Free Gossamer Axe by Gael Baudino

Thomas.” The head looked at the sound-room door. “Hey, Kev,” it shouted. The stereo shut off. “Christa’s here. Mind what I told you: keep your hands to yourself.” The head disappeared, but from the open door came the sound of a nasal tenor:
    “
Wheeen Irish eyes are smiliiing
…”
    Christa felt her face grow warm. This was a music school? Well, she would show them what a harper from Corca Duibne could do.
    The door to the sound room opened and a tall, darkhaired man came toward her, offering his hand. “Hi, Christa. I’m Kevin Larkin.” He stopped short and stared. “Hey, you’re the chick with the harp—” He caught himself. “Uh… sorry.”
    She smiled as she clasped his hand. “I’m Christa Cruitaire. And I am a harper, true.”
    He was still embarrassed. “I saw you on the street the other day. You had a little harp with you. I… uh… didn’t think anyone played those anymore.”
    “Some do,” she said. “I teach harp.” Kevin reminded her of some of the warriors who had now and again stayed at her parents’ steading: tall, sturdy men who were more comfortable with weapons than with people, who cast themselves into the middle of frenzied combat but stood ill at ease before women.
    “My grandfather had a harp something like that,” he said. “I suppose it’s up in my dad’s attic now.”
    “A sad fate for a harp… or for any instrument.”
    “Yeah.” For a moment, he seemed to be elsewhere, but he came to himself and gestured at the case by her feet. “Why don’t you pull out your axe and come on back to my room. We can start your torture.”
    “Axe?”
    “Your guitar.”
    “Oh. Of course.” Bending, she unsnapped the catches and opened the case.
    “Never seen a Strat that color. Was it a custom job?”
    Christa straightened. “I don’t know. A friend gave this to me.”
    She leaned the empty case against the wall and followed him into his office. There was just enough room in it for a desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs.
    Christa had spent most of Sunday examining the Strat, feeling out the relationships between hands and fingerboard and frets, the subtle curve of the neck and the height of the strings above it, the density of the body and the sound that the guitar made unamplified. She was a harper, but she came to her first lesson with the groundwork for her guitar technique already laid. Her left hand wrapped itself easily about the neck of the instrument as she sat down in Kevin’s office, and the feel of a pick in her right was no longer totally foreign.
    “Have you studied before?” said Kevin.
    “I have not.”
    “You want to learn…”
    “Heavy metal. I was at the Malmsteen concert Saturday night, and I liked what I heard.”
    “Electric guitar isn’t harp, you know.”
    She nearly laughed. “I’m well aware of that.”
    “Okay then. Let’s get started. We’ll go easy until you get used to it and your fingers callus up a little.”
    He showed her basic chord formations and scales, added some standard blues licks. That would have been enough— more than enough—to keep most beginners busy for several weeks. But Christa was a musician who had been trained in the exacting methods of the Corca Duibne school. If she played a melody or a chord twice, she knew it. If she listened to the sound of a scale, she was instantly aware of its harmonic interaction with any accompanying chord.
    Not satisfied with basics, she asked for more, methodically pressing Kevin for whatever he could give her. She noticed that he was suddenly scrambling to keep up with her demands.
    “Are you sure you don’t want to stop with this?” he said at last.
    “Are we out of time?”
    “No… but, hey, this is a lot of rock for you to absorb.”
    “Kevin,” she explained patiently, “I have an entire week to work on this. What I’ve got now will take only a night or two.”
    “At least let me write some of this down.”
    “Write it down?” The idea seemed outlandish.