Masterharper of Pern (3 page)

“Crazy, woods crazy,” she murmured reassuringly. “Who’d’ve thought he’d even notice you over there, playing so nicely.”

“What did he mean?” Merelan said, trying to control her sobs. She’d never been so frightened in all her life. Especially since she had joined the Harper Hall, which was held with respect everywhere she’d gone as a Mastersinger. “What
could
he mean? He called me a harper harlot. And how can singing be bad? Evil?”

“Now, now.” Dalma held Merelan tightly against her, stroking her hair and patting her shoulder, or patting Robie, though he had recovered within the safety of the wagon and Dalma’s comforting presence. “We run into some real odd folk now and then. Some of ’em have never met a harper, and some don’t hold with singing or dancing or drinking. Sev says it’s because they can’t make wine or beer, so it has to be evil. They don’t want their children to know more than they did or you’d better believe it—” And Dalma gave a sour little laugh. “—they couldn’t keep them from leaving those awful jungles.”

“But it was the way he said ‘harper’ . . .” Merelan swallowed at the tone of hatred in which the word had been uttered.

“Now, now, it’s all over with. Sev and the others’ll see those woodsie ones leave.”

“And that dear little girl . . .”

“Merelan, forget her. Please.”

Although she nodded in compliance, Merelan wondered if she would ever forget the wistful hunger in that child’s face: a hunger for music, or maybe just other children playing. But she stayed in the wagon until Sev came to say that the woodsie ones had left and to apologize for exposing her to such a distressing incident.

There were no further upsets, although she did learn that not every hold the traders stopped at had the benefit of harper education. It was true that there were really not enough harpers to do more than stop in once or twice a year, but Merelan was still shocked at the realization that there was a significant number of cots and small holdings where no one could read or count above twenty.

She didn’t dare discuss that observation with Petiron, but she knew she would discuss it with Gennell when she got back. Though it was all too likely he was well aware of the lack.

Usually the trade caravan made a special occasion for those they visited, and Petiron was no longer merely resigned to performing in the evenings; he
enjoyed
it. So many good voices, so many instrumentalists—not as expert as those he was accustomed to playing with, but good enough, and, more importantly, willing enough to add to the evening’s entertainment. He also acquired variants of ballads and airs that were traditional with the smaller holders but unknown to him. He jotted those down. Some of them were quite sophisticated and he wondered which was original: the Harper Hall’s versions or those that had been passed down through generations in the holds.

One of the most nostalgic ballads—about the Crossing—could indeed be turned into an instrumental piece, starting with the basic melody, haunting enough, and then embellishments added. To transcribe this, Petiron acquired enough of some of the reed-based writing material that was a local product. It had a tendency to absorb so much ink that his scores were a bit blotchy, but he could amend that when he got back to the Harper Hall. He had always prided himself on his musical memory.

They reached Pierie Hold halfway through the morning of the twenty-first day of travel, even with a full two-day halt at Merelan’s home hold. She had a chance to see her family, to exchange news and see all the new babies and congratulate the recent pairings—and to show off Robinton.

Petiron was warmly received by the aunt and uncle who had reared Merelan when her own parents had died in one of the fierce autumnal storms that battered the western coastline. He was truly amazed at the number of really fine, if untrained, voices that her hold had produced.

“Not one of them but can’t carry a tune,” he told her after the first evening. “Which aunt did you say gave you your first training?”

“Segoina,” she said, smiling at his astonishment.

“That contralto?”

She nodded.

He whistled appreciatively.

“She insisted that I be sent to the Harper Hall,” Merelan said with considerable humility. “She ought to have gone, but she’d already espoused Dugall and wouldn’t leave him.”

“And wasted that glorious voice on a hold . . .” Petiron rather contemptuously indicated the sprawling redstone dwellings that comprised the hold.

“Segoina has never wasted her talent,” Merelan said a bit stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Mere, and you know it,” Petiron replied hastily. He had seen the genuine respect and love that existed between the two women. “But she’d have been a Mastersinger . . .”

“Not everyone would find that as productive as we do, Petiron,” she said gently but so firmly that Petiron saw he would offend her with further comment. Indeed, she thought wryly, remembering Rochers, the woodsie, not every Pernese approved of harpers.

When they were settling into Pierie Hold, his misgivings about this assignment returned. There were only three rooms for their quarters: the baby would have to sleep in with them, at the foot of the bed which took up nearly all the room, though there were storage compartments cut into the rear wall of the cliff. The larger room was clearly for daily affairs, including kitchen work, with an outer wall hearth. The third was more of a cubicle than a room and served the purpose of toilet and bath, though Merelan said gaily that most everyone bathed in the sea. Petiron gazed askance at the flight of steps that led down to a sandy crescent of a beach where some of the hold’s fishing sloops were moored.

He was soon to learn that people here were more accustomed to doing everything outside, either in the wide open patio where various workstations were situated, or under the shade of a vine-covered arbor larger than all the individual accommodations put together. There were even two sections fenced off for toddlers and the slightly older children, complete with a little pond where they could safely wade, sand to play in, and a rather extensive collection of toys. Already, Robinton was tottering about carrying one of the stuffed toys.

“That can’t be a dragon he’s been playing with, is it?” Petiron asked Merelan. Dragons were never toys; it would have been blasphemy to play with one.

“No, silly. It’s supposed”—Merelan grinned reassuringly up at her astonished spouse—“to be a fire-lizard.”

“A fire-lizard? But they died out centuries ago.”

“No, not entirely. My father saw one, and Uncle Patry said he’d seen one this past year.”

“He’s sure?” Petiron had a pragmatic streak that required proof.

“Indeed he is. And we’ve empty shells gathered from flotsam to prove that they exist, even if they aren’t much in evidence.”

“Well, if they’ve shells . . .” And Petiron was mollified. Merelan turned her head away so that he wouldn’t see her smile.

She was quite aware of Petiron’s opinions about everything here in Pierie Hold, but there was no sense in arguing with him about his misconceptions. In general he was a fair man, and she was sure he’d come round. He might even get to like living here, away from all the bustle and overstimulation of the Harper Hall. She had been so pleased with his thanks to Sev, Dalma, and the other traders. He’d meant every word he’d said to them, about learning so much on the route and that he had enjoyed the evenings, and the teaching. He’d learned to feel comfortable on a runnerbeast, so she knew she could talk him into taking trips to the other nearby holds where her brothers and sisters lived. Especially as she would have to leave Robinton behind so as not to irritate Petiron by his son’s constant presence. Not only was he weaned now, but Segoina was almost panting to have a chance to tend him. If only Petiron could learn to like his son a little for his own sake, and Robinton’s, rather than see him as a rival for her attention.

Teaching came first, and Petiron divided up the forty-two prospective students into five groups. The beginners, novices, middle, and advanced were of mixed ages, since some had had a little more training from a parent than others; the final group was made up of the five who were much too old to be included in the regular classes. Those he’d teach in the evenings by themselves—not that anyone was embarrassed.

“Living up in the mountings, never had the chance to learn nothing,” Rantou said, unabashed. The stocky timberman had glanced over at his young spouse who was visibly pregnant. “That is, until I met Carral, here.” Then he blushed. “Really like music, even if I doan know much. But I gotta learn so the baby won’t have no stupid for a father.”

Despite having had no formal training at all, Rantou could produce the most amazing sounds out of a multiple reed-pipe, although he waved aside Petiron’s earnest desire to teach him to read music.

“You just play it all out for me once, and that’ll do me.”

When Petiron paced about that evening in the privacy of their little home, terribly upset that an innate musician of considerable talent was risking talented fingers with saw, ax, and adze on a daily basis, Merelan had to calm him.

“Not everyone sees the Harper Hall as the most preferential occupation, love.”

“But he’s—”

“He’s doing very well for a young man with a family on the way,” she said, “and he’ll always
love
music, even if it is not his life the way it has always been yours.”

“But he’s a natural. You know how hard I had to work at theory and composition, to get complicated tempi—and he manages cadenzas after one hearing that it would take you, good as you are, days to command. And Segoina told me he makes . . .
makes
the gitars, the flutes, the drums, all the instruments in use here . . .” He raised both hands high in exasperation and frustration. “When I think how hard I had to work to walk the tables for journeyman for what he just picked up listening to me, I—I’m speechless.”

“Rantou doesn’t
want
to be a musician, love. He wants to do what he does do, manage forestry. Even the instruments he makes are just a hobby with him.”

“That may be very true, Mere, but what you fail to realize is that the Harper Hall
needs
more young folk to train up than come to us. Pierie needs a full-time journeyman, not a vacationing one.” Petiron was pacing and rubbing his hands together, a sure sign to his spouse of his rising agitation. “Everyone has the right to learning—that is the traditional duty of the Harper Hall. We are desperately short of harpers.”

“But people do learn the Teaching Ballads and Songs, as they have here,” Merelan said. “As I did.”

“Only the usual ones, but not
all
the important ones,” Petiron said sternly with a scowl. When he frowned like that, his heavy eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of his aquiline nose. Though she’d never tell him, Merelan adored his eyebrows. “They don’t know the Dragon Duty Ballads, for instance.”

Merelan suppressed a sigh. Was it only people brought up in strict Harper Hall tradition who believed that Thread
would,
not just
might,
return in the next fifty or so Turns? Or was their belief merely an extension of the traditions of the Hall?

“You are teaching those as I am. And I don’t think anyone here, now that they’ve met you and seen me again, would take it amiss if you did suggest that one of the more talented youngsters looked toward the Harper Hall as a life’s work.”

Petiron gave her a strange look. “You don’t?”

She pursed her lips. That tone was his driest and most repressive: the one he reserved for apprentices who had not studied hard enough to suit his exacting standard.

“There was plague, you know, as well as that storm that took many lives from this hold,” she said as casually as she could. “This may be a small hold, but to do all that is required properly also takes a fair-sized population. Sometimes there are none to be spared.”

“Yet they spared two lads to the Weyr,” Petiron said begrudgingly.

Merelan tried to hide her laugh behind her hand but couldn’t, the look of him was so jealous.

“And I suppose
you
wouldn’t have accepted being Searched for the Weyr?”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know, but if you had been Searched by Benden Weyr, would you not have gone?”

“Well,” he said, hedging, “I certainly don’t dispute the honor of being Searched . . . but not everyone Searched Impresses a dragon.”

“They Impressed greens,” Merelan replied.

“Then they were lucky indeed.”

“Neither of them would have been good as harpers,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Now that’s not fair, Mere,” Petiron replied stiffly.

“Think on it a bit, my darling,” she said and continued to neatly fold the clothes that she had laundered that afternoon.

It was Petiron who was almost apoplectic with fear when he heard that Merelan was teaching Robinton to swim.

“But he’s only just started walking,” he protested. “How can he swim?”

“All our children learn to swim in their first year,” Segoina told him. “Preferably before they learn to walk, because they remember swimming from their womb days.”

“They
what
?”

Merelan put a warning hand on Petiron’s arm, for his body was rigid with shock at the dangers
his
son had just been exposed to.

“It’s true,” Segoina went on. “Ask at the Healer Hall when you return.” Petiron recoiled slightly, but Segoina continued affably. “It is the best time to remind a child of what it knew in the womb. And then we don’t have to worry so constantly, with us so near the sea as we are.” She pointed down the steps to where a gentle surf made white scallops on the equally white sand. “There is a rite of passage that requires a lad to dive from that height,” and she pointed to the headland that jutted out a fair distance into the sea, “to prove he is a man.”

Petiron visibly swallowed and blinked furiously.

“Do you swim?” Segoina asked blandly.

“Yes, actually I do. We had the Telgar river to learn in.”

“It’s much easier to swim in the sea than in a river. More buoyancy.” Segoina turned away before she could catch the apprehensive expression on Petiron’s face.