"Would you care to state your business?" The young man mounted on an Appaloosa addressed him with strained politeness as he sighted down the barrel of his rifle. Jet squinted back up at him and said nothing.
"Speak up or be arrested," the man continued. "Your choice."
"Are you closing your right eye?" Jet said sternly.
"Excuse me?"
"You are," Jet continued. "You're closing your right eye. After all this time, you're still doing that! Have you ever actually hit anything with that rifle? Am I going to have to come over there and whup your ass?"
The dark eyes narrowed, then widened. Almost imperceptibly, the rifle's muzzle dipped away from its mark. "Jet…?" He paused and stared. "Jet Black?"
Seven heads swiveled to stare at the leader.
Jet slowly lowered his hands. "Did you miss me?"
The man was already sliding off his horse and sprinting across the space dividing them. For a moment, he stood before Jet, leaning back at the hips, arms thrown wide. "Son of a bitch!" he laughed. "Don't tell me I haven't changed since you last saw me. How the hell did you recognize me? " His eyes roved up to Jet's scalp. "How the hell was I supposed to recognize you without your hair?"
He laughed again, and lunged forward, throwing his arms around Jet, nearly knocking him down. Jet grunted and stiffened. "Hey, go easy on an old man!"
The younger man released him, and slapped his palms against Jet's arms. As his fingers tightened on Jet's unyielding shoulder, he glanced down at the cybernetic hand extending from the sleeve. He stepped back, staring, and his smile faded. "What the hell happened to your arm!"
The other seven lowered their guns and exchanged glances, but did not dismount.
"Zack," said one. "Would you mind giving us a clue here?"
Zack turned his body back towards his companions, but his eyes dragged away from Jet's metal hand more slowly. "This," he said, "is the grandson of our patron, Cyril Black. This is the man who taught me to shoot. Whenever I didn't do it exactly his way, he always said he was going to come over and whup my ass."
None of the men seemed impressed. "Well, shit," said one, angular and tall in his saddle. "You might have told someone you were coming. Would have saved me a hell of a ride. I came all the way from the next ridge. My mare nearly gave out on me."
Zack ignored his companion's irritation and beamed back at Jet. "What are you doing here? I thought you said you were never coming back."
Jet shrugged. "Slight change of plans." He scanned across the semi-circle of faces. "So are you going to introduce me to your posse?"
"Oh, right! Sorry!" Zack, shuffled backwards, and pointed to each one in turn. "My cousins, Little River and Snow Fox. You might remember my little brothers, Bill and Reynard, even if they don't remember you." The twins smiled self-consciously, and lifted their hands in greeting. "The big, ugly one is Kai." The darkly handsome man on his grey gelding spat a stream of tobacco and gave a lopsided grin.
"That's Black Horse," the tall, angular boy who had complained about the wild ride gave Jet a nod. "And Steve." The last of them, barrel-chested and with a pock-marked face, saluted Jet with two fingers against his temple. "Also my cousins. We're all on guard duty 'til dusk."
"All eight of you came to handle one little poacher?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Black Horse smoothly flipped his rifle into its holster. "It's been boring as hell out here, and we were hoping for a little action. Only an idiot would poach around here. And they're in short supply 'cause we've hauled 'em all in."
"Dad says while there's still fruit on the trees, we have to guard it," said Zack. "No sense in letting anyone think we've gone soft." He motioned with his head towards Kai. "Kai was up there in the trees when he saw you go into the house, and he called the rest of us. We couldn't figure who'd be stupid enough to go poking around here for trouble."
"I'm stupid enough to be poking around for Laughing Bull," Jet said. "But Andrew tells me he's off somewhere in the hills, meditating and," Jet lifted a hand and waggled his fingers, "doing his spells and stuff. Any chance you know where I can find him?"
"Good luck," said Snow Fox. "When Grampa doesn’t want company, he doesn't get found. We haven't seen him for a week."
Jet rested his fists on his hips. "Well, shit," he muttered. "I can't really afford to wait around. But I just blew 35,000 getting here." Hearing himself, he smiled slightly. It was going to be a hard habit to break, counting every Woolong he spent.
"He might show up pretty soon," said Zack. "Grampa usually comes out of hiding a couple of weeks before Dark Day. This year we have clan coming from all over for solstice celebrations. Hope you don't mind we cleaned up your place in case we needed extra beds. We didn't expect you to show up."
"I won't get in your way," Jet assured him. "I've got my bunk on the Bebop. As soon as I get a chance to talk with Bull, I'm out of here. Andrew seemed to think the Old Man knew I was coming, so I'm kind of surprised he's hiding."
"He'll find you," said Steve, his face serious. "If he wants to."
Jet fidgeted for a moment. He hadn't planned on socializing, but it seemed right to be the gracious host. "So…you guys want some coffee? I can brew you some of your own."
"We'll take a rain check, Jet," said Zack. "Still on duty for another few hours."
"I'll be gone before then."
"If you're on foot, you'll be wanting to head out pretty soon to make the main road before the front comes through. Supposed to snow tonight. I can bring you a horse, if you want."
"Nah. Last time I rode a horse was probably the last time I saw you," Jet said. "An hour in the saddle, and I probably wouldn't be able to walk for a week. Thanks, just the same."
"Suit yourself," said Zack, mounting. "We'll probably see you in town tonight, eh?"
"Maybe so."
"Have you been by there yet? You'll probably think it's changed a lot. But what's really amazing is how much it hasn't! There hasn't been a bad rock fall around here for more than ten years."
"Saw the town from the air. It's changed, all right. A lot of things have." He glanced back at the doorway. "Some not."
"Grampa makes sure the place is looked after," said Zack. "He says we owe that to your granddad."
Jet smiled slightly, but said nothing as Zack mounted up and wheeled his horse around. With mixed emotions, he watched them leave. When Zack, bringing up the rear, turned to send a final salute, Jet suddenly saw him as the six-year old boy he had tutored in gunmanship on so many sunny, dusty afternoons. When the last of them vanished into the brush, he had never felt so old or alone.

Despite the handicap of his healing leg, Jet hiked until the sun cast orange. The rocky outcroppings he had known so well as a boy were thick with trees and shrubs now. Back then, he hadn't really paid attention to the many pine and hardwood seedlings sprouting in the meadows below, and from any slight crag in the cliffs. He had assumed that they, like all before them, would die before they could reach any appreciable size. Breathing the resiny scent, he was glad he'd been wrong.
The Canadian sunset was different, too. He'd seen plenty of Terran sunsets in the past sixteen years, from the desert at Doohan's hangar to the ruins of what had been Singapore, where they'd left Ed for the last time. Before now, he hadn't been able to compare those to the sunsets of his childhood, when the light had always sunk into a haze of red and orange over the scorched hills. The colors weren't as dramatic now. The sky was wan, the sun whitish as it traveled towards the horizon. He wondered if it was the northerly storm over his shoulder that made the horizon seem so pale.
No. As Andrew had said, the dust was settling. Earth was changing again.

The weariness in his bones as he trudged the darkening main road was the good kind. Muscles kept hard in the Bebop's weight room weren't accustomed to rock climbing, and he knew his wounded leg would be sore in the morning. He didn't mind. The wind ruffled his fur cap. A snowflake wet the side of his nose. He looked up with mild dismay at the approaching storm. Even under his heavy coat, these threadbare clothes--the warmest he owned--weren't going to keep him comfortable if it started to snow in earnest. He picked up his pace. The settlement shouldn't be far now. Might be able to take shelter there and warm up before the long, cold walk to the Hammerhead.
Turning a bend, he saw a light flicker at the side of the road. As he drew closer, it flared, arced upwards, and swung gently over the street. A dark shape was moving in the lamp's glow, and as he approached, a man's voice called out casually.
"Evening, Sir!"
The man who had just hung the kerosene lamp was dressed in a stovepipe hat, a bright woolen muffler, and heavy black felt coat with tails. He smiled, and tipped the brim of his hat as Jet came near, then turned to close the amber glass door of the lantern he had just lit.
"Evening," Jet returned with a nod. "How far to town?"
"About half a kilometer," answered the man. He leaned on the hooked rod he had used to take down the lamp and smiled. "You've come at a pretty miserable time of year for a tourist."
"Used to live around these parts," said Jet, casting a cool eye on the man's clothing. "Before it turned into a tourist trap."
The man laughed and plucked at his woolen lapel with his thumb. "Hey, I'm a starving college student. Someone's got to light the lamps, and I might as well add some atmosphere. The tourists love to have their pictures taken with a real, live lamplighter, and the tips can be pretty good."
"I see." Jet said. "So anything going on in town tonight? Any live music?"
"Try Duffy's. This place is dead as hell on a Tuesday night, but they usually have something going on. Maybe a local band. The pros don’t usually play 'til the weekend."
"Better than nothing," said Jet, and turned up the street with a wave. "Thanks."
As he rounded another bend in the road, a curving arc of the old-fashioned gas lamps lit his way. The wind was at his back, blowing from the hills, but the forest served as a brake, and he caught a whiff of barbecue. He reached into his hip pocket and flexed his wallet. The cash card resisted firmly, and he smiled.
The snow began to flurry. He pulled his collar up and tugged his earflaps down to no avail as a blast of wind raced up his back and around his neck. By the time the town's glow finally greeted him in the distance, his teeth were chattering. When at last the trees parted to reveal the familiar old main street, festooned with Christmas lights, he hardly realized that he had stopped just to stare.
With one deep breath, he felt the scents of snow and smoke and pine rush through him and again wash away the years. He looked down and took small delight in watching the snow gather and scatter across the tops of his shoes, looked up and saw the same on the rooftops. The shops were all open, and far more places than he remembered had large, plate-glass windows in front, filled with wares. The folks really must not be worried about rock showers, to be this bold. But from what he'd seen in the hills, they might be right. The place seemed undisturbed enough for life to return and thrive in a way he had not seen in his lifetime.
Most of the shops and restaurants were new to him, but he held a vague hope that one old familiar spot might still be there. He scanned up the street through the haze of falling snow, not exactly sure of his bearings, but figuring he'd know the sign if it was still up. He walked carefully among the passersby, who seemed to be taking more trouble than he to seek shelter from the snow.
He came to a corner, turned his head, and there it was. The door was marked by nothing more than an old plank suspended by chains, its font and logo painted to resemble the sign of an old English pub. The sign had been artistically weathered when they'd hung it up thirty years ago, opening the first aboveground pub in New Toronto, and it looked the same now. The words arching around the image of a white deer were still clear: White Stag Tavern. Est. 2040.
An old barker was stationed at the door, beckoning in a thick, somewhat suspect Scottish brogue to passersby. He spotted Jet. With a mittened hand, he batted at the muffler covering his chin and pulled it lower. "Come on in, Lad," he waved a hand towards the door. "Live music tonight! Happy hour starts in forty five minutes!"
"What's playing?"
"Black Valley, a local band. Traditional tunes from the old country."
Jet grunted and gazed down the street. "Anyplace around here got some jazz or blues?"
The man fumbled off one of his mittens, reached into his parka pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. When he spoke again, the brogue was mysteriously gone. "Hold on…" he squinted and scanned the sheet. "Let's see. Rock n' Roll at Your Father's Moustache. Turkish music and a belly dancer at Maroosh. Got some Country Western at Duffy's…"
"God, no," mumbled Jet.
"…Baroque trio at Lacey's." The barker didn't lift his face from the list, but his eyes roved up under bushy brows to surreptitiously appraise Jet's attire. "Though you might not be outfitted for Lacey's tonight, Sir."
"I'm never outfitted for Lacey's," said Jet. He crossed his arms, tucked his chin as the wind picked up again, and scanned down the street distractedly. The barker was still reading from the list when Jet noticed a storefront window display of winter gear across the street.
"Thanks," said Jet, already starting to wander across the street. "I'll think about it."
"Do come on back when you're ready, Sir," said the barker, regaining his brogue. "We've got the finest selection of single malts in town, we do."
Jet stopped short, and slowly turned to face the man. "Included in happy hour?"
The man gave a mischievous wink. "Afraid only if 'twere your birthday, Sir!"
"Yeah?"
"A well-kept secret here, Sir."
A grin spread slowly over Jet's face. "I'll be back."

Half an hour later, Jet emerged from the shop, stretched out his arms, and challenged the wind to bite through his new plaid woolen shirt, denim jeans, and long underwear. In one gloved hand, he held a bag with his old clothes. He smiled slowly at the waste can chained to the store's timber support beams, and with a flourish, slam-dunked the bag. He tugged up his collar and nestled into it. "Whoever said money can't buy happiness never wore silk longjohns," he muttered.
He wandered along the street for a while, waiting until it was closer to happy hour. When he finally stepped back under the eaves of the White Stag and brushed the dusting of snow from his shoulders, the barker greeted him and sent him through the door with a clap on the back. The floor grate was already crusted with snow, and Jet stomped more onto it from the tread of his own new leather boots. Fire-warmed air enveloped him and prickled at his chilled cheeks--a sensation he had long forgotten.
"What can I bring you, Sir?" One of the college kids waiting tables was upon him before he was done hanging up his coat and hat.
"Shot of your best single malt, straight up, and a bowl of chili." He scanned the nearly empty room, spied a candle-lit table in the dark corner beside the band's soundboard and pointed. "I'll be over there."
"Sir, I…"
Jet turned to the kid and fixed his gaze. "On second thought, make it a double. And wait 'til happy hour starts before you pour. I intend to line 'em up tonight." The kid was following him to the table, hovering close as Jet slid wearily into the booth. He looked up and once again met the waiter's eyes. "Are you still here? Okay, on third thought…bring me the bottle."
The kid screwed up his brow with the look of a server who knew he was about to blow his gratuity. "Ah…I'm sorry, Sir. But single malts aren't on the happy hour menu."
"Fellow outside said that you'd make an exception for a birthday." Jet had already drawn his I.D. from his wallet and flipped it out at the server, covering his name, but not his photo or birth date.
The kid grinned. "You must have impressed him, Sir. He doesn’t tell most out-of-towners that rule. And it's still only half price. Would you like to see a price list first?"
Jet pulled out his wallet, activated his cash card with a fingertip, tapped in an amount, and handed it to the waiter. "Just bring me the best you have. Keep twenty percent for yourself."
The waiter took the card, glanced at it, and did a double take. "Sir?"
Jet stretched and folded his arms behind his head. "I don't need it aged any more than it already is."
"Yes, Sir!" said the waiter, his grin spreading. "Coming right up!"
A few moments later, a steaming bowl of chili, a basket of hot biscuits, a bottle of pre-gate 1975 Balvenie and an elegantly cut shotglass glowed in the candlelight at his elbow. Jet glanced up as the waiter left, only then noticing that every server in the place was lined up behind the bar and staring, fish-eyed. He flushed momentarily, glad he had taken the precaution of setting the cash card to conceal his identity.
While he waited for the chili to cool, he idly watched the band setting up. They had an impressive variety of instruments, and when the fiddler played a quick riff as he tuned, Jet thought the music might actually be bearable.
Close at his right, someone was moving in the dim, gold light of the soundboard.
"Jack," she called towards the stage. "Try number five."
The fiddler turned and sawed a measure into the mike, then leaned into it. "Check."
From the corner of his eye, Jet noticed that the woman at the soundboard had turned towards him. "Sound okay to you?"
"Sounds good to me," he said, giving full attention to the whiskey he was pouring.
"Whoa." It was the woman's voice again. "Is that the bottle they've had up over the bar for the past four years?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, it must be, because that's the only one in the place."
"Then I guess it is." Jet glanced at her impassively, and she smiled.
For a long moment, Jet returned her gaze without smiling. There was something odd and familiar about that smile. He couldn't quite place it. Just a direct, guileless warmth that sent a strange sensation to the base of his throat.
As she turned back to the board, a curtain of long, brown hair dropped down to cover the side of her face, and the moment was over. Jet silently shook himself, wondering at the strange feelings that seemed to be assailing him from every corner and every person since he'd arrived. He lifted the glass to his lips, closed his eyes and inhaled the heavenly scent.
"Happy Birthday, Running Rock." The voice came from so close beside him that he started and nearly spilled his drink.
"Easy, Jet," the voice said. "That's expensive stuff to be snorting out your nose."
Jet stared straight ahead at the stage as he knocked the butt of the shot glass down on the table. Without facing the source of the voice, he slowly shook his head and growled. "Then how about buying me a replacement shot, Tom?"
He swiveled around as Tom RedCrow emerged from the corner, into the candlelight. "Afraid you got the only bottle. Looks as if you've got enough to share, though."
"You're lucky I'm feeling generous this evening."
Jet caught the waiter's eye, pointed to his shot glass and bowl, and raised two fingers. He watched in satisfaction as the kid scurried off at his command.
Jet raised a hand and slapped it into RedCrow's palm. "What brings you to this little hole? Looking for me?"
"You know, Zack mentioned that you seemed to think everyone was looking for you," he said. "What makes you think you're so important? I'm just here to see the band." He glanced over Jet's head at the woman at the sound board. "Hey, Tula!"
"Hey, Tom!" she said, glancing up and sending that smile again. "Did you bring your drum?"
"Not after last time."
"Oh, good."
"Brat."
She sidled out of the sound box and walked towards the stage with a wave. "Showtime!"
Jet looked up at Tom as he settled into the booth. Except for a couple of gray hairs at the temples, his face seemed unchanged. It was as unlined, flawless and ridiculously handsome as back in their college days, when Tom had been the object of desire of every girl in town. "I don't remember you being a fan of folk music."
"I like folk okay," said Tom. "But mainly I'm here in support of my colleagues." He leaned back against the seat and stretched. "Everyone in the band is from the U, and two of the guys are from Computer Science."
"So salaries at the U. are about what I remember, eh?"
Tom gave a sharp laugh. "Right. If it wasn't for the orchards, I might be up there singing myself."
"Then I guess everyone in this bar should be thankful for the orchards."
"You're hilarious. You and Tula ought to start a stand-up routine. I'll bring the eggs."
The place was starting to fill up, now that happy hour had started. The waiter deposited another shotglass and bowl of chili in front of Tom.
"Hey, now it's a party," said Tom. "Do we get cake?"
The door swung open, blowing a slight chill towards them. Instinctively, Jet glanced towards the doorway. He stiffened as the door shut behind four men in ISSP-issue parkas and two others wearing New Toronto Police Department uniforms. He watched intently as they stamped the grate and sauntered silently towards a table at the front of the room, beside the stage.
Tom was idly watching them, too. "Looks like some of your old buddies are…hey, you okay, Jet?"
"Fine," he said, his voice taut. But as he watched them place their orders, he relaxed. None of them was looking around, and none had the watchful aspect of a detective. Probably just ISSP grunts and NTPD street cops coming off duty. "They're not looking for anything." He announced under his breath.
"Not unless you count the girls in the band," Tom smirked. Tula had brought the other woman performer to the edge of the stage, where they both sat down, cross-legged, and talked to the cops at the table. "That short, curvy one with the red hair is Jen," he continued. "She's a post-doc in the Math Department." He sipped his whiskey and flashed his eyebrows. "Fire on the mountaintop, fire in the valley, I'll bet. Wonder what it would take to find out."
Jet shot him a sidelong glance and tipped back his shotglass. "So how's Marilyn?"
Tom laughed. "Aw, come on, Jet. You don't have to bust my chops for just window shopping. You can't tell me those girls aren't easy on the eyes."
"You've never seen a girl you didn't think was easy on the eyes."
"Grouch," said Tom. "Cheer up. At the break, I'll introduce you."
"Don’t do me any favors," said Jet, breaking half a biscuit into his chili. "Women are all nuts."
Tom stared at him with mild amusement. "Still playing the monk, eh? What happened to that girl you met on Ganymede? The one who ran that restaurant. I figured you'd have half a dozen kids by now."
Jet shoved a spoonful of chili into his mouth and spoke around it. "Can we talk about something else?"
"Hmm. Okay. You pick."
"How about your father?" said Jet. "He hijacks me here, tells your boy that he's waiting for me, and then Zack says he's out hiding in the hills somewhere with no E.T.A."
Tom's face grew serious. "He's waiting for you, Running Rock."
Jet stopped a spoonful of chili in mid-air. "Ah. And when were you going to tell me this?"
"When you asked," said Tom.
"Are you trying to sound like him, or is it just hereditary?"
Tom lifted his shotglass and stared through it at the candle's flame. "He wants me to bring you to the sweat lodge. Late."
"The sweat lodge!" Jet rolled his eyes. "Oh, cripes. Is he going to get all mystical on me? I just want to talk to him."
"About what?"
Reflexively, Jet started to answer his childhood friend, "About a…" he trailed off, and looked at Tom with mild annoyance. "What makes you think it's any of your business?"
"It's not." Tom shrugged. "But don't worry. I don't shoot fish in a barrel."
Jet turned a blank gaze to the stage. He raised his shotglass, rested his elbow on the table, and gently swirled the whiskey. "About…a dream I had."
The playfully snide retort he'd expected didn't come. When he looked back at Tom, his friend's face was still solemn. "Well. That's different." Tom sipped his drink. "I guess maybe we're both starting to come to our senses about stuff like that, eh? It used to make me nuts that Andrew was following my dad's path. But some pretty weird shit's been happening lately."
They both fell silent for a while as more people arrived and filled the tables. Before they spoke again, the band struck up a loud, galloping rhythm, jarring their attention back to the now-crowded pub. Tom seemed relieved for the break in tension, and gave a whoop of encouragement. The guitarist, his shoulder-length silver hair tied back in a ponytail, glanced out towards the sound through square-rimmed glasses, grinned and nodded at Tom.
"That's Phil George," Tom leaned over and spoke loudly, to be heard over the music. "He's Comp Sci, and so's the pale guy in black. Gordon Budger. Good guys. Can you believe a couple of nerds could play like that?"
The corner of Jet's mouth had drawn back in a smile. The band was tight. And the tune was one his grandfather and friends had often played, a rousing slip-jig. He relaxed and allowed himself to be drawn into the festive mood, feeling almost as if he'd never left New Toronto.

The music went on for an hour without a break, and by the time the band took a short leave, both Jet and Tom were feeling the effects of the whiskey, the warmth, and the crowd's enthusiasm.
Tom thumped his palm down on the table. "Still too shy to meet the band?" he said. "I'm going up to say hello."
"I'll wait here," said Jet. "It's always fun to watch from a distance while you strike out."
Tom gave a dismissive snort, and started to wander towards the stage. Tula and Jen were standing by the cops' table. One of the men reached out, wrapped Tula's waist in his arm, and pulled her close. She resisted mildly, then gave in, hugged his head, and rubbed it playfully with her knuckles. Tom pulled back. "Yeesh!" he said. "I thought Tula might have better taste in men."
Hunched over his elbows, Jet grumbled. "A gal could do worse than an ISSP man."
Tom waved him off and left. He spent some time visiting with his two colleagues, then moved away and beckoned to Tula and Jen, who took a moment to extricate themselves from the cops' attentions.
Jet watched as Tom leaned close to the women, speaking quietly to them. His friend moved his hand in time with some unheard music, and it looked to Jet as if he were humming. Jen was shaking her head, but Tula had screwed up her brow and bent closer to listen. After a moment's listening, she leaned back, nodded and said something back to Tom. Tom glanced over his shoulder at Jet, grinned, and--to Jet's dismay--pointed at him. Tula and Jen peered out into the darkness, spied Jet's silhouette, then waved and blew kisses.
"Happy Birthday!" Tula wordlessly mouthed at him, and another smile flashed from the bright, grey-green eyes.
To Jet's surprise, he felt his ears grow warm, and a not-unpleasant sensation ripple through his belly. He twisted his wrist and addressed the shotglass in his hand. "You're nothing but trouble. I think I've had enough of you for tonight."
He glowered back at the stage from under his brows, and waved once, in what he hoped was a dismissive fashion. The last thing he wanted tonight was to have anyone draw attention to him. He noted with vague relief that the cops seemed to be more interested in watching the girls than in paying any mind to the object of their faux flirting. He was glad he'd picked this dark corner.

By the time Tom wandered back to their booth, the band was assembling again, and Jen had taken the microphone. "We have a special request," she said. "For a special song on a special birthday."
Jet winced and sent Tom a withering look. Tom grinned back. "Don't worry," he said in a stage whisper. "They're not going to sing 'Happy Birthday to You. I think you'll like this one. At least you used to." The crowd quieted, as the low drone of an Uillean pipe rose through the smoke.
"I don't like surpri…" Jet's voice trailed off, and an icy pang shot through his gut as a tinwhistle joined in, wailing a familiar, mournful melody over the pipes' drone. His throat constricted almost painfully as he recognized the bars of the old ballad he'd always asked his grandfather to play, though he'd never known the words or name of the song.
"It's a very old Scottish tune," continued Tula, her voice low. "A little bit sad for a birthday, if you ask me."
"But we never refuse special requests!" finished Jen, and stepped back from the mike took up her small, Celtic harp, and joined the tinwhistle's melody.
"It's called The Selkie," said Tula, and as the music swelled, she closed her eyes and sang.

A wounded sailor lies alain,
And aye, he sighs by lily wean,
"Upon this stane I'm cast ashore
My life's blood flows into the sea."

"But thy kin shall find a brother pale,
And a right fine gunner I'm sure he'll be,
And the very first shot that he e'er shoots,
Will kill both my true love and me."