LAST EDITED ON 08-10-03 AT 06:46 PM (EST)

For the next few days, Raymond would go into the city market and spend time ambulating through the tents, booths and inns. He told himself he was there because his friends liked the excitement of the bustling crowd and the boisterous bartering of the people who bought and sold there. In truth, however, he came alive only when he spotted red hair while looking over the heads of the people who crowded the streets. He would see a splash of red under a scarf, and causally make his way to where the woman stood. Nonchalantly he would inquire about whatever it was she was purchasing, only to be disappointed when the eyes that indulgently looked up at him were not the eyes of the girl on the road. His friends were entertained by his single-minded quest, often looking for her themselves. But when four days passed with no sign of her they began to doubt that she ever existed. They quietly decided that Ray had invented her in one of his writing jags.

In time, Ray also began to believe that he had dreamed the redhead on the road. He stopped looking for her, opting instead to use her image in the endless stories and poems that were quickly filling his notebook. He had taken to sitting under a large tree within the large gathering place in the center of the market, watching the people file by him. Stories of girls flirting with the soldiers began to fill the pages, as well as some of the more colorful dialogs between venders and market goers. But even within those stories, a girl with a freckled face and red braid somehow would appear within the prose.

He knew his mother would appreciate those stories; she had always loved it when he had described his days at school, or his exploits during naval training. She loved the way his words made his life come alive for her. She had told him before he left home to write of his life at sea. His father on the other hand, had grunted that he should spend less time writing about the sea, and more on finding his way to a command. “Andrews don’t write about naval life,” he would emphasize, “they live it.” The sea was in their blood, as was glory and honor. Ray’s brow furrowed as he remembered thinking that his father, and all those other famous Andrews lacked imagination. What made glory and bounty so enticing were the stories that came from the adventure. History came alive under the storyteller. Without them, the wonder of the adventure would be lost.

The only Andrews he truly admired were the two who had started the family traditions. Helios Andrew’s had been a fearless Captain, often bucking traditional tactics and behaving more like a pirate then a military man, his exploits and bounties were known well beyond the coasts of the United States. He had loved the sea, the adventure, the discovery. And, Raymond often thought to himself, he had the tenacity to have fallen in love with Emerald. She had been an adventurer in her own right, pressing against the boundaries of social convention, and was largely responsible for keeping the history of Helios alive. She had told the stories of his battles, shipwrecks, and bounties to their grandchildren so often that they had been passed down and ingrained in the minds and imaginations of their many descendants. Each generation added its own successes to the family story with fervent pride. Ray often looked at the portrait of Emerald in the family home, and could feel that it was her spirit coursing through his veins. His father of course, only acknowledged the Captain’s importance. As a result, the Admiral looked at Ray’s writing as a flaw in his character.

He was thinking about those endless fights over his writing with a frown as he sat against a large tree in the market’s center. As he looked down at his notebook, he noticed that descriptions of the hedgerows that filled the streets of the town with their fragrance were gone; replaced with the words he longed to tell his father but couldn’t. He turned the page quickly to a clean one, closed his eyes for a moment and just listened to the crowd milling around him.

“Why can’t I wear a red underskirt, Eveleen? ’Tis my first dance, and I would like to be noticed.”

“Because Muriel, the point is to make the lads notice you, not the dress.”

“Ha! Like you would know anything about such things. You don’t even give them a second look!”

“Aye, but they give them to me, now don't they?”

Smiling, he opened one eye, casually looking to see who had made the last comment. The smaller girl looked to be about thirteen, with a mane of red curls that exploded out of the back of her scarf. She was pink cheeked and had her lips pursed at the older girl, who stood with arms crossed and chin set in an expression that he instantly recognized as determination to maintain the upper hand. His mother often held that same expression with his sisters back home. His couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched the sisters, and the silent war of wills playing out between their eyes.

Those eyes! He sat bolt upright. Suddenly he knew that chin, recognized that stance. She had not been a dream after all. He laughed as he realized that his friends were not with him, and likely wouldn’t believe he had found her. Once again, he was alone with no proof that she was real. Then he realized he did have something new to add, and quickly wrote “Eveleen” in his notebook.

“And what pray tell, is so funny?” The younger girl asked him with a huff.

“Oh! Not you ... It’s ... well ... I‘m ...” Ray was at a loss for words. Silently, he wondered to himself if all Irish women were as unnervingly brassy as these two seemed to be.

“Articulate as ever, I see,” laughed the older girl.

Muriel looked at her sister in astonishment. “The egg cracker?”

“Aye. but he is safe when he’s sitting.” She quickly added with a grin, “I think.”

“Oh come now,” he said with irritation as he stood up. “I said I was sorry.” There was something about Eveleen that seemed to get to him, making him feel as if he was struggling to keep afloat. He had felt it from the beginning on the road, and watching those intriguing eyes darken with sly mischief, he realized that he had a better ally with Muriel. “Your hard-headed sister wouldn’t take the money I offered her.”

Muriel couldn’t help but notice the way her sister was looking at the tall American and although she was only thirteen, caught not only her sister’s interest, but the man’s failure to see it. As young as she was, however, she had no idea what to do to help him so she decided to change the subject.

“What’s that you’re writin’ then, that made you laugh so?”

Ray didn’t know what to do. He was used to his shipmates asking about the things he wrote, but was never comfortable telling strangers what filled the pages. But the little girl had the same eyes as her sister, and when they looked up at him with such innocent interest, he couldn't refuse her.

“I write about the things I see, and the people I meet,” he said simply.

“Like a reporter?”

“No,” he laughed. “Reporters don’t write. They drone ... with flourish.”

Muriel laughed, and surprised him by grabbing the book from his hands. Plonking herself down under the great tree, she leafed through the pages. Raymond suddenly went pale. Many of the poems he had written revolved around her sister. As she read, her smirk showed him that she had found those entries.

Blushing, he squatted down in front of her and put his hand out.

“Do you have a pencil?” she asked, ignoring the outstretched hand.

Taken aback, he didn’t know what to do. He could feel the older girl standing above him, most likely to help him get his notebook back, and he didn’t want her to know what he had written. Caught between them, he simply gave up and handed Muriel one of his pencils. To his surprise, a beautiful drawing of a mossgrove hedge emerged under the poem written in his haphazard hand, with a vendor’s tent of woolen shawls beside it. The detail was amazing, and he stared at Muriel with an appreciation that only fellow artists feel toward each other. Muriel smiled past him, at the soft expression on her sister’s face.

“You’re wonderful!” he said in awe as he took the book from her hands to get a better look at the drawing. “You captured that scene so well, I can almost feel the warmth of the wool.”

“Aye, no one captures the beauty of this place like Muriel,” Eveleen acknowledged with pride. “This land is alive, and only a few seem to bring that out.”

“Well he can!” Muriel said as she stood up. “His words paint pictures. I only drew what he wrote.”

She moved closer to him, to see for herself. He blushed, both out of embarrassment and her close proximity. Trying to ignore the scent of her hair, and her warmth next to him, he went to close the book quickly, but the younger girl stopped him, shaking her head. The twinkle from the eyes so like her sisters was without guile, and he trusted it. He gave in and handed the little notebook over to Eveleen. Both girls ignored the involuntary close of his eyes, as if he was being led to the gallows.

She scanned the prose and smiled. She turned the page, and read more. Her eyes widened, and her pink cheeks grew two shades darker. Blushing more as she read on, she finally looked up into his green starburst eyes so clouded with worry and embarrassment. They held the gaze for a long time, seeing for the first time, not a girl with a bold and often stinging wit and a sailor who seemed somehow uncomfortable in his own skin, but the man and the young woman who had been looking for each other for the past few days. In that gaze, they saw the truth. The smile as his eyes lost their worry seemed to warm her right down to her toes.

Muriel broke the spell as she let out a whoop. “Eveleen, look! The musicians came today!”

“The bog men must have brought in the turf loads,” she explained to Raymond. “’Tis always a party when they do that. They fill up on ale, and play until they drop.”

Sure enough, barrels of ale were brought out to an open area across from where the three stood. Little chairs were brought out for the musicians, and people seemed to be fighting over who could fill the players’ tankers the quickest. Laughter filled the air, as the sound of instruments being tuned mingled with lighthearted flirting and rambunctious off color jokes. The group of men in their plain work clothes and ruddy complexions filled the already noisy square with music that seemed to enhance the joy of life, and Raymond found himself wanting to stay with the people who understood the importance of that life.

Irish music is different from any other. Whether instrumental or vocal, it is filled with the sounds, feelings and wonders of nature. Fiddles and drums combine with flute to create the sound of the sea, the quite currents of a river, loud claps of thunder, even the rain itself. The singer adds words to the sounds, often paying homage to the land that gives everything from life and plenty to pain and hunger. The musicians play from the mood they feel at the moment, and all Irishmen seem to be able to feel it with them.

Raymond, used to the classical music found in New York parlors watched with fascination as the people around him began to dance jigs or sing along. He was going to sit and write what he saw, when he felt himself being pulled into the crowd. Muriel danced in front of him, skirts swirling around her legs, her curls bouncing across her shoulders, as she attempted to get him to feel the music with her. He tried to copy her movements, but found himself feeling quite silly and clumsy. The little girl finally gave up and danced away with some of the other children her age. Raymond stood in the crowd, wishing he could just get back to his tree and his notebook.

The music changed and slowed down. People still danced, but with less abandon then the earlier song. Raymond found he could move easier, and made his way to the edge of the crowd. He was almost free when Eveleen stepped in front of him.

“And where do ya think you’re goin?” she asked with a grin.

“Oh Eveie,” he begged, “I just can’t dance like this.”

“Everyone can jig, Ray,” she said simply, silently pleased at the nickname. “You only have to let go of yourself to do it.”

He looked at her again. She was so calm, and quiet. It surprised him that this was the same girl on the road who had been so sharp tongued. He allowed her to lead him to the edge of the crowd, near a tree. He grinned as she lifted her skirts up, to show her small leather clad feet.

“Do ya never have your mind on what you’re doin?” she said with a blush and a laugh. “The steps are quite easy, it’s just the mood of the music that makes it look difficult.”

She showed him the steps slowly, hopping from one foot to the other, and making him do the same thing. He began to get the hang of it, although his mind often wandered to the way her braid swung when she hopped, and the movement of her blouse when she lifted her arms. He was feeling quite pleased with himself by the time the music stopped.

When it took up again, the singers sang of life on the mountains tending sheep, and the joys of God’s grace on the land. The music swelled and sped up, but as he danced with Eveleen, he felt himself keeping pace with her and the music, comfortably allowing himself to feel the beat and the melody. They hopped together, even managing to maneuver a turn or two, and when she pulled out a small scarf from her pocket and flung out one end, he gladly grabbed it up. Dancing together with the scarf between them, he found himself changing the tensions to bring her closer to him. She would dance closer smiling, and turn out from him with a giggle as he had to release the tension to keep the scarf from being pulled out of his hands. He never noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. He only saw the girl before him, and felt the freedom of release brought on by forgetting himself and just feeling the music. Muriel stood on the edge of a fountain with her friends and watched her sister dancing with a smile.

“Is that Eve?” one boy asked. “I have never seen her look like that when she dances.”

“Aye, Kyle,” Muriel giggled. “’Tis because she never had the right partner before.”

“He’s got no grace,” came the jealous response of a brown haired girl with a pinched expression. “He dances like a pirate.”

“Aye, Fee, and don’t ya wish there were more pirates in this world?” Muriel said with a grin.