Free As She's Told by Anneke Jacob Page B

his body. Vibrations stretched, reached out for me, found my frequency, tightened and loosened my strings. The song started slow, his firm hands on the instrument confiding something. He met my eye for a moment. Then he moved into a faster jig, and then a wild reel that had the room jumping.
    I didn't dare dance. By the time we left I was jumpy and revved up, wanting to be grabbed and touched all over. I hummed the last song and swung a little at the end of his hand, and he looked down at me in amusement, keeping a tight grip on my wrist. His case settled in the back, he unlocked the passenger door for me. In its shadow he scooped me up, one hand deep in my crotch, and lifted me onto the seat. I gasped, and his tongue was in my open mouth, his fingers hard inside me. Then he swung my knees around and shut the door. I sat there gasping like a fish thrown on shore, waiting for him to get in the other side and finish what he'd started. But he just put the truck in gear and started off. He glanced over at me sitting there with my mouth hanging open, smiled, stopped the truck and fastened my seatbelt, tight.
    As he drove he hummed in a deep, dark baritone that filled the night inside the truck. It wasn't a song from that evening; the tune rang much older 53

    As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob
    bells. Something traditional that I hadn't heard since my mother had played us her old folk albums, back when we were kids. What was it called? Anders was singing the words now.

    And her cherry cheeks and her ruby lips,
    They lost their former dye,
    And she fell on her knees before him,
    All on the mountain high.

    He glinted at me briefly, then went on,

    He had not kissed her but the once or twice, When she come to again, And most eagerly she asked him, Pray tell to me your name.

    There was some traffic now, and the song was down to a wordless hum again as he negotiated it. Scraps of the other verses were coming back to me, though the title still eluded me. Something about how the girl, aloof at first, had been felled by the irresistible sexual magic of this rake, and ended up following wherever he led. I could relate.
    We were crossing a bridge. I caught a glimpse of dark water and a line of bright headlights below us, and realized we were crossing the Don Valley, heading east instead of west. Not to my place, then. Where was he taking me? Still downtown, rows of Asian shops, then houses. My knowledge of the city was all centre core and downtown west; this side of town was terra incognita. Anders was silent now. His face looked remote, alternately lit and in shadow. I wanted him to speak and reassure me. A lurking paranoia crept in, lurid visions of kidnappings, headlines gloating over unidentified remains. Could I trust him?
    I watched the hands that had held the fiddle hold the wheel with the same deft authority. I thought of the care he was taking with me, and relaxed. He was singing again.

    And if by chance you look for me,
    Perhaps you'll not me find,
    For I'll be in my green castle,
    And enquire for Reynardine.
    54

    As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

    Reynardine. That was it. We were turning into a quiet street with a few widely-spaced street lights and a No Exit sign – I envisioned a camera panning on the sign and some creepy music, and almost giggled – and I saw the silver glimmer of a high fence across the end of the road. Something industrial? Or maybe railroad tracks. The last house on the left was not green but grey brick; detached, with a driveway separating it from the house next door. It looked like a typical downtown Toronto house: two stories and a peaked roof, long and narrow. Inside, a strong smell of cut lumber, and a trace of that metallic power saw tang. Anders turned on a light and I saw heaped two-by-fours, insulation, loose angles of black plastic pipe, but a functional living room set up in the space on my right with a couch and television and a stack of books on a low table. The drywall wasn't up yet; there