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Tea with the Black Dragon
2
His eyebrows lifted, and the lean face softened in memories. “I was looking for something.” There was a silence Martha allowed to grow. Then he spoke again, with animation.
“Mrs. Macnamara—it is Mrs. Macnamara, if I remember?”
“It was.”
He did not falter. “Mrs. Macnamara, have you heard the story of Thomas Rhymer?”
“I know the ballad,” she admitted. “But it’s not Irish.”
“That ballad? No. That is Walter Scott. But the story itself is Irish, I believe. It was an Irishman who told it to me.
“Listen!” he began, and as he spoke he stirred his spoon in his cup with a silver sound. Mrs. Macnamara noted this gesture with amusement. She was sure that Mr. Long had not taken sugar.
“You know how Thomas the Rhymer was taken off by the queen of Elfland on her horse of the nine-and-fifty bells. How they swam the river of blood, and how she showed him the roads to heaven and hell, avoiding both of them to take a third. How he served her seven years in delightful capacity, and how in the end his poor reward was that he was made incapable of lying. This much is what got back to Scott.”
“There is more?”
“Obviously. The ballad is cut off just where it becomes interesting. It does not touch on the predicament of a bard bereft of his stock in trade—flattery. It does not so much as mention the Rhymer’s son.”
Mr. Long straightened in his chair, thereby disappearing into shadow. His hands touched together and then opened, as though he were releasing a bird into the air. “Thomas Rhymer,” he stated, “had a son by the queen of Elfland. The boy was five years old when his fathers term ended and the Rhymer was sent upon his way.” Mr. Long paused, breathed deeply and stared into the air above Martha’s head.
“Thomas left, but he came back again, fording the river of blood, blundering through the tangle of green which hides that road from mortal eyes. It was not so pleasant a journey for a man alone, but Thomas Rhymer found his way back to the land of the not-so-blessed and he stole his little son away.”
“No. I’ve never heard this,” whispered Martha Macnamara. “Have you got the verses?”
He stopped and drew breath. “There are verses,” he admitted. “But I don’t sing. Humor me.”
And he continued. “Back in the world again, Thomas Rhymer took to his trade, and the lad went with him. But fortune no longer smiled upon him.”
“Because he couldn’t lie.”
“Quite likely, Mrs. Macnamara. And before the year was out, the Rhymer began to hear the wailing of the Sidhe in the night and he knew he was hunted.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Macnamara, finding herself moved, almost frightened. It was that voice…
“Hiding the boy at the monastery at Lagan—this was in the days Cormac O’Dubh was Abbot—he rode off, leading the hunt away. .
“Crofters heard the racket of his horse’s hoofs pass in the early night, but in the coldest hour they saw the passage of riders who made no sound, a company with faces like chalk and horses shining without moonlight. This part of it has been remembered in Lagan Valley from then ’til now.
“In the last hour before dawn this ghastly company arrayed itself before the gates of the monastery, and she who led them threw down upon the grass the body of Thomas. Knowing she could not storm such a stronghold of the new faith she offered a trade: her son for the small breath of life she had left in the father.
“Cormac himself stood at the gate. He was a burly Abbot. He cried out that he would pray for souls, but he could not sell them.
“But out from the gate squirmed the boy himself, and he ran to his father and knelt beside him. Spurring her horse the queen plucked up her son. In the same moment Abbot Cormac O’Dubh ran out from the monastery gate to Thomas Rhymer. Him he took and carried to safety behind the gates.
“But even this is not the end of the story. For the queen of Elfland, chalk faced on her pale horse, let out a wail of anger, and she held the boy at arm’s length from her, and she put him down from her horse.
“ ‘He stinks!’ she cried. ‘He stinks of the dove! My boy, ma’cushia! Heart of my heart, has been dipped in the filthy bowl!’
“And all the shining horses reared up and sank into the earth, and the Sidhe were gone. Because the good Abbot had put the boy beyond the reach of his mother’s people as long as time holds sway. He had baptized him.”
“Ah! Of course.” Martha hit her palm against the table. “The obvious solution. I never thought of it. But Thomas Rhymer… he’s alive? I mean, he was alive after that?”
“He lived. He was a very quiet man in later years.”
Mayland Long stared into the depths of an empty cup.
“I believe you have that tale from Thomas Rhymer himself,” said Martha. “You tell it with such… authority.” She sighed, once more aware of the time change. While Mr. Long was speaking she had forgotten she was tired.
“From the Rhymer?” He leaned forward and lifted his eyebrows in mock wonderment. “How could that be?
“He was unconscious during the crux of the story. I have the story from the boy, of course. The Rhymer’s son.”
“Beautiful boy,” he added, after a moment. “Resembled his mother.”
Martha blinked twice. The hour and the moment combined to overwhelm her. Cradling her head in her arms she laughed until she hiccupped.
“Forgive me—I’m tired. Jet lag. I’d better turn in now. Getting up at five.” This last word dissolved into a yawn.
As she pulled herself to her feet Mr. Long rose also. “You will remain through tomorrow, though?” He spoke with some alarm. “I have not let you talk about your music. You must join me for dinner.”
She put her hand to the gray braid above her ear and scratched thoughtfully. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to meet my daughter. That’s why I flew in. But she hasn’t called yet, and I can’t reach her. Can I call you sometime in the middle of the day?”
“Certainly. My schedule is not crowded; if I am not in my rooms, you can leave a message at the desk.”
His voice pulled at her once again as she turned to leave the table. “Mrs. Macnamara. Why so early? Why five o’clock?”
“I sit,” she called back. “Zazen.”
Mayland Long stood alone beside the empty cups. “Zazen?” he whispered to himself. His dark face was lit with an amusement which grew and deepened.
The bartender stopped her on the stair. “Mr. Trough,” she greeted him, and continued walking.
“Jerry,” he corrected. “Can you spare two minutes?”
“Just about,” Martha smiled, and putting the key to her door, she ushered the young man in.
Martha’s rooms were not the largest nor the most opulent in the James Herald Hotel. Had Martha herself made the reservations, they would have been the cheapest. As it was, she had a bed-sitting room with three chairs, all of which were too large and too soft to be comfortable and a canopy bed that dwarfed her.
Jerry Trough was still clutching a damp bar towel in one hand. He sought for a place to put it down, rejecting the walnut table, the quilted satin spread, the brocade seat of a side chair. At last he dropped it to the carpet, where it lay by an open suitcase which spilled over with white cotton underwear and paperback books. He cleared his throat.
“I saw you leave the dining room and wanted to catch you before you turned in. It’s about the man I introduced to you tonight.”
She turned quickly, leaning her hip against the Chippendale reproduction dresser. “Mr. Long? Yes, we talked an hour away. What about him?”
“What did you think of him?” She smiled at the impudence of the question. “I found him informative and entertaining. Not to mention exotic. I may have supper with him tomorrow.”
“Watch out,” mumbled the bartender. “I know. He can be a real—actor, and all. Loads of fun. He’s a friend of mine, too, in a way.” Trough shifted from foot to foot.
“Just ‘in a way?’ ” Her eyebrows lifted interrogatively.
Trough shrugged. “Okay. He is a friend. But I ask you to be careful, Martha. I don’t think he’s quite all there.”
“Mr. Long?” Her voice rose in consternation. “I’ve rarely met anyone more—more there. More present, I mean.” She glared at the bartender. “If the man is schizophrenic or something like that, why did you introduce me to him?”
As though Martha’s outrage had shaken the starch out of him. Jerry Trough sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes darted about the room and he laced his hands together. “I told you why Because of the violin. And because you’re a lot alike in other ways.”
“Oh. I’m a nut too?” Martha’s eyes went even wider, and she put her hands on her hips.
The young man sighed and ran his fingers through his curly black hair. “Of course not. You take me wrong. What I mean is that you both seem to like… conversation. Have large vocabularies. And you’re both alone —you because you just got here, and he because… he just is.
“And when I see you get excited about little things. Like the way you talked about racing the sun in the airplane and almost winning except you had to stop at the end of the country Well, Mr. Long’s like that too; he’s got these old, falling apart books of Chinese poetry he says nobody’s ever translated before, and he brings them to the bar and sets them down and scribbles in little notebooks. He gets excited about it, but I never hear about his translations getting printed anywhere, so I don’t know…
