Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  “It seems like the best thing to do.”

  “Too true.” The hag shifted, revealing a calf as smooth as marble, and just as white. Just as the image registered in Cricket’s brain, her rough dress fell back into place.

  “So you like to play with men,” he prompted.

  “Well spoken,” she said with another hideous grin. “So to this end I created Memory and Thought, who plant ideas in men’s brains, ideas that help or hinder as I please. Or should I say, as I used to please.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cricket said.

  “And that’s why I’m explaining, isn’t it? So listen!” Morrigu barked. “I bored of my games, they became too easy, and for spice I gave Memory and Thought freedom. And they turned on me.”

  Keeping his voice carefully neutral, Cricket asked, “They attacked you?”

  “Not directly, no.” Morrigu scowled, which scared Cricket less than her smile. “But they did turn on what I had taught them; instead of creating strife equally, they choose the side that they liked and helped that faction only. What a disappointment!”

  “But what do they do?” Cricket said.

  Morrigu stretched like a cat, showing curves under her dress that contradicted the wrinkles on her face. “Ah, the patience does have a limit,” she purred. “I like this.”

  Cricket bowed his head. “Pardon me, Morrigu,” he said humbly. “I meant no offense.”

  She said nothing for a moment, pushing back her hood to scratch at the red scalp that showed through her thin gray hair. “They provide knowledge,” she said suddenly.

  “What kind of knowledge?”

  She cackled. “You’ve experienced them, what, three times now—that you know of—and you don’t know what I mean?”

  Cricket thought back to his previous experiences. “They show me how to do things,” he said.

  “And I’ll bet you want a reward for your cleverness, don’t you?”

  “So the Chord of laughter...”

  “Oh, no,” Morrigu said with a sharp shake of her head. “No, boy, the Chords are for bards alone to discover. The ravens help you with things like Faerie, and magic that men do not normally possess.”

  Cricket held his head. “I can’t figure all of this out.”

  “It will come to you,” Morrigu said. “Stop fighting it.”

  “And why do you care?” Cricket suddenly demanded. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  For just a moment, Morrigu possessed all the mystery of a beautiful young woman. “Some things are best learned for yourself,” she said. Then she stood up and smoothed her dress. “If there’s nothing else...?”

  Cricket smiled wryly. “I could probably talk to you for weeks without being satisfied,” he said. “But you have given me some valuable information, and for that I thank you.”

  She smacked her gums at him. “What else is immortality for?” In a swirl of mist he saw her as a young woman with dark hair and smooth skin, although the eyes remained ancient. Cricket bowed low, and when he looked up she had vanished.

  Bemused, Cricket went back to the Caer. Perhaps a little of the Morrigu’s magic clung to him still, but Lord Olammy did not pressure the young bard about making a decision, and even Sean treated him with deference.

  Cricket used the time to look at the men and women who had come to be considered as a possible chieftain. Most were the second sons or daughters of lairds, but because anyone could be chosen, a few farmers and even a crossain had joined the group.

  One man attracted Cricket’s eye. He looked young, but his eyes held a wisdom that transcended age. “What’s your name?” Cricket asked.

  “Kai, cerddorion,” the man answered with a bow.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Airu.”

  “Where in Airu?”

  The man looked down at his feet. “Aran Abbey.”

  “You were training to be a priest?” Cricket said. “What happened?”

  Kai looked around. “Could we discuss it in private, cerddorion?”

  “Of course.” Cricket led them to the library. After closing the door and getting settled, he said, “Tell me a tale, Kai.”

  The young man grimaced. “There’s not much to tell, really. I was pursuing my studies diligently until I started having a recurring dream. I dreamt that I stood in a field with a plow in my hands and a torc around my neck. I told the brothers, and they took me to the abbot. He prayed and fasted for several days, and then told me I was not meant to be a priest. He told me to wander the land until my dream stopped. I haven’t had it since I arrived at Caer Mwaloch, but a different one has taken its place.” Kai stopped and looked Cricket in the eyes for the first time. “I have been dreaming of you, bard.”

  Cricket sat back in his chair. “What was I doing?” he asked.

  “You were hanging a gold torc around my neck.”

  “How do I know you’re not just making this up?”

  Kai spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said. I know if I was in your place, I would be asking the same thing. That’s why I was so reluctant to speak of it, especially in front of others.”

  Thinking furiously, Cricket pulled Linnaia from her case and began to tune her. “Do you mind if I play?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Cricket began a simple tune, playing softly while the magic whispered around him. “I’m going to use some magic,” he told the young man. “It won’t harm you, but I want you to be prepared because you will see visions that might seem very real, but will only be an illusion.”

  Kai swallowed loudly, but said, “Go ahead.”

  Cricket spun an impromptu melody, using the dances from his childhood for the backbone. He added phrases for the personalities of the dun: a tight riff for Orlan, a belligerent one for Agnes. Then he tuned the sub-harmonies to the dun as well, watching Kai closely all the while.

  The young man’s eye widened as he saw the dun for the first time, with the comforting cacophony of people, children and animals. Cricket led him through the fields and into the hills, showing him the land in all its variety. Then the magic took them back inside the dun, where Aillel’s ghost hovered over Kai, nodding approval. Just to be sure, Cricket wove in some of the other hopefuls, but the ghost dismissed them all with a glance.

  Cricket released the magic with a sigh. “Can you love such a place?” he asked.

  Kai eyes refocused on the bard. “I think I always have, and just didn’t know it.”

  “Then let us introduce Lord Olammy to his newest chieftain.”

  Chapter 16: Taris

  The company returned to Taris soon after Kai was made chieftain. After the relative peace of the road, Cricket found the city almost as loud and intimidating as when he first approached it. But at the same time, it had a comfortable familiarity, not quite like Dun Aillel, but Cricket realized that he was once again coming home.

  He wanted to take Serca to the White Owl, but Sean said that they had to go to the Academy first. The Pen Bardd waited for them in a room much like the one where they had taken their first meal as a company. “Welcome home,” he said. “So tell me; where did you go and what did you see?”

  If Cricket thought that the ollave would just cover the highlights, he was severely mistaken. Sean not only told the Pen Bardd about Fairlin, but also about every dun and town visited, every dispute judged, the quality of the hospitality encountered and a brief political analysis. Cricket listened in amazement, realizing that although he knew everything being said, he never would have thought of it so consciously.

  By the time the interview ended, midnight had long passed and Cricket could not stop yawning. He thought about bed, but didn’t know where to find one. Pulling Serca aside as the rest filed out, he said, “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

  Lifting her eyebrow she said, “You don’t know?”

  “If I knew, would I ask?”

  “In the bard’s quarters,” she said.

  “Where are the bard’s q
uarters?”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” she asked.

  “I know quite a bit,” he said archly. “Just not my way around.”

  “But you were a student here...”

  “...For just over a year,” he finished. “I think that I missed the class on basic palace orientation.”

  She shook her head. “You are the most talented man I know, but you can’t find your way around.”

  “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  Serca took his hand. “Well, come on. I’m tired too.”

  She led him through the familiar halls, then turned down a passage he always assumed led into the palace. Stopping at a door marked “Steward”, she pounded until a bleary eyed young man answered.

  “Room?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Serca answered.

  “One or two?” he asked, yawning.

  “Two. Adjoining, please.”

  “Wait one.” The young man disappeared into the dark room, where they heard him hit something and curse. He came back out rubbing his hip, pushed past them, and took a torch off the wall. He went back in his room, fumbled around a bit, and said, “Here we go.”

  He came back out and handed each of them a heavy brass key. “One flight up, left around the corner. About halfway down.”

  “Thank you,” Serca said.

  The steward waved them away with one hand and covered a yawn with the other. Cricket yawned in sympathy.

  With Serca leading, Cricket stumbled up the stairs, feeling more and more drained. When she opened the door to his room and lit a taper, he looked around just long enough to find the bed and fall into it. “I’m dead,” he groaned.

  Serca clucked her tongue and pulled off his boots. “What would you do without me to take care of you?” she asked.

  “I would probably stumble over a cliff into the Lannae and drown,” he said, rolling over and smiling up at her.

  “You’re lucky that I’m around, then,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.

  He caught her and pulled her onto the bed. “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said. “But I’d be the happiest if you married me.”

  She disentangled herself and stood up. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “I love you,” he said sleepily.

  “I love you, too,” she answered. He didn’t even hear her close the door.

  Of all the skills that Cricket had honed while with the company, the one that served him best in the Taris was the ability to listen beneath conversations. A combination of sifting through gossip and interpreting the unsaid, it allowed him to learn more than he expected.

  The most disturbing thing he discovered was the intense speculation about his own future being bandied about in odd circles. He expected to continue with a company, or maybe just strike out independently with Serca, but it seemed that several people wanted to see him settle down as a bard teulu: powerful, influential people who wanted him ensconced in their households. In particular, representatives of the princes of the four quarters had started making veiled overtures.

  Cricket spent hours talking about it with Serca at the White Owl, where Byrn and Wylla had welcomed her with open arms and hearts. “I didn’t expect to settle so soon,” he said one evening, barely a fortnight after they had returned. “In fact, I was kind of looking forward to traveling again.” He squeezed Serca’s hand under the table.

  “You may not have much of a choice,” Byrn said. “Not if the leading noblemen want you.”

  “Well, I could always refuse, couldn’t I?” Cricket looked around the table at his friends, all of them more experienced than him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a bard refusing a position in a royal household,” Wylla said.

  Serca grew thoughtful for a moment, but then she looked up with a grin. “You should do it,” she said. “There’s no rule against it, and you could give them all apoplexy.”

  “You know we’ll stand behind you, whatever you decide,” Wylla said. She stood and kissed him on the forehead. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see how the custom is doing.”

  Byrn watched her fondly as she left. “And just like that, she hit’s the crux of the problem,” he said with a sigh. “We can advise and suggest all we want, but in the end, the choice is yours.”

  That night, as they walked back to the Bard’s Quarters, Cricket said, “Serca, what’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked innocuously.

  “You’ve been keeping something from me for almost a week. I’ve been telling myself it wasn’t important, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

  She squeezed his hand tightly. “Sometimes I think you know me too well.”

  “Right now I feel like I don’t know you at all,” he said, stroking her hair. A thought hit him, making him stop in the street. “You’re leaving,” he whispered.

  “Ollave Mathon MacFalger is forming a company,” she said, not looking at him. “He asked me to join, and I said yes.”

  Cricket felt his heart pounding loud and slow. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  The warmth of the evening turned suddenly cold. “You would have just left.”

  “Yes.” She finally lifted her eyes, searching his face. “It would have been easier, Cricket. I asked Wylla to tell you when you couldn’t find me.”

  “You told Wylla, but you didn’t tell me.”

  She shook her head sadly. “There was no way this could have been easy.”

  He looked away. “Why?”

  Serca stroked his cheek. “You are meant to settle down,” she said. “No matter how you deny it, you want a wife and a family and a home.”

  “I want you.”

  “But I don’t want those things. I love being a cerddorion, and occasionally, I’ll strike out on my own as a free bard. I love riding all day and sleeping someplace new every night.”

  “I would do that for you.”

  “Not forever.”

  He couldn’t stop the tears. “It seems like I’m always saying goodbye to the ones I love.”

  She hugged him tightly. “You have Byrn and Wylla here.”

  “I know, but I thought—”

  “I will always love you, Cricket.”

  “But you won’t marry me.”

  She laid a finger on his lips. “Shh,” she said. “I didn’t want this night to be sad. Not like this.”

  Cricket turned away and left her standing in the street. He wandered the city all night, not wanting to return to the Bard’s Quarters until after she had left. He watched the sun rise over the Lannae River, trying to care about what would happen next.

  Cricket finally went back to the Academy in the early afternoon, feeling drained of life. A student bard stopped him before he could reach his room. “The Pen Bardd wants to see you, bard Cricket.”

  The young harpist said, “Wait a minute.” He went in and washed his face, then followed the messenger to the same study where Ewan MacDougall had interviewed him so long ago. Sunlight coming through the windows made the place more cheerful, but the fur covered chairs were still the same. Cricket sat back this time, more confident in himself, even as the Pen Bardd studied him.

  “You look terrible,” he said with concern. “Is everything okay?”

  Cricket pushed the thought of Serca away before it overwhelmed him. “Yes, Pen Bardd.”

  Ewan grunted, but accepted the lie. “Sean tells me that not only are you able to fight Faerie to a standstill, but that you are also an excellent cerddorion, judging fairly and with wisdom.”

  “Ollave Sean is very kind.”

  “I hope not. I hope he’s right.” Ewan studied the young man again; Cricket wanted to fidget, wondering what he saw. “Several people have expressed their desire to have you among their bards teulu.”

  “Yes, I was aware of that.”

  “Were you aware that one of those people is the queen?”

  Cricket felt his world shift again even as he thought: Did S
erca know about this?

  “No, I didn’t,” he said out loud.

  Ewan said, “You realize that this is quite an honor; the Ard Righanna only chooses the best as her bards teulu since they are expected to fill many roles: diplomat, courier, counselor.”

  Cricket looked at his hands. “What if I said no?”

  “What, and become a free bard?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ewan shook his head. “I think it would be a huge mistake. You would be seen as a renegade, at best. None of the ollam would want you in their companies, and rumor would ensure that you received a cold greeting in every hall you visited.”

  Cricket smiled grimly. “I’m already an outsider and an iconoclast.”

  “But your eccentricities can be overlooked because of your talent.” Ewan leaned forward and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “The choice is yours, but perhaps you should think about it.”

  “But you feel that the choice is easy.”

  “I don’t have to live with the consequences,” the Pen Bardd said. “Some of the greatest bards refused the easy choice; Taliesin comes to mind. Come back tomorrow, after you have slept on it.”

  Cricket went to the White Owl, where Wylla took one look at him and said, “I’m sorry. She swore me to secrecy.”

  He hugged her and said, “It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

  From behind the counter, Byrn said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Serca left this morning.”

  The innkeeper set down the glass he was polishing and said, “Are you okay?”

  Cricket tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. “I will be,” he promised.

  Wylla cocked her head. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Cricket shrugged. “The queen wants me to be one of her bards teulu.”

  “I thought you loved the queen,” Byrn said with a puzzled look.

  “I do, it’s just...” Cricket spread his hands. “How can I explain? I really wanted to travel with Serca, and now she’s gone, but I still feel... restless. I don’t want to be cooped up in the palace.”