Free Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Page A

anticipation. I was going to hear the fiddle again, and I could hardly contain my excitement. I could see by the eyes of those around me that they were of the same mind.
    An audible sigh of disappointment ran through the crowd as the Scotsman stepped up on stage without the fiddle in his hands. A hood obscured his features, and his face sat in deep shadow as he walked to the front of the stage and stood above us.
    “I am the Dubh Sithe ,” he shouted. “And we are gathered tonight to open the way... with music.”
    From far off came the sound of a solo fiddle.  
    “... with magic... “
    He spread his arms wide, clenched his fists, and when he opened them again two crimson birds, each the size of a large gull, rose from his palms and fluttered away towards the roof of the tent.
    “But mostly... with blood.”
    He snapped the fingers of his right hand, and the red birds burst as if they had been shot. An arc of blood sprayed towards the front row of seats. Even as the audience cowered away, he waved his hand, and instead of being drenched, softly falling rose-petals showered around us like red snow.
    He dropped the cape, revealing the garb of a kilted highlander in battle-ready dress beneath. We clapped and yelled in appreciation as he drew a long sword from its scabbard and began a series of stylized, almost balletic, moves across the stage.
    “I have come far to be here with you, my brothers of old,” he said. “From miles across the sea your pain and suffering has been heard. The rocks speak to their brethren, even as you hew and cut. You are not alone. Scotsmen are never alone. Not when we have the auld tunes.”
    The fiddle started up again in the distance, fluttery, like a little bird in flight.  
    Another collective sigh ran through us, like wind in a field of wheat. The Scotsman smiled and spoke over it, his voice low but carrying over the crowd.
    “I promised to heal what ails you. And I will keep to that oath. But first, in the grand tradition, we will have a volunteer from the audience.”
    Malone stepped forward. I was looking straight at him at the time, and it looked like he had moved before even thinking about it. A momentary confusion showed in his face, but his features were grim and set hard as he stepped onto the stage.
    “See,” the Scotsman said. “A volunteer, at the first time of asking. What would you have me do with him? Shall I cut him in half?”  
    He raised the sword and made a mock swing, stopping just short of Malone’s ample belly. As one the crowd cheered. That did not improve Malone’s mood. He looked fit to burst as he turned to the Scotsman.
    “What is your purpose here?” he said, his voice high, almost a shout.
    The Scotsman merely smiled. “I have already said. I have come from the auld Homeland, come to heal what ails these good people.”
    He swung the sword in the air above his head. The Irishman flinched, but when the Scotsman’s hands came down he had the fiddle in one hand and a bow in the other. He put it to his chin and started to play, the tune coming from the far distance at first, but getting closer, ever louder. The ground beneath us seemed to swell and thrum. As one, we began to sway.
    A loud Irish voice broke the spell.
    “Enough of this mummery.”
    He made to reach for the fiddle but the Scotsman danced away, still playing, mocking Malone and teasing him by throwing notes and phrases full in the Irishman’s face. The tent seemed to melt and flow and we danced in time, lost in a place where there was no hurt, no tiredness, only blessed peace.
    We were dropped back into grim reality by the blast of a single gunshot. The fiddle blew apart in a cloud of splinters, and a red hole appeared at the Scotsman’s neck. He was dead before he hit the ground. Malone stood over him, his Colt still smoking in his hand.
    I do believe the crowd might have lynched Malone that very night had he not held such clout over us that we depended on him for almost everything