The Sturgeon’s Dance

“Who was that,” Greg asked as he and Josie drove home from the folk dance, “the fiddler, singing, at the end? You know him?” Jealousy tainted his question. Josie huffed and faced the window. –Damn it, Greg. I don’t need you thinking I’ve fallen for a guy just because he can play a fiddle like nobody’s business. You know me better than that. It’s high time you cut yourself a healthy slab of self-esteem.– “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. She didn’t want to think about the fiddler, and she didn’t want Greg to think she was thinking about him. The horizon slid past, trees with thickening buds in inky profile against a charcoal sky. Not for another month would their greenery unfurl. Spring in coastal Maine always dilly-dallied. Josie’s mind dilly-dallied, too, back to the hall and the music. And that fiddler. As much as she anticipated cuddling with Greg when they slipped into bed shortly, she couldn’t shake the unsettling end of the evening. The clinging disquiet galled her. –If only Greg hadn’t picked up on it.– They often attended the folk dances at the Stackpole Grange Hall, but winter storms and other plans had kept them away for two months. Josie had been smiling since Greg confirmed their date the day before. Greg Deering’s enthusiasm for folk music had surprised Josie when they first met, better than a year earlier. She’d had a fender-bender on black ice, and his garage, convenient to her, was on the insurance company’s list of approved repair shops. When she delivered her car, she found Deering Truck & Tractor engaged in heavy-equipment sales and service, with auto maintenance and body work on the side. Rivaling the mechanical atmosphere, Scottish bagpipe music caterwauled from a decrepit boom-box on a dusty shelf in the small, utilitarian office. On her return, bluegrass resounded throughout the building. Deering warbled lustily to “Til the End of the World Rolls Round,” his gravelly bray syncopated by the guttural rattle of idling diesels. Three mechanics under hoods and in grease pits shook their heads, amused by the boss’s racket. After concluding her business, Josie accepted Greg’s invitation to the Saturday night dance in Stackpole, two towns west of Asquit Falls. They had dated regularly since. She liked him. He didn’t play head games and he had a clean sense of fun. He was the kind for whom the meshing hum of perfectly tooled parts was a symphony, the scent of warm machine oil an elixir. He put his whole being into every activity, business or pleasure, whether replacing a backhoe’s steel teeth or allemanding left to a caller’s patter. At these dances, Greg’s raw grace compensated Josie’s awkwardness. Devoid of musical talent, she depended on his lead. Tonight, he had whirled her in rounds and squares, contras and reels. He gamboled in one direction to twirl his opposite, as Josie’s opposite twirled her, then sashayed with her to the end of the line. They laughed, breathless and alive, as the new head couple took up the pattern of steps. The crowd reveled in the foot-stomping music. They capered and clapped and sang to the lively melodies. They opened the huge windows to the May air to cool their brows. The musicians were good, four men and two women. The fiddler, new in the group, remained backstage at the margin of light. He used no sheet music, asking of the others only the key for the next tune. The band always ended the evening with a waltz. The new fellow, still half-hidden in the shadows, played solo. He lifted a rich baritone to an Irish lullaby. The song’s sweetness swirled throughout the room, caressing both dancers and wallflowers. The October winds lament around the castle of Dromore, Yet peace is in her lofty halls, my loving treasure store. Though autumn vines may droop and die, a bud of spring are you. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo, low lan. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo. The song tugged at Josie. Her hand slipped from Greg’s and she left his side, drawn to the foot of the stage. The fiddler’s dark head bent to the violin. The line of his long, spare body swayed in a graceful curve, as if he might glide away with his instrument. One big hand fretted the neck nimbly, and the bow flowed across the strings, begetting a haunting tremolo in tandem with his singing. Bring no ill wind to hinder us, my helpless babe and me, Dread spirit of the Blackwater Clan Eoan’s wild banshee, And holy Mary pitying us in heaven for grace doth sue. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo, low lan. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo. The song’s passion entwined her, and she closed her eyes. Never before had she heard so poignant a blend of voice and violin. Cryptic recognizance surged through her—wistfulness, tinged with loneliness, a stony anger, and a restless fire—that brought to mind the wildlands. –What is this?– But she knew what it was, although it hadn’t plagued her for years. She shuddered, tried to withdraw. The need to leave scoured her, but a matching force rendered her immobile. Take time to thrive, my ray of hope, in the garden of Dromore; Take heed, young eaglet, till your wings are feathered, fit to soar. A little rest and then our land is full of things to do. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo, low lan. Sing hush-a-bye low, lah loo. The last verse lilted to its conclusion. The sensation ebbed, leaving in its wake the image of a fox at the edge of a black lake, nose to the night, poised on a sandy beach pale under a starry sky. The illusion faded. She shivered to expel its cloying wisps. Greg touched her elbow. “You okay?” She didn’t meet his eye. “Kind of tired.” She scratched the back of her neck. He had watched her for a moment. “Let’s go, then.” He had tilted his chin toward the stage, where the band had begun to pack their equipment. “They’re done.” “So, that guy, if you don’t know him, why would he bug you?” Greg now interrupted her mental meandering. Josie appreciated Greg’s straightforward nature, but now and then it struck a little close to home. She wished he’d let it be, but he’d worry it as a dog worries a bone. “It wasn’t him. I didn’t even look at him.” It was true; she hadn’t noticed the fiddler’s features, obscure at the recesses of the stage. “It was that song.” “You’ve heard that,” Greg persisted. “The Castle of Dromore.” “I never remember the name.” She shrugged to settle her blouse and light jacket, as if cool fingers brushing her shoulders had raised her hackles. She hadn’t yet told Greg about her visions; she hadn’t considered doing so. Buried in ancient history, she’d almost forgotten them, hoping they had left for good. Evidently, they hadn’t. Were they waking up now? And why? She was reluctant to tell him. How would he react? –People think you’re nuts if you believe in ESP, or whatever it is. Maybe I am nuts. It makes no sense to me. If I can’t define it, how can I explain it to anybody else?– “How he played it, or sang it … it just hit me … odd …” Greg grunted, monitoring the dark road ahead. He wasn’t satisfied with her answer; neither was she. But she had no other.