She sat atop a brown cloak stretched across prickly brown grass. It was near sunset and the leafless trees provided no protection from the sun burning her eyes but that didn’t stop her. From a leather pack she produced a small frame with strings pulled tightly across it and strummed them with her long fingernails. Its sound was high and tinny.
“Blech! You’re not going to cooperate today, are you Sédon?” she asked with a sigh.
She gave it another strum, then took to plucking each of its seven strings individually. The homemade instrument seemed to finally warm up and she was soon picking out a peaceful melody. A smile came to her face and her eyes were half closed as she began rehearsing her latest.
In between the trees the little deer play
Hopping, and jumping, and darting all day
And the holly and the oak from their perch on-high
Watch the eagle and the hawk fly by
“Now that’s no good, is it?” she grumbled. “No one wants to hear about some silly deer and birds!”
Perhaps it was hopeless. Mother had cautioned her against this path. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into! A wandering bard, alone? in these lands? You’ll be killed within a week!’
Tucking Sédon into her pack, she slung it over her shoulder as she stood. The cloak was draped across her shoulders and the road to Harper’s Well was taken up once more. She’d survived a year now on the pittance she earned from her songs. Her main haunts were pubs and taverns. Occasionally she lucked out and came upon a town in the midst of a local festival. Profits were always highest when the ale intake rose. It was a sad truth to know that her talents could only be appreciated by drunk men.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she lamented. “I’m supposed to be at the court of a king, singing ballads of his courage and valor! I’m supposed to have a special seat at the Royal Table where everyone stops to listen when I play! I am Tadalesh, the Bard!”
“Sing us a song then, if a bard ye truly be.”
Whirling, she beheld another traveler. She’d been so taken up in her dreams that she hadn’t heard the steady beat of hooves nor the clink of a sword’s hilt against ‘mail. He sat astride a horse blacker than the coal her father used to dig from the mines, which he’d reined in several steps away from her. The man stared down at her with black eyebrows raised in his tan face. He’d caught her so off-guard that now she could hardly choke out a syllable, let alone a song.
He laughed at her and leaned down over his horse’s neck to taunt her further.
“A tongue-tied bard? I never thought I’d see the day! I thought you all had greased tongues that never stopped working!”
“Insults will not persuade me to sing for you,” she replied.
“What will persuade you to sing for me, then, if you are what you claim to be?”
She licked her lips and retrieved Sédon from her pack again. The lovingly constructed harp was cradled against her shoulder. Its music was muted in the open but it made her spine tingle all the same as she played it. Tadalesh sang:
“O choice instrument of the smooth, gentle curve,
thou that criest under red fingers,
musician that hast enchanted us,
red harp, high-souled, perfect in melody.
“Thou that lurest the bird from the flock,
that coolest the heart,
brown, sweet-speaking speckled one,
fervent, wondrous, passionate.
“Thou healer of every wounded warrior,
charm that beguilest women,
familiar guide over the dark water,
music mystic and sweet.
“Thou favorite of the learned,
restless smooth one, sweetly musical,
red star over elfmounds,
breast-jewel of the High Kings.
“O sound of the beach against the gentle wave,
shadowy tree of true melody,
feasts are consumed beside thee,
O voice of the swan on bright streams.
“O cry of fairy women from the mound of Lear,
no music can match thine;
under thy guidance every house is sweet-stringed,
thou pinnacle of harp music.”
The man astride the horse nodded slightly.
“You have a nice voice and your harp, though crude, sounds well. The song though – it is not yours.”
“It is by a man named Ó Dálaigh.”
“I was hoping to hear some of your own work.”
“I’m afraid I must be getting along, now. Good day.”
He straightened in the saddle with an amused smirk on his face. With a gentle kick to his horse, he caught up with her and continued the beast along at a walking pace. The bard refused to acknowledge him.
“Perhaps you’re headed in the direction of Harper’s Well?” he asked. “I could give you a ride.”
“I thank you, sir, but I’m perfectly content to walk.”
Was it just him or did she clutch the harp tighter to her chest? Repressing a laugh, he spoke again.
“My name is Emmanuel Jordan,” he said. “I believe your name is Tadalesh.”
Her cheeks burned. The look she gave him was of pure fire.
“Are you quite finished?”
Emmanuel reined in the horse so tightly it side-stepped and tossed its head. He then laughed loudly and spurred the beast into a hard canter. Raising an arm in farewell, he became smaller and smaller as the road wore on. Tadalesh sighed with relief. When she looked down to Sédon and loosened her grip on him, she realized she’d broken one of his strings.
Cursing the day, she gingerly slid him into the pack bouncing against her thigh and trudged in the direction of Harper’s Well. Perhaps great things were awaiting her there. There was only one way to find out and if she wanted to live, she had to get there before nightfall.
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Thread: The Bard
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