The Seven Songs by T.A. Barron
A sudden gust of wind flapped the sleeves of my brown tunic. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone.
I stood there for a long while. Eventually, my stomach growled with hunger. I ignored it. Then, hearing it again, I bent down to retrieve the tuber I had discarded. I took another bite, thinking about Aylah, sister of the wind. At last, when I had finished it, I started walking—east, toward the Dark Hills.
All around me, the Rusted Plains rose and fell in great rolling waves. I shuffled along, dry grasses snapping beneath my feet. A soft wind blew against my back, cooling the heat of the sun, but it was not the wind that I wished for. And even more than Aylah’s company, I missed the feeling of joy in my task that I had only just regained—and lost once again. The Harp felt heavy on my shoulder.
Sometimes, as I walked, I touched the pouch of healing herbs that my mother had given to me just before we said farewell, in that dank room of stone in Caer Myrddin. I missed her more than ever. And I also knew that she missed me. If she were here, she would not desert me as the others had done. Yet she was as far away as the farthest wind.
As the golden sun dropped lower in the sky, I neared a scraggly group of trees planted in six or seven rows. Although I could see no fruit among the branches of the orchard, a few white flowers gleamed, wafting a familiar scent in my direction. Apple blossoms. I took a deep, flavorful breath. Yet it did little to lift my spirits. Perhaps playing the Harp, feeling again the joy of bringing new life to the land, would help.
I cradled the instrument in my arms. Then I hesitated, remembering my strange experience in the darkened meadow. Merely a fluke, I assured myself. Slowly, I drew my fingers across the strings. All at once, a luminous paintbrush swept across the trees and the grassy fields surrounding them. Apples burst from the branches, swelling to hefty size. Trunks thickened, roots multiplied. The trees lifted skyward, waving their fruited branches proudly. My chest swelled. Whatever had happened at the darkened meadow was certainly not a problem now.
Suddenly a voice cried out. A bare-chested boy, about my own age, fell out of one of the trees. He landed in an irrigation ditch that ran beneath the branches. Another shout rang out. I ran to the spot.
Out of the ditch clambered the boy, with hair and skin as brown as the soil. Then, to my surprise, another figure emerged, looking like an older, broader version of the boy. He was a man of the soil. He was a man I recognized.
Neither he nor the boy noticed me as I stood in the shadow of the apple tree. The shirtless man straightened his broad back and then clasped the boy by the shoulders. “Are you hurt, son?”
The boy rubbed his bruised ribs. “No.” He smiled shyly. “You made a good pillow.”
The man eyed him with amusement. “You don’t often fall out of branches.”
“The branches don’t often stand up and shake me out! And look, Papa! They’re loaded down with apples.”
The man gasped. Like the boy, he stared, jaw dangling, at the transformed trees. I too began to smile. This was the reaction that I had hoped to get from Rhia and the others—the reaction that I would have surely gotten from my mother. She had always delighted in the beauty and flavor of fresh apples.
“ ‘Tis a miracle, son. ‘Tis a gift from the great god Dagda himself.”
I stepped out of the shadows. “No, Honn. It is a gift from me.”
The man gave a start. He looked from me to the tree spreading above us, then back to me. At last he turned to his son. “It’s him! The lad I told you about.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “The one who crushed the evil king? Who calls himself after a hawk?”
“Merlin,” I declared, cuffing the boy on the shoulder. “Your father helped me once, when I badly needed it.”
Honn ran a hand through his hair, flecked with dirt. “Good gracious, lad. Until I heard the tales of your success, I had given you up for dead thrice over.”
Leaning on my twisted staff, I grinned. “With good reason. If it hadn’t been for that handy blade you gave me, I surely would have been dead thrice over.”
Rubbing his strong chin, Honn examined me for a moment. Below his bare chest he wore nothing but loose brown leggings. His hands, cracked and calloused though they were, looked as powerful as tree roots.
“I am glad the old dagger proved useful, my lad. Where is it now?”
“Somewhere in the ruins of the Shrouded Castle. It failed to slay a ghouliant, one of Stangmar’s deathless soldiers. But it did buy me a few precious seconds.”
“Of that I am glad.” His gaze moved to the magical instrument. “I see that you found the Flowering Harp.” He nudged the boy. “You see, my son, it was indeed a miracle! No mere mortal, not even one so talented as the young hawk here, could have done such a thing. It was the Harp, not the lad, that revived our orchard.”
I cringed, then started to speak. Before I could say anything, however, Honn continued.
“To my mind, son, all the Treasures of Fincayra are the stuff of miracles, wrought by Dagda himself.” In a quiet, almost reverent voice, he added, “There is even a plow, one of the Seven Wise Tools, that knows how to till its own field. Truly! It is said that any field it touches will yield the perfect harvest, neither too much nor too little.”
The boy shook his head in amazement. Waving toward the rickety wooden plow that lay beside the ditch, he laughed. “No chance of mistaking it for that one, Father! My back hurts just to watch whenever you pull it.”
Honn beamed. “Not so much as my own back hurts after you jump on me from a tree.”
The pair laughed together. Honn wrapped a burly arm around his son’s shoulder and turned to me, his face full of pride. “The truth is, I have a treasure of my own. My young friend here. And he’s more precious to me than an ocean full of miracles.”
I swallowed, running a finger over my mother’s leather satchel. I could smell its sweet herbs even over the aroma of ripe apples. “What would you do, Honn, if you ever lost that treasure? That friend?”
His face became as hard as stone. “Why, I’d do everything in my mortal power to get it back.”
“Even if it meant leaving your work unfinished?”
“No work could be more important than that.”
I nodded grimly. No work could be more important than that.
Stepping over the ditch, I started walking. When I reached the edge of the orchard, I paused to face the Dark Hills, glowing like coals in the setting sun. The long, thin shadow of my staff seemed to point straight at the notched hill where I had turned aside from my task.
Slowly, I swung around to the north. I would return to those hills, and to my task, before long. And then I would revive every last blade of grass I could find. First, however, I needed to do something else. I needed to find my own mother again. And, like Honn, I would do everything in my mortal power to succeed.
5: THE JESTER
Late the following day, as strands of golden light wove gleaming threads through the grasses of the Rusted Plains, I stood on the crest of a rise. Below me sat a cluster of mud brick houses, arranged in a rough circle. Their thatched roofs glowed as bright as the surrounding plains. Long wooden planks stretched between their walls, connecting the houses like the arms of young children standing in a ring. The aroma of grain roasting on a wood fire tickled my nose.
I felt rising anticipation—and an undercurrent of dread. For this was Caer Neithan, the Town of the Bards. I knew that the poet Cairpré had promised to come here following the Great Council, to help repair the damage inflicted by Stangmar. And I also knew that if there was one person in all of Fincayra who could help me find my mother, it was Cairpré himself.
He would not be pleased to see me again, with so much of my work still unfinished. Yet he, too, had known Elen of the Sapphire Eyes, having tutored her years ago. I believed that he, too, longed for her return. Hadn’t he once told me that he had learned more about the art of healing from her than she had ever learned from him? Maybe, just maybe, he might know some way to bring he
I descended the slope, my staff striking the crusty soil in time to the Harp thumping against my back. Listening to the swelling sounds of the village, I could not forget the eerie silence that had shrouded it during my last visit. A silence that had been, in its way, louder than a thundering tempest.
Indeed, the Town of the Bards had only rarely known silence. No settlement in Fincayra possessed a richer history of story and song. For over the ages it had been home to many of this land’s most inspired storytellers, and had witnessed many of their first performances. Even Cairpré himself, whose fame as a poet I had learned about only from others, had been born in one of those mud brick houses.
As I drew nearer to the village gates, which gleamed with golden light, more people started to emerge from their doors. Clad in long tunics of white cloth, they stood out sharply against the dry, caked mud of their homes, the dark planks of wood connecting the buildings, and the empty flower boxes clinging to most windowsills. I reached for the Harp, tempted to fill those flower boxes with something more than shadows. But I caught myself, deciding to wait before announcing my arrival.
More and more people emerged. They looked strikingly different from one another in skin color, age, hair, shape, and size. Yet they shared one common characteristic, in addition to their white tunics. All of them seemed hesitant, uncertain about something. Instead of congregating in the open circle in the middle of the houses, they kept to the outer edge. A few stood by their doorways, pacing anxiously, but most sat down on the wooden planks that ringed the open area. They seemed to be gathering for some purpose, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something grudging about their actions.
At that moment, a tall, gaunt fellow, wearing a brown cloak over his tunic, stepped into the center of the ring. Upon his head rested an odd, three-cornered hat that tilted precariously to one side like someone who had drunk too much wine. Dozens of gleaming metal spheres dangled from the hat’s rim. The man began waving his long, spidery arms, flapping his loose sleeves, while bellowing some words I could not quite make out.
At once I understood the circular arrangement of the houses. The whole town was a theater! And I had arrived in time for some sort of performance.
As I reached the village gates, I halted. Unlike the last time I was here, no guard met me with a spear aimed at my chest. Instead, my greeting came from a newly carved sign attached to one of the gateposts. Shining in the late afternoon light, it read, Caer Neithan, Town of the Bards, welcomes all who come in peace. Below those words, I recognized one of Cairpré’s own couplets: Here song is ever in the air, while story climbs the spiral stair.
No sooner had I stepped inside the gates when a slender, shaggy-haired man jumped up from one of the planks and strode over. His tangled brows, as unruly as brambles, hung over his dark eyes. I waited for him, leaning against my staff.
“Hello, Cairpré.”
“Merlin,” he whispered, spreading his arms as if he were about to clap his hands with joy. Then, glancing over his shoulder at the gaunt man who was reciting some passage, he apparently changed his mind about clapping. “Good to see you, my boy.”
I nodded, realizing that he must have assumed that my work in the Dark Hills was done. It would not be easy to tell him the truth.
Again he glanced at the man reciting, and at the somber, almost tearful faces of the people in the audience. “I am only sorry you didn’t arrive for a happier performance.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I whispered. “From all those sullen faces, it appears that fellow has a gift for making people feel sad. What is he reciting? Some sort of tragic poem?”
Cairpré’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Unfortunately not.” He shook his shaggy mane. “Believe it or not, the poor fellow is trying to be funny.”
“Funny?”
“That’s right.”
Just then a clamorous clinking and rattling reached my ears. I turned back to the performer to see him shaking his head wildly, tossing his pointed hat from side to side. The sound came from the metal spheres. They were bells! Of course, I thought. Just right for making people laugh. Too bad they sounded so jarring, more like banging swords than ringing bells.
I observed the man for a moment. His hands drooped, his shoulders sagged, and his back stooped. In addition, his entire face—including his brow, his eyes, and his mouth—seemed to frown. The effect was compounded because, despite his thin frame, he had a flabby neck with row upon row of extra chins. So when his mouth turned down once, it turned down five or six times.
Suddenly he drew his heavy cloak around himself as if he were about to deliver a speech. Then, in sad, slow tones, he started to sing—or, more accurately, to wail. His voice seemed to cry, his breathing came like sobs. Like Cairpré, and most of the villagers, I winced. The man may have been trying to be funny, but his singing conveyed all the joy of a funeral dirge.
When bells reach your ears,
Abandon all fears!
Your lingering sadness
Will turn into gladness.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
I frolic and skip
With laughs on my lip!
My bells jingle sweetly,
I thrill you completely.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
As the wailing continued, I turned to Cairpré. “Doesn’t he know how he sounds? He is the least funny person I have ever heard.”
The poet heaved a sigh. “I think he does know. But he keeps on trying anyway. His name is Bumbelwy. Ever since he was a child, when he first frightened away the birds with his singing, he has dreamed of being a jester. Not just an amusing frolicker, but a true jester, someone who practices the high art of dressing wisdom in the garb of humor. Bumbelwy the Mirthful, he calls himself.”
“Bumbelwy the Painful suits him better.”
“I know, I know. As I’ve said before, Bread yearns to rise beyond its size.”
The townspeople, meanwhile, seemed every bit as dismal as Bumbelwy himself. Many held their heads in their hands; all wore scowls. One young girl shook loose of a woman’s arms and ran into a nearby house, her black hair streaming behind her. While the woman stayed in her seat, she looked as if she envied the girl.
I turned back to Cairpré, scowling myself. “Why does anyone listen to him?”
“One of his, ah, humorous recitals, as he calls them, can ruin your next three meals. But like every other resident of Caer Neithan, he gets to perform in the village circle each year on the date of his birth.” Cairpré shook his head. “And the rest of us have to listen. Even those like me who don’t live here but are unlucky enough to be here on the wrong day.”
He waved at the village circle, his voice no longer a whisper. “To think of all the truly memorable performances this same spot has seen! Night Hammer. The Vessel of Illusion. Geraint’s Vow.”
Swiveling, he gestured toward one of the smaller, older-looking houses. “Pwyll, whose despairing smile itself inspired volumes of poems, wrote her first poem there.” He pointed to a low house with a wooden porch. “Laon the Lame was born there. And let’s not forget Banja. Jussiva the Jubilant. Ziffian. They all called this town home. As have so many other fabled bards.”
Again I peered at Bumbelwy, whose long arms flailed as he droned on. “The only place he will ever be a jester is in his dreams.”
Cairpré nodded grimly. “All of us have our private dreams. But few of us cling to dreams so far removed from our true capabilities! In days long past, Bumbelwy might have been saved by one of the Treasures of Fincayra, the magical horn known as the Caller of Dreams. Think of it, Merlin. The Caller, when blown by someone immensely wise, could bring a person’s most cherished dream to life. Even a dream as far-fetched as Bumbelwy’s. That is why it was often called, in story and
Lines deeper than the scars on my own face appeared on Cairpré’s brow. I knew that he was remembering how Rhita Gawr had perverted the magic of the Caller of Dreams to bring only evil tidings to life. In the case of this very village, he had brought about the most terrifying dream of any poet, bard, or musician: He had silenced completely the voices of all who dwelled here, rendering useless the very instruments of their souls. That was why the Town of Bards had been as quiet as a graveyard when I last came here. Cairpré’s tormented expression told me that, while the curse itself had departed with the collapse of the Shrouded Castle, its memory lived on.
The bells on Bumbelwy’s hat started jangling again, louder than before. If I had not been holding my staff, I would have covered my ears. Nudging Cairpré, I asked, “Why don’t you try the Caller of Dreams on him yourself?”
“I couldn’t”
“Why not?”
“First of all, my boy, I’m not about to try to take anything—certainly not one of the Treasures—from the Grand Elusa’s cave where they now reside. I’ll leave that to someone much braver. Or stupider. But that isn’t the main reason. The fact is, I am not wise enough to use the Caller.”
I blinked in surprise. “Not wise enough? Why, the poet Cairpré is known throughout the land as—”
“As a rhymer, a quoter, an idealistic fool,” he finished. “Have no illusions, I brim with confusions. But at least I am wise enough to know one important thing: how little I really do know.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen your library. All those books! You can’t tell me you don’t know anything.”
“I didn’t say I don’t know anything, my boy. I said I don’t know enough. There’s a difference. And to think that I could command the legendary Caller of Dreams—well, that would be a terrible act of hubris.”
“Hubris?”
“From the Greek word hybris, meaning arrogance. Excessive pride in oneself. It’s a flaw that has felled many a great person.” His voice dropped again to a whisper. “Including, I am told, your own grandfather.”