Page 104 of An Irish Summer

“A fair maiden!”

“Aye, a fair maiden,” Collin said, his voice amplified by the microphone, twice as loud as those from the crowd. “What would a bit of Irish folklore be without a fair maiden?” More murmurs of affirmation. “He stands by the water there, asking for a sign. Something to show him how to carry on. Or perhaps how to find his maiden. What kind of sign do we think he receives?”

Every time he scanned the crowd for a response, everything inside me tightened into a knot. Would his eyes catch on mine? What would we do if they did?

Once again, a few voices stood out from the general murmur of the crowd.

“The shape of the moon.”

“A voice from the trees.”

“A red fox!”

“You said a fox, there, did you?” He lifted the minor chords just enough for us to notice. “The color of her hair, I reckon.” I instinctively reached for my own, twirling a single crimson lock around my finger.

“He follows the fox, he does. For days and nights, he follows this fox through the forest and along the edge of water, toward what he cannot be sure. He only hopes the fox is leading him to an absolution. The maiden, if he’s lucky. Or at the very least toward freedom from his own pain.”

The audience was rapt, leaning closer with every word,and their unwavering interest in him only reaffirmed mine. Strengthened it. Reminded me that it was not every day you got the privilege of being told a story by Collin Finegan, so when you did, you needed to savor it.

“After what feels like an eternity,” he continued, “the fox leads the knight...”

“Down the pub,” someone shouted, and others laughed.

“Aye, of course.” Collin laughed too. “Where else is there to be when trying to cure a broken heart?” Collin picked up a pint off the floor and raised it to the crowd, and everyone with a drink mirrored his gesture. We took a collective sip, and I wondered how many of us could see ourselves in his story.

“When they reach the pub and the man looks down to the fox, he finds it has disappeared. The man is alone in the doorway, so he does the only thing he can think to do. He goes inside, sits on a stool, and orders a pint of the black stuff.”

“Slàinte!” someone shouted from the crowd, and Collin winked in their direction.

In my dark corner of the pub, I was reaching a boiling point. The more he spun this story, the more glimpses of us I found between the lines. I needed confirmation that I wasn’t the only one still reeling from our fallout. I needed to know in some recess of his mind he was still thinking about me. Still feeling the same things we’d been feeling only days ago. Still secretly holding out hope for my return, even if he’d tried to make it easier for me to leave.

“He drinks pint after pint, wondering after the fox. Why had it led him to this very pub? What was he supposed to do next? He fears he isn’t strong enough to make the decision on his own, so he looks around for what might be the next guide on his journey. Or what might be the answer.

“When he finishes his pint he swivels his stool in the direction of the door, willing something to happen. He isn’t sure for how long he sits and stares at the dark wood, counting the bolts in the iron hinges, sending his prayers to the gods, but eventually it swings open, and, mates, what does it reveal?”

“The fox.”

“A witch!”

“The maiden,” I called. Perhaps it was my voice that drew the attention of the crowd, or maybe the flash of recognition on Collin’s face, but in a split second, the entire audience had turned to face me instead of the stage.

“The maiden,” he repeated, slowing his strumming until it ceased altogether. I took a few steps in his direction, hoping his expression would become readable if I moved a little closer. Whispers rippled through the crowd, and I could have sworn I heard a gentle gasp from where Flo sat with Lars near the stage. “But the knight is wary,” he continued, keeping his tone consistent with that of the story. “He’s had quite a few pints, and he worries his eyes might deceive him. Was she really there?”

“She was!” This time the voice was unmistakably Flo’s.

“She was,” I repeated. The audience darted their eyes back and forth between us like they were at a tennis match. The strumming returned, tentative.

“But what for?” he asked. “The knight had been nearly certain he’d never see her again. How could he be sure of the intentions for her return?”

“Maybe he could buy her a pint and ask,” I said, fully aware by now the audience knew we were no longer making up a story.

A few whistles sounded from the crowd, and Collin shookhis head, fighting a smile. I willed that smile to form.Let me back in,I wanted to say.Come on.

“Well, mates,” he said, returning to his storytelling volume. “What do we think? Does the knight invite the maiden in, buy her a pint? Or does he assume she’s a mirage, something too good to be true, and try to find a way to move on?”

Conflicting suggestions overlapped across the crowd, people shouting over one another and raising pints in the air. Much to my advantage, the raised pints edged out the sad, brokenhearted voices. Collin kept his eyes locked on mine, and I shrugged, palms in the air. “Sounds like he buys her a pint,” I said. Another shake of his head. Another half smile.

“And so he does,” Collin said, playing a few final chords. “He invites her in, and he buys her a pint. And since our dear ancestors left too many holes in this story, we are left without an ending. That part, mates, I’m afraid you’ll have to make up on your own. You decide their fate.” Silence from the banjo. “And whatever you decide, do make it a good one? The knight could use a win.”

---