Music of the Distant Stars (2 page)

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Authors: Alys Clare

BOOK: Music of the Distant Stars
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I was concentrating so hard as I approached the stone slab over the grave that at first I did not appreciate that anything was wrong.
‘—and take to rest the soul of our beloved . . .’ I was muttering aloud.
Then my eyes succeeded in getting the horror they were seeing through to my brain. I stopped in mid-sentence and let out a cry of fear and dismay.
Someone had moved the stone slab.
We had left it so that it neatly and completely covered the grave. Now it was askew; only slightly, but enough that there was a dark corner where you could see right down into the grave.
I was shivering, filled with unreasoning abhorrence at the thought of that recently-dead body lying there so close to me. With the stone slab out of alignment, I could have reached into the grave and touched the cold flesh . . .
‘Stop it!’ I commanded myself, my voice loud with distress. ‘That is the body of someone you loved very dearly. It isn’t some fearful
object
, to make you shudder!’
The trembling slowly stopped. As panic receded a little, another frightful worry occurred to me: why had the slab been moved? Oh,
oh
, what had they
done
?
Without thinking what I was doing, I was on my knees, pushing the slab so that the gap increased. As soon as I could, I lowered my head and stared into the grave.
The linen-shrouded corpse was still there, and the precious belongings lay around it. The flowers had not been touched and had a little life left in them.
But there was a very vital alteration to the grave’s contents. We had left there one body, small and thin. Now there were two.
My Granny Cordeilla was dead.
We had all known it was going to happen but, as we always do with those we love, we prayed in our different ways for a miracle. Well, I don’t believe Granny prayed for any such thing; she seemed to know her time on this earth was coming to an end, and she approached death with a calm serenity and a slight sense of curiosity. ‘I’m tired, Lassair child,’ she said to me in one of her last moments of lucidity. ‘I’ve had a long, hard life and now I’m ready for a rest.’ She must have seem the unshed tears in my eyes, for all that I tried to turn away, for she took my hand in hers – her grasp, so weak where once it had been so strong, almost undid me – and whispered softly, ‘No weeping, child. You’ll miss me and you’ll be sad for a while, but there’s no tragedy in the death of an old woman. It’s the way of things.’
With that she lay back on her pillows and went to sleep. Over the next day and night her sleep deepened and we watched as she slipped away. Then we stood around her body, our hands joined, and we wept.
My father – her son – had seen the change in her before any of us, and this quite irked my aunt Edild, my father’s sister, because she’s meant to be the healer and my father is an eel fisher. It quite irked me too, I have to admit, because I am Edild’s apprentice and, like her, ought to have spotted the signs. In our defence, neither of us had seen Granny as often as my father, for Granny had lived with him, my mother and my siblings, whereas I live with Edild in her neat little house on the other side of the village. However, even if we’d observed Granny all day and every day, I’m not sure if we’d have picked up whatever subtle signals my father had seen; it’s probably a mother–son thing. Of Granny Cordeilla’s five children, he was her favourite, and that was probably why she’d chosen to live with him and his family instead of with Ordic, Alwyn, Edild or Alvela. As for my father, he is an undemonstrative man, but we all know his emotions run deep and true. He would have done anything for his mother, and his grief at her death was none the less for being hidden. My mother, sensible woman that she is, let him alone. She understands my father very well; better, probably, than Granny did, but it would be a brave person who said so in my father’s hearing. To have said it in Granny’s hearing would have been tantamount to suicide.
Anyway, whatever it was that my father saw, he’d kept it to himself . . . or, more likely, Granny had sworn him to secrecy. Some time later – a few weeks, according to my father – Granny had a fall. Then she had another one. This time, when she came round from her swoon, or whatever it was, she did not know where she was. She recognized us, although she muddled up some of our names, but she seemed to be seeing things that were invisible to the rest of us. She urged my brother Haward to find a bale of straw to sit on and get a good place so that he could watch the travelling jugglers and tumblers. She kept telling my mother that
they
were listening to our conversations and we must be careful. Then she had another fall, banged her poor head and lay insensate on her cot for three days.
When she woke up she was herself again. She commanded my father to summon all her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – most of them were already there, hovering around my parents’ little house and not really knowing what to do with themselves – and called all of us to her bedside in turn, in order of age, so that she could speak privately to us. Well, I don’t suppose she had much to say to my niece and my nephew, since one is a toddler and the other a baby, but the rest of us were with her for some time. I’ve no idea what she said to everyone else, but when it was my turn, she made me sit down beside her cot and, her deep eyes fixed on my face so that I did not dare move a muscle, said quietly, ‘Lassair, child. Yes.’ She nodded and then paused, watching me closely. ‘When I was a girl I was sent to live with my uncle, Leir the Bard.’
I knew that already. Granny was a wonderful bard herself, always much in demand when we all sat round the fire in winter and there wasn’t much to do through the long hours of darkness, and she had told me many times that her great fund of legends, myths, stories and the all-important record of our family’s history and the doings of the ancestors were taught to her by her uncle Leir, after whom my youngest brother is named. ‘Yes, Granny, I—’
She held up her hand to silence me. ‘When he died, my uncle Leir summoned me to his deathbed. I was older than you, child, with a family of my own, for Leir was a long-lived man. He called me for one purpose, and it was not to say his fond farewells.’ There was a twinkle in Granny’s eyes as if somewhere deep inside she was laughing. ‘Can you think what it was?’
I believed I could, but I hesitated to say so because it would have sounded big-headed and I’d have felt a fool if I’d been wrong. ‘Er—’ I began.
With a flash of her old impatient self Granny said, ‘It’s no time for false modesty, child. I’m dying, and I’ve still got two of your brothers and Goda’s pair to see yet. Come on, say what you’re thinking.’
I took a breath to steady myself. ‘You want me to become a bard.’ There. I’d said it. I felt my face, neck and throat flush with the sudden rush of hot blood.
‘No, Lassair,’ Granny said softly.
I hung my head, shame flooding me. How had I dared to presume to take on Granny’s role, to think I could fill the shoes of one such as her? Why—
‘Look at me.’
I made myself meet Granny Cordeilla’s eyes. They were crinkled up in a smile, and she was looking at me with such love that a sob broke out of me. Her hand made a small movement where it lay on the clean linen sheet and, realizing what she wanted, I took it between mine. Hers was cool.
‘So warm,’ she murmured, her fingers entwining with mine. Then she said, ‘You do not need to
become
a bard, Lassair. You have a very good memory, and all the skill you will require runs in your blood, for you are my granddaughter and Leir the Bard was your kinsman.’ She paused, a faraway look on her face as if she saw things I could not see. ‘Every one of us,’ she went on, ‘Leir, me, you, all the other extraordinary storytellers, singers and poets in the family, are descended from Ligach the Pearl Maiden of the Fens, the most famous bard of all time.
Her
talent was bestowed on her by the gods,’ Granny added with pride thrumming in her voice, ‘and she sang before kings.’
I could not speak. Yes, I’d had an inkling that Granny was going to say it was up to me to take on the bard role, but I’d thought it was because, out of all the family, it was I who clamoured most frequently to hear her tales. I’d never dreamed I would be commanded to take my place as the latest in this long family line of illustrious ancestors.
It was quite a lot to take in.
Granny squeezed my fingers again, then let me go. ‘You’ll get used to the idea,’ she said briskly. Then, wrapping her shawl more closely around her thin shoulders, she flapped her hand in dismissal and told me to send in my brother.
I only had one more conversation with her after that. Then she died.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring down into Granny’s grave. It felt like an age, but I don’t suppose it was very long really. I couldn’t stop myself from speaking to her, calling out to her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
‘Granny, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!’ I sobbed. ‘We should have stayed with you, then this – this
desecration
wouldn’t have happened! Oh, who did this to you?’
I paused, my grief overcoming me. It was such a recent loss, and I was still raw, for I had loved my Granny Cordeilla very much. Doing everything just right had been a consolation; the funerary rites had eased the pain, as I imagine is their purpose. But, oh, now this awful thing had happened, and everything was spoiled, we’d have to—
It was a sort of miracle, I suppose; I heard – or thought I heard – Granny’s voice.
It’s not your fault, child
, she said, softly but firmly. It sounded as if she was speaking from a long way away, and almost at once I realized I wasn’t hearing through my ears but right inside my head.
Stop standing there howling and pull yourself together!
That was typical Granny, so much so that I smiled and a sort of snorty laugh broke out of me.
Funeral rites are for the living
, she went on decisively,
and although I’m grateful for what you have all done, it is not that important, certainly not enough for you to get in such a lather about
.
‘Not important?’ I cried, amazed and shocked. ‘But—’
Don’t interrupt
, Granny said. C
hild, think about what
is
important
.
I thought. ‘Your grave has been violated,’ I began, ‘and—’
Nonsense
, Granny interrupted.
That doesn’t matter, as I’m no longer there
.
Shock after shock; whatever did she mean, she was no longer there? Did that imply that none of them remained with us, all those beloved, honoured ancestors?
I swear I heard Granny sigh.
Lassair, we will never leave you
, she said patiently.
But listen, child! What did you see in the grave with me?
‘Another body,’ I whispered, the horror flooding through me all over again.
Yes, quite
, Granny said testily. I thought she added,
At last!
‘But it’s got no right to be there in your special place!’ I protested. ‘This is
our
island, for our people!’
Death is death
, Granny answered.
This poor soul died too soon, and the corpse has been hidden here. That is not right, Lassair
.
‘Died too soon,’ I repeated softly. ‘A corpse hidden in someone else’s grave, where but for the small mistake of leaving the stone slab slightly out of place, nobody would ever have found it . . .’
Because, of course, if someone had slipped a body in with Granny then it was very likely that the poor dead soul hadn’t died of natural causes in his or her own bed. It was eminently likely that this was a murder victim, and that the killer had cruelly and cynically used my Granny’s grave as a convenient hiding place.
I had found the body. It was up to me to act.
I pushed the slab back in place, placed my flower wreath over Granny’s head and then, in some haste, I’m afraid, said my prayers and made my pleas for her soul.
Then I packed up my satchel, fastened it and, gathering up my skirts and clutching my shawl, fled across the wooden walkway and raced back to Aelf Fen.
TWO
 
I
only saw one person on my headlong flight to the safety of home. I was about halfway back to the village. I’d just run past a clump of willows when I heard the sound of someone weeping; a man, I thought. The sounds were gruff and full of pain.
I am a healer, or at least I am training to be one, under the tuition of my aunt Edild and a strange man called Hrype, who is a cunning man and the father of my friend Sibert. Even trainee healers know they must not ignore those who suffer. I stopped and, very cautiously, approached the willows.
‘Who’s there?’ I called softly.
The weeping ceased abruptly. Nothing happened for a few moments, then two thick-leaved branches parted and someone crept out.
It was a man, or I suppose that is what you would call him, for although he is fully grown and perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, his mind is that of a child. His body is misshapen under an over-large head, and his poor face is lopsided. I knew who he was; I had good reason to. I held out my hand, smiling, and said, ‘It’s all right, Derman. It’s me, Lassair. Come with me and I’ll take you home. Have you had breakfast?’ He risked a quick glance at me, his deep-set eyes furtive, drew the back of one hand across his nose and shook his heavy, lolling head. ‘Then you must be hungry,’ I went on briskly. ‘Come on, we’ll walk fast, then you’ll have something to eat all the sooner!’

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