The Man in the Moss by Phil Rickman

bleached
fragments of skull, all over three walls, from just above head-height to within
a couple of feet of the lavishly moulded ceiling.
                'And I guess you aren't the nervous kind, anyway,' he
said. 'So ...'
      Wherever you sat, the remains of three or four
dozen butchered stags were always in view. On the central wooden dais, where
she'd sit to sing, she'd probably feel herself constricted by some grisly
necklace of bone.
                Gross.
                'I
was just wondering,' s he said at last, 'when it must have been clear he
wasn't going to go away, 'why people should be proud of being a Celt. Killing
things for fun and showing off about it.'
                A good work popped up in the American's head, like
somebody had flashed him a prompt-card.
            'Pantheistic,' he said. 'The
old Celts were highly pantheistic. So I'm told.'
                'That means they had   respect for animals,' she said
scornfully. She had a soft Scottish voice but not too much of an accent. 'A bit
like your Red Indians.'
                'Native Americans.' He smiled. 'To be politically and
ethnically correct.' The smile was supposed to say, I may be devilishly
attractive, with my untamed curly black hair, this cool white tuxedo, thistle
in the buttonhole. But you can trust me. I'm a sincere guy. 'Can I get you
another drink?'
                'No,' she said. 'No, thank you.'
            'I ... ah ...' He hesitated.
'I have a couple of your albums.'
                'Oh?' She didn't seem too interested. 'Which ones?'
                'Well, uh, my favourite, I guess, is still the one you
did with The Philosopher's Stone. That'd be quite some years ago.'
                'Oh.' She glanced away, as if looking for someplace else
to put herself.
                'Uh, I also have your first solo album,' he said quickly.
'How I recognized you. From the sleeve. You haven't changed.'
            'Oh, I've changed, believe me.
Look, I ...'
            'You never did cut your hair,
though,' he said, urbanely displaying his knowledge of the album's prime cut.
            'What?'
                '"Never let them cut your hair,'" he quoted,
'"or tell you where ..." Listen, I ... I just wanted to say it's real
good to meet you ... Moira. No one said you'd be here. Makes me glad I came
after all.'
                She said, 'I'm a last-minute replacement. For Rory
McBain. He's sick. We have the same agent.'
                A flunkey needed to come past with a tray of drinks, and
he took the opportunity to manoeuvre her into a corner, unfortunately under two
pairs of huge yellowing antlers. He said, 'Listen, that album - with the Stone
- it had some magic.'
            'He has bronchitis,' Moira
said.
            'Huh?'
                'Rory McBain.'
                He smiled. 'See, when I hear you sing, it always sounds
to me like...'
                'That album,' she said with an air of finality, 'was a
mistake. I was too young, too stupid, and I never should have left Matt
Castle's band.'
            'Huh?'
                She shook her head, wide-eyed, like she was waking up.
                'Matt Castle?' He had his elbow resting on a wooden ledge
below another damned antlered skull.
                'He was ... He was just the guy who taught me about
traditional music when I was a wee girl. Look, I don't know why I said that, I
...'
                Her poise wavered. She looked suddenly confused and
vulnerable. Something inside of him melted with pure longing while something
else - something less admirable but more instinctive - tensed like a big cat
ready to spring. The album cover hadn't lied. Even after all these years, she
was sensational.
                'Traditional