Duet (20 page)

The trees comprising the grove, imbued with the spirits of Scotsmen who’d died generations before Aillil’s birth, whispered in the light breeze. “Soon,” they assured him, “soon.”

The Druid had promised he’d one day be with his Englishman again. At the time, he hadn’t known she meant “even if it takes an age, or more” literally. Ages spent deep in slumber, waiting for the fulfillment of promises he’d given up his existence for, dismal thing that his life was alone. He’d regained consciousness for several days from time to time over the years, pulled from dreams of a lover that he was reluctant to leave, later returning to wait some more. At least in memories, he found some measure of solace.

The same stately yews kept a vigil in the grove, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. The elders did love their gossip. Their banter ignored, Aillil drifted down to perch on the gravestone and summon a spectral version of his violin. His pipes hadn’t made the transition and were now a moldy ruin. He positioned the violin as taught long ago, and when bow struck strings, he imagined the faint echo of a second instrument. Only one violin and one musician harmonized so exquisitely—his little fox, his
Mael Caluim
. Their instruments equaled two halves of the same whole, as Aillil and the Englishman did.

He played in the grove until dawn began to fill the edges of the earth with color, then banished the violin back to its resting place. Aillil followed, floating on an early morning gust.

Down the darkened hallways of his family’s legacy he drifted. The castle appeared deserted. Someone had been there recently, however. In the room where he’d spent many hours with his father and brothers, he noticed tools, lumber, and other signs of construction, and unidentifiable devices lay stacked against one wall. And he felt quite sure that on the night of his most recent awakening, a distant relative listened when he played.

Hmmm… the musician’s gallery wasn’t a part of the room back in his day, though it made a nice addition, in his opinion. Had it been there the last time he’d become aware of anything outside of his wooden sanctuary? He’d been too preoccupied at the time to notice. The unseen, humming presence in the walls that caused light to magically appear and provided heat without firewood was new too.

Destined to remain close to the violin where the Druid had transferred his essence, he passed through the great hall and took, not the staircase leading to the family’s quarters, but the older turnpike stairs, built into the eight-foot-thick section of wall that had been part of the original structure. Up and up he roved until he arrived at the room on the topmost floor.

Someone had seen to renovations, though he dearly missed the remnants of the former occupant’s belongings, a subtle reminder that the man had actually existed. Aillil crossed the room and hovered before the loose stones that hid his violin. He smiled, recalling the crafty younger brother, party to Old Maeve’s plan, who’d secreted him away to wait. Niall, a Druid. Grandfather would have been proud.

Slowly, Aillil folded himself into his bed of wood casing. A smile played upon his lips as he slipped from consciousness, feeling a sense of peace, a hint of promise that the waiting was almost over. In moments of rest, free from lucid thought, he could almost believe his Malcolm lived. His dreams were particularly vivid, and shared.

The room was unlike anything Billy had ever seen in the waking world, which confused him, given how comfortable he felt there. A series of tall windows lined one wall, and from the window seat he viewed an orchard, branches heavy with ripening apples. The violin he’d found in Edinburgh appeared next to him. How he longed to play it, knowing he couldn’t—not yet. He waited for someone or something.

Eerie music began, a chilling refrain spiking longing deep in his soul. The moment had arrived. He placed the violin beneath his chin, counting one beat, then two, before adding his own perfect harmony. One song faded and another began, accompanied by an unseen musician who matched him note for note. With each and every melody, visions appeared, young boys playing in the orchard, an imposing man with dark hair and eyes.

The images blurred and the room faded. Billy found himself seated beneath a tree in a sunlit meadow, playing the violin and watching the laughing, dark-haired man slipping out of his clothes before diving into a flowing stream. Who was he? Another man, still clothed, approached with more caution. While Billy waited for the first to resurface, the second lost his footing, flailing, splashing, and finally falling into the water. After a moment, both men reemerged—one sputtering in righteous indignation, the other laughing and ducking the droplets flung his way. Billy’s dream-self laughed, caught up in the revelry of the two men.

Were they lovers? The scene seemed so familiar somehow. Being city born and raised, Billy had never gone swimming in a stream. At least, not that he remembered. All the while, he continued to play, the music a fitting backdrop to the story unfurling before him.

The men climbed from the stream, to hang the second’s wet clothes on a bush to dry, and the pair then stretched out naked in the sun upon a large, flat rock. The smaller of the two appeared hesitant, unsure. The other man seemed bolder, patiently coaxing the first from his awkwardness. Silent communication passed between them where they lay gazing into each other’s eyes. They moved closer, their lips sealing together. Billy recognized the first bloom of attraction, the moment in which desire ignited before flaring to full life. Could this be their first kiss? Watching the dream lovers left him bereft, like he’d closed his fist a moment too late and something precious slipped through his fingers.

When the men parted, the smaller, paler one smiled, looking straight up at Billy.

Billy bolted upright in bed, heart thudding. His breath came in harsh pants and goose bumps danced up and down his arms. The face he’d seen was his own!

Thirteen

“
W
ONDERFUL
performance last night, Billy. My phone’s been ringing all morning! Look what they’re saying about you in the papers.” Neil peered up at Billy over the top of his glasses.

Ignoring the proffered daily news, Billy chose instead to avail himself of the coffee service sitting on the table, plopping bleary-eyed into a chair. After his dream, he’d been unable to go back to sleep.

Neil shrugged and continued reading. “Listen to this: ‘I attended the concert, disappointed that Mr. Tucci wouldn’t be playing, but kept an open mind about his last-minute replacement, an American performer by the name of William Byerly. With his distinctive carrot-colored mane, the musician certainly looked like the Byerly I’d read about on the Internet. However, if that was the same man whose recordings I previewed, he’s improved remarkably since his debut album. The program called for his normal repertoire of classical standards, yet every piece during last night’s performance was refreshingly original and, at the same time, filled with old-world charm. Not that I’m complaining. Bravo, Mr. Byerly.’”

“Well,” Billy acknowledged between sips of black coffee, “it’s better than my last review. How did the gentleman put it? ‘Exciting as day-old bread’?”

Neil dropped the paper and reached across the coffee table to pat Billy’s hand. “Actually, he said ‘a soggy doughnut’. The ‘day-old bread’ comment came after Cleveland. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. If last night’s concert is any indication, those days are over, and both unkind critics will soon be eating, get it?
Eating
their words.” He snorted at the weak pun. “Besides, the paying customers clearly disagree, if ticket and CD sales are anything to go by.”

“I would hope so. I work hard. I’m not in it for the fame or money, you know that. Still, it’s nice to have my efforts appreciated.”

“Well, you definitely were appreciated last night,” Neil assured him, folding the paper back to read more. “Here’s another good one. Listen to this: ‘It’s small wonder Laird Callaghan’s spirit is once more rumored to haunt the Highlands. Perhaps he’s distressed that Byerly might replace him as most talked-about violinist in Scotland.’”

The name, not the review, got Billy’s attention. “Laird Callaghan?” The name rang a bell, he just couldn’t quite place why.

Neil waved a dismissive hand. “Local legend. Apparently, one of the popular historic sites is rumored to be haunted by a violin-playing ghost. You know, the kind of thing perpetuated to bring in tourists. If you continue playing like you did last night, you’re sure to give him a run for his money.”

“Wait a minute! Callaghan! Isn’t that your mother’s maiden name? And she’s Scottish!”

Again Neil brushed off the question. “It’s a common enough name here in Scotland. I seriously doubt we’re related.” The too-quick answer piqued Billy’s curiosity.

Neil changed the subject before Billy could question him further. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, when did you find time to write all those new songs? You’ve been touring steadily for six months now. And not that I’m complaining, but why didn’t you warn me you’d changed the program?”

Billy wondered the same thing himself. Where had the new material come from? He didn’t recall ever hearing those pieces before. At least, not while awake. A vague memory tickled his consciousness. “I really don’t know where I got them, to be honest. I’ve never practiced them. When I started playing they… happened. I don’t recall any of my teachers playing them, either. It’s like they were locked in the violin, waiting to get out.” He shook his head at such foolishness.

“Well, keep them happening.” Neil switched easily from the role of friend to manager. “As I ad-libbed for the press, I’d like to get you into the studio after your next concert.” He tapped a fingernail against a CD case on the coffee table. “There’s your recording of last night. Superb!”

Billy sighed, leaving the CD where it lay. One concert barely over and now on to the next one. He loved to play, and considered it an honor to make a living doing exactly what he wanted. That didn’t stop him from getting a bit tired at times, especially of having no one to share with. No one to help celebrate the good times and be there for the bad, except for friends. “What’s the next venue?”

“Inverness.” A wicked grin appeared on Neil’s face, and Billy recognized his manager’s “let’s get you some publicity” mode. The last time he’d seen that particular gleam in Neil’s eyes, the result had been effective, if not entirely pleasant, involving Billy on a local TV station’s children’s show, serenading a puppet. Knowing Neil pretty well, given their long association, Billy still wasn’t quite prepared for, “While you’re in the neighborhood, you can challenge Laird Callaghan, which will undoubtedly make a headline or two.”

Billy sputtered, nearly choking on his coffee. “What are you talking about, Neil?”

Neil pasted on a satisfied grin. “It seems the haunted castle lies a stone’s throw from Inverness, and, conveniently, its owners have agreed to rent it for a week. You’re booked there for a private concert.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Billy shot back. “I can’t do a private show on the spur of the moment!”

“
You
won’t.” Neil’s smirk turned downright scary. “An independent production company is filming a documentary on Scotland’s haunted estates. They’re the ones footing the bill. The producer attended last night’s concert and said you’d be perfect for their film. You’ve been hired to play the role of the spirit. I think they’re secretly hoping to capture a duet between you and the ghost.

“And the best part? You get to stay on the grounds while we’re in the area. Can you imagine? A genuine haunted castle, if you believe in such things!” He winked and added, “I wonder if the ghost of the old laird will inspire some more of those amazing songs you’ve kept hidden from me. You’ll arrive tomorrow and be there through Halloween.”

Had the man lost his mind? “Neil, you’ve outdone yourself this time.” A haunted castle? Neil wanted him to stay in a haunted castle? Well, he
had
wanted to stay someplace Scottish. “A long-dead violin-playing roommate is certainly new,” he mused.

“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts!” Neil rolled his eyes. “These
legends
are nothing more than stunts designed to attract tourists, or in this case, ratings. You’ll go, play a few songs, have a nice time exploring a real Scottish castle, and get your name added to film credits. Think of all the publicity.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed.
You’ll?
“And exactly where will you be staying?”

“With Lisa, at a charming B and B in Inverness.”

Oh, right. The last thing Neil wanted was to mix business with pleasure. All the same, it would have been nice to have Neil and Lisa nearby, or even Leon, though he’d disappear to the nearest pub at the first opportunity to speak a language Billy didn’t know—sports. Billy squashed his reservations about staying alone at a supposedly haunted dwelling, unable to bear disappointing dear friends or interrupting a romantic getaway. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he agreed, turning away to refresh his coffee cup.