Staring at the step, Breck bit his lip. It was a fair question, one for which we all knew the answer: to succeed, we must know how we can fail. However, it was also a pointed reminder of Breck’s previous humiliation, and from the green-tinged paleness on his face I knew it had found its mark.
Still, the boy bent forward and forced out a meditation melody, a tune that turned in a slowly shifting circle. For long moments he played, his face as tense as a harpstring, twitching every few bars as he rejected one path for another. The other Bards watched him with an assortment of faces: some bored, some hopeful, some with the keenness of a hunter harrying its prey. The Grandmaster stood over Breck like a hound certain of its kill, and for this reason I wanted Breck to succeed.
That and the promise from the Grandmaster that if Breck did not fail, neither would I.
Finally the strings stilled. Breck looked up and spoke in a voice that could barely be heard. "Failure gives us time to, to try harder."
Truly uninspired. I wasn’t the only one to shake my head.
With a confident smile Grandmaster Meiltung hooked his thumbs in his belt and glanced back at the other Masters. With barely perceptible gestures they made their vote, and the smile from the Grandmaster’s face. He turned back to Breck. "Rise up, Journeyman Breck – the doors to the Guildhall open before you."
Smiling broadly, Breck leapt to his feet, then caught the harp before it could tumble. Clutching it close, he made his way to the throng of Journeymen, who greeted him with slaps and smiles. In the feast to follow, he would be made drunk and his hand numbed with herbs, and then the harp of the Bards would be tattooed across the back. A harp with a single string, yet room to hold six more. With luck and a little help from the gods, I would join him.
"They gave it to him," Treble muttered. "But they’ll keep him here for a few summers more."
I nodded. Their choice was wise, all paths considered.
And now my turn had come. I rose to meet it.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Chapter 20.2.3
Breck bent his head and hands to the task. The notes came out smooth and perfect as he worked through the Cycle of Songs, a set of tunes that marked each stage of a person’s life. Birth was a simple melody with a steady heartbeat, then a long, joyful rise. With a ripple of sound it changed to Growth, a swelling, circular air that slowly became more complex. With Maturity it deepened, moving to a lower register, and then came the fast-paced, giddy dance of Pairing. Livelihood, a sturdy melody with a strong beat, gave way to the whisper of Old Age. Then all the harmonies gathered into a single strand of notes that faded into a soft hum of the strings – Death, and the journey beyond it.
A flawless performance. Breck had indeed worked hard – but his only reward was a stern nod from the Grandmaster. "Now play your original ballad."
With a shaking voice, Breck forced out the title. "Ballad of the Willow Tree." He bowed his head, plucked the harp strings, and sang.
"My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see.
Once – I was a true man
With a heart and hands and eyes;
But now I’m rooted to this soil
With a pain that never dies.
I had myself a maiden,
Fair Bridgett was her name.
But I was just a toy to her,
For loving was her game."
The ballad went on to tell William’s tragic story. He had loved his Bridgett so much that he had bragged about her to all he met, and even traveled into the Eastern Green Forest to tell the trees. There he met a tall man in a dark cloak who laughed at his story and told him that no woman ever truly loves a man. William claimed that his Bridgett was different; the stranger replied that the woman would be in the arms of another when William left the forest. Taking offense, William had called the man a liar, and said that on his soul he would prove his Bridgett to be true. At this the man threw off his cloak and revealed himself to be Oberon, lord of the Herart of the Eastern Green Forest. He then offered a bargain: if Bridgett did indeed prove true, then William could return and fill his hat with jewels and silver, but if Bridgett was false, then William was to lose his soul and belong to the forest forever. William agreed, then left the forest in search of his true love. But:
"I saw her with the iron-smith’s son
Embracing by the river;
Her took her face between his hands
And then he sweetly kissed her.
And then he pulled his knife out
And stepped up to a tree;
With swift, deep strokes he carved their names
Inside a heart – on me.
My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see."
An interesting idea, carefully played, but the tune was stiff and unremarkable. And long – Master Iving wasn’t the only one to blink himself awake at the end.
Grandmaster Meiltung did not comment on it, however. He only closed his eyes, then recited, as if from memory, "For everything there is a purpose. What is the purpose of failure?"
A flawless performance. Breck had indeed worked hard – but his only reward was a stern nod from the Grandmaster. "Now play your original ballad."
With a shaking voice, Breck forced out the title. "Ballad of the Willow Tree." He bowed his head, plucked the harp strings, and sang.
"My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see.
Once – I was a true man
With a heart and hands and eyes;
But now I’m rooted to this soil
With a pain that never dies.
I had myself a maiden,
Fair Bridgett was her name.
But I was just a toy to her,
For loving was her game."
The ballad went on to tell William’s tragic story. He had loved his Bridgett so much that he had bragged about her to all he met, and even traveled into the Eastern Green Forest to tell the trees. There he met a tall man in a dark cloak who laughed at his story and told him that no woman ever truly loves a man. William claimed that his Bridgett was different; the stranger replied that the woman would be in the arms of another when William left the forest. Taking offense, William had called the man a liar, and said that on his soul he would prove his Bridgett to be true. At this the man threw off his cloak and revealed himself to be Oberon, lord of the Herart of the Eastern Green Forest. He then offered a bargain: if Bridgett did indeed prove true, then William could return and fill his hat with jewels and silver, but if Bridgett was false, then William was to lose his soul and belong to the forest forever. William agreed, then left the forest in search of his true love. But:
"I saw her with the iron-smith’s son
Embracing by the river;
Her took her face between his hands
And then he sweetly kissed her.
And then he pulled his knife out
And stepped up to a tree;
With swift, deep strokes he carved their names
Inside a heart – on me.
My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see."
An interesting idea, carefully played, but the tune was stiff and unremarkable. And long – Master Iving wasn’t the only one to blink himself awake at the end.
Grandmaster Meiltung did not comment on it, however. He only closed his eyes, then recited, as if from memory, "For everything there is a purpose. What is the purpose of failure?"
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Chapter 20.2.2
Grabbing his shoulders, I pulled him down to sit. The seven hopeful boys would go before us.
They were led, one at a time, to stand alone before the Masters. Each was asked his name, his place of birth, and to play a simple tune. Three of them broke down in tears, one could not seem to answer, one answered but could not make sounds come out of his pipe, and one dropped his pipe as he started to play. That boy picked the instrument back up, dropped it again, picked it up but fumbled with it, and finally managed to get the mouthpiece to his lips and play a few shaky notes. He was chosen, along with the last two boys who had done all that was asked of them without trouble. The others were sent back, but told that they could try again in the spring.
Now it was our turn to be tested. I looked toward Elise for comfort, then unwrapped my harp. Breck shivered beside me.
Grandmaster Meiltung stood and crossed his arms. "Child Breck of Slatten, come stand before us."
Breck jumped slightly, then froze, too terrified to move. I touched his arm, smiled, and ran my fingers my fingers over my harpstrings. He stared back, white and senseless.
Now Treble stood up, hauled Breck to his feet, and said, "The gods will watch over your path." Then with a shove he sent the poor boy to his fate.
I shook my head in pity.
"Oh, he doesn’t think he’ll make it, but he will," Trebled added quietly.
Did Treble’s gift of sight tell him this? Or knowledge learned from the masters? I held up my hands in question, but Treble only shook his head.
Out on the steps, Breck had collapsed before a harp that had been brought out for him to play. He wrapped shaking fingers around the strings, and stared up at the Grandmaster’s face.
"Play the cycle of songs," Grandmaster Meiltung intoned.
They were led, one at a time, to stand alone before the Masters. Each was asked his name, his place of birth, and to play a simple tune. Three of them broke down in tears, one could not seem to answer, one answered but could not make sounds come out of his pipe, and one dropped his pipe as he started to play. That boy picked the instrument back up, dropped it again, picked it up but fumbled with it, and finally managed to get the mouthpiece to his lips and play a few shaky notes. He was chosen, along with the last two boys who had done all that was asked of them without trouble. The others were sent back, but told that they could try again in the spring.
Now it was our turn to be tested. I looked toward Elise for comfort, then unwrapped my harp. Breck shivered beside me.
Grandmaster Meiltung stood and crossed his arms. "Child Breck of Slatten, come stand before us."
Breck jumped slightly, then froze, too terrified to move. I touched his arm, smiled, and ran my fingers my fingers over my harpstrings. He stared back, white and senseless.
Now Treble stood up, hauled Breck to his feet, and said, "The gods will watch over your path." Then with a shove he sent the poor boy to his fate.
I shook my head in pity.
"Oh, he doesn’t think he’ll make it, but he will," Trebled added quietly.
Did Treble’s gift of sight tell him this? Or knowledge learned from the masters? I held up my hands in question, but Treble only shook his head.
Out on the steps, Breck had collapsed before a harp that had been brought out for him to play. He wrapped shaking fingers around the strings, and stared up at the Grandmaster’s face.
"Play the cycle of songs," Grandmaster Meiltung intoned.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Chapter 20.2.1
Two days passed, days of work and preparation. Elise kept me fed while Peter learned my ballad, his beautiful tenor a worthy accompaniment to my harp, and Master Iving listened while I practiced the Cycle of Songs. Breck also worked, though always alone – I sometimes heard his music late at night while all the others slept.
The Winter Solstice dawned grey and cold after a night of freezing rain. All the Bards gathered on the steps before dawn, dressed in their formal clothes: linen tunic embroidered with Bardic runes and dark trousers – linen for the Bards-in-training, wool for the Journeymen, and warm velvet for the Masters.
The Master stood in a line along the top step. On the steps just below, clustered left and right, stood the Journeymen. Below them stood the shivering Bards-in-training, arranged by height, with the shortest and youngest on the lowest step. I stood with Treble and Breck, far to the side – too tall and old to be among the boys, but without the right to stand with the men.
Opposite us, standing behind the other Bards-in-training, I spied another tall figure. In the early dawn light I could not see who it was, and had no thought as to who it could be.
Far to our left, where a gap in the buildings allowed us a clear view of the mountains, the sky lightened, then a drop of liquid gold pooled at the horizion. Grandmaster Meiltung gestured, and a Journeyman rang a chime. That was the signal for us all, and in perfect harmony we sang in the dawn.
I could not sing, except in my mind, but I played the tune on a lute. There were thirty-seven verses to the Song of the Dawn, and as we sang them the people of Slatten brought forth their winter gifts: harvest fruits and clucking fowls, gems and precious metals, pottery and cloth, whatever they might spare to keep the Bards through the winter months and so bring blessings on their own households. Seven eager mothers came up, bringing young boys that they were offering for training. There were no orphans today, which the Bardhall took in as an act of charity, so all these boys would test to see if they deserved a place here.
When we finished, steaming cups of soup were passed around as the older Bards-in-training carried the gifts into the Bardhall. I looked to see who was the tall Bard-in-training standing on the other side of the steps, and nearly dropped my cup. Lord Reinard, barefoot and dressed in rags? No, it would have to be Peter – except that the monk was standing with Charles among the townspeople. That was indeed my lord, playing some sort of dangerous game – but not as dangerous as it could have been, for Bards are forbidden to shed blood on the days we sing in the seasons.
Was he then so determined to see me follow him that he would not leave until I sat before the Masters? Did he expect me to go with him if I failed?
But I would not fail.
"It’s time," Breck said to me, his voice as weak as his face was white. The Masters were sitting into their chairs and all the other Bards were sitting down. Breck clutched his harp and swallowed.
The Winter Solstice dawned grey and cold after a night of freezing rain. All the Bards gathered on the steps before dawn, dressed in their formal clothes: linen tunic embroidered with Bardic runes and dark trousers – linen for the Bards-in-training, wool for the Journeymen, and warm velvet for the Masters.
The Master stood in a line along the top step. On the steps just below, clustered left and right, stood the Journeymen. Below them stood the shivering Bards-in-training, arranged by height, with the shortest and youngest on the lowest step. I stood with Treble and Breck, far to the side – too tall and old to be among the boys, but without the right to stand with the men.
Opposite us, standing behind the other Bards-in-training, I spied another tall figure. In the early dawn light I could not see who it was, and had no thought as to who it could be.
Far to our left, where a gap in the buildings allowed us a clear view of the mountains, the sky lightened, then a drop of liquid gold pooled at the horizion. Grandmaster Meiltung gestured, and a Journeyman rang a chime. That was the signal for us all, and in perfect harmony we sang in the dawn.
I could not sing, except in my mind, but I played the tune on a lute. There were thirty-seven verses to the Song of the Dawn, and as we sang them the people of Slatten brought forth their winter gifts: harvest fruits and clucking fowls, gems and precious metals, pottery and cloth, whatever they might spare to keep the Bards through the winter months and so bring blessings on their own households. Seven eager mothers came up, bringing young boys that they were offering for training. There were no orphans today, which the Bardhall took in as an act of charity, so all these boys would test to see if they deserved a place here.
When we finished, steaming cups of soup were passed around as the older Bards-in-training carried the gifts into the Bardhall. I looked to see who was the tall Bard-in-training standing on the other side of the steps, and nearly dropped my cup. Lord Reinard, barefoot and dressed in rags? No, it would have to be Peter – except that the monk was standing with Charles among the townspeople. That was indeed my lord, playing some sort of dangerous game – but not as dangerous as it could have been, for Bards are forbidden to shed blood on the days we sing in the seasons.
Was he then so determined to see me follow him that he would not leave until I sat before the Masters? Did he expect me to go with him if I failed?
But I would not fail.
"It’s time," Breck said to me, his voice as weak as his face was white. The Masters were sitting into their chairs and all the other Bards were sitting down. Breck clutched his harp and swallowed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)