Time with the Timeless

It was second summer in Ireland. 
Or that’s how I have come to think of it. A time which occurs in September, when as a child I would face the in-enviable chore of returning to school after the long summer holiday break. Those olden days of waking up, going out to play, returning for food, then out again until the evening arrived and my mother would call me in, would come to a saddening end. Late August was a time of trying on the school uniform to see how much the summer had grown me out of it, gathering up all of the copies and pens I could find and then an evening of wrapping the second hand books in wallpaper so they would stay good for my younger sibling or resale. 
I always remember the first few weeks of September as a time of sunshine and long wistful sighs as I gazed out the classroom window. Second Summer. The days haven’t gone dark and cold yet. There are still leaves upon the trees even though their Autumn colours are beginning to show. All across the nation the youth are engaged in education and now parents get time to just chill and relax right?

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It was second summer in Ireland. 

Or that’s how I have come to think of it. A time which occurs in September, when as a child I would face the in-enviable chore of returning to school after the long summer holiday break. Those olden days of waking up, going out to play, returning for food, then out again until the evening arrived and my mother would call me in, would come to a saddening end. Late August was a time of trying on the school uniform to see how much the summer had grown me out of it, gathering up all of the copies and pens I could find and then an evening of wrapping the second hand books in wallpaper so they would stay good for my younger sibling or resale. 
I always remember the first few weeks of September as a time of sunshine and long wistful sighs as I gazed out the classroom window. Second Summer. The days haven’t gone dark and cold yet. There are still leaves upon the trees even though their Autumn colours are beginning to show. All across the nation the youth are engaged in education and now parents get time to just chill and relax right? 
Not likely. I am no longer that small dreamy child. I didn’t appreciate then, couldn’t comprehend really, the time constraints on adults. Between the job or the domestic labours, or any number of adulting tasks, parents do not just get to ‘chillout’ because the child is away in school for a few hours each day. 
These were my thoughts, as I strolled through town having dropped the boy off at school. The sun was warm upon my face causing a slight squint to my eyes for its brightness. The office time was to be slightly delayed today as I had errands to run. You know, those boring adult things that build up over time until your tripping over the bags for the charity shop, the glass for the recycling, the odd awkward bill for payment at the post office. There were other folk about, adults roaming too and fro, chasing down their own quest chain in the few hours when they were not needed to be a parent. 
Somewhere nearby a busker was playing an electric guitar. It’s melodic tone caught my ear, distracting me, leaving my thought train to carry on out of the station without me aboard. There was something to the construction of the riff that seemed to drag at my ear. It had a tone that was warm and smooth. For some odd reason the sound provoked an image of fresh bread with butter just going to melt upon its surface. I found a smile on my lips, and my ears taking command, directing my feet to follow the music. As the song continued the tone remained warm but the tempo and articulation of the notes changed slightly. I’m no guitarist but the picking involved to produce the music I was hearing would require a lot of skill. 
I rounded a corner into the open centre of town, a cultivated courtyard of oak trees, seating, store fronts, and coffee shops. The music reverberated around this space, issuing from a large amp, upon which sat the musician. I guessed a large amp would be needed, not just for the volume, but also for the size of the busker. 
He sat with his back to me covered by the dappling shade of the trees. His shoulders were set broad and back straight, but even from where I stood I could see the noticeable sway of his form no doubt caused by a tapping foot with which he kept time. The notes flowed one into the other in a smooth rich progression with just enough articulation of each so that it could be recognised before the next note took the tune onwards. I drew closer, almost pulled along by the sounds and soon found myself standing amidst the circle of entranced observers. Now that I was closer my suspicions were confirmed, but so too was my surprise made all the more prominent. 
The Dagda sat on the amp, legs spread wide for balance as much to allow the music pass from the speaker. Nestled against his body, cradled by those arms of his, sat an electric guitar. His right arm sat over the body of it with the fingers of his hand strumming and plucking, all the while the fingers of the left moved their way up and down the neck, gripping, pressing and even distorting the strings along its length. The strings thrummed with resonance as his skill was displayed for all to see. The speed of this movements increased as he raised the tempo, pushing the effort involved in the crafting of the tune. As I said I am no guitarist so have no true understanding of the effort involved, but I could see the strain it placed upon him. With an ear stretching crescendo the song came to its end, the last note held, drawn out until its resonance was spent and silence came crashing down. I could see by that silence that this feat amazed others as much as me. They stood, as if frozen my the melody. I was the first to clap but rapidly the gathering joined me in showing appreciation for the sharing of talent. Many also reached for what coins their pockets contained and threw them into the guitar case where it sat open in front of the amp.
The Dagda smiled and nodded his gratitude as he began to tune his guitar, plucking at each string and turning the tuners upon the head to adjust the tension of the string. The crowd seeing that no song would happen straight away began to move off about their day. Once the folk had moved on I stepped forward to greet my friend.
“Impressive performance Big D. I would have expected a harp to be more your speed.”
He looked up to meet my gaze and gave his warm smile.
“The harp is for special occasions these days. My thanks to you for starting that clap. I was a little concerned that I had, well, turned it on too much? It can be a very fine line between catching someone's attention and dominating it. Sure you know what kind of a bad rap my folk have for musical wiles.”
“Yeh? I always thought those stories were more allegory at best, or at worst an excuse for fecking off on a boozey bender for a few days. It’s not like anything like that really happened right?”
The Dagda’s face took on a rather sheepish expression, a slight flush of embarrassment coming to his cheeks. 
“Look lad, not everyone of the folk get the whole ‘human condition’ thing. At this point we are quite a bit removed from you, given the way that things flow differently in the Otherworld. Quite a few of the other crowd over there, barely see you as anything other than a momentary spark. A firework’s flash of light and crash of sound.”
His fingers tightened the guitar string he was working to tune, giving it a pluck to test the note.
“That’s just the ones that don’t give your kind much attention. There are of course many others. As many as there are folk over this side here. In the same way some folk here are fascinated with pets that will never live as long as they do, some of the fair folk, are fascinated with your kind.” 
He looked back up again finally satisfied with the tuning of that string and moving on to the next. I read my expression in his gaze before I realised my face was all a frown. 
“Now, no offence meant lad, and you know that for true. We have talked about the great cycle before, and how all lives are their own unique stories, with a start, a middle, and an end. Just because you finish the last page of a great book, or the last note plays from your favourite song, doesn’t mean you love it any less than when you were in the middle of it.”
“So what you’re telling me is that the stories of sidhe abducting folk into the Otherworld are all true?”
The guitar string made an off key twang as my friend stumbled in his tuning. 
“Oh I didn’t say that. There were of course a few folk who took advantage of what they thought would be a good excuse for their actions. ‘Blame it on the sidhe’ was almost seen as a catch all statement. One that everyone accepted as true, but could never really question or prove.” 
His face took on a more serious expression as he increased the string’s tightness. 
“Far too many folk tried to mask their sins in blame against my people. Everything from harm done to a neighbours crop or kine, to the very worst actions taken against an innocent child just because some amadán thought they were a changeling.” 
My big friend took a deep steadying breath and released it slowly, allowing some tension to slack from the string as he did. Satisfied with that note he moved onto the next.
“Thing is, in the old days when our folk were closer than now, you could trip on stray sod, or stumble into a ring, and next thing you know you’re literally away with the sidhe. There were still many places in the top land that held enough memory of us to allow a little frivolity under the stars from time to time. To be fair you can’t really blame us for visiting old places and having a bit of a knees up whenever the gap between worlds becomes thin.”
The next string reached just the right tautness and he gave himself a little nod before he moved on.
“As I said though, it’s a fine line to walk and that is why we have rules by which the folk must abide. Our ways are not your ways. When time is not a factor with which a person need be concerned, then there is no pressing need to ‘spend time’ doing anything other than that which stirs you most. Like learning a new skill or a musical instrument for that matter. When there is no rush to complete the playing, no need to end the melody, no pressing need to go or be, any place other than where you are, then, indeed, the thing you do takes on a whole new layer of focus and intent.” 
He gave the next  tuner one last small twist and smiled to hear the note the string gave him at his next touch. 
“That also, in a way, explains the heightened interest in one of your folk when they stumble in upon a revel. The arrival of a mortal brings something to the gathering that doesn't really exist without them. “
He looked up at me, settling those deep eyes of his upon me, allowing me to see more of the God in his gaze.
“Time. That is the thing which your kind have in abundance and mine have in lack. Time does not really touch my kind and in that there is a great gift but also an appreciable lack. Without the impetus of time’s progress, brought on by its limited nature when applied to your kind, there is no need to meet any obligation apart from those you set yourself.” 
He broke the gaze and looked back to the guitar, working the tuner back and forth on the next sting. I allowed myself a moment to collect my thoughts before I spoke.
“So in some way, the arrival of time into something timeless, changes the very existence of your kind? For the period in which they interact with mortals, they get a sense of something which is, by its very nature, finite. Something which is always going to come to an end as time works upon it?”
He kept working that next string as I allowed my mind to chase about. To move back and forth on the thoughts moving through my mind, seeking that point of harmonious understanding. I glanced around as he worked and saw one of my favourite store fronts across the square. I smiled as I finally reached an understanding.
“We’re like their ice cream.”
The Daga’s face showed his confusion before he even opened his mouth to put the question upon me.
“What? I don’t follow that lad.” 
I smiled because I knew I had an analogy that fit.
“We are like ice cream to them. A treat that is, in itself, inherently defined by time. Not enough time and ice cream is hard and unpalatable. Too much time and it’s no longer ice cream. Just a puddle of milky liquid. 
His fingers finished the tuning of the next string, and I could see by his face that my analogy had hit its mark. I had one extra step to take it along though. 
“The ice cream is a treat not just because it is temporary as of itself, but also whenever a person interacts with it they must do so within a short time frame or else the moment is lost. Too slow and you get milky soup, too quick and you risk brain freeze. If you get it just right though, it’s a fantastic experience. A delightful thing made all the more so because you only have so long before it becomes a liquid milky mess.”  
I smiled at the Dagda feeling very clever in my analogy as I knew I wasn’t far off the mark with it. Still, as he tuned the fifth and final string on his guitar I knew there was something I hadn’t considered. His slight frown and serious tone brought my attention to focus.
“You make a very good point lad. The danger in your analogy is that you might not have considered the perspective of the person who is obsessed with ice cream. Addicted you might say. You are not far off because there are some in the Otherworld that view your kind as a treat, a tasty thing to interact with, but where some folk can enjoy a scoop or two and be happy with that, others feel a need to have the full tub, or try to keep it all to themselves and drain every last possible drop of enjoyment or pleasure out of it.” 
He gave me a gentle look as I considered the danger of being the ‘ice cream’ that brings itself to the party of hungry folk. In my bard brain I revisited all of the tales I could recall of Otherworld journeys with a new perspective, and a mounting horror. 
The Dagda began strumming upon his newly tuned guitar and I noticed how the tuning had changed its sound so radically. It was that curiosity that brought my attention out of memory and back to the moment. 
“As I said lad, it’s a tricky thing to find that balance between capturing attention and dominating it. It can be hard for my kind to fully comprehend the pressures and challenges of the human condition.” 
My mind became caught in the tune he was strumming, a gentle melodic thing, soft in it’s composition but with an underlying resonance of strength and structure. In my mind I came back to one thing he had said earlier.
Without the impetus of time’s progress, brought on by its limited nature when applied to your kind, there is no need to meet any obligation apart from those you set yourself.” 
The Dagda spoke of the challenge of understanding the human condition, but also that the only obligation that is relevant to the timeless ones is that which they set for themselves. I looked at my big friend, my teacher, my God, and felt that I had learned something more of him in this conversation. Even after all of these years together, there is always more to learn. Today I learned why he gets humans the way he does, because he makes himself obligated to understanding us. To make the best of the relationship between his kind and ours. The tuning of the guitar seemed to carry some deeper understanding of him, some further mystery to uncover, if I had just the right perspective, but in the gust of a breeze through the slowly changing autumnal trees I lost it. 
I looked back to his dark smiling eyes and asked the only question I had still in my head. 
“How did you get such a different sound from that guitar?
My big friend smiled widely, obviously very pleased that I had noticed. 
“Well that would be the custom tuning you see. Most standard guitars are tuned to the notes E-A-D-G-B-E. Me, I prefer to drop a string, losing the low E, and then tune just five.” 
He kept that grin on his face, knowing he had set up the next question and that I would be compelled by the story to ask it. As that gentle yet strong sound carried on through the turn of the season, I asked the question expected of me.
“And what alternative notes have you tuned it to then?”
My big friend gave a chuckle at his own joke before answering;
“D-A-G-D-A”.

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Slán
 An Scéalaí Beag