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.
Brendan looked about him, his father forgotten. In the crowd, some people stood out. They were more vibrant, more powerful presences. They were as different from the others around them as wildflowers are from blades of grass.
He turned his attention back to the stage and found himself staring directly into the bottomless eyes of Deirdre D’Anaan. The tiny creature perched on her shoulder was pointing directly at him. She sang and it was like a fist clenching around his chest, constricting his breathing.
It’s time to rise and take your place
To feel the sun upon your face
To face the truth if you may dare
Oh Prince of Neither Here Nor There!
Suddenly, the scar on his chest flared, obliterating his senses. He fell backward into someone’s arms. He looked up and expected to see his father but he was shocked to see it was Kim.
“Did you see them? Did you see them?” he gasped.
Kim just shook her head. “Can’t you ever stay out of trouble?”
^36 Streetmeat in Toronto parlance is a sausage from a street vendor. A local ordinance prohibits the sale of any hot food on the streets of Toronto save for the hot dog or sausage. The limitation on the choice of cuisine has led to fierce competition between vendors to provide peripheral enticements to attract customers. These include offering a wide array of types of sausage, from the Polish garlic to the spicy Italian, presenting a bewildering array of condiments, and even one instance when a vendor offered a free kitten with each sausage sold. The vendor in question had his licence revoked in short order.
^37 The tabla is an instrument originating in Northern India. It is a small drum played with the hands, as opposed to a drum that is played with the feet called the footbla. This latter is played by a very few people who have acute control over their feet. The footbla is not as popular because it is both difficult to master and incredibly stinky.
^38 Gaelic is the native and ancient language of Ireland. Few people speak it as a native tongue any more but Irish children are taught it in schools. Despite the efforts of the Irish government, the language is slowly dying out.