Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  “Count on it,” Harper replied, disentangling himself. He picked up his pack and stood there for a moment. Realizing that there was nothing else to say, he lifted a hand and said, “Good music, Cricket.”

  Cricket imitated his master’s gesture and tone. “Good music, Harper.” He watched his master walk across the yard and through the gate, and then off into the world. He never saw him again.

  Chapter 3: Change

  When midwinter passed with no sign of Harper, Aillel summoned Cricket to his chambers. The chieftain’s hair had turned almost completely white, and new wrinkles radiated from his mouth and eyes.

  “Harper and I feared this,” he said without preamble. “We have fought time and chance for so long...” He turned to look out at the grey winter sky. “I would like you to play for the dun, Cricket. It’s your choice, of course, but it would please me greatly if you said yes.”

  “Chieftain,” Cricket said, “it is I who should be asking you.”

  Aillel turned and smiled sadly. “He taught you well, didn’t he? Very well, my young harpist, I grant you permission to play for my people.”

  Cricket bowed awkwardly. “I accept your kindness with gratitude, and will do my best to serve well.”

  “Thank you. And Cricket...?”

  “Yes, Chieftain?”

  Aillel clasped his hands in front of him and looked away. “Nothing, lad. Nothing.”

  Cricket did his best for the dun that winter, and spent the summer in the fields working out his quiet grief. He volunteered for anything that required sweat and toil. The farmers of the dun allowed him to struggle under his burdens, with the understanding of men who watch the cycle of life played out every season.

  The summer passed into autumn, and Cricket felt a desperate hope arise. He watched the gate and listened to the wind, but neither brought any sign of his mentor. He kept up a vigil in the tree beside the gate, only coming down when it grew too dark to see. Samhain came with the lighting of the winter fires, and the snows came soon after, and still Cricket trudged out every morning to shimmy up into the bare branches. Aillel, fearing for the thin boy’s health, finally ordered him to stop.

  The winter season lost most of its magic from then on. Cricket still had the music, teasing forth remembered tunes and tales to while away the cold nights. He wrapped his loneliness in thick walls and presented a brave front to the world, but the hollowness remained.

  The next summer, Aillel left for the Cechre fair just after Beltain like he normally did, but when he returned he had a young man with him who wore only a plain brown robe with no cloak. That night, when the dun gathered in the hall for dinner, Aillel introduced him as Brother Eochaid. “He will be with us from now on,” the chieftain said. “He will teach the children, and will tend to our souls.”

  The adults muttered amongst themselves; they had never had much religion before, so why did they need it now? The children speculated how easy it might be to get out of lessons.

  Brother Eochaid seemed embarrassed by the commotion he had caused. “I just hope to serve the Creator by serving the dun,” he said. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say more, but sat down abruptly instead.

  Cricket watched with interest for the rest of the summer as Brother Eochaid integrated himself in the tiny community. Instead of the drastic changes that the people had expected, the priest influenced the day to day routines only subtly: Aillel prayed before the evening meal, and simple services were conducted on the Sabbath, but much to everyone’s surprise, the lack of an ordained cleric for so long had not turned them into complete heathens. Even more surprising for Cricket was when Brother Eochaid became a friend.

  It happened rather suddenly. They had talked often before, but only as two men who knew each other’s names; Cricket had always been somewhat reserved, unsure of how to act. One evening, however, the priest came up to him just after he had finished playing for the night. “You know,” he said, “Taliesin was a priest before he founded the Bardic order.” Cricket did not know what to say, and Brother Eochaid nodded at the boy’s silence and walked away.

  Cricket pondered the priest’s words for several days, retreating into the rocky hills to reflect. He thought of the sermons that the priest had given, and compared them to the Bardic code, quickly recognizing the similarity. He wondered if that was why bards could conduct marriages, and generally had other privileges associated with the religious orders.

  He returned to the dun and asked Eochaid about it. “It’s true,” the priest said as they sat on a stone fence. “Bards were always meant to be an extension of the church, even though that has changed in the past couple of centuries.”

  “Harper said that things changed after Gwydion died,” Cricket said.

  Eochaid scratched his head. “I guess that’s when it started,” he said, “But the biggest changes have happened in the last sixty or seventy years.”

  “I thought that change was a good thing.”

  “It can be,” Eochaid said. “I know that the church must constantly learn how to deal with new problems, but I think it has changed for the better, growing stronger and better able to serve the people. I don’t know that the same is true for the Academy. But not every bard is happy with the way things are; in fact, twenty years ago, the Pen Bardd, Declan MacConn, tried to get the Academy back in line. But he was fighting a losing battle, and he was forced to resign.”

  “So the bards are as bad as ever.”

  “Only as a group.”

  Cricket kicked the wall with his heels. “Why do people have to corrupt everything they touch?”

  “You know very well that left alone, people drift away from the Creator,” Eochaid said gently.

  “But that doesn’t mean it should happen.”

  “No, and that’s what the church is for: to teach people how to resist evil and do good.”

  After that day, Cricket and Eochaid shared a couple of afternoons every week just talking, telling each other stories both religious and secular. Although he could never replace Harper in the boy’s heart, Eochaid found his own place there, and Cricket’s sorrow eased somewhat for it.

  The spring after he turned seventeen, just after Beltain, Aillel summoned him. “Cricket,” he said. “Do you enjoy playing for us here in the dun?”

  “Very much,” the boy answered honestly. “I enjoy it more than anything in the world.”

  “And you’re happy here?”

  Cricket spread his hands. “This is my home,” he said simply.

  Aillel nodded. “I thank you for your love, but I want to give you something.” He picked up a parchment from his desk and handed it to the boy.

  Cricket read it with confusion. “Who is Duncan?” he asked.

  “A teacher of crossains in Taris.”

  “But this is a letter of introduction and request for patronage...” Cricket’s eyes widened. “You’re sending me to Taris.”

  Aillel grimaced. “Don’t make it sound like a condemnation, lad. As in all things, you do have a choice, you know.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Chieftain.”

  The old man smiled sadly. “You are a man now, and men need to learn and grow beyond what they knew as a child,” he explained. “Ours is not a rich dun, Cricket, but if it was, I would give you gold and silver for the joy you’ve brought to us, and gladly. Then you would have the means to choose whatever you liked. But since I have little to reward you with, and Duncan owes me a favor from long ago, I thought you might allow me to give you this much at least.”

  Cricket looked at the parchment in his hands. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “This dun is all I know. I don’t know if I’m good enough for more.”

  “You need some ambition, lad,” Aillel said. “You could be a bard if we could figure out how to get you into the Academy. As it is, you shouldn’t limit yourself to playing for a dun that is so far out of the way that the rest of Glencairck has forgotten it exists.”

  “But I love it here.”

/>   “And we love you. But a man must change in order to grow.” Aillel shook his head sadly. “Don’t stay here because you’re afraid to try something different or you’ll shrivel up and die.”

  Cricket handed the letter back. “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course.”

  Cricket wandered out of the gate and across the fields that had just been sown, filling his head with the smell of rich, fresh soil. He clambered over the stiles until he approached the border of the dun, where limestone boulders lazily pushed their way into mountains. He climbed until he could look back and see the entire dun stretched out before him, with the palisade on the hill surrounded by the patchwork fields, and the single road that ended at the gate.

  But now he had been given a chance to explore the other end of that road. Somewhere, to the north and west, Taris sat in the center of Glencairck, the keystone of the country. He wondered if he could take the steps that would carry him there.

  He pulled out his mother’s flute and sighed out a tune. It began as just bird song, but turned into “The Three Queens of Glencairck”, the story of the goddesses who gave the country to the children of men as a gift from the Creator.

  The wind moaned around him, setting up strange harmonies that raised his hair on end, but he could not stop. His vision seemed to expand until he could see from the Western Ocean to the Corialus Sea in the east, from the rocky shores of Cairnecht in the south to the jagged mountains in the north of Duvnecht. Like a gull, he wheeled above the land, seeing priests sing vespers in Airu and salmon jump in the Lannae River where it passed under the ramparts of Taris. Faerie mounds and cairns huddled on their secrets, and below it all, the secret songs of the land teased him with half familiar melodies.

  The song ended, and he returned to himself in a rush. He lowered the flute from his lips; his heart raced, but the stonewalled fields still lay under the blue sky and nothing had changed. Except that the road now beckoned him, rousing his curiosity from its hibernation.

  He stood up, dusted himself off, and made his way down the hill. He didn’t have much to do before he could leave, and there was no sense putting it off.

  By the end of the first day of walking, Cricket’s feet ached and his back hurt from Anlynna’s case and the pack that Aillel had given him that morning. He had passed two duns and figured he was making good time, but just sitting down felt better than anything he had ever known.

  After he rested for a few minutes, he retreated from the road a little ways, setting up his camp in a copse of young evergreens. The needles made a cushion that felt softer than down to his aching body, and after a hurried meal of bread and cheese, Cricket fell asleep.

  He woke with the sun, momentarily confused. When he tried to sit up, the day before came back in a rush of stiff muscles. He groaned at the prospect of walking another day, but got up anyway and faced the road squarely if not steadily. Ten days of walking, Aillel had said, and then Brother Eochaid had blessed him. Remembering the promises made, both spoken and implied, Cricket swallowed his fear and put one foot ahead of the other until the sun warmed the ache out of his body.

  Seven days later, he approached an inn at a crossroads about the time that he felt like stopping for the evening. He had camped out every night since leaving the dun, and he suddenly desired human contact. Making sure that the small purse Aillel had given him was still behind his belt, he made his decision.

  Walking in the door, the smell of warm food almost bowled him over. He started making his way towards the table when a fat man wearing a greasy apron stepped in front of him. “You’re awfully young to be carrying a harp.”

  Cricket stepped back a pace, not knowing what to say.

  “Well, do you play?”

  “Yes,” the boy answered.

  “Alright,” the innkeeper said, “if you’ll entertain tonight, I will give you a bowl of stew and a place to sleep in the hay loft.”

  “Thank you, master,” Cricket said. “I don’t wish to offend, but may I have the stew first?”

  “After I’m satisfied that you know how to play.”

  Cricket looked around. “Is there someplace I should sit?”

  “Next to the fire,” the fat man said. “Are you sure you know how to play?”

  “I’m sure,” Cricket said. “I just haven’t played for strangers before.”

  “Going to Taris?” the innkeeper grunted.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “We get a few of you every season. Just haven’t seen any of you in a while, that’s why I didn’t think of it. Well, go on, show me what you can do.”

  Cricket took the small stool beside the fire, tuning Anlynna quickly before playing “Old Hathgen’s Reel”. The innkeeper listened closely, tapping his foot along.

  “Not bad,” the innkeeper said. “Do you know more?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Well, don’t do anything that might cause a brawl, and don’t do anything that might put the patrons to sleep. You’ll get your stew in an hour.”

  Cricket clamped down on the rumbling of his stomach. “Thank you.”

  The innkeeper said, “You really haven’t done this before, have you?”

  “Master?” Cricket asked, confused.

  “Put your case in front of you, boy. The patrons won’t throw you any money otherwise.”

  Cricket did as he was told, although the whole idea bemused him somewhat. Getting paid for his music, although he had heard of it, seemed as alien as getting paid for breathing.

  Three hours and a bowl of hot, thick stew later, Cricket still sat by the hearth, playing the same dance songs he had played for the dun. But the faces in the crowd were unfamiliar, so every melody felt somewhat wistful, no matter how rollicking the notes. The patrons sang and danced along, but without the normal abandon; eyes turned inward and thoughts turned towards home. When Cricket gave into his mood and played a slower, sadder song, sighs accompanied the coins that fell in his case.

  The inn door banged open, spoiling the mood. “What’s this?” demanded the newcomer. “This feels like a cemetery, not a tavern! Innkeep, let me take a turn at the hearth.”

  After a hesitant glance at Cricket, the innkeeper nodded. The stranger, dressed in scarlet and green, strode to the stool where Cricket was gathering his things. “Oh, a mere child has been playing! Well, my thanks little one, but a full-fledged crossain is here, so your chores are finished.” He hooked the stool with his foot and slung it around, knocking Cricket off balance and scattering his pennies across the floor. “Scoop them up quick, boy,” the crossain advised. “You might not see another coin for weeks.”

  Cricket felt on the verge of tears as he tried to gather his coins. The crossain started playing, a harsh song that grated on the nerves, and the man’s whole demeanor made Cricket want to punch him. But he was scared more than anything, and as soon as the money was safely tucked behind his belt, he scrambled for the door.

  The innkeeper blocked his path. “Not in the stable, boy.”

  “But—but you said—” Cricket stammered.

  “I know what I said, but that’s where the crossain will sleep.” He clamped one huge hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Sinking deeper in misery, Cricket did not notice where they were going until the smell of roast meat hit him like a mallet. He looked up to the warm glow of the bustling kitchen, and then to the innkeeper in surprise.

  The man said, “You gave a good accounting of yourself, lad. A little unpolished, perhaps, but you did not drive the custom away, and you didn’t rile them to anger, either. I’ll be breaking up fights before long with that crossain out there.”

  Overwhelmed, Cricket simply said, “Thank you.”

  “And thank you. Fill your belly, and sleep by the fire tonight. Granya! Get this lad a bowl, and treat him right. He’ll be a bard someday.”

  The ample woman took one look at Cricket and declared, “There’s not enough meat under this roof to
fatten you, but we’ll do what we can. Sit, boy, and stop staring.”

  “Yes’m,” he said, sitting at the long trestle table that dominated the room. Granya plunked a bowl of stew in front of him.

  “Eat up, and just ask if you want more. And don’t flirt with my girls, either. They get their bottoms pinched enough, mind.”

  “Yes’m, I mean, no’m,” Cricket stammered. He took a deep breath and said: “Thank you, cook Granya, and I will do as you say.”

  “Respectful. I like that,” Granya said, and turned back to her pots.

  The stew spread a welcome warmth throughout Cricket’s body, and he finished it quickly. He ate two more, and after sopping up the last drops with a loaf end, he moved out of the women’s way, taking a stool beside the fire. Granya gestured to the pot she was stirring, but left him alone at the shake of his head.

  The crossain’s music, loud and raucous, followed the serving girls into the kitchen. They looked harried and worn, so Cricket pulled Anlynna out of her case and played for them. He took the rhythm from Granya’s pot stirring, and played a bright and cheerful little melody to go around it. He watched closely to see if anyone would mind, but Granya smiled brightly at him, so he bent his head to the music.

  He played the songs of the dun, when the men worked in the fields and sang to help themselves along. His mind raced ahead, transposing the tenors and baritones into a brighter key, and providing a counterpoint more like a jig than the farmers had ever dreamed of. His fingers danced along the strings, and the serving girls danced their way back into the riotous crowd.

  He lost all sense of time and place until Granya touched his shoulder. “Thank you, lad,” she said, and he looked up to find all the serving girls clustered around the table, watching him. “The inn has finally settled down for the night. You should get some sleep, too.”

  “Thank you, Granya. The stew was wonderful.”

  “Tut,” she replied. “And you girls. Off with you! I know you’ve fallen in love with our little harper, but you all have to be up in a few hours to help me bake.”