Beryl has watched over her comatose father

since War’s end.  And the story written

on his laptop has been quiet all those years. 

But something has happened to change all that. 

Reading again shows new chapters, fresh words

that have the warrior bard Jareth Rhylan

accepting a quest to

rescue the fabled Cú Chulainn,

estranged husband of Queen Emer

from the fair but fell hand of the goddess Fand,

whose hidden isle is cloaked in mist. 

It is a rescue attempt motivated by a promise

that will bring him one step closer to home,

which means an end to the coma. 

So Beryl hopes.

As she reads the evolving story, she is suddenly aware

that there are hints her real life brother Taryn is still alive. 

Can it be?  To discover the truth, she tries to connect

with her father in the same way as the alien Rhey once did. 

In doing so, Beryl creates a world for Jareth Rhylan

that contains elements from her

assigned English class novel

and the music contest she’s just entered. 

But Beryl doesn’t realize what introducing

the Celtic tale will do to a story that contains characters

like Lugaid, who lusts after the dark sword,

and Leanan who is the wicked and seductive Dark Muse,

with a buck-headed entity called the Cervine,

and a black cat––all shipmates of the bard Jareth,

keeper of the black blade.

Taryn is a tale of ships and red seas at night,

of spotlit stages and the power of song.

It’s a story only love can imagine and a bard could sing.

It’s the tale of Jareth Rhylan.

Some would say they couldn’t tell from which direction the music came, others that it was bourn by the wind, surely.  There were those that would return an inquisitive look and ask ‘what music?’  Such was the sound pervading on the edge of town.  

And on the edge was not some coincidence.  The singer wanted it that way, noting that he had no patience for explanations anymore.  He sang for himself, in these times, because he truly believed none could ever understand.  It didn’t happen as often as in the past, but there were times he just felt like being alone.  But of course, with his music, was he ever really alone?  Not to mention the others that liked to lurk on the edge of his perception, thinking they were invisible.  But as he plied the night with mandolin melodies, the notes would return as echoes, both of his heart and the world impinging all around.  It was a necessary trap, one that made him just another silhouette.  To be ignored, he hoped, but he was too realistic to let the thought linger.

Those that heard the music probably couldn’t fathom the lyrics he so delicately offered up.  None could be blamed though, because even to his ear, he thought the night altered his meanings, as if what he had to say was too fragile to be explored.  Or perhaps too strong, as in the truth.  He might have to probe deeper, with that thought.

It was a night of the full moon, one which seemed so much nearer to the earth that it likely nestled on the horizon’s very edge, balancing precipitously while evening was still passing and before Night’s skirts fully swept Day clean.  The minstrel smiled as that thought tried to upset the cadence of his song, tried to instill their allure and force him to pause.  It wasn’t a breath he really wanted to take though, so he played on, nodding as Night winked, softly sighing out the next verse as Day closed her eyes.  If he tried hard enough, he probably could hear Evening chuckling softly at his arrogance.  But, he didn’t care.

Where was that damn muse?  Wasn’t this when she was most wont to show up?  He imagined her hurrying stride, opening like the folds of Night’s dress, the gold in her eyes flaring and eclipsing the black void of her pupils.  In another time, he recalled her doing just that while the rain rent the air all about her, pelting skin and causing raiment to cling ever more seductively.  Such was her way, such was his wish...but now, she was absent, inexplicably so.  He sang nonetheless, knowing it would be impossible to stop anyway.

A milk-smooth hand plied the field of ferns which reared up over her head, their existence evidence of the furious path nature had been treading.  Where war and its aftermath had once ruled, a new jungle of vegetation was yearning.  From the veritable ashes of death, a new world was rising.  And despite the stark reminders of the enemy’s hand that still reared ugly and grim all around, a new green was working to swallow up what should only exist in memory.  Mankind was rebounding, even if the minstrel couldn’t understand its nature.  It was just one way in which denial propagated.  But for the eavesdropper, she did not give it much thought; she had too much on her mind and heart to dwell overmuch with the state of the world.  Perhaps that’s why much of the minstrel’s words swept past and only his melody settled.  And what a melody!  Drawn from much further than the nearest town of Bangor, she’d braved the dance of Night to find its source, and having found it, could hardly believe it to be earthly.  Every whisper had had her convinced that it was the song of running water as it leaped and played about well-worn stone, sluicing its way from mountain to sea.  She would have sworn her guess was true.  But even as the song swelled and she neared, a feeling that the notes emanated from cracks in the earth burgeoned in the undertones of each chorus.  But it wasn’t until she actually came upon the middle-aged man, delicately strumming strings which shone silver in the rising moon, that both those perceptions shook loose and flowed into a different shape, something which was a little of both.  Still, it was a man that she saw, a man after all.

The lyrics were not something of which he was consciously aware as lips parted and closed almost silently, their intent obvious but not their final purpose.  That his fingers were deft on the strings was lost while the song surged to escape its dungeon, that of heart and mind.  And soul, the minstrel added, not to be negligent.  That latter was not a concept many truly understood.  But he did.  Explaining it though was often left to reasons he sang in the first place.  Not tonight; tonight he was only trying to free a few demons that would not stay put, would not leave him to the peace drinking offered.  Times like this, he knew only release would soothe both.  And he had such need.  The muse was supposed to be helping him; where the hell was she?

His fingers dragged harsher, mirroring his growing impatience even as the song was forming wings in which to fly––as if they already hadn’t.

Curious; what was a minstrel doing so late at night, in a place so desolate that finding an audience was well nigh impossible?  But then, perhaps the man wasn’t playing for others...maybe it was more personal...

Green eyes brightened with that thought and her face relaxed, though she didn’t understand why.  As she listened, she traced the man’s features, noting shoulder-length graying hair that swept over dully glinting spaulders, the rusty lines betraying their age.  The minstrel dressed like a warrior as she saw too his leather bracers and tassets.  No doubt, he’d have a weapon nearby.  As if the mandolin wasn’t weapon enough, she thought.  More from the drenching moonlight than the dull embers of the man’s fire, she could catch glints of something more than reflection, whenever he opened his eyes long enough.  And the more she tried to fathom what she saw there, the more she was drawn into the music, as if the eyes of his song were steering all her senses down the same path.  Shuddering, she shook off that feeling because the road she sensed was lined with nothing but black-barked leafless trees and a foreboding which belied the beauty of the song.

Still she couldn’t stop listening, and this by itself was a great wonder.  Dropping her gaze to avoid accidentally catching his, golden red tresses slipped from beneath her hood, and the fingers of her hand clenched fern stalks that much tighter.

Directly across the fire from the minstrel, the moon traced shadow lines as it flitted between the encircling trees.  Where the ferns petered out, a fine golden-hued field of larkspur still held the spark of day, defining night in terms that were confusing and hard to understand.  Bathed in such light, the stems shimmered on their own, absorbing an unseen force and shuttling it toward the singer, waves traveling in sync with the song.  At least, that’s the way it seemed.

Closing his eyes and letting his fingers strum unconsciously, the minstrel took the notes down strange paths, unaware of the difficulties his hands had in keeping up.  He played now as if from memory and truthfully, it was memories he played, each torn from his battered heart, from the denial in his head.  It wasn’t something he wanted to remember, it was instead, something he could not forget.  But then, losing someone you love can do that.

The moonlight flashed on the fourth of six strings, dancing and glancing off the burnished wood of the soundboard, slicing its way into the encroaching darkness.  It did not fade, it did not die, but rather, it lingered as if alive for just a moment, before coalescing.  Where once only shadowy fern and the green-eyed woman lay eavesdropping, now there danced moonlight, as lithe and limber as if traversing the sky.

“Can you hear how each sixth note is sharper than the fifth?  How it quickens before the rush of succeeding verse?”

Startled, the eavesdropper swiftly swung her gaze toward the voice, her body already tightening before the sudden thought to flee.

The light that met her eyes blinded for a moment, lost between fans of ferns, its core pulsing slowly, as if in rhythm to a heart.  She thought she could make out a face, one with a wry smile.  It was another woman, bathed in a dress of silver light, a nimbus glow surrounding.  And when the other lifted a hand to pull away an errant bit of her gossamer hair, the nimbus moved with it.  Aware she’d come alone, the eavesdropper pulled back, a hand clutching for her knife.

“It’s the music, isn’t it?”

The apparition seemed to float among the ferns, neither tethered to the ground nor to the air either.  Ignoring the words, the green-eyed woman reached out to wave at the air in which the moonlit-woman danced, sure that the form would be disrupted and scattered.  But all that happened was her arm suddenly enveloped by even more moonlight.  And passing right through until the darkness settled again onto her skin.

“What are you?”

The woman of light’s smile faded for a moment, as if unsure.  Gazing without flinching, ghostly eyes probed green ones, working at mysteries there.  A woman always buried her secrets there.

“Like you, the music brings me.  Though often, he isn’t calling for me, but the other.”

“The other?”

Green Eyes glanced swiftly around, wondering what she’d stumbled upon.

The woman of light merely nodded, her lips pursed.

“The music is what brought you, yes?”

Green Eyes nodded automatically, not understanding that she did so, confused and worrying at how the night was unfolding.

“If only you knew how much he embraces that thought; folds are something he too often hides within.  But,”

And here, the swaying moonlight glittered, working its way to the ground.

“you also have folds of night.  I sense that too has brought you.”

The riddles were almost worse than the unexplained moonlit manifestation to Green Eyes.  She shook her head, wondering if she were caught in a dream.

“No dream, though he likes to create versions of which you’d swear could be attained.  You’re only responding to his song, is all.  Trust me, I know...”

The words trailed off, no longer finding it necessary to be heard.  Like a heart winding down...

Forcing her spine to stiffen, she tried to remember who she was, tried to brace against a rising yet unnamed fear.

“Who is he?  You seem to know.”

The light about the woman of light flared, just for an instant, then it almost dissipated.  So much so that Green Eyes opened her mouth and gasped disappointment.  No––don’t go!

But the light did not go out completely and as the woman’s face flushed brighter, Green Eyes thought she could see the start of a tear.

“He is the music, he sings the songs.”

Green-eyes relaxed unconsciously, her hand no longer on the hilt of the knife beneath her woolen cloak.  The sadness in the voice of the other ameliorated any lingering fear of safety.  Though still strange, there was no more thought that the light could hurt her.  Indeed, it appeared just the opposite...

Glancing back at the minstrel, she was as aware of the crouching shadows at his back as she was of the twisted moonlight on his bare chest.  No, not completely bare––dark creases of letters in a language she could not guess, soldiered across his skin.  There, the moonlight fought hardest to infiltrate.

Clenching the fretboard tighter, unaware of how hard he pressed on the strings, the man’s voice rose and strained, the lyrics clarifying and scarifying, the melody expanded while the song attempted to suffuse his soul.  Which he so desperately desired.  It was a feeling of surrender made so much easier when she was around.

Damn muse...abandoning him like all the rest...but then, he knew the thought for the lie it was.  It had been he who’d run, not them...

“What happened?”

Green Eyes lifted to her toes, pushing aside the huge fans of fingers so she might see the music better.  For already she thought of the man as such; not so much as a singer but as a manifestation of the song he sang.

“He’s trying to release his soul but he can’t.  He doesn’t understand how he’s connected and how the very music he singes also holds him bound.”

Green Eyes turned to see that woman of light had pressed near, and yet, there was no feeling of solidity––just a slight breath of cold air against a cheek.  More than doubt, here a mystery had come to life.

“Who are you?  Who is he?  Have you both come to stop me?”

The woman of light slowed her swaying, her dance eddying like moonlight on a tidal pool.

“Just the opposite, your highness; I’m here to help.”

Green Eyes flinched, understanding that the other might actually be meaning harm after all.  How could she know what she was; there was no telltale about her, of this she’d made sure.

“Do I know you, daughter of the moon?”

Green Eyes tone was rigid but flexible.  She gave just enough respect to gain some of her own.

“Not in any way you’d understand, Lady Emer.  But, I once read the stories, and the man beyond the fire has sung more than once about you, though he would probably deny it.  To my face, at least.”

Emer pulled back still further but could not bring herself to completely disconnect.  The mystery wouldn’t let her, and the woman inside couldn’t help but try to unravel both riddle and image.  Stories about her?  To be sure, they existed but she’d never heard them put to song, not among her people at least.  There were others though...

Tightening her gaze, a frenzied thought tried to form in her head.

“You have nothing to fear, Lady; I’m not one of the Her spies.  I told you; I’m here to help.”

The Lady Emer lifted a brow, wondering where to start.

“What kind of help do you think I need?”

She’d be cautious, despite assurances.  Woman of Light or emissary of her enemy?  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered wild magic set loose to find her.  And thinking this made her look harder in the minstrel’s direction.

“Like you, another has my man.  And like you, for far too long.  Hearts must be rescued before we can set the prisoner free.”

Something in the woman of light’s words resonated, as if a secret had escaped.

“You know of my quest?”

Emer was as awed as she was skeptical; she’d sent no word ahead, had only entrusted her true mission to those who traveled with her.  Those she trusted.  And those who trusted her.  Hers was not a road of glory but of bitterness and fleeting hope.  Still, she had to believe, didn’t she?  To think any other way was to die...

The woman of light only nodded at the question, ghostly fragile fingers held up to pale blue lips as if to guarantee her silence was sincere.  But how could an apparition be trusted?

“It’s not me you have to trust, but him.  It’s he that will undo the evil that has been done.”

Emer glanced from the woman of light’s face and back to the minstrel’s.  It was then that he opened his eyes again and seemed to skewer her very heart, so intense was the blue.  Emer stood frozen, unable to look away.  She hadn’t realized the danger of both music and depthless eyes.

Her breath returned as she quickly realized he did not see her, that it was only she looking into his eyes and not the other way around.  Lost in the song, she knew then how lucky she was.  Within a small shudder, equally fluid was the nerve-tingling spasm of delight which only the music could wring.  The Lady Emer felt the twin columns then of ecstasy and despair, and the resonance left her trembling.

“It’s what he does, Lady, and it’s what will undo the goddess.  Right now, he’s singing only to drown his own depression; imagine what the music would do if he actually aimed it with purpose at another?  I don’t have to tell you what that kind of magic can accomplish, do I?”

And both the dancing moonlit woman and the Lady Emer turned to drink in the last echoes of sound released to the world.

Emer believed.  How, she could not say, but trusting in the feeling coursing through her, the truth could not be denied.

“You never answered my question; who is he?”

The woman of light was moving away, the sway of ghostly hips having resumed a natural rhythm that was mimicked by nudging breezes.  Emer reached a hand out, trying to forestall what she feared was understanding; the other was going, was leaving in the same quiet way in which she’d appeared.

Turning her head, moonlight sparkled in phantom eyes, glittering like starry embers.  A sound like whimsical light drifted toward the Lady Emer.

“He is Jareth Rhylan, Lady Emer;  he is the Bard.”

And as the last note from the distant mandolin subsided, the woman of light disappeared.  Night swung and shadowy folds swathed the field of ferns and everything touching.  Again.

Chapter 2

Start Shooting

Beard and glowering countenance aside, the man didn’t look that hard to read.  Or so Jareth thought as he opened his fan of cards still further, contemplating his next move.  Eying the hefty pile of coins in the middle didn’t help because it only enhanced the fact there were so little in front of him.  It was probable he’d been set up, but too late now––he’d already lost much of everything he’d made from the last town.  And there’d been so much promise when he’d arrived here...

Caernafron wasn’t like the other mining towns, it was almost civilized in that the residents had heard of hot water.  And spiced rum and Veluvian chocolates.  Not that he needed any of those but, they were nice to at least think about.  Wistfully he sighed as the cards in his hand were mocking any and all ‘needs’ at the moment.  As observant as he liked to think he was, Jareth wasn’t even sure the man across from him even had a tell.  Or perhaps he’d been a given false one?  A distinct possibility.  Certainly there hadn’t been any obvious signs of cheating...and yet...

Jareth felt a warmth close to his ear and listened as the serving girl offered more than a refill of his empty pint glass.  It was a distraction for his current distraction and he frowned; he had to keep his mind from dulling further.  Surely it was the ale that had put him in the mess of a hole he found himself in.  Wasn’t it?

Then he started, eyes flashing for an instant before narrowing once again; a soft chuckle was in his head and it hadn’t come from the serving girl.  The ensuing feeling of both desire and foreboding came over him in waves, causing a further delay.  Which the other players didn’t like.  He already was taking too long.  Though, what had they to worry about?  Not like he’d been raking in any pots lately.  They should be glad of his contributions so far...

He listened harder, both hoping and daring the siren voice in his head to say something else.  But he received only silence.  Still, he closed his hands on his cards and looked furtively around the room nonetheless.

“You looking for someone, son?”

An odd way to address a man who easily was showing forty plus years.  The gray in his hair only added further witness to that fact.  The skin of his face and hands was weathered, also testament to many years.  And truth to tell, most had a hard time guessing his age.  Jareth allowed a small grin to escape, understanding that his music made it so.  But his lips compressed as he fanned his cards once again, thinking.

The dark eyes across the table were on him, this he knew.  Some did this because of the tattoos he wore; the prominent one burned into his chest was universally misunderstood, simply because he’d chosen an archaic language in which to display it.  The one at the base of his neck was more curious than anything; a Chinese symbol meaning Harmony.  That one held an artistic beauty upon which many women commented.  But it was the third that typically caught the attention of the men, especially those that had any military training whatsoever.  Those that purportedly could fight and wield a weapon invariably summed up any possible opponent even as they met for the very first time.  It was in the blood.

Jareth knew this type all too well as beside his mandolin, slung comfortably over the back of his chair, he knew beneath was his baldric and blade.  Make that plural because since the muse had gone, he’d had to carry both now.  Despite his assurance to empty air that he did not want to.  Damn muse.  Even now her soft chuckle haunted him, teasing his attention from more practical things.  Oh, he knew whose voice had been softly laughing.

The man across from him, with the fine-trimmed beard that framed his jaw and extended into both mustache and soul patch, lowered his brows darkly, patience obviously beginning to leave.  He was one of those that would have noticed the third tattoo, the one on his left wrist.  But could he see how it masked the scar beneath?

Jareth glowered back but didn’t think so.  Still, he’d already been wrong about the man twice today.  And both times, it had cost him a small fortune.  He eyed the others remaining in the game, all circling with the smell of silver in their noses as the pot had grown and spilled toward them all.  But it was only the darkly painted man playing across from him that was worrisome.  The others, well, he knew their tell, so...

Jareth took his left hand and combed it through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead.  He thought he could feel the swelling of veins there as he did.  Not good to show fear, though, not good at all.  Then again, maybe he wasn’t.

Again the black-clad man with the finely trimmed beard spoke.

“Have you got what it takes?”

Jareth opened his eyes wider and visibly tautened.  He was being poked and he didn’t care for it.  No self respecting man would, even less a fighting man.  He looked at the cut of the man’s jerkin and affirmed an earlier guess; this man had both money and power.  It exuded from him, clinging like so many shadows in a closet.  And that’s what piqued Jareth’s interest.  Most men would not sequester such ability, such standing.  And yet, this one did.  No bravado, just a darkly sure conviction that everyone at the table, and probably in the whole town, was inferior.  Jareth didn’t need to see the man’s sword pommel to know it would have a subtle richness of build, a work of art even as it would be grimly functional.  The man wore no jewelry, which was also abnormal for his type, and the black robe draped across his chair was both high quality and simple.  An enigma, Jareth should have factored all these clues into his assessment, and definitely before the pot had grown so large.  Now though, he felt the other’s web holding him, understanding though that he had only himself to blame.  Damn!  How could he have been so careless?

The cards in his hand mirrored the man across the table; they were solid black and breathing oppressively.  Five cards, with two up in front of him.  And they were black as well.  It meant he had at least a flush.  One more draw though remained and if he could just pull the queen...

“You’ll have to go all in just to keep playing, minstrel.”

Jareth suppressed a scowl; he knew that.

“You must have something over there...”

And he did.  The queen he needed was hidden but the numbers told him she was close.  Close enough to show up in his next draw.  He wouldn’t hand over either his mandolin or sword though, no matter how much the bearded man baited him.  It was worth more than his life, just like the black sword he also carried.  Beside, what would the other even do with a musical instrument?  Judging from the mans hands, the scars there would preclude the soft touch a true musician needed.  Those hands could never work the music...

Work the music.

The softness belied an ironic bell as the words seeped into his head, forcing him to clamp his mind shut, an automatic reflex whenever the muse sought direct communication without being in the room.  She could be so annoying sometimes...and why now?  After months of having left him alone?  But then, had he ever really been in control or understood her nature in the first place?  He supposed it was this mysterious link that kept them attached since the beginning.  The beginning...now, how had that happened again?  Sometimes he could remember, and other times not.

Work the music and claim the cards.

He resisted the temptation to do just what she was suggesting, knowing he could but understanding the inherent wrongness of such an act.  Beside, his music was not to be a tool, not that way.  

More soft laughter ensued.

“I don’t imagine a man of your musical skills makes much use of that sword anyhow.  And if you’ve got the cards, what have you to worry about?  Certainly it’s worth another sleeve of silver...”

But Jareth tuned the other man out, struggling to contain the voice in his head, keep his card wits about him, and still calculate the odds of winning this hand.  It looked good.

Unconsciously, his hand moved toward the baldric holding his black bladed sword.  Not that the other knew that as he saw only a finely wound wire hilt whose guard was a tangle of silver steel intricacies.  He understood its allure and like the bearded man, had never seen one similar.  Which had always bothered him because no one had ever been able to tell him from where it had come.  Though, the muse had hinted she knew...

The muse, whose darkly beautiful presence had seemed eternally linked to his.  The one that could make his music surreal.  Why on earth had she chosen to come back now?  And that she was near again, he was very sure.  The very room’s shadows had taken on her deep purple hue, exhorting him, cajoling him, urging him to go all in and damn the consequences.

Just like her, Jareth thought, his hand still reaching, the other man’s eyes and smile salacious.  All he needed was that damn queen of spades for a near royal flush.

Not the sword, Dear; no man can use that one but you.

This time, he had his confirmation, his ruse having drawn the voice in his head out.  She had returned!

“I’m all in, but the sword stays.  The mandolin too.  Neither is to be wagered here.  Will you take my bet?”

Jareth had calmly returned his hand to his cards, closing the hand and blatantly challenging the bearded man across from him.

Though his dark eyes seemed to blaze even blacker, the moment passed and the bearded man collected himself, understanding that the prize he sought would not be had today.  Not in this moment, not this round.  But he could wait; he was a patient man.

“I accept.  I hope the odds are with you.”

And the player to his left, a thin but hard twisted wood of a man, dealt the two remaining players their last card, face down.  The two players who’d passed already, ogled the silver pot in the middle, understanding it represented a lot of opportunity.  Oh, the wine and women that might bring!

And hot water, Jareth acknowledged, sweeping a fingerless-gloved hand toward his waiting draw.  It just had to be the queen.

At that moment, there was a flash of jet and movement that belied size as a cat leaped from the floor to easily balance on Jareth’s shoulder, golden eyes looking more green in the torchlight.  Soundlessly, it cast its gaze upon the bearded man, hesitating only a moment before curling around and settling in as if to stay.  Jareth didn’t even flinch, though he noted that bearded man did.  Suppressing a grin, Jareth finished picking up his card.

The bearded man stroked the short hair on his chin, an idle moment as he considered the intrusion.  After all, it was just a cat.  Baring his teeth at the animal brought satisfaction just the same.  Intimidation was second nature and not something of which he was not aware.  It tended to work better on men and women, though.  His sly snarl compressed into a frustrated annoyance; the cat hadn’t even dared hiss at him.  As if it wasn’t afraid.  But, that was impossible; everyone was afraid of him.  Well, all but one and he was hell bent on changing that condition.  The minstrel was only a momentary distraction, someone his mistress employer had instructed be delivered.  Which, he was about to do...

“Caller first.”

Jareth frowned; he knew how to play poker.

Slipping one of the cards in front of him and the new draw into his hand, Jareth presented his near royal flush.  All he was missing was the ace.  As the smile began to spread and he felt the cat’s claws dig in a little bit more, the silver before him glimmered more brightly, calling for his reach.

But the bearded man’s low baritone stopped him.  Undeniably, irrefutably, and inconceivably, the voice stopped him.  Or rather, it was the cards being played across from him that kept his fingers twitching in midair, as if they’d gone and lost their strings.

The bearded man’s countenance didn’t change, not even a little bit as the same dark eyes and Neanderthal brows sucked in the minstrel’s gaze.  The man’s mouth did not contort into either a winning sneer of contempt nor an obnoxious grin of ecstasy.  He didn’t even really move, other than to lay down his cards.  The sinking feeling overcoming Jareth was contrasted rigidly with the other’s lack of any emotion whatsoever.  And Jareth knew rightly; this man had no tell.

As the others found voice for their incredulity, Jareth just eyed the five hearts arrayed in sequential fashion, a ten starting the flow toward an ace.  Close, he was so close.  But as has been said; close only counts in girls and horseshoes.

Shit!  He’d lost.