Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors by Original (pdf) (no david read aloud txt) 📕

can have a perfect view, far out over the shadowed

waters of our beautiful Western Sea. The house suggested riches:

good food, wax candles, soft cloth, flowers, fruit and wine. The sort

of folk who lived here might travel to Rhom ary city, hire yachts,

race parmels from their own stable, and employ musicians. It was a

far cry from the wild red waves and the tattoo parlor. In fact no servant opened the door, only a handsome fellow about my own age; he had pressed curls, a knotted lace vest, grey leather boots.

‘You’re out of time,’ he said, looking me up and down, ‘the

homecoming was yesterday.’

Oh he was a sailor-girl’s dream, a spoiled silverwing, back from

the city. Homecoming parties for these schoolers, back for the summer holidays, had been raging on in the houses of Moon Lane and Connor Crescent for eight days now. I had worked at four of them.

I even had a name for this party-goer who stood before me: Rayner

Mack, son of the house.

‘I came about another . . . homecoming,’ I said, smiling. ‘May

it please you if I speak to M am Ruby Mack?’

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘My mother will be down soon.’

I had not been in the spacious house a third of an hour when 1

The ballad o f H ilo H ill

115

knew something better than he seemed to do. The Widow Mack

had less money than most in this street. There was one servant, a

gaunt woman left over from better days. I could see gaps on the

walls where tapestries, paintings or plate had been taken down.

Sold, I guessed, to pay for Rayner’s fancy education at one of the

M erchants’ schools in Rhomary, and for his boots, his hair-do and

his homecoming party with hired musicians.

‘Since you’re here,’ he said, ‘you’d better play me a tune, little

balladmaker!’

We stood in a fine room, rundown and dusty in the corners. I

saw myself in a m irror of polished bronze . . . that wouldn’t last

long . . . and was not too pleased with the sight. I am short, thin,

dark; my red cloak looked tawdry, my guitar lacked ribbons, I was

dusty from the streets of Derry. I hated my profession at that

moment.

‘W hat’ll it be, young sir?’ I said cheerfully. ‘A love song? A racing

ballad? O r what about a great song of the sea?’

I wondered where they had stashed their granddad. Was it a false

alarm?

‘Play Devil Dance!’ said his lordship.

It was the latest snapper; I had played it ten times over at the

homecoming parties. As I played he tapped his boots on the tiles; it

pleased him to have a musician all to himself. W hen the dreary

acrobatic piece was done he fumbled at his plaited sporran for a

coin but I held up a hand.

‘No need,’ I said. ‘You can do me a greater service. Is there an old

man come to stay in your house?’

Rayner Mack looked puzzled. Then he smiled and sighed,

swinging one booted leg over the arm of his carved chair.

‘Thank our stars!’ he said. ‘Are you some family of that stinking

old critter that M a keeps in the warden house? You’re welcome to

him!’

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ I said. ‘I just want to have a word with him.’

A word?’ said Rayner. ‘Old Billy is mad, you know, as well as

unwashed. But Ma has a strong sense of duty . . . she thinks he

might be a former servant of our stable. Why would you be

interested? We had a seafaring man here to visit him, but now a

balladmaker? At least you’re prettier than Cap Raam . . . ’

I kept smiling but the situation made me queasy.

‘Routine visit,’ I said. ‘We interview these old persons in hope of a

sailor’s yarn or a melody. May I see him?’

116

Cherry W ilder

He shrugged and led the way through the quiet house. We

crossed the kitchen where the old housekeeper dozed by the big un lit range, and went out into the garden. It was wild and beautiful, with blossoming fruit trees and gnarled sea pines. We came to