Ringing notes spilled from her hands as they plucked and strummed, tough calluses shifting across the fretboard to coax a lonely tune out of the ancient guitar. This one was a melody she knew like the grain of her mind but had yet to tire of. It reminded her of the steady rock of a crib and the strong arms of a mother, though the song itself could hardly be called comforting. But it was the song of her childhood and it had a certain heartbeat to it that no other music could claim. It was yearning distilled, and were she to dwell on it for too long she would find her lips salty and the old instrument wet with her tears.
Here she sat for many hours, only she and her guitar, on the packed dirt of a small cleared circle in the trees. She paused in her playing only once, to answer the plight of a fellow musician. For a time, a little mockingbird had alighted on a branch above her and added its harmony to the composition, then seemed to grow bored and flap away again. Upon its return, a large green-eyed cat had hissed and batted at it playfully, scaring the poor creature, which tried desperately to escape but was snared on one of the cat’s cruel claws. Out of options, it played dead, but the cat was not deterred. It was ready to have itself a midmorning snack when Mary-Ana reluctantly put down her guitar and caught it by the scruff of its neck, plucking the bird from its claws. The startled mockingbird squawked in bewilderment and disappeared into the trees, never again to stray too close to the ground. Once she dropped the bemused feline, it stalked haughtily around her as if to say it was no matter to him that she had foiled his plans, that he was far superior to her anyway and there was really nothing she could do about that. But as she resumed her playing, the cat sidled closer and curled itself no nearer than a foot away from her, content to listen to the sad lullaby.
When she had had quite enough, or rather realized she could indulge herself no longer, Mary-Ana rose and dusted off her faded blue skirt. It was made for a taller woman, and she had to wear it rolled up at the waist so the hem would stop just far enough above her ankles to avoid tripping. But it was her favorite skirt, and she had always felt it paired well with the wistful lullaby. She took up her guitar and made for the tavern. The cat followed at her heels, apparently still entranced.
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He often found himself in a trance of painful boredom in this land of rolling hills and stifling nothing on all sides. He wasn’t used to it; this place didn’t make sense to him. The people here had far too little to entertain themselves with, and they had no idea what they were missing in the world outside their little one-stoplight town. So behind the times they were that their singular stoplight had only been installed five years ago, and horses were more commonly used than cars. And there was generally too much space. His cousin’s house was a monstrosity, a great white mansion with a wide wraparound porch on hundreds of acres of land. There was a guest house, a pool, a poolhouse, stables. Of course, Liam was no stranger to luxury, but this kind of expansiveness was altogether foreign to him. And then, off the property, there were two more like it just outside the village, but on opposite sides to his family’s, and then there was nothing but forest and hills, rising, cresting, falling until they faded into blue horizon. It made him feel small, but in a different way than the city did. In the city, you felt like an insignificant speck in a sea of humanity and culture, and to Liam it was a comforting and even lively feeling, one he had grown up with. But out here… out here, not only were you insignificant, but your entire species paled in comparison to this silent, still force of nature. Just the image of the little town barely making a mark on the landscape proved this idea to him. It was unsettling to feel so small, so weak. He wished to forget the thought as soon as possible, banish it to the bottom of a bottle. He got up and convinced his cousin to come with him to the tavern in town, assuring him there would be women aplenty for them both.
Walking through town, when they were nearly at the tavern, movement caught Liam’s eye coming from the wood’s edge. It was the red headed bartender, whose face was angular and sharp and whose brown eyes seemed always to be pitted against the world. She carried with her an old relic of a guitar, and in her wake a cat followed. Her long blue skirt brushed around her ankles in the breeze and pressed against the slim shape of her legs. Never before had Liam been so fascinated by a simple skirt. It seemed to hail from the color the hills faded to when they met the horizon. The woman looked around, and for a moment, met his eyes. She stopped, and the cat stopped, and when she turned around to look at the creature, it gazed up at her for a long moment before a white hawk dove down from on high and snatched it up, carrying it back into the woods.
