and blocks. A rack full of different woodwinds glittered under the house lights: whistles, flutes, and fifes. Finally, in the centre of the stage was a simple, low stool. There were no microphones at all.
“There’re no amplifiers,” Brendan said. “How will they fill the hall?”
“I don’t know.” Brendan’s dad frowned. “The hall’s pretty good acoustically, but that’s the thing with this performer, she insists on playing halls with no amplification. She’s a bit eccentric. She’s a recluse, and she doesn’t perform live very often, but she has a dedicated, almost cult following.”
At that point, the lights began to dim and a ripple of excitement coursed through the audience. This was the part of every show that Brendan loved the most, the moment before any note had been struck, before judgments were made, when all the audience perched on the edge of their seats, eager to be delighted. After an endless instant, the thrum of a harp was heard. The stage blazed into being as if conjured into existence by some magical power. The wail of a violin and the pounding of an Irish drum throbbed in counterpoint to the lilting, dancing tones of the harp. The musicians had taken their places in the darkness and now they sat or stood on the stage, playing feverishly.
Effortlessly, Deirdre D’Anaan commanded the focus, her red hair hanging about her gorgeous face as her fingers danced across the strings of her harp, resting between her knees. She wore a long gown of forest-green velvet embroidered with twining vines of golden thread that chased each other along her arms and around her neck. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and her lips curved ever so slightly in a faint smile. She looked like a dreaming angel.
Brendan wasn’t aware of anything but the music. The sound was like nothing he’d ever heard before. He had seen Celtic musicians before, heard reels and jigs and Irish ballads, but the music Deirdre played was something altogether different.
He had no idea how long the song went on, but it ended with a final flourish of the drum. The hall echoed with the last note for a long moment before the crowd erupted into applause and roars of approval. Brendan fell back against the bench. He was breathing hard, and his clothing was soaked with sweat. The scar was aching anew, burning and prickling as though the wound were fresh.
Brendan’s father sat down, still applauding. He turned to Brendan and said, “Wow! That was incredible. Thirty-five minutes non-stop! I
…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Brendan? Are you okay?”
“Huh,” Brendan mumbled. “Yeah. Fine… just a little… I don’t know
… tired?” Brendan pushed his fingers under the frame of his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
His father frowned. “You don’t look fine.” He laid a hand on Brendan’s forehead. “Whoah. You’re really warm. Are you sick?”
“Nah. I don’t think so.”
“Maybe we should go…”
“No!” Brendan sat up. He was suddenly aware that he had spoken quite loudly and immediately felt very self-conscious. In a more quiet tone he added, “No. I’ll be okay. Let’s stay.”
His father frowned. “You sure?” Brendan could tell that his father wanted to hear more but would leave if Brendan asked him to. But Brendan didn’t want to go. Despite the weird way he was feeling, he wanted to hear more, had to hear more. There was something in the music that he needed.
“Welcome.” Deirdre D’Anaan’s voice filled the hall. She didn’t shout or raise her voice, but it was as though she were speaking directly into his ear. Her voice was rich and vibrant with a lilt of accent that Brendan couldn’t place. “Old friends and new, we’re glad you’ve come. What a grand hall and glorious night. On such a night we may bring the seen and unseen together. Can you feel it?” She raised her arms. “The spirits gather. They are drawn to the sound.”
“Oh brother,” Brendan’s father snorted. Others nearby looked at him sharply. Brendan felt the urge to join them in disapproval. It sounded hokey but there was something happening here. He could sense it. He believed she was telling the truth. He believed that she was talking to him.
“This is a special night for those who choose to see. Open your eyes and your heart. I’d like to sing a special song tonight. It’s called ‘The Misplaced Prince.’”
Some members of the audience sighed aloud at her words. Brendan felt tempted to sigh as well.
Having spoken the words, she lowered her hands to the harp and struck a chord. Brendan shivered at the sound. The woman raised her clear voice in song. The words she sang were in a language he didn’t understand, soft and sibilant, full of yearning. But as she sang, the words became clearer. He began to understand.
Who is he that left his home
Cast out in the world alone?
To live his life in strangers’ care?
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
His glory hidden, dark and deep
His spirit leaden, forced to sleep
Who will wake him? Who would dare?
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
Come back, my prince, and join us soon
Your people wait beneath the moon
To welcome you back in the fold
With gifts of amber, jade, and gold.
Come home.
Come home.
The words and the music were so haunting that Brendan couldn’t resist joining in the song. He looked about him and saw there were others singing as well. His father looked at him wide-eyed.
“Since when do you speak Gaelic?” 38
Brendan didn’t understand at first. Had he been singing? In a language he didn’t understand? “I don’t… I must have heard this song before, or something,” he answered. Something above caught his eye, and when he looked up into the vault of the domed ceiling, he gasped.
The air was alive with lights like tiny flitting fireflies chasing one another about. As he watched, the lights became more defined. He saw that they were tiny winged figures fluttering about in the upper reaches of the hall. The variety of little creatures was astonishing. Dark-eyed snouted creatures with the leathery wings of bats flapped among them. Here and there, tiny human figures covered head to toe in colourful feathers soared on invisible air currents with exquisite bird wings. They moved in time to the music.
He pointed upward. “Do you see them? It’s beautiful.”
Brendan’s father followed his gaze with a worried expression. “See who? See what?”
All the while, the music continued. The chorus repeated, “Come home! Come home!” The harp and the fiddle kept up a counterpoint with the drum, throbbing in Brendan’s chest, infusing his whole body with the rhythm. He began to sway, holding his arms out to the sides.
“Come home! Come home!” he sang. He felt a powerful surge of joy. He wanted to move! He wanted to leap and run and shout. He pushed past his father into the aisle.
“Brendan,” his father said sternly, grabbing his son’s arm. Brendan twisted free and stepped down the aisle toward the stage, where Deirdre D’Anaan sang the next verse, her voice like a magnet to the young boy. Her eyes were blazing grey stars. Her fingers flew over the harp strings, and as Brendan watched, he saw that a tiny creature wove in and out of her fingers as she played. It was like the others inhabiting the upper air of the vault, but when it stopped to stare, perching on the top of the sound post of the harp, its tiny eyes were fierce and it grinned in an unpleasant way that chilled Brendan’s heart.
See him come and take his place
At last to join the noble race
Sound the trumpet! Split the air!
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There!
The Dark and Light shall be as one
The children of the Moon and Sun
Shall be redeemed, the world to share
The Prince of Neither Here Nor There.
