was all window, floor to ceiling, and looked as though it opened onto a balcony. She could hear the rushing of the water now and guessed the cottage must be right above the falls. Faded, antique furniture was scattered about the room, tables covered in paper, a crusted coffee mug beside a lovely velvet-covered nursing chair. White cotton drapes were pulled back and tied with sashes to the sides of the long window. Off to the left was a doorway that seemed to lead to a kitchen. Another closed door stood to the right. Isoldé picked her way across the faded Turkish carpet to the long window, tried a handle, after a couple of rattles it jerked open and she near fell onto the wooden balcony.

She pushed herself backwards. The rail at the edge looked ancient and she realised without seeing that she really was right over the waterfall, a potential seventy-five foot drop into a cold, boiling cauldron. Sliding one foot after the other she crept
forward to the rail, peered over. Yes, there it was, half hidden in tree branches.

What a place! What a view! She stood gasping until, gradually, her heart quietened down. She could see why Tristan had made it his hideaway, a place to which he would disappear to work. It was gorgeous, she wanted it, wanted it to be her own hideaway too.

She turned back into the living room. Now she saw the upright piano against the side wall. Lifting the lid she read the name Bechstein, another beauty. She tried a few notes; it was still just about in tune despite having probably not been touched for ages. She felt the wood, it wasn’t damp. Going over to a chair she tried the cover, the velvet wasn’t damp either. Odd, especially as the place was hidden in a Cornish jungle at the top of a waterfall.

She went into the kitchen, an old Rayburn stood proud against one wall, a bucket of coal and a basket of logs beside it. There was a dusty copper kettle on the back-plate and a row of steel utensils hanging above. A Belfast sink was slung across a corner with a wooden plate rack above it containing a motley crew of assorted china of various ages, from Wedgewood to Woolworths. A broken china jug with a William Morris robin on it held a similar varied assortment of cutlery. Spiders had decorated the whole with webs, ancient and modern. It reminded Isoldé of Miss Haversham’s wedding feast.

She crossed the living room to the closed door. With her hand on the handle she felt a slight hesitation to opening it. Silly! She turned the handle, this door opened easily. It was a bedroom. Not as big as the living room but still a fair size. A big canopied bed held centre-stage on the right wall, facing out through another huge French window onto an extension of the balcony over the fall. A pair of low, elegant, ash chests of drawers stood each side of the bed. An ash tallboy stood on the wall opposite her, a pair of basket chairs and a low table occupied the end of the room to her left. The tallboy door was open, a pair of white flannel
trousers had half fallen out of it, a heavy cotton shirt lay at the end of the bed. It was just as though the owner had left it that morning.

Isoldé stood transfixed in the doorway, then she shook herself and went over to the bed, picked up the shirt. The rosemary scent came to her. Mark had told her Tristan used rosemary oil. There was a faint masculine smell too, his own scent. She held the shirt to her face, breathing deeply.

Still holding it, she went to the window, opened it and let herself out onto the balcony. This part of the cottage was built at a slight angle, she could see the fall better now, hear it too. Somehow, although it was loud, it wasn’t the deafening, thundering, mind-numbing roar it had been down in the kieve, perhaps because she wasn’t surrounded by a rock sounding-box but was above the fall.

She turned back into the bedroom, closed the French window, laid the shirt back on the bed and went out, closing the bedroom door behind her. That was somehow a very private place, she felt easier in the living room. Going back into the kitchen she tried a tap, it coughed and choked, spat some brown sludge at her, gave a couple more gurgles then settled to a good flow of clear water. She washed a glass, filled it with water and took it back into the living room, stood looking around. There was an order here despite the apparent chaos, definitely a touch of Tristan as she had come to know him through Mark’s eyes. She went over and sat in the nursing chair. It felt as if it had been his main perch. Sitting there, she was surrounded by papers and music manuscripts. Carefully, she picked up a sheet and tried to read it. The notes staggered in her brain but there were words too, strung along the notes, they told of the sun rising in the morning, climbing up the sky to his zenith then rolling down again to fall into the sea. The verses told of the sun swimming through the dark waters to rise again out of the sea the next morning and do the whole thing over again.

This must be part of the Ellyon Cycle, Isoldé realised. Mark had not been able to come here since Tristan’s death. And here they were, where Tristan had left them, scattered all over the floor and every place else. Isoldé wondered how many songs there were.

‘Seven,’ said a familiar voice from behind her. ‘Plus the one he hadn’t managed to write, the one for the Moon that you must help him find and write.’

Isoldé nearly fell off the chair as she swizzled round to face him. It was Gideon.

‘Ah! Wha…! Arrgghh!’ she mumbled. Then, getting control of her voice again she said, ‘What the hell? Why d’you have to scare me like that?’

Gideon chuckled. ‘I’m glad you found your way up here,’ he said, not answering her. ‘I’ve been trying to attract your attention since we met down there when you first came. You can be damnably focused at times, and on things I don’t want you to be. You make life very difficult.’

‘Tough!’ Isoldé spat back.

‘Now, don’t pretend you weren’t thinking of me when you decided to come for a walk,’ he countered.

Isoldé flushed, decided to make out it was anger and began to turn on him, then she saw the funny side. ‘Oh, damn you,’ she said. ‘Let’s drop the sparring! Tell me about this place.’

‘I think you’ve worked it out pretty well for yourself,’ he said, crossing the room to sit in the armchair across from her. His eyes went to the glass of water. ‘Oho! You’ve drunk the water here. That’s good. It will help. You should be able to find Tristan if you keep taking the water.’