CEDAR

The Cedar Cutter 13
did, they were happy enough when they divided the profits; better
than slaving for the bleeding government.
‘Give us a tune, Slinger.’
‘Where’s your fiddle?’
‘Something from the old country. A taste of home.’
And so it all began again, the simple pattern of the last night
free of the forest. Slinger caressed the old fiddle as a man would a
woman. Perhaps it reminded him of someone he loved. Carrick
had never asked. They’d cut together for years, from the days
when they both wore the irons, and never asked questions. Rarely
did a man tell of what went before. That was the realm of dreams,
the land of what if and one day. So long as there was something
to return to.
Slinger cut to a jig, fast, furious and snappy, making the men’s
feet stamp and the floor reverberate. Carrick rested his back against
the warm chimneybreast, his ears ringing with the raucous shouts
of encouragement. The increasing beat of the music soared and
filled the four walls of the inn.
If he ducked his head just so, he could see Roisin. A good Irish
name, as Maisie said. Her foot tapped in time to the music, her
face now flushed with the warmth and a decent dollop of Maisie’s
stew. She wiped a trace of gravy from the lad’s face with her finger
and gave him a loving smile. They’d be off before long, tucked up
for the night, though they’d need plugs for their ears if the cutters’
shouting and carrying on took its usual path. Why was she travelling
alone? There’d have to be a man waiting somewhere, a man
with Irish blood if the child’s looks were anything to go by. Not
all of that came from his mam. His eyes were as wide and green
as hers, but his skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the light of
day, never run under a summer sky. A washed-out imitation of his
mother, and thin. The boy had no meat on his long, ribbon-like
bones. He had the look of the Irish immigrants running from the