Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  The crossain took a swallow of beer. “This next tune comes from Master Duncan,” he said, “who only improves with age.”

  The first chord froze Cricket’s blood, and he listened in disbelief as the crossain played a simplified version of “The Lily and the Oak”. Disbelief gave way to anger, and anger to cold certainty. He left the tavern and walked slowly back to the hall, organizing his thoughts along the way. Stopping only long enough to be sick in the privy, he hurried to the loft and composed his first satire, “The Master and the Cricket”.

  Asael and Leann stayed at the White Owl for the week, staying out of sight for the most part. Cricket used the time to spread his song around Taris, playing it on the streets, in taverns, and once even in the hall itself. Five days after he began, Hoyle tracked him down. “I don’t know what you did, boy,” the servant said as he led the way back to Duncan’s office, “but the master looks angrier than slapped hornet.”

  “It’s nothing,” Cricket said coldly.

  As soon as Hoyle closed the office door, Duncan said, “How dare you?”

  “Me?” asked Cricket. “All I did was sing a song.”

  Duncan’s face turned red. “Don’t play games with me, boy. Your song has people pointing at me and whispering.”

  “As I see it, you brought it on yourself,” Cricket answered. “You took my song and called it your own. That’s theft.”

  “You are my student. That means whatever you write becomes mine.”

  “For your own gain? To make you look good in front of others? I think not. Master.”

  “What do you know, boy? I taught you everything.” The bald pate had become as red as his face.

  “Wrong again. I was taught by another who told me how to defend myself against the likes of you.”

  “Retract the song!” Duncan shouted.

  “Not without my due,” Cricket answered.

  With a roar, Duncan lunged from behind the desk. He tackled Cricket, knocking him to the floor, pummeling him with heavy fists. Taken by surprise, the boy curled into a ball, protecting his head as best he could. Duncan beat and kicked him, cursing the whole time. Time retreated into constant pain. Cricket thought he felt something snap in his side, but it seemed distant somehow, like it belonged to someone else.

  The beating finally stopped. Cricket felt himself lifted and dragged through the hall. Cold air hit him in the face like a knife, and then the world spun sickeningly as he was thrown into a dirty pile of snow. His harp followed a few moments later, smashed and jangling.

  Cricket couldn’t focus his eyes. He could taste the blood in his mouth, but had no idea where it was coming from: his head? His nose? He crawled over to Anlynna and scooped the ruins close to his chest.

  If he could just make it to the White Owl, everything would be better. There was food, fire, and friends there. Friends who loved him. Who would take care of him. Just a half mile or so, not very far, really. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled to the end of the alley, and passed out from the pain.

  Eons passed, and strong hands lifted him off the ground. They tried to pry Anlynna from his fingers, but he wouldn’t let go. Two men, it sounded like, two strong men who wrapped him in blankets and made him comfortable in the back of some kind of wagon. He tried to sit up and figure out where they were taking him, but the world remained blurry and his ears rang. He sank back into a dream where fire raged uncontrollably.

  Chapter 8: Trial

  Cricket woke up when the fire in his joints retreated. He tried to look around at the unfamiliar room, but the effort made him dizzy. “Where am I?” he croaked.

  A young boy jumped up. “Your pardon, master. I didn’t know you were awake.”

  Cricket tried to shake his head, but it hurt too much. “Water?” he whispered.

  The boy brought a cup, holding it while Cricket drank. Half of it spilled down his chin, but he didn’t care. “Thank you,” he sighed.

  “You’re welcome. Do you need anything else?”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Then with your permission, I’ll be right back.”

  He tried to wave the boy away, but his hand was too heavy. “Go,” he said.

  He heard the boy leave, but drifted in a half doze until the door opened again.

  “You are a very fortunate boy,” said the man who sat down at the bedside. A big man in plain clothes and a six colored cloak, he had thick brown hair and a moustache flecked with grey.

  “Do I know you?” Cricket asked. “You look familiar.”

  “Probably not personally. My name is Ewan MacDougall.”

  Cricket closed his eyes to shut out the presence of the Pen Bardd. “I’m sorry master,” he said. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Nonsense. I brought you here myself. Rest for now; you still look horrible.” He stood to go.

  “Master?” Cricket asked suddenly. “If you brought me here, what about my harp, Anlynna? Did you bring her too?”

  “I’m sorry,” the Pen Bardd said softly. “We saved you, but the harp was beyond repair. I want you to know, though, that we did try.”

  Cricket felt the tears well up. “Thank you. I know it’s not my place, but...”

  “What can I do for you, Cricket?”

  “May I have a flute? Any old one would do.”

  “You shall have one directly. But for now, rest.”

  Alone again, Cricket cried some more, feeling his memories burn like the tears on his cheeks. In the end, though, sleep returned, bringing at least a momentary peace.

  Ewan MacDougall came back the next morning, bringing Cricket a flute made of simple, dark wood. Cricket accepted it with thanks.

  “I would do more,” the Pen Bardd said, “especially as one musician to another, but it is forbidden for now.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cricket said. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Where is here?”

  The Pen Bardd shifted slightly, and his whole demeanor changed from casual to official. “Cricket, formerly an apprentice of the Crossain Duncan, you have been charged with slander against your former master.”

  “What? But I never—”

  Ewan held up a hand, silencing the protests. “You are not a bard, therefore, your satire is not allowed to stand unanswered. As soon as you are healthy enough, I am required to conduct an inquiry. Her majesty, Queen Elhonna, will preside.”

  Very quietly, Cricket asked, “Where am I?”

  “In the Academy, near the heart of the palace.”

  “A prisoner.”

  “You are not allowed to leave, no.”

  Cricket turned his face to the wall. “Duncan is a powerful man, with many powerful friends, and I am no one. What chance do I have?”

  Ewan asked, “Do you doubt the judgment of the Pen Bardd?”

  “No, but in the end, it will be my word against his.”

  “Wrong. In the end it will be your song against his. This trial is about music, Cricket, and the heart of it will be a performance. Nine leading bards, all of them ollam, plus myself and the queen will judge the truth by the songs that you and Duncan compose.”

  “May I play the flute?”

  “The songs are to be harped and sung, in the bardic manner.”

  “I can’t. Anlynna is gone, and my voice—Duncan is an excellent singer, and this illness has made mine is more like my name: a cricket’s chirp.”

  “I know you may not believe it, but the truth will win.”

  Cricket lost his energy to argue. “I’ll need a new harp.”

  “You’ll have one. Today, if you feel up to it.”

  “Why not? I might as well get started.”

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  “My friends. Could they visit me?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Could I contact them at all?”

  “Not until after the trial.”

  “But Duncan is a free man.”

  Ewan smiled. “That would hardly be fair, would it? No, he�
��s here as well, working on his own song.”

  After the Pen Bardd left, Cricket put the flute to his lips. He played almost randomly, but soon the song became a dirge. The pain in his side added to the sadness and made it difficult to play, but he continued until his exhaustion forced him to stop.

  They brought him a harp the next morning, a simple instrument, although someone had carved the name “Dawn Singer” rather crudely down the side. He plucked at the strings, trying to feel for the real name, but the sounds offered nothing.

  Cricket had poured his soul into the flute, mourning Anlynna. His new harp sounded like a spoiled child, and he would have to play for the queen. He set “Dawn Singer” aside and cried.

  The memory of Harper’s voice shook him out of his despair. “Titles are meaningless,” the old man had said. “The crossain who does his best has every right to be as proud as the Pen Bardd, and the bard who doesn’t care should not be allowed to touch a harp.”

  “But I don’t know how to do my best,” Cricket whispered to the empty room. “I don’t have any ideas at all.” He thought about what might please the Queen. A ballad? But why not a jig? Maybe a march, or a sword dance. He felt the despair coming back, and in desperation he thought of Asael and Leann.

  The loneliness and longing for his friends almost overwhelmed him. He realized that he had avoided thinking about them the few days before his confrontation with Duncan, and he flushed with guilt and shame to think that it might have been because he was jealous of them. But they were his family now, all that he had, and the emotions that thinking about them stirred up demanded action, a release of some sort. He picked up “Dawn Singer” and began to play.

  Ewan came in the next morning. “When do you think you might be ready?” he asked.

  “As soon as you like,” Cricket said. “I’ll need some assistance walking, but otherwise, I am ready.”

  Two junior bards came in the next morning and helped Cricket hobble through the halls of the Academy. Normally he would have been very interested, but he kept his eyes ahead and his face impassive.

  The Bardic Hall had been formed in the shape of a bowl, with seats rising steeply on all sides and a dome overhead enameled with a mosaic of the star of the bards. The floor of the hall had been split into two platforms, one with two chairs, the other with nine and a throne. The hall had already filled with people from all over Taris, including a red-headed fiddler and a dark haired singer.

  They waved and called out his name, but Cricket made a gesture that let Asael know that silence was required. Leann obviously wasn’t happy, but she settled down at his urging.

  The bards led Cricket to the left-hand seat across from the throne. Duncan came in a few moments later, avoiding looking at Cricket, and sat in the right-hand seat.

  A herald called out, “Her Majesty, Elhonna, Queen of Glencairck, Lady of Taris, and Sovereign of the Seven Isles!” Everyone in the hall rose and stood in respectful silence as Elhonna entered, trailed by the Pen Bardd and nine ollam. Filing onto the dais, they sat down and the audience followed suit. Only Ewan MacDougall remained standing.

  He struck his staff twice on the floor. “Let all Taris know,” he intoned, “that we are gathered here today to judge the following men: Duncan, master Crossain, and Cricket, his former pupil. The charges are as follows: Duncan accuses Cricket of slander and blackmail in the form of satire. Cricket accuses Duncan of plagiarism, bodily injury, and destruction of property.” He struck his staff twice more. “The trial has begun.”

  A junior bard approached from the side. “The facts as known are these: Cricket has studied with master Duncan for two years and a season; one month past, Duncan presented a new song; one fortnight later, Cricket spread a satire on Master Duncan; three days later, Cricket was found beaten in the street with his harp destroyed. Does either man oppose these facts?”

  Both men said, “Nay.”

  The Pen Bardd struck his staff once. “We will now hear witnesses. If you know either man, please stand, state your name, and your opinion of the accused’s character. May I remind you all that decorum is expected; angered remarks or denunciations will be cause for removal. Begin.”

  The first man to stand, dressed in gold trimmed green velvet, said, “I am Collin, Lord of Cantref Jaryd. I have known Duncan many years, and he is a man of honor.”

  Cricket’s heart sank as the witnesses continued: noble men, powerful merchants, and men of distinction all voiced their opinion of Duncan’s honesty. The only people who stood for Cricket were Asael, Leann, and Byrn, who had come in during the introductory remarks.

  The Pen Bardd struck his staff again. “Will any others speak?”

  In the front row, Hoyle stood stiffly to his feet. “I have served Master Duncan for ten years,” he said. “I hereby claim that Cricket is an honorable man completely without guile.”

  Ewan MacDougall pounded the floor with his staff until the gasps and whispers ceased. “We have heard from Taris,” he said. “We will now allow each defendant leave to proclaim their innocence with one original song. Master Duncan, you may proceed.”

  The crossain struck his opening chords, strong and sure. He sang a war song full of encouragement to honor and glory. He equated the queen with an avenging angel, and the bards with the foundation of the land. His voice rang with patriotism, his music pure and sweet. Cricket wondered suddenly at the course he had chosen; he stroked the harp in his hands and waited.

  The crowd responded with applause and cheering at the end of Duncan’s song. The queen even smiled, and gestured for the Pen Bardd to continue.

  Ewan MacDougall pounded his staff until the hall felt silent again. “Cricket, you may now play.”

  Cricket glanced at the smug and confident expression on Duncan’s face. He looked at the harp in his hands, a stranger he was expected to touch intimately after the death of his lover.

  “Cricket,” the Pen Bardd said. “You must play, or forfeit your claim.”

  The young musician looked into the stands. Asael and Leann held hands tightly, a look of deep concern on their faces. Byrn looked as defeated as Cricket felt. And Hoyle, the man nobody liked, who had almost certainly sacrificed all he had owned for his one friend, looked outraged.

  The Pen Bardd had just lifted his staff when Cricket said, “Very well.”

  He touched the strings softly, drawing forth the tune that had nestled against his heart. He forgot about Duncan, forgot about failing, forgot about everything but the music. He offered to the queen, to Taris, and to the world his love for his friends. He could feel their tears, joyful and proud, and when he had finished, he felt comfortable with the fact that he had done his best.

  For a moment, the crowd sat it stunned silence. Then it erupted, spilling over with applause and cheers.

  The Pen Bardd looked at the ollam, who conferred amongst themselves for a moment before their spokesman nodded. The Queen also nodded, so he called the hall to order and announced, “Silence while the verdict is rendered.”

  The lead ollave stood. “We have agreed unanimously that Cricket, formerly of Duncan’s hall, has proved his case.”

  All eyes turned to the queen, who stood slowly. “It grieves me that this has happened,” she said. “Taris has a reputation as a musician’s haven, and yet this case is brought before us. When I first heard the story, I thought that a young man had come to our fair city, perhaps unscrupulous, perhaps unaware of the consequences his actions would have, and sang a satire accusing a well-respected crossain of thievery. Imagine my horror, and my shame, to discover that the young man has told nothing but the truth. Master Duncan, we find you guilty.”

  Ewan MacDougall struck his staff. “Judgment is pronounced. Now I, by my right as the head of the Bards of Glencairck, and by extension, all honest musicians, deliver this punishment: Duncan, you are hereby required to pay Cricket damages equal to five hundred gold griffins, and furnish him with the harp of his choosing. You are also to be banished from Taris, never to return on p
ain of death. Do you understand?”

  Grey with fear, Duncan could only nod.

  The queen stood again. “By your leave, Pen Bardd, I would add somewhat to this.”

  Ewan frowned, but nodded.

  The queen looked around the hall. “You have heard this man, Cricket, play. Would any gainsay his talent?” The crowd rumbled out a negative. “Then as a reward for both his talent and his integrity, I would like to sponsor his admittance into the Bardic Academy. Pen Bardd?”

  “It will be done,” he said with a relieved smile.

  “Very good. Cricket, we expect great things from you.” The Pen Bardd called the audience to its feet, and with one last nod, the queen swept out of the room.

  Cricket had just slumped back into his chair when Asael and Leann swarmed him. “Easy,” he said amidst the laughing and crying. “I’m still pretty banged up.”

  “We thought you had left,” Leann said.

  “Because of us,” Asael added.

  “You were just gone—”

  “—Duncan said you had stormed out—”

  “—and then Duncan was arrested—”

  “It’s okay,” Cricket said. “It’s all okay.”

  His two best friends eased up enough to let Byrn step in and wring Cricket’s hand. “Knew you belonged in the Academy,” he said, grinning fiercely. “Always said you should be a bard.”

  Cricket thanked him warmly, but noticed that Hoyle stood sheepishly nearby. Drawing him into the small circle, Cricket asked, “Why? Why would you sacrifice all that you had for me?”

  “What Duncan did was wrong, plain and simple,” Hoyle said. “I couldn’t just stand by silently while he did it, not if I could help my friend.”

  “But what will you do?”

  “I think I’ll go home to Caer Don and raise sheep,” he sighed. “I came to Taris hoping to be a crossain at least, but I didn’t have the talent. So I served a crossain instead, and you see how that ended.”

  “I’m sorry that it turned out this way,” Cricket said, shaking his hand.

  “Me too,” Hoyle answered. “Me too.” He turned and strode quickly out of the hall.