Sound of the Heart

by Genevieve Graham

  “Are you a big lad, then?” She studied Dougal from his head to his waist, taking in the lines and curves of his body. Her eyes started to show a little life, widening under fluttering lashes. “I imagine so, judging by those thumbs of yours.”

  Dougal blinked. He had no idea what she—Oh. Now he did. He stepped back again, shocked. He started to object, but she had already moved on to Aidan. Her fingers combed through his fair but filthy hair, which had grown long enough to reach just past his shoulders. The blond strands were heavy and dark with a need for soap. Aidan stared furiously at the ground, trying to ignore the woman’s touch.

  She sounded pleased. “And what have we here? I’ve not had a young man in a long, long time.” She snorted, then looked skyward for a moment, remembering something. When she looked back at Aidan, her eyes were a bit unfocused. “They say I’m a good teacher.”

  “Go away,” Aidan hissed. “I dinna need yer teachin’.”

  “Oh no?” the woman replied with a chortle. “You know how it all works, do you? Well, why don’t you just come along then and show me.”

  “Go. Away.”

  Dougal took the woman’s wrist gently between his thumb and forefinger and slid it off Aidan’s bowed head. She turned her attention back to Dougal.

  “Leave the lad,” he said. “He’s asked ye twice.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I am in search of a meal an’ a bed. Jus’ for me an’ the boy.”

  Her eyebrows shot up and Dougal noticed they had been entirely shaved off. Only a thin pencil line marked her expression of surprise. “Oh? It’s like that? Well! I wouldn’t have taken you for the likes of that, but . . .”

  “No,” Dougal growled, his face suddenly burning. “That is not—”

  “An’ what if it is?” Aidan piped up. “’Tis none o’ yer business, is it, lady?”

  Dougal and the woman both stared at him, startled by his sudden outburst, then closed their mouths at the same time. The woman nodded slowly. The corners of her painted mouth were drawn down, one eyebrow raised.

  “Fine, then,” she said, though her tone suggested it wasn’t the least bit fine. “Pardon me for intruding.”

  “Aye, an’ ye should apologise,” Aidan said, taking an uncustomary step in her direction. “Ye shouldna frighten folk to death wi’ yer silly prattle.”

  Dougal stared at him. He’d never heard the boy talk this way. “Right,” he said, shuffling Aidan away. “We’ll go now. Em . . . good day to ye, ma’am.”

  Aidan was still glaring at the woman, his narrow chin raised. Dougal nudged his side, forcing him into the tide of humanity flowing down the street. He peeked at Aidan’s expression, and was amused to see a hint of pride in the boy’s handsome face.

  “What was all that?” Dougal asked.

  “What? Oh, that. Nothin’.”

  “Oh, aye? Ye bristled like a wee cat back there.”

  Aidan shrugged. “I didna like her much. An’ I didna like what she was suggestin’ is all.”

  “Oh, an’ ye’d ken all about that, would ye? Livin’, as ye did, in the woods an’ all?”

  “I ken enough,” the boy replied coolly.

  Dougal suspected the boy did know, had learned a lot over his time spent on the ship and in the fort. Life would be hard for a pretty boy like him, Dougal imagined.

  “I’m so hungry,” Aidan said quietly. “But we’ve no money.”

  They walked in silence, observing the deranged circus of London dance around them as they went. Through one of the open doors they passed floated the sweet smell of something cooked, something slightly charred perhaps. Dougal’s mouth watered at the thought of meat spitting and crackling over a fire.

  “What if ye—” He grimaced and stepped over a puddle, then turned his blue gaze toward Aidan. The boy sulked beside him, looking pathetic. “Would ye think to maybe sing for our suppers?”

  “Eh?”

  “If we were to go to a tavern, maybe, an’ ye could sing while I pass the hat.”

  Aidan frowned, then gave a slow nod. “I imagine so—” He stopped walking and looked up at Dougal. “They’d feed us?”

  Dougal shrugged. “Worth a try.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Songs for Supper

  There was no shortage of taverns along the street. Some welcomed visitors with hanging metal signs that squeaked when the wind gave them a shove, some were unmarked but seemed to bulge from within with noisy patrons. Dougal pulled one such door open and stepped inside a room boiling with rage. One corner of the place was engaged in an open brawl, while the rest of the place cheered it on. Aidan paused in the doorway, looking dubious.

  “Let’s try somewhere else,” Dougal suggested.

  The next tavern was quieter, and the sweet aroma of roasting meat wafted through the large room. Dougal’s stomach cramped instinctively, demanding attention. He patted it with reassurance while he scanned the room for an empty table. No one paid any attention to the two travellers as they made their way toward the kitchen and claimed a small, wobbly table.

  “Right,” Dougal said. “Ye’ll stand on this stool an’ sing like ye do, an’ I’ll collect what I can, aye?”

  Aidan looked unsure. He looked warily around the room, wide eyes darting over the dozens of faces. Dougal watched his reaction, suddenly realising his young friend had probably never seen anything like it before. He’d most likely seen small family gatherings many years before, and he’d seen more than his share of imprisoned men, but an amiable, voluntary group of men in a room like this was something entirely new.

  “What should I sing?”

  “Dinna ask me. I’ve no idea. I canna carry a tune, let alone remember the name of one.”

  “But—”

  “Are ye hungry, lad?” Dougal asked. Aidan nodded, looking pained. “Then sing.”

  “But . . . what of soldiers? What if they come in? They’ll—”

  “We must eat, Aidan. Never ye mind about the soldiers. I’ll keep watch.”

  The tavern buzzed with low chatter, punctuated by wheezing coughs from an old man in the corner, the clinking of cups and voices raised in an occasional burst of laughter or disagreement. Dougal gestured at the stool again, then moved toward the bar while Aidan climbed onto his little stage. An empty cup had been left unattended on the bar, and Dougal picked it up. For a moment, Aidan said nothing, only gazed thoughtfully around the room, as if searching for inspiration. He didn’t look nervous, Dougal thought. Just pensive.

  And then the boy started to sing. The room went immediately silent when Aidan’s voice filled its worn stone walls. Every face turned his way. Dougal paused, too, taken aback as he always was by the sweet, sweet voice, like a bird greeting the spring. Aidan hadn’t chosen one of the sad, dreary songs Dougal had heard him sing in the prison or the ship. Those were like dirges compared to this, though they’d seemed cheerful enough at the time.

  Dougal had never had much of an appreciation for music, despite being easily swept up by battle drums and pipes. But he knew what this boy had was special. A gift that had been wasted on the cold darkness of their prison. Dougal gazed out over the rapt faces of men conditioned to the worst of the world, and he decided to use his own gift. He read their minds.

  At first he heard nothing, only sensed a mutual sigh blowing through the room as they adjusted from their conversations to Aidan’s melody. Then slowly, like creatures emerging from dens after a storm, he heard the men’s appreciation rise into the thick tavern air. Memories of their childhood. Of love lost. Of someone dear for whom they longed. When the song ended, Dougal felt a distinct quaver of loss flit from the audience, a collective hand grasping out. They wanted more. They might even have needed more. Aidan held them in the palm of his small, pale hand.

  “Don’t stop now, lad,” someone muttered.

  Aidan smiled beatifically, gaunt cheeks colouring as the men banged cups on their tabletops, demanding his voice. “Keep singing?” he asked Dougal from the corner of hi
s mouth.

  “Aye! Sing ’til ye’ve no voice left. We’ll eat well tonight, my lad.”

  Dougal edged between the tables, cup in hand, constantly flicking his eyes toward the door to check for incoming uniforms. The men at the tables frowned, not understanding and not appreciating this beggar at their table. One man reached out and shoved Dougal’s cup away.

  “Get your begging arse out in the street where it belongs,” he snarled.

  Dougal straightened, then realised the misunderstanding. He started to explain, but Aidan got there first.

  “Good day, gentlemen. I’m pleased to sing for ye all, but it shames me to say that I mus’ also beg for yer coin. My friend an’ I havena had a meal in a very long time. If I dinna eat, I’ll die before I remember how the next song goes.”

  There were a few grumbles, but before long, coins clattered in Dougal’s cup. Aidan sang songs of love and longing, then, with a twinkle in his eye, switched to slightly bawdy songs that made the men laugh. Dougal laughed with them. One of the songs was in French, and Dougal watched the boy’s expression soften, becoming wistful as he remembered the words, or maybe as he recalled the time in his life when he’d been taught. Dougal had to remind himself that he was working, when what he really wanted to do was sit and listen. When every song finished, there was more pounding on the tables and calls for drinks. After half a dozen songs, Aidan stopped for a drink himself, and the barkeep put an ale for each of them on the bar. He also brought them a plate of meat, bread, and cheese, and the two sat and ate like wild animals.

  “God, this is good,” Dougal said through a full mouth.

  Aidan said nothing, just used his bread to mop up the sauce on his plate. When he’d swallowed that, he downed the rest of his beer and set down the cup. He grinned at Dougal, that beautiful grin Dougal had seen only a few times before, then let out an impressive belch.

  “Well!” Dougal said, laughing. “Ye’ve a good voice for that as well!”

  “Shall I sing more?”

  “Aye, why not? Sing all ye can, an’ maybe we’ll sleep on a bed for a change.”

  “A bed?”

  Dougal smiled. “Sure. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a mattress beneath me.”

  Aidan fixed Dougal with a wide-eyed stare. “No’ near as long as me. I’ve no’ slept in a bed since I was wee. Maybe six years or so.”

  Dougal reached across the table and gripped Aidan’s shoulder with one hand. “Then we shall sleep in a bed, lad. We shall start our new life off well, aye?”

  “I’d better sing, then,” Aidan replied, one eyebrow lifted. “So I can pay for all these things.”

  Dougal grinned, then held up his cup, still half full of ale. He thought the boy might need it more than he, to help his voice. “That’d be best. Here, take this.”

  Aidan sang for another half hour, persuading his listeners to laugh, then cry. Occasionally they joined in and Dougal watched Aidan purposefully lower his voice during those times, resting it briefly. Aye, he was a clever boy.

  During one mournful song, Dougal thought about Joseph and sobered with sympathy. The lad had been Aidan’s other half, and whenever Dougal saw Aidan’s face pale or his step falter, he knew his thoughts were on Joseph. It would have been fine indeed, to have both Joseph and John with them on this voyage. But Fate had been cruel, as she usually was. They would manage, just the two of them. They would be fine.

  At the end of the evening, the tavern owner rented them a room above the bar. Their drinks had been filled again and again, their plates always held more to eat. So well fed were they that when the evening ended and they headed to their room, it was almost impossible to believe the condition in which they had first arrived. Dougal followed the tavern owner upstairs and Aidan wandered behind, more than a bit disoriented by the drinks and the excitement.

  They paid the man, and Dougal slipped him two extra coins along with the request that they not be disturbed. In particular by anyone in uniform. The tavern owner nodded then pocketed the money before turning and walking back down the corridor.

  Dougal and Aidan closed the door behind them, then stood without speaking just inside the doorway of their small room. The floor vibrated and thumped beneath their feet because of the tavern’s noisy patrons, but overall the room was neat and plain and perfectly ordinary. It was also entirely foreign to them both. The walls were surprisingly clean, especially when compared to how the building had appeared from the outside. Even if it hadn’t been, neither man would ever again complain about dirt, not after everything they’d survived. In the centre of the room, its wooden headboard pushed against one wall, stood a large, neatly made bed covered by a black wool blanket. A chamber pot sat on the floor beside it. A chipped ceramic ewer and bowl, which the owner said he would come back to fill, waited on a small table along with a lit candle.

  Dougal walked to the bed, sat on its edge with his elbows braced on his knees, and dropped his chin into his hands. Aidan leaned back against the door, watching. His eyelids drooped, only half open. A smile played with Dougal’s lips, and he grinned at Aidan.

  “We made it,” he said softly.

  Aidan chewed his bottom lip, then nodded. A tiny, very careful movement. “So far.” He yawned and dropped his hands to his stomach, puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel’s. “My belly doesna ken what to do wi’ all this food. I feel like I might burst apart.”

  “Aye.” Dougal smiled and patted his stomach. “’Tis a good feeling I’ve missed for far too long.” He cocked his head toward the rest of the bed. “Seems big enough for the both of us. But if it’s no’, I’ll take the floor. Ye were the one, after all, what sang for our suppers.”

  Aidan crawled onto the bed, lay still as a corpse on top of the blanket, and closed his eyes. “It’s plenty big enough, Dougal.”

  Dougal blew out the candle and the weak yellow glow of the room was plunged into night. Aidan was right; there was enough room for him on the other side of the bed, so he lay back, hands linked behind his head. He waited for his eyes to focus, then stared at the blackened ceiling beams. He could hear the boy breathing softly beside him, and listened to hear the breaths come more slowly as he faded off to sleep. He knew Aidan’s sounds. He’d slept beside him for months and found the near silence brought him comfort. When Aidan started to fall asleep, Dougal would listen for another sound: the urgent, incomprehensible whispers Dougal needed to understand.

  Despite everything, Aidan didn’t fall asleep as quickly as he usually did. They lay in the dark for a while before Aidan finally spoke. And then his voice was almost a whisper. Like the voice of a child.

  “Where do ye think Joseph is now?”

  Something in Dougal’s heart twisted and he swallowed before answering. “Ye dinna mean what the soldiers—”

  “No, no’ his body. I dinna want to think of that. I mean the real Joseph. Where is he?”

  “Did yer family no’ take ye to kirk, lad? Did ye no’ learn what will come after?”

  Aidan shook his head silently in the dark.

  “The Bible tells a great many stories of jus’ that,” Dougal mused. “But I dinna suppose ye’ve read that.” Aidan still didn’t speak, so Dougal continued. “I imagine Joseph’s in heaven wi’ the Lord lookin’ o’er him. He’ll be safe now, wi’ the angels.”

  “Really? Ye believe that, Dougal?”

  Dougal turned his head on the pillow and frowned at Aidan’s dark profile. “Aye, I do. What other choice is there? I’d no’ like to think it’s no’ true, after all.”

  “Aye,” Aidan said, his voice almost a sigh. “For if there were no heaven, then what? Where would Joseph be now? Nowhere? Simply . . . gone? How could that be?”

  Dougal felt such a pang in his chest at those words, he almost choked. The image of Andrew appeared in his mind and he hung on to it with everything he had. Andrew couldn’t simply be gone, either. No. He felt sure he would have known somehow. He’d have felt . . . something. His dreams would have told him . .
. something.

  “There’s a heaven, lad. An’ Joseph’s in it.”

  He could tell Aidan was crying, though there was no sound. The air felt thicker between them. It was as if the boy held his breath, not wanting to admit the tears. Dougal feared speaking in case his voice betrayed the same aching loss. Finally, Aidan took a deep breath and the mattress crackled as he wiped his eyes.

  “I miss him somethin’ terrible,” he whispered.

  “I know ye do.”

  “I hope he’s all right.”

  Someone in the tavern roared, yelling something incoherent, and laughter rumbled through the floor. Dougal waited for the noise to die down.

  “Aidan?”

  “Aye?”

  “He’s all right now. An’ I’ll take care of ye from now on.”

  Aidan sniffed. “All right, Dougal.”

  The boy rolled onto his side, still silent, but Dougal felt the bed bump a little when Aidan held in his sobs. He considered leaving the room, giving him privacy, but didn’t know where he could go. He wasn’t up to visiting the tavern again. And what if Aidan needed him and couldn’t find him?

  Seventeen years old. A man, really, but still a child in so many ways. What would Dougal have done if this were Ciaran grieving beside him? Nothing. There was nothing he could do but move forward for them both. He turned onto his side, facing away from Aidan, and closed his eyes, pretending not to know.

  Later that night Dougal awoke to Aidan’s strange sleeping murmurs: soft, quick whispers that sounded urgent. He knew from other, less comfortable nights that the boy’s eyes were snapping from side to side beneath his lids as if seeking escape, but Dougal didn’t wake him. As a child, Dougal’s mother had warned him about waking a sleeping person. Something about the sleeper losing part of his soul to the dream. But he did worry about the constant stream of fear flowing through Aidan’s thoughts. He edged slightly closer so the back of his shirt touched the back of Aidan’s. Just enough that the sleeping boy could feel his presence.