Doubtful Sound

Gazing at the cloud castle fantasy land through the tiny airplane window, I felt restless. I’d been confined too long: many hours crammed into tight quarters. Maybe I was crazy after all. My friends and co-workers certainly thought so, and they didn’t even know the real reason for my journey. I’d lied to them all and felt terrible for that, even though it had successfully protected me from concerns and criticisms that would surely have exacerbated my own small doubts.

It had not been easy to keep my secret when they protested about my leaving as vigorously as they did. Even Emily, my best friend, had not given her blessing, and that was a first.

We’d gone to dinner together a few days before I left town, and I was more than a bit shocked when she let me know what she thought of my plans.

“Look, I know you like to knit and spin,” she began earnestly, “but really, Sarah! Must you go so far? I mean, what have they got in New Zealand that you can’t get here?”

“New Zealand wool is some of the best in the world, and the country itself is really beautiful. I’ve always wanted to go there, and now I’ve finally got the time and the money to do it. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t, but there are other places you’ve always wanted to visit, too. All these years I’ve been hearing about your dreams of traveling to the British Isles, so why not Ireland, or Wales, or Scotland? They’ve got sheep and nice yarn there, too, and beautiful countryside, and it’s not so damn far away. And aren’t you afraid to travel overseas now, with the world situation in such a mess?”

I dismissed her concerns with a wave of my hand.

“I thought you didn’t like to fly,” she said at last, as if that would change everything.

It was very true that I didn’t like flying, and it took a lot of mental preparation on my part, to set foot on a plane and remain calm. In this case, though, my emotions were more powerful than my fears. I arranged my face in what I hoped was a nonchalant expression and gave a shrug. “That doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Well, if you say so.” She looked me sharply in the eye, and I knew I had failed to convince her. “New Zealand,” she muttered, shaking her head, “and how foolish, to squander an entire year’s vacation on a single trip!”

“It’s the trip of a lifetime for me. I can’t see traveling such a distance and only spending a week when it’s possible to spend four.”

“I suppose that makes sense, but—Sarah, I know you. You’ll do what you want, no matter what I say, but I’m telling you right now, for once and for all; I don’t like this.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, though I wasn’t. “Shall we order dessert?”

She huffed at me, exasperated. “All right, yes, we’ll order dessert, but—damn it, Sarah! You’re not acting like yourself at all…”

***

She was right, I hadn’t been acting like myself. How could I, when I was allowing only my intuition to lead me? Emily was a practical person, and following one’s intuition was a notion she rarely entertained. How could I tell her that one man’s words on a computer screen over a period of months had led me to undertake this journey? That I’d have gone to him when he asked, no matter where he lived? She would question my sanity more than she already questioned it, and might even take some drastic action to prevent me from leaving. “It’s for your own good,” she would say, in calm, soothing tones, whenever she came to visit me in the psych ward…

No. Nebulous as my intuitive feelings might be, I had to go. I had to meet him, see him face to face, and if I couldn’t explain it to myself, then I certainly couldn’t explain it to Emily.

Even now, I didn’t fully understand why I felt so driven. True, I had needed an escape badly, and would never have allowed myself to take it without some catalyst. Why could I not have found a catalyst who lived closer to home? The closer the plane drew to New Zealand, the more I waffled between feelings of elation at my daring and chagrin at my foolishness.

How would I even recognize him when the time came? He wrote to say he’d be wearing sunglasses, but surely other men would be wearing sunglasses, too.

I would have to rely on his ability to recognize me. I’d sent him pictures, but what if the timing was off? What if either of us was late getting to the airport, and we missed one another? Or worse still, what if this was all nothing but a cruel joke? He’d refused to send a picture of himself when I asked, and no matter how sincere his words seemed when he said he wanted to surprise me, there was something suspicious about that. What did he have to hide?

As the plane continued speeding its way through the sky, I tried not to conjure up images of a man three feet tall and four feet wide…or seven feet tall, wielding an axe…

‘Think of something else, Sarah,’ I advised myself, firmly, and my hunger obligingly stepped into the limelight. That carrot cake Emily and I had shared…if I thought about it hard enough, I could still taste it. The very idea made my mouth water—not that my appetite for it was likely to be satisfied on the airplane, where the food was predictably awful, and the portions stingy. Dessert—an eternity ago!—had been a brownie so rock-hard I feared for the safety of my teeth. Starved as I was at the time, I ate it anyway, dipping it into my cup of weak, watery coffee before each bite, to soften it.

Damn thing probably would have made an effective murder weapon, had I chosen to put it in a sock and whop someone over the head with it.

Tempting thought, that, especially with such fierce competition for the restrooms…

How many more hours before we landed in Australia, and I could board the plane to Dunedin?

I looked at my watch and nearly groaned aloud: at least another six hours until landing. I wrestled the cheap airline pillow into a semi-comfortable position and closed my eyes, feeling confident and elated once again.

He would be waiting for me at the end of my journey, and he would make all the discomfort and inconvenience worthwhile…

***

Had it really been just a few months since he’d stumbled on to the internet music discussion group I belonged to? And the others in the group, all members for ages, hadn’t bothered to answer his questions, because they knew that if he searched the group’s archives, he’d find all the answers he needed?

He’d resented being ignored and posted a grumpy message a few days later, which most of them laughed off. Not a very nice thing for such devoted fans to do, especially when their object of reverence was a man who had been the very soul of kindness and courtesy when he was alive. We all missed him terribly, grieved for that light extinguished too soon, and sometimes consoled one another.

Too often, though, people disagreed and sniped at one another, just as they had sniped at this new arrival. It was too easy to dismiss someone that way on the internet, because you didn’t ever have to see the hurt look on the other person’s face. It was just words on a screen, and sometimes you could laugh at them, even if the author was angry or upset, because something about the tone of the message struck you funny.

Usually, I paid scant attention to the squabbles. If people were discussing Ronan’s music and I felt I had a good point to make, I participated. Otherwise, I lurked on the fringes.

But something about this man’s reproachful missive to the list had really touched a nerve. I knew I wouldn’t like to be answered dismissively, and I also believed in my heart that Ronan himself would never have approved, had he been able to read that post and its thread of replies.

Not that Ronan O’Farrell would ever have spent much time on the internet, though it had been well established and running already by the time Ronan died. Ronan had lived an uncomplicated life, alternating between tours around the world and rest at home, and he had been as passionate about his privacy as he had been about his music. Had he lived, no doubt he would have shunned the internet as much as possible and continued to spend his free time doing what he loved best: playing guitar, reading, and taking long walks around his home on Inishmaan.

Inishmaan: another place I’d always wanted to see, and I’d probably be on my way there instead of New Zealand, if not for my new-found friend.

I’d responded kindly to that post with a private e-mail, and answered his questions. He’d wanted information on a new collection of Ronan O’Farrell’s music, soon to be released. I knew a great deal more about that collection than I dared to say, having heard a pre-release copy some months before, thanks to a friend of a friend of a friend. I had also received some unofficial copies of two songs from the collection over the internet, and studied them in great detail, listening over and over again to catch every nuance.

But all I felt I could say to “highflyinbird,” as he called himself, was: “Judging from what I’ve heard, I don’t think anyone will be disappointed in this CD.” And that, I thought, would be that.

A few hours later, I received a simple reply: “Thanks for your kindness, it’s appreciated and one day I hope to repay you for it.”

“Oh, please,” I wrote back on the instant, “It’s actually a pleasure to have some real news to share. Since Ronan died, there’s been so little to say, beyond how much everyone misses him.”

I really thought that would finish our correspondence, but I was wrong. He wrote again, and soon we were discussing Ronan’s body of work in minute detail. His ability to sense, and then describe Ronan’s musical subtleties rivaled mine, and made me see much of the material in a totally new light. My observations seemed to mean a great deal to him as well, and before long we were both saying, with great delight, that we had never before encountered another person who cared so much about Ronan’s music, and could discuss it in such depth, from so many different perspectives.

By then, I knew his name was Liam O’Malley. He lived in Manapouri, New Zealand, and “High Flyin’ Bird” was a favorite song, especially as covered by Gram Parsons.

That opened up a whole new musical subject beyond Ronan O’Farrell. Liam was almost as passionate about Gram’s music as he was about Ronan’s. I loved Gram, too, but had never heard “High Flyin’ Bird,” so Liam began to send me music files online, whenever we happened to find one another on the instant messenger.

“High Flyin’ Bird” made me weep, with its poignant words and vocals, especially the line I later noticed Liam had adopted for the signature line in his e-mails: ‘Well, she wanted to fly, but the only way to fly was to die.’ When I told Liam of the emotions it had wakened in me, he confessed, “Yes, it was like that for me, too. So beautiful and so painful. Really sticks the knife in and twists it, but what a way to go! Like the Silver Swanne, singing her most exquisite melody as she dies…”

“Yes,” I wrote back. “Oh, yes, just like that…”

He asked me what I did for work, but I didn’t want to talk about that. I’d grown disenchanted with my job, and resented the hours it compelled me to spend on the telephone, but my free time was another matter. In those hours, I did many things I enjoyed. Knitting and writing were but two of them.

Knitting didn’t seem to inspire him as a serious conversational topic, but at the mention of writing, he demanded, “Writing? Really? What sorts of things do you like to write? Stories? Poetry? Or—oh, please God, don’t tell me you’re a compulsive journal-keeper!”

“Well, I do keep a journal, but only to jot down ideas. Mainly, I like to write stories.”

That excited him.

“I write, too,” he responded, in thick blue letters, followed by many exclamation points. Then, in normal text, he continued. “It’s mostly poetry, and a few songs, but I’ve been trying my hand at longer pieces lately. I feel so good when I manage to get lost in a story! What I don’t know is if I’m really any good as an author. The stories just go into my desk drawer until I feel like I have enough distance from them. Trouble is, that hasn’t happened yet. The distance, I mean.” This last was followed by a grinning yellow smiley face, a symbol he used quite often.

His letters were like that, too: expressive and emphatic, sprinkled generously with emoticons, and sometimes I thought I could almost hear the inflection and rhythm of his speech, as if he were standing beside me. The only thing missing was its timbre. Was it a low voice? Rough? Smooth? Did it bear the stamp of a particular accent? In any case, I couldn’t wait to hear it in person…talking about himself, about us, about music…

***

C.P. Warner
© 22 April 2007

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