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  Miranda’s smirk didn’t subside as she watched him take a few things. He could feel her eyes on him, and the only thing that bothered him was that he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he was pretty sure she was amused at least. “Well, it’s not five grand, but I’ll be good on supplies for a bit.”

  “Right,” she led the way out of the shop.

  “My bike’s just here,” Max said. “I have to get to the farm, meeting the band there later.” He walked past her, immediately regretting it, feeling rude. He turned back towards her after walking into the alley, and she bumped into him. “I’m a prat,” he told her.

  Miranda didn’t step back much, but settled against him and looked him in the eye, that expression of mild amusement still on her face. “Just bad timing,” she said.

  “We could start over, yeah?” Max asked, trying desperately to be calm and cool as her nose was two inches from his.

  “No,” she whispered. “I heard everything, won’t pretend I didn’t. I think this is the side I was meant to see of you first. You notice I’m not shying away?” Her smile stretched into something a little more interesting, as though she’d just given him a dare, or taken and fulfilled one herself. She glanced over his shoulder after holding his eye for a long moment. “That yours?”

  “My favorite thing in this world,” Max replied as smoothly as he could, but his quiet response was gravelly, not gentle.

  “Give me a lift to the farm?” she asked.

  There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to ride back to the farm with Miranda on his bike behind him, but there was one detail he couldn’t forget. He raised the guitar case a little. “Don’t know if I have room.”

  “Me, or that guitar?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Wait, I have straps, if you’ll wear ‘em,” he said.

  “Straps?”

  Max stepped back and pulled the homemade straps and loops he used to ride with a guitar on his back off the seat and wrapped them around the guitar case.

  “Yeah, I’ll wear that,” Miranda said, walking down the alley to his bike and zipping her black leather jacket closed. She turned around and let him put the arm loops around her, then tied them tighter. “Not bad,” she said. “Now kick that thing so we can get down the road.”

  “As my Lady wishes,” he said, straddling his bike and giving it a hard kick-start. It turned over and roared right away, not something that happened every time.

  Miranda climbed on behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist. “My life’s in your hands, Max” she whispered against his good ear.

  He revved down the alley and onto the street, breaking out between two cars and roaring towards Elm Street.

  II

  Even though Maxwell’s motorcycle rushed through the air down the highway, he could still smell her: sweet vanilla and rose. He’d taken women for rides before, but she fit. Her feet landed where they were supposed to, her hands were around his waist, but holding, not gripping or locked tight.

  When they took a turn, they leaned together, and when they were on a long straight stretch, she wasn’t afraid to rest against his back. He paid close attention to the road, taking no risks, giving her no reason to doubt her trust in him as a passenger. The highway to Azilda was far from perfect, and he made sure that they didn’t hit anything that would interrupt their smooth ride.

  The girl he knew was fading away, and the reality of the woman Miranda had become was replacing it. He didn’t know this lady he’d met, but she still felt so familiar that it was mind-boggling. He felt as though they had found a completely different place to exist separate from the rest of the world, a space that was easy and comfortable. Maxwell had never experienced anything like it, but he still reminded himself of one simple fact – they had just met.

  The barren stone landscape started to become green again; they had passed through town and made it to Azilda. Forty minutes of their ride had passed, and it felt like fleeting moments. The last stretch of highway passed even faster, then they turned onto a dirt road. In minutes they were rolling on a two lane, kicking up dust behind them, surrounded by tall, green trees. The rising heat and humidity of the early afternoon made the air smell rich, alive.

  Maxwell liked thinking he was a creature made for the city, but when he returned to the Webb Farm it really was home. The woods made him feel like he was surrounded by life. The smell of the damp soil, the underbrush, and thick trees were a warm embrace he’d learned to miss.

  They took the last turn onto a well-tarred dirt road and he slowed down. There were a few twists that could make trouble for them. She moved with him as they made the turns and then they came to the top of a hill. Miranda gave his waist a squeeze and he throttled up in response, sending them down the hill at an alarming speed. She laughed against his good ear as they went down, the slightly smaller hill ahead rising up, blocking the sun.

  They made it up the other side, mostly on the speed they’d accumulated on the way down, and then they could see the farm. Cars lined the road leading to the large grassy green opening and there were at least two dozen tents on the empty field around the main farmhouse. The main house was a large, expanded building with nine bedrooms and at least five other rooms people could sleep in. If that was so full that people needed tents, then there was more to the Gathering than he expected, much more.

  A few people picking things from the trunks of their cars turned to see him and Miranda ride by, and they greeted them with smiles. An old Wrought iron gate, large enough for two lanes, marked the boundary of fenced in land. He rode towards the barn, where there were at least a dozen people he didn’t recognize moving in and out of the building.

  That barn hadn’t been used for livestock for decades, but they did keep feed and a workshop there. When Bernie and he were teens their dads spent a weekend building them a modest stage with enough space for a band of five or six at the back. It was years before Max saw the wisdom in that. They knew there would be partying as the two boys approached twenty, and giving them a good place to do it close to home kept them within reach, and it worked. The other barn was further down the road that was for livestock and farm business. Past that, down a well-travelled gravel road there were cabins and the lake, a major source of income for the Webb farm. The cabins were normally booked for most of the year, even through winter. Scott couldn’t help but prattle on about how the band had been given the big cabin for the week, a four bedroom rental that dwarfed the rest of the quaint one and two room log structures.

  “Stop here,” Miranda said into his ear.

  He could see what she may have objected to, a pair of women who were all smiles, breaking from the group headed into the barn with trays and pitchers. One was short, a plump older woman, and the other was taller and thin. They both had the same dark hair as Miranda except for an invasion of a little grey. The shorter one with the bigger smile caught them with her Polaroid camera, practically tittering at the act. She pulled the instant photo off the front of the camera and waved it in the air.

  Miranda gave him a final squeeze. “See you later,” she whispered before dismounting and pulling the straps off her shoulders so he could get his guitar.

  He accepted the guitar and said; “Take it easy,” immediately wishing he’d chosen any other words. The private space that separated them from the rest of the world was gone. As he watched her walk towards the two older women who were only a few feet away, admiring her shape through tight fitting jeans, he realized he wanted it back more than anything.

  “You don’t have to gloat every time you’re right,” Miranda said as she walked past the pair of women. The taller one rolled her eyes and followed her, speaking in Italian.

  Maxwell knew he had been caught admiring Miranda’s retreat towards the main house, as evidenced by the shorter woman grinning at him through momentarily narrowed eyes. He smiled back at her a little and tended to his bike, doing some fine adjustments before he let it down on it’s kickstand so it wouldn’t t
opple over onto the gravel. She approached, admiring the image forming in her photograph. “I knew you two would match,” she said. “Look at that.”

  He glanced at the photo and returned his attention to setting his kickstand down on more stable gravel. “Think she just hit me up for a ride, if I’m honest,” he said.

  “Look,” she said, putting the photo in front of him.

  The pair of them matched, both in dark leather and denim, and it didn’t look like Miranda was simply wrapped around him, it looked like they were riding his shining motorcycle together, sharing one space. Their expressions were passive, relaxed as they stared back at him through the photo.

  “Yours,” she said, putting it into his pocket. She had an Italian accent that was unmistakable, and a manner that made it impossible to refuse her insistence. “You don’t recognize me, but then, we only met once when you were thirteen or fourteen.”

  Maxwell took another look and recalled immediately. She’d visited the house within weeks of his father’s death. “You were here to talk to Allen.” He said, remembering the late night, when Bernie and he came in from the barn to find her and his father at the kitchen table, talking soberly. They thought little of it at the time, but he didn’t see Miranda after that.

  “I took Miranda in after her mother passed,” she said. “We returned to the old country, that’s Italy, we’re Sicilian. After a few years there we moved to Spain to meet her father, then New York. Two years there was enough, too fast, too busy, and Miranda had enough time to know our people there, so it was time to come here, at her mother’s house in Chelmsford. Back just in time for the Gathering.”

  Maxwell looked to the barn, where people from the tents were beginning to congregate for lunch. Many of them were dressed in the loose dresses and bellbottoms of the sixties, and they were all ages. He faintly recognized a few from the year his father and he made the journey to Canada from England. As he returned his attention to Miranda’s Aunt, he thought he saw his father out of the corner of his eye, standing in one of those half button-up collared T-Shirts he wore all the time and his dark framed glasses, puffing his pipe by the main barn door. He looked back immediately and saw nothing but bare barn door. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

  “Gladys,” she told him. “And my sister there is called Susan. I understand, it was a long time ago, and you weren’t interested in some woman visiting. You’ll have to get used to me now though,” she said with a wink.

  It had been a long time since Maxwell felt he was in a situation where he felt he had little to no idea as to what’s going on. When he caught sight of Bernie’s father, who was only a slightly thicker, greyer version of his tall son, he was relieved. Allen waved him towards the large gazebo off to one side of the barn, and Max got off his bike. “Looks like someone wants an update on his son,” he said.

  “And a few other things,” Gladys said, falling in step beside him. “Miranda missed you, you know. She never forgot you, sent letters to Bernie a few times. I was always surprised that she never sent one to you.”

  “Bernie never said he got letters from her,” Max said, allowing the stout woman to loop her arm through his.

  “She was a shy girl until a few years ago. I suppose I can’t call our Miranda a girl anymore,” she chuckled to herself. “New York will show anyone their shouting voice, except for our Miranda. She found her singing voice there, but I think she wants to see what is here for her, for now. New York can be tiring for people who are bred for the country.”

  “I’ve never seen traffic like I’ve seen in New York,” Max said. “Wish I’d known she was there, I’d have dropped in.”

  “You would have been able to see one of her shows,” Gladys said.

  “Think she’d sing after things are set in the barn? I hear there’s some band playing, locals I think.”

  “Your band,” Gladys said, poking him. “You’re funny, I didn’t expect funny. If you don’t play that disco music, then she would, I’m sure. She should, I’ll tell her later.”

  “Good bands don’t play disco,” Max said.

  They arrived at the Gazebo and Max’s stomach rumbled at a tray of sandwiches in the middle of the table. He shook Allen’s hand; it felt calloused from fingertip to wrist. “Your son’s coming in a couple hours. He had to mind Zack and Darren into the wee hours last night.”

  “And you didn’t?” Allen asked, amused.

  “I’ve got a remarkable constitution,” Max replied. “Mind if I?” he asked, pointing at the neat stacks of sandwiches on the table. For the first time he noticed a wrinkled old man sitting at the back of the gazebo in shadow. He smiled and coughed once when he looked up at Max. The ancient’s blue eyes looked as young as a child’s.

  “Go ahead. How was the last leg of the tour?”

  “Sold the rest of our records,” Max said before chomping into what turned out to be a cucumber and mozzarella sandwich. He hazarded picking another quarter sandwich from the other end of the tray up and finished chewing. “Zack’s an-“ he consciously changed his mind about how he was about to finish his sentence. “He’s been difficult. Wants to be the next big disco star or something, Darren’s leaving, the Grand will be the last gig he plays rhythm guitar for us. His girlfriend is expecting, waited five months to tell him, so she’s popping in a couple of weeks.” Max decided to stop there; he could feel the frustration that his long ride to Sudbury and the subsequent ride with Miranda had relieved coming back.

  The ancient fellow in the corner found that particularly funny, laughing so hard that his cane rolled off his knee and clattered to the floor. Max didn’t hesitate for an instant, but retrieved it and offered his hand. “I’m called Maxwell, Max to friends.”

  “Samuel Hamilton, you met me a long time ago, when you and your father came for your first Gathering here. You call me Sam, and it’s not his child,” he said, his voice thin and wheezy. “Don’t tell him that though, or she’ll end up alone, and she’s a good girl, except for the one time. Darren’s chosen a woman who does not do well alone, he should stay close, and they’ll be happy, especially if you don’t tell him her secret.”

  Max was frozen in place for a moment, then straightened and took a bite of his sandwich. He chewed slowly. This was one of those meetings. He’d overheard dozens of them, been shooed out of the room and told to go play, as many times when he was younger. This was the kind of talk that dealt with portents and old magic, the kind of thing his father wasted his life on. This time he was the subject of the meeting, they were waiting for him, and he would not get away without ruffling more feathers than he could afford to.

  From the groups of people outside and how many he recognized, he came to one conclusion. This was a gathering of people who believed in witchy ways. There was a High Summer Festival every August on the Webb farm, and there were people who stood in circles, praising whatever pagan deities they chose to around midnight at every one. None of them had the attendance he was seeing, and few of them had a name – The Gathering. The last one he remembered attending that seemed half as large happened the year his father brought him to Canada.

  There was some special significance to the year, or the month, or the day, that he missed because he didn’t believe, and he tried to ignore all things occult. The true consequences of that special time was this – a rare call to the Webb farm for the week, he would be neck-deep in spiritualism, and this gazebo meeting in the growing humidity of the late morning was where it would start for him. He inwardly admonished himself for not paying more attention; he could have avoided it all together. But then, he might not have run into Miranda.

  Something so good happened to his father during their visit during the last large festival that he decided to move in to the farmhouse and become a Canadian citizen, dragging Max through the whole process. He objected as a child of seven would back then, but since then he’d learned to love his father’s decision. He’d never had friends like he did in Canada, or felt as free
as he did in its wilderness.

  So, the act of walking out of that gazebo, of quietly avoiding all things mystic could come with serious repercussions. He would be alone, everyone else there was most likely a believer, and Miranda was among them. He would at least have to listen to what they had to say. They were staring at him, the quarter sandwich he’d taken – this one was salami and some yellow cheese – had been chewed to unrecognizable pulp as he put off what was about to happen next. He swallowed. “I’ll be sure to keep Darla’s details under my hat when I see Rick,” Max said quietly.

  “Her name’s Pamela,” the old man croaked.

  “Bloody hell,” Max said. “You got that from Allen.”

  “You slept with her sister, Franca when you were in Barrie, kept it from everyone. She’s doing well, by the way, got into University of Toronto,” Samuel said, shrugging. “She’s not pregnant, even though the thing broke.”

  “The condom,” Allen said, catching a wide-eyed look from Miranda’s aunt.

  Her gaze switched to him as Maxwell sat down in an old wooden chair. “So I’m believing for a second while I figure out how you know that, my good ear is wide open to whatever you’re sellin’,” Max said.

  “What happened there?” Allen asked.

  “That piece sacrificed itself so the rest of me could go on,” Max said, fixing Allen with a withering look. “On with the show, what’s the spooky thing you’ve brought me here to talk about?”

  “You’re on the verge of making a mistake, Max,” Samuel said. “In a few days-“ he was interrupted by a rattling cough.

  “It’s all right, Sam, I’ll tell him,” Allen said. “Max, what would you give to be as famous as Jimi Hendrix, or Jim Morrison? To be recognized for your style of music and your talent?”

  “I’ve given plenty already,” Max said. “You should know, your son and your nephew have been along for the ride.” He was already irritated that his music was being brought into the conversation. “If this is about me playing in the devil’s interval, then I promise to write something more cheerful for the next record. If there is a next record.”