[Short-story] Litany

Odaise Gaelach

2919 words. Please enjoy.


Litany

Claire stood at the crest of a ridge overlooking the festival. Before her scattered around the field was hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Beside her her fellow band members were still stretching their stiff joints and sleeping limbs.

They were booked to play at a literary and arts festival today. Just a few numbers from their EP, and maybe some cover songs if things went their way. It was their biggest gig yet and Claire was trying not to think about it.

For now she watched the people move around from tent to tent, or sit on the grass in the sun. Steam and smoke drifted out from various food stalls.

I think I can do this she thought and then chided herself. Of course I can do this. I’ve done it tens of times already. One more time is not going to make a difference.

“Right,” came the voice of Sean the lead singer cum guitarist cum manager. “First we check in at the festival headquarters. They should have a storeroom for us to put all our instruments in.”

Rolling her shoulders around Claire took out her bass guitar from the car and they headed towards the country house that was hosting the festival. Along the way she noticed some of the many stalls and tents dotting the place. One named itself the smallest university in the world, with a list of ten-minute lectures on all kinds of topics. There was a tent that boasted a screen and projector, hosted by the local film club. One tent was just a number of people sitting about knitting. And then there was a number of food stalls; chips, fry-ups, some Caribbean food and one that smelt quite strongly of fish and rice.

Claire paused, looking at the stall. It was sushi. The Japanese expatriate behind it was deftly slicing fish and serving it onto small paper plates. She took another deep smell of it.


That night in Tokyo, he had his arm around her shoulder. That was probably the last straw, except that would imply that it was all his fault, not hers.

Her boyfriend Aaron’s other arm was trying to wave down a taxi. He’d forgotten how to say ‘taxi’ in Japanese so he had resorted to shouting out random words.

That evening it was raining. Claire didn’t mind the rain much. Behind them the door to a sushi bar opened. The smell of fish and sound of karaoke singing touched her senses before being lost again in the rain.

“No,” she muttered and pushed herself away from Aaron.

“I knew there was something wrong with you, you’ve been tense for the whole holiday. C’mon, Claire, you know you can tell me.”

Claire told him. When she was finished she couldn’t distinguish between tears and rain.

A while later Aaron found a taxi. Claire walked through the rain to the metro station and stayed in the airport before taking a flight home.


Her legs were the first thing to start moving. She walked towards the country house again, pulling her attention away from the sushi stall.

Keep going. Don’t lose it now.

She caught up with the rest of the band members and they deposited their instruments in the storeroom.

“Right,” Sean clapped his hands together, “we play at six on the Field stage. We need back here at half five to get our stuff and get ready. Should give us plenty of time. Until then we can mooch about around the festival. Enjoy ourselves.”

They walked together around from stall to stall. Claire deliberately hung back away from the group and waited until they had gone far enough away from her so she could stealthily duck into a nearby tent. It was full of people either sitting or standing but all watching a stage.

Claire took a quick glance outside. No one had missed her yet.

Someone said something and the crowd gave a brief chuckle. She turned to look at what was happening and saw that she had walked into a play. She shuffled around until she could see the stage, and the two people dressed in white coats and slouching on some chairs. They looked extremely bored.

“Power plant’s quiet tonight.”

“Yep.”

“The nuclear reactor’s in cold shutdown. No pressure emergencies, no power spikes, no cooling failures, no fires… God this job’s boring...”

Claire giggled for a moment.

“Were you there for the time we thought the reactor hall was on fire?”

“Yeah, I remember that. We thought it was on fire, so we activated the fire extinguishing system. Within five seconds the hall was filled with half a million gallons of carbon-dioxide gas and boric acid.”

“All because Robert wanted a cigarette and wasn’t bothered going outside.”

With nothing really better to do she stayed for the rest of the short play, laughing now and again and feeling a little better. When it was finished and the cast gave their bows Claire slipped out the tent, squinting in the sunlight.

She wandered up to the ridge near the end of the field, turning to look back at the hundreds of people standing, sitting or scurrying from one tent to another. Light, air and sound caught her full in the face, and the rush of memory followed.


The view was breath-taking.

Claire leaned against the guardrail. The cool air and bright sunlight felt good after so long in the car. They’d stopped at a lookout point halfway up the mountain overlooking the valley and the river.

She stretched her legs behind her and sighed. In some ways it made her feel empty. This is supposed to make me feel happy. It’s a sight that would make anyone happy. So why am I not?

Thomas her lover walked up and leaned on the barrier beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he muttered.

Claire just stared out ahead of her. That’s why. It’s beautiful and carefree, and that’s how people who experience it feel. All I can do is be beautiful and hurt people. Take their hearts and break them. Even mine. I’ll never be able to make anyone feel anything else.

Thomas sensed something was wrong, and guessed all too correctly, “You’re thinking of your boyfriend?”

Not just him. But she just nodded.

“It’s okay. We love each other; you can’t help who you fall in love with. Listen, we’ll wait until the end of this trip. Then we’ll tell Aaron. Together.”

Claire, numb, nodded.

After a while they went back to the car. She thought about how long it would take for her to walk back down the mountain road, then shook the thought out of her head. I will, I’ll tell him, I promise. Just not now…


It was a sight that Claire thought she’d never forget, though when she remembered it she felt like it was missing a layer of detail. Even when she went back to it a year later as a catharsis or exorcism (or just to scream at it; it didn’t help anyway) it had lost something.

Her gaze was caught on a little tent just nearby. It was different from the others, because it had three walls and one opening, with a tarpaulin covering the top. The walls were papered with a deep red and gold paper. A number of small paintings hung from them. In the corner there was a vase on a stand.

She walked over to the opening. A few people were sitting on chairs or the grass listening to a man in an armchair reciting poetry.

Claire didn’t really pay attention to it. She was looking at the festival, and at the lorry-stage that she was going to be performing on before long. She turned back to the poet just in time for the finish, and clapped politely along with everyone else.

“Here you are sweetie,” a woman in another armchair turned her drawing pad around and Claire saw her own face in soft and light pencil looking away somewhere. Feeling bemused she took the pad and examined the drawing.

“It’s very good,” she said. It was; actually it was really good.

“Cheers,” the woman replied. “I just saw you with that strange expression on your face, and that distant look in your eyes. It reminded me of... what’s it called...?”

“The Mona List?” Claire hazarded.

“No, Terminator. The Mexican boy’s photo at the end.”

She took the pad back and with the greatest of care tore off the drawing and handed it to Claire.

“Here you go.”

Claire took it, holding it as delicately as she could. It was suddenly very precious to her.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“I... what do you want for it?” she said. Then blushed for sounding so stupid.

“Nothing,” the woman smiled not unkindly. “The pleasure was all mine. Really.”

Claire opened and stared at it again. When she looked back the woman had started sketching someone else, glancing up at them and then back down at the paper. A strange calm came over her and she got to her feet. She returned to the mansion in order to put the drawing in a safe place near the band’s instruments.


She wandered from tent to tent when she returned, glancing inside and staying a while if there was something that interested her, like the slender female opera singer who had no trouble belting out notes. On the Field stage there was a showband playing. Scattered in front of the stage were groups of children and adults sitting on benches or bales of hay, or just the grass. Some people had even taken out guitars and instruments and were playing them in scattered groups. The knitters were examining their gigantic rainbow... Scarf? Tea cosy? She didn’t think even they knew.

Claire wandered around a bit more. When she went to the mansion to store the wonderful drawing she decided to take her bass guitar with her. She had it strapped to her back, the neck protruding upwards. It did feel like a ward or a talisman to her. She had it for the past seven years and it was scratched and dented as such. She knew she should get a new one. Soon, she would. But not now.

She found a quiet spot away from the bustle and sat cross-legged on the grass, resting her guitar on her thighs and began to practice, humming the words every now and again.

After a few minutes she stopped. Her fingers felt along the familiar strings to the chord she wanted. She paused again.


“So that’s the set list,” Sean was saying. “Are we finally agreed on it?”

“Not really,” Robert replied, “but it’ll do.”

“Thank you,” Sean growled. “Okay, so, let’s call it a night.”

Claire’s hands moved. Her fingers pressed over the strings of her guitar.

“I have a song.”

All three other members of the band turned and stared at her. Dave the drummer, to his credit, looked the least gobsmacked of them.

“I didn’t know you were writing. You didn’t tell us you were writing.”

“I know, but I wasn’t sure of it yet. I am now. And I want to include it in the set list.”

Sean shook his head.

“Oh, no. No. We’ve spent the last three hours arguing over the set list, I’m not going this again now. Not a hope.”

There was a huge crash from a cymbal. Dave was pointing a drumstick at Sean. He looked like a swordsman challenging him to a duel.

“Sit down. Listen to her.”

Robert nodded and sat back in his chair again.

“Fine,” Sean slumped into his seat with a shrug. “Okay, what do we play?”

“Actually it’s a solo song.”

“All right,” he sighed, “let’s hear it then.”

They all watched her as she cleared her throat and take a few seconds to compose herself.

Don’t screw up now, girl. Please don’t screw up now.

“I haven’t got a name for it yet, but…”

And she played. Her fingers trembled at first, but by the end they were steady. They all told her that it was a good song. But what meant the most to Claire was that they started arguing about the set list again. But not for very long, and now it included her song.


She finished and let her hands slip off the guitar. No one had bothered her while she was playing. She was glad of that.

There was barely half an hour left. Claire strapped the guitar onto her back where it belonged and joined the small queue for the sushi stall.

She was next in line when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Dave was standing beside her, rubbing his hands together.

“Not long now, is it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Not really,” Claire lied. “The worst that can happen is that I don’t get paid and I get humiliated instead. I can live with that.”

“Speak for yourself,” laughed Dave.

The customer before them had been served. The Japanese chef asked what they wanted.

“I haven’t had sushi before, so I’ll have what you’re having,” Dave said.

Claire took a breath to ask for the Makizushi, then stopped. The words came back into her head, unexpected but not unwelcome. She started with an, “Err,” before giving her order to the chief in stunted Japanese.

He grinned at her and corrected part of her grammar. She laughed and repeated the correction to him.

“I didn’t know you could speak Japanese,” Dave said as the chef started to prepare their order.

“Just the basics. My name, age, stuff like that.”

The chef returned with their portions of Makizushi. Dave took out a €20 before Claire could find her money.

“I’ll pay for this.”

“What?” Her voice went higher with the rush of panic. “No, it’s fine, I’ll get my own.”

“Nah, let me.”

Claire watched with rising panic as Dave handed the chef the money and collected the change. She knew what was going to happen next.

She wasn’t disappointed. As they turned away from the stall Dave asked, “Would you like to go out for a drink after the gig is finished?”
“Aren’t we all going out anyway?”

“I meant just the two of us.”

Oh God no. Not now. I’ve just started getting better. I can’t even think about people without feeling wretched. Don’t do this to me.
She stammered. Dave waited with a patient, calm expression that just made her madder.

“No,” she snapped. “Just no. I can’t. We can’t. Look, let’s just concentrate on the gig. That’s the important thing now.”

He looked stunned and stricken. Claire didn’t mean to snap at him; it definitely was one of the last things he expected. She flushed red with shame embarrassment and muttered, “I’ve got to go practice,” before half-walking, half-running to the mansion.

She waited until she was sure she was out of sight before she tossed the sushi into a bin.


A few minutes later the band came back to the mansion to collect their instruments. By then Claire had managed to steady herself. Her eyes weren’t as red as before and with her eye shadow people wouldn’t have noticed. She’d changed her clothes from a t-shirt to a tank top and a woollen jumper.

Dave returned five minutes after everyone else. He carefully avoided her gaze, and she the same. She didn’t hate him. She actually quite liked him; that was the problem. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like she’d done to Aaron and Thomas.

After the show I’ll say sorry. He deserves that much at least.

They marched across the grass to the side of the Field stage. Claire felt like she was part of a very small army. Some people glanced up at them but she focused her gaze straight ahead.

It took them a second to get their instruments plugged in and Dave to shift around his drums to where he liked them, and then they were ready.

Sean spoke into to the microphone.

“Hello!”

The crowd gave a cheer.

“We’re called Fruits of the Forest-”

(Claire still winced at the name)

“-and we’re going to play a few tracks from our E.P. and maybe a few covers too.”

So they began. The crowd was small but receptive. They seemed to like the original stuff but appreciated the covers. Halfway through the gig, between songs Claire took off her jumper like she always did, to howls and cheers from some of the crowd.

There were a few more songs, and then the rest of the band put down their instruments. Sean gestured at Claire and she stepped up to the microphone.

I didn’t think that your legs were really meant to shake when you’re terrified.

“Hiya,” she said much too softly. She cleared her throat and spoke up. “This next song is by me, and it’s about absolution. When you make a mistake, or do something you shouldn’t have, the hardest thing to do – I find – is to forgive yourself for doing it. It’s about proving to yourself that you’re not a bad person after all, and that you can be kind, caring, brave, trustworthy and loving again. It’s just a state of self-forgiveness but it can be really hard sometimes.”

Her fingers positioned themselves. She could feel Dave staring at her, but she resisted the temptation to look over at him. One more deep breath and she would begin.

“This is called Litany.”


A few minutes later people cheered.

pickarooney

I didn't pick up and any clues as to what she was supposed to have done to Aaron and Thomas. Did I miss something or are we just meant to substitute our own ideas?
What's the significance of the woman who drew her portrait?
The play within the story sounds awful - pure exposition - but that would be consistent with plays performed in a tent to three men and a dog at a festival.

Not bad overall. It could do with a more clear demarcation of the time and location shifts and there are a couple of fixes needed in the grammar ("There were" for "there was").
Spell it "practise" for the verb.

How did Claire know the chef was Japanese without speaking to him?
A taxis is called a taxi everywhere AFAIK and if not every taxi driver would know the word and recognise when (s)he's being flagged down.

It seems a little presumptuous of her to ask for a song to be included in the setlist when nobody has even heard it. Maybe have her play it first?

They seemed to like the original stuff but appreciated the covers

There's a 'but' here without a contrast. I can't tell which they liked more from this sentence.