The Parting Glass (Caitlin Ross Book 4) (26 page)

“We’re performing, aye?” he admonished me, taking the seat next to me. “Getting up to the stage from all the way back there would take too much time and disturb the flow.”

Sighing, I bit back my incipient protest. He made sense. I just didn’t like being up front, where everyone could look at me without my even knowing it. I preferred to be the one doing the looking.

People kept arriving, gathering in groups and greeting each other. A trio of children of about five or six played a game of tag through the congregation, flitting here and there like butterflies. I stared at the stage, willing myself to calm. Sure, I played at the session every Saturday night, but I hadn’t sung in front of a real audience since high school. Fortunately, the stage was low enough that I wouldn’t sustain too much damage if I passed out from nervousness and fell off of it. Gina had engaged a couple guys she knew to hammer together four platforms a little over a foot high, six wide, and eight long, and these had been arranged in a single rectangle. One of the platforms had been painted white. The others were red, yellow, and black. A tall, feathered stick stood at each corner.

Shortly after ten, four people in their early teens, two boys and two girls, assembled at the foot of the stage. Each of them bore an unlit smudge stick. The tallest, one of the girls, produced a lighter from the pocket of her dress, started her smudge stick going, and passed the lighter around to the rest. The group split up, trailing aromatic clouds of sage and sweetgrass smoke. Each one walked to a different quarter of the space, and proceeded from there around the edge of the gathering. None of them spoke a word, but every single person in attendance quieted down at once and searched out a chair. When everyone had been seated, the four young people took up stations at the cardinal points. They knew where to go because I had walked them through it the day before.

I had not given them totemic necklaces. No one turned into anything untoward.

Two of the Native People got up. I didn’t know them; Gina had located them somewhere. Some kind of connections of John’s, I supposed. Taking the stage, they gave a lengthy invocation in both English and Lakota, reminding us why we were here and calling on the Spirits to take notice. When they invoked the West, a shiver ran through me, and when they called the Spirits Below, Timber turned quite green. Glancing around to find the others who had participated in Stonefeather’s ceremony, I saw that all of them also evinced varying signs of discomfort. All except Marilyn, of course; she seemed unperturbed. I wondered how long the aftereffects of the ceremony would linger. Not long, I hoped. They could be inconvenient.

The sky did not crack open, but I still got the sense of those vast Presences watching. I didn’t know anything about the Native concept of an afterlife, but I hoped John was with them. I hoped he would be pleased.

After the invocation, Sage got up to deliver the eulogy.

I’d been a little surprised when Gina had picked her. Sage had known John Stonefeather the way we all did, but they hadn’t to my knowledge been close. And I’d thought Gina might want to do the eulogy herself. But when I’d mentioned it, Gina had told me she didn’t much like public speaking. Besides, she’d reminded me, she was no Priestess. Sage was.

For a minute, my friend simply stood on the stage, looking down at the floor. Gathering energy, I guessed, and I was right. When she raised her head, she let it go. It rolled across the audience like surf, crashed against the four teenagers in the cardinal points, and flowed back. Every person in every chair exhaled at the same time. It sounded like the earth breathing.

“John Stonefeather was a mighty man,” Sage began. “Uh-huh, he was.”

The energy shifted. Everyone sighed.

“A mighty man with mighty dreams,” Sage went on. “Dreams of Power. Now you know what I’m talking about when I say that. I don’t mean personal power, no I don’t. Sure, John Stonefeather had personal power, uh-huh, he did. But the power I’m talking about is Earth Power, Sky Power, the Power of Vision and the Power of Hope. Yes, Lord.”

“Amen!” someone shouted from the back. Speaking of the Power of Hope, I hoped the Native attendees wouldn’t be offended.

“And that kind of Power is the Power to change things. To reshape the world. That’s what John Stonefeather wanted: to make things better. To make himself better.”

Her voice dropped to a low, confiding tone. “Now you know that mighty men with mighty dreams can have mighty demons. Yes, indeed. All you people know some strong man, some tough woman, with a whole load of trouble on their shoulders. You know you do, uh-huh.”

“Right on!” called a different voice.

“And John Stonefeather was one of those for sure. We all saw it.” Sage’s arm shot out and her finger pointed straight at me. “You saw it, didn’t you! You saw that mighty man gone in drink, more times than you can count. You told me so.”

I nodded. Sage had no intention of accepting it for an answer.

“What you say? I can’t hear you!”

“I saw it,” I replied through gritted teeth.
I am going to kill you for this
, my glare told her. Sage just smiled.

“Yeah, I know. And you!” She picked another unfortunate out of the crowd. “You were there the time he passed out in the lodge and had to be carried home.”

“I was there!” a female voice affirmed, and a male voice added,

“I did the carrying!”

“Yeah, you did. And you were there the time he took to hitting on a girl no bigger than this.” Sage’s hand measured a spot about four feet from the ground. “And that tiny bit of a thing knocked him right on down.”

“Atypical eulogy,” Timber muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“You can say that again.” I had believed the practice was meant to praise a man’s virtues, not point out his faults.

“Yeah, we all, we ALL saw John Stonefeather beset by mighty demons,” Sage bellowed. “But that man, that mighty man, did NOT give in. He did NOT give up. That man, that mighty man, he FOUGHT those mighty demons. Because he knew, he KNEW, that the only power those demons have is the power we GIVE them.”

“Say it, Sister!” someone yelled.

“John Stonefeather, he tried to RUN from those demons. He tried to ESCAPE those demons. But you know how that goes, uh-huh. You run from those demons, and those demons run right after you. You want to put a demon down, you have to STAND! You have to FIGHT! You have to TAKE the power you gave them right back! You TAKE it, and you WRESTLE them. Right into the ground.

“And that’s what John Stonefeather did, and that’s his legacy to us here today. We ain’t all mighty men with mighty demons, no sir. Some of us, most of us maybe, we’re small, and our demons are little, bitty things. But if John Stonefeather can conquer his mighty demons, how CAN we go around letting our little, bitty demons rule our lives? When your demon gets up in your face, you just remember John Stonefeather and what he did. And you know that old man, he’ll sit up in Heaven, smoking a pipe in your honor. Yes he will.”

Finished, Sage stood a moment, letting the energy she had summoned die away. And it didn’t matter that almost no one present had been there in John Stonefeather’s last hour, and not one of them had any idea what he had done. In the end, they’d remember him, not as the lush who could hardly hold his rattle. In the end, they’d remember him as a mighty man, a Man of Power, who had fought his demons and won. And that was as it should be.

“Nice job,” Timber murmured to Sage as she took her seat in front of us.

She flashed a rare grin over her shoulder. “I was raised Baptist. I still got it.”

Gina had scheduled a space, at that point, for anyone else who wanted to share memories of Stonefeather to get up and speak. After Sage’s eulogy, no one did. It would have been too anti-climactic. Everyone waited. Before the silence could stretch long enough to be filled with uncomfortable whispers, Timber grabbed my wrist and hauled me out of my chair. We were on.

I felt the eyes on us as we took the few steps to the edge of the platform, and wondered what people were thinking. Maybe some questioned our right to do what we were about to do, our right to be here at all. The Native People might find it objectionable to have a couple singers of Celtic descent perform at the memorial service for a Lakota medicine man. What if I forgot the words? What if I forgot how to sing at all?

“You’ll do fine,” Timber said, boosting me onto the stage.

We took our places front and center. I gazed out over the crowd, locating friends where I had them. Gina sat beside Sage in the front row, a wistful smile on her lips. Kevin leaned forward from his seat near the middle of the left section, anticipating a treat. From the rear, Zee gave me a covert thumbs-up.

Timber squeezed my hand. Then he opened his mouth, and his exquisite voice soared out.

“
Of all the money e’er I had
,” he began solo, the first line of an old ballad, “The Parting Glass
.
” I joined him on the second line, my alto sliding over his baritone in descant, silk on velvet.

“
I spent it in good company,

And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,

Alas, it was to none but me.”

A fitting description of John Stonefeather, if ever one existed.

“
And all I’ve done for want of wit

To memory now I can’t recall.

So fill to me the parting glass,

Good night, and joy be to you all.
”

In the pause for breath before the second verse, Timber turned me to face him and laid a finger on my lips, silencing me. The gesture caught me off guard. We hadn’t rehearsed this, and I had no clue what he had in mind.

“
If I had money enough to spend,
” Timber sang to me.

“
And leisure time to sit awhile,

There is a fair maid in this town,

Who surely has my heart beguiled.
”

My face grew hot under his gaze, and I had to will my heart to slow down to its proper rhythm. I felt as if he were undressing me in front of all those people. With a smile, Timber turned to face the audience once again and went on with a public declaration of love,

“
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,

I own she has my heart enthralled.

So fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be to you all.
”

He gave my hand another squeeze. I had just enough presence of mind to pick up the cue and join him for the last verse.

“
Of all the comrades e’er I had

They’re sorry for my going away.

And all the sweethearts e’er I had,

They’d wish me one more day to stay.

But since it fell unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not,

I gently rise, and I softly call,

Good night, and joy be to you all.
”

We stood in place as the last echoes died to silence. For a long time no one moved or made a sound. I hadn’t expected applause or anything like that; it would have been inappropriate. But it was hard just to stand there, letting the powerful moment fade and die.

Just as I made up my mind to go back to my seat, I noticed Gina had come up to the stage in front of us. She had a parcel in her hands. Something wrapped in green cloth, tied with red thread.

Timber raised an eyebrow at me in question. I shrugged. I had no idea. He reached down and gave Gina a hand up onto the stage.

“Thank you. That was beautiful,” she said in a low tone, meant for us alone. “And thank you again for everything. This is for you. I think John would have wanted you to have it.”

She passed her bundle to Timber. He moved a fold of the cloth covering aside, just a bit. Just enough to reveal a piece of pale wood stem and red stone bowl. John Stonefeather’s pipe.

Timber raised his eyes to Gina’s, stunned.

“I canna accept this.”

“You deserve it,” she replied as if it settled the matter. And for her, doubtless it did.

Gina stepped forward to address the audience. With a born performer’s instinct, Timber stepped back to give her the stage, taking me with him.

“Thank you all for coming,” Gina told the congregation. “John would have been happy to see so many friends gathered to remember him. Thank you.”

The four teenagers holding the quarters extinguished their smudge sticks. The watching Presences withdrew. The memorial service ended.

Timber tucked the bundle containing the pipe under his arm.

“Let’s go home, aye?” he said.

Hand in hand, we left the park.

Chapter Twenty-One

T
hat night, Timber made love to me with excruciating tenderness.

First, he took me to dinner, once again at Di Napoli’s. I remembered how, on Lithe, I’d been loath to risk the restaurant’s dim interior. Now, sitting in an isolated booth with our knees touching, sharing a bottle of wine by candlelight, seemed perfect.

I had no idea what we ate. I only wanted to drink in his face. And go home to bed.

When we did get home, he forced me to wait in the sitting room while he tidied up the bedroom. “Fixed the mood,” in his words.

“I want it tae be right,” he murmured, lips against my ear, voice husky with curbed desire. It had been a while for him, too.

“I had no idea you were such a romantic,” I whispered back.

Tangling my fingers in his hair, I tried to pull his face to mine, aching to kiss him. Chuckling low in his throat, he grabbed my hand and pulled it away.

“No. Not yet.”

He left me on the daybed trying to control my rapid breath, and disappeared for a time. I heard him puttering around, but the sounds gave me no hint of what he might be doing. Anticipation filled my body, replacing my blood with honey.

In a while, the bedroom door opened. Timber stood in the doorway, framed in soft, golden light, barefoot, wearing nothing but his jeans. He beckoned, and I went to him. Taking my hand, he drew me into the room and closed the door behind us.

“No interruptions. No distractions.”

He had, indeed, “fixed the mood.” He’d straightened away a week’s negligence and remade the bed. Pillar candles glowed from every surface. The air hung heavy with incense, something both sweet and musky I didn’t recognize. Amber, I decided. And sandalwood. What else?

Timber noticed me trying to identify the scent and brushed my cheek with a fingertip. Sweetness spread through my belly, mellow and warm.

“No thoughts.” He kissed me, lips lingering on mine. “Only this.”

Guiding me to the end of the bed, he sat and positioned me between his knees. Skilled fingers reached up and began to undo the row of buttons down the front of my dress, one by slow one. Somehow, he managed not to touch my skin. My breath quickened anyway.

Finished with the buttons, he slid the dress off my shoulders, skimming his thumbs over my collarbones, oh so briefly. The pale blue cotton puddled at my feet. For an instant, Timber rested light hands on my waist and gazed up at me with a dreamy smile, the fire in his eyes banked. Then he drew my panties over my hips and down. I stepped out of them and stood before him clad only in my amber and jet jewelry.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. Hands moving to my hips, he put his lips to my belly, tongue investigating the depths of my navel. I shivered. I didn’t think I could stand much of this without falling apart.

When he raised his head, I reached for him. I needed to get him out of those jeans, right now. With a shake of his head, he seized each of my hands in one of his own, preventing me from doing any such thing.

“Caitlin. Let me give ye this. It’s all I have tae give.”

“You’ve already given me everything,” I whispered, but he chose not to hear me.

He laid me on my stomach on the bed. Starting with my feet, he kissed every inch of me. First he nibbled my arches, then sucked them until I squirmed. Laying my feet down, he moved slowly on, working up my calves with unbearable commitment. He tarried over the soft backs of my knees, his tongue sending me into hopeless shudders. Over the backs of my thighs, savoring them. He tasted each buttock, and the sensitive spot at the base of my spine. I jerked and arched my back, clutching at the comforter. He pressed me back down, and went on. Up my spine, drifting from side to side, sucking my waist and the middle of my back. Straddling me, he bent to the knob where my backbone met my neck, making slow circles with his tongue. I whimpered, overwhelmed with the sensation, and tried to pull away. He caught my arms, pinning me, and moved on to suckle the back of my neck. Fire spread through me, no longer mellow; my whole body spasmed. My breath came so fast and hard I couldn’t be sure I still breathed at all.

“Gods, please,” I whimpered.

“No,” he murmured in my ear. Then he turned me over, and started back down.

Down my neck, lingering in the crevice behind my collarbones and the hollow of my throat. I made to grasp his head, to hold him, but once again he thwarted me, trapping my hands and wresting them away. With lips and tongue he explored my breastbone. I wanted his mouth on my breasts, but he passed them by for the time. He worshipped my belly and the crease of my thighs, smiling at my moans. He moved down my legs, a little quicker now; I thought his control might be breaking down. He sucked each of my toes, flicking his tongue into the spaces between them.

“Timber…” I begged.

He muffled my plea with his mouth, his tongue winding about mine with ineffable indolence. The taste of him. The wine we had drunk at dinner, and the salt of my skin, and his own savor. For a moment, all my limbs turned to liquid. Then he parted from me, sucking my lower lip, and turned his unhurried attention to my neglected breasts. Lingered over them a long time before finally taking a nipple in his lips.

“Ah!” The sound escaped me without any volition as I caught fire once more.

“Ah,” he agreed, and resumed his devotions.

“Please,” I panted, writhing.

“Not yet.”

Again, he traced a path down my breastbone to my belly. My legs parted for him like the petals of a flower. He kissed the bud between them, sucked it. Groaning, I wrapped my legs around his back and clutched his hair, pulling him closer. This time, he allowed it. After an impossibly long moment, he repositioned himself, lower, caressing me with long, slow strokes of his tongue. Then his tongue found my center, was inside me, and I was building, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short bursts, mingled with strangled cries.

“Gods, no, don’t, not, I want…”

A last, protracted kiss and he stopped. Bit by bit, my gasps slowed and the lights on the backs of my eyelids faded to dark. I opened my eyes to see Timber’s face very close to mine.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

“You. All of you. Now.”

“Aye. Now.”

He let me unbuckle his belt, remove his jeans. His body covered mine. He entered me slowly, with exquisite restraint, although his blistering eyes and rapid breath told me he found it a challenge. I gasped and sighed, feeling myself stretch to receive him until he filled me.

“Now be still,” he murmured. “Be with me.”

“Yes.”

My pulse beat in my belly, in my groin, in the deep parts of me where we joined. A snake uncurled in the pit of my stomach and slithered up my spine. My breath caught in my throat. Timber moved, just a little, and the snake uncurled again.

“Feel me,” he whispered, stirring a bit more.

We lay together for a moment that stretched into an eternity. His chest pressed against my breast, his cheek close to mine, his breath warm on my neck. Our shared pulse throbbed through the place of our joining, quickening. He shifted his weight a fraction, and moved in me again; my inner muscles clenched around him, and a lance of pure sensation rippled from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

And then it was too much; I couldn’t contain it, couldn’t contain him. I clutched at him, wanting to take him in farther, as far as he could go, wanting the thing that lay just beyond my reach. He rocked with me, a shudder running down his spine. Together, we fell over the edge into a violent climax that went on and on in waves that swept all sense of self away, until neither of us knew where one left off and the other began. And when it receded, and we began to understand ourselves as separate, the knowledge was a kind of death.

Timber left in the morning, early. I got up to see him off. To watch him gather his scattered possessions into his backpack and stow John Stonefeather’s pipe in the canvas bag with the rest of his shaman’s kit.

“I’ll give it to Mitch,” he said. “I think that would be right.”

I didn’t reply.

I walked him downstairs to the door. He paused on the threshold, the sky gold behind him, marred only by a few vagrant puffs of white cloud.

“A week,” he said. “Ten days at the most.”

I nodded.

He dropped his backpack and his canvas bag to take me in his arms.

“Dinna cry now. Dinna fash. I’ll never go if ye do.”

Leaning on his chest, I tried very hard to obey.

He kissed me, long and slow. I wanted it never to end.

“Keep that for me,” he told me. “I’ll be back to claim it.”

He picked up his things and, with only a jerk of his shoulders to indicate how difficult he found it to make his body heed him, he turned away and strode down the walk, not looking back. I watched his straight spine grow smaller until his progress took him to Ninth Street and he disappeared.

I returned upstairs. Not to the bedroom; I didn’t think I could bear it yet. In the sitting room, I curled up, not on the daybed, but in an armchair, feeling lost.

Spying my fanny pack on an end table, I had an idea. I’d put the obsidian earring Timber had given me in return for the Tarot reading in there back at the Trident, and I hadn’t ever taken it out. Maybe wearing it would comfort me. If anything could.

I got up and plucked the fanny pack from the table. Unzipped it. Reached inside. I found the earring. And a piece of paper I didn’t remember. I hooked the obsidian point in my earlobe and unfolded the paper. My knees buckled, and I sat down, hard, on the floor.

“Crap,” I said. “Crap.”

It was the prescription Sage had taken me to the clinic to get, the morning after the Solstice. The prescription for Plan B, the morning after pill.

I’d never had it filled.

I tried not to dwell on my mistake. One way or the other, I’d know in a couple weeks. Maybe I’d get lucky. I swallowed thoughts of long days of unprotected sex and crossed my fingers.

I tried not to dwell on Timber, either. That proved more difficult. How far was it from Boulder to Portland? He’d told me he’d hitched it in two days, on the way out here. But it was the Fourth of July weekend now, and maybe there would be fewer opportunities to grab rides. Maybe there would be more. Truckers might take time off, but lots of people traveled. On the other hand, lots of people might not stop for a man of Timber’s size and formidable aspect, despite his charm. They might think him some kind of serial killer. Say five days, just to be sure.