The Seven Songs (7 page)

I descended the slope, my staff striking the crusty soil in time to the Harp thumping against my back. Listening to the swelling sounds of the village, I could not forget the eerie silence that had shrouded it during my last visit. A silence that had been, in its way, louder than a thundering tempest.

Indeed, the Town of the Bards had only rarely known silence. No settlement in Fincayra possessed a richer history of story and song. For over the ages it had been home to many of this land’s most inspired storytellers, and had witnessed many of their first performances. Even Cairpré himself, whose fame as a poet I had learned about only from others, had been born in one of those mud brick houses.

As I drew nearer to the village gates, which gleamed with golden light, more people started to emerge from their doors. Clad in long tunics of white cloth, they stood out sharply against the dry, caked mud of their homes, the dark planks of wood connecting the buildings, and the empty flower boxes clinging to most windowsills. I reached for the Harp, tempted to fill those flower boxes with something more than shadows. But I caught myself, deciding to wait before announcing my arrival.

More and more people emerged. They looked strikingly different from one another in skin color, age, hair, shape, and size. Yet they shared one common characteristic, in addition to their white tunics. All of them seemed hesitant, uncertain about something. Instead of congregating in the open circle in the middle of the houses, they kept to the outer edge. A few stood by their doorways, pacing anxiously, but most sat down on the wooden planks that ringed the open area. They seemed to be gathering for some purpose, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something grudging about their actions.

At that moment, a tall, gaunt fellow, wearing a brown cloak over his tunic, stepped into the center of the ring. Upon his head rested an odd, three-cornered hat that tilted precariously to one side like someone who had drunk too much wine. Dozens of gleaming metal spheres dangled from the hat’s rim. The man began waving his long, spidery arms, flapping his loose sleeves, while bellowing some words I could not quite make out.

At once I understood the circular arrangement of the houses. The whole town was a theater! And I had arrived in time for some sort of performance.

As I reached the village gates, I halted. Unlike the last time I was here, no guard met me with a spear aimed at my chest. Instead, my greeting came from a newly carved sign attached to one of the gateposts. Shining in the late afternoon light, it read,
Caer Neithan, Town of the Bards, welcomes all who come in peace.
Below those words, I recognized one of Cairpré’s own couplets:
Here song is ever in the air, while story climbs the spiral stair.

No sooner had I stepped inside the gates when a slender, shaggy-haired man jumped up from one of the planks and strode over. His tangled brows, as unruly as brambles, hung over his dark eyes. I waited for him, leaning against my staff.

“Hello, Cairpré.”

“Merlin,” he whispered, spreading his arms as if he were about to clap his hands with joy. Then, glancing over his shoulder at the gaunt man who was reciting some passage, he apparently changed his mind about clapping. “Good to see you, my boy.”

I nodded, realizing that he must have assumed that my work in the Dark Hills was done. It would not be easy to tell him the truth.

Again he glanced at the man reciting, and at the somber, almost tearful faces of the people in the audience. “I am only sorry you didn’t arrive for a happier performance.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I whispered. “From all those sullen faces, it appears that fellow has a gift for making people feel sad. What is he reciting? Some sort of tragic poem?”

Cairpré’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Unfortunately not.” He shook his shaggy mane. “Believe it or not, the poor fellow is
trying
to be funny.”

“Funny?”

“That’s right.”

Just then a clamorous clinking and rattling reached my ears. I turned back to the performer to see him shaking his head wildly, tossing his pointed hat from side to side. The sound came from the metal spheres. They were bells! Of course, I thought. Just right for making people laugh. Too bad they sounded so jarring, more like banging swords than ringing bells.

I observed the man for a moment. His hands drooped, his shoulders sagged, and his back stooped. In addition, his entire face—including his brow, his eyes, and his mouth—seemed to frown. The effect was compounded because, despite his thin frame, he had a flabby neck with row upon row of extra chins. So when his mouth turned down once, it turned down five or six times.

Suddenly he drew his heavy cloak around himself as if he were about to deliver a speech. Then, in sad, slow tones, he started to sing—or, more accurately, to wail. His voice seemed to cry, his breathing came like sobs. Like Cairpré, and most of the villagers, I winced. The man may have been trying to be funny, but his singing conveyed all the joy of a funeral dirge.

When bells reach your ears,
Abandon all fears!
Your lingering sadness
Will turn into gladness.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
I frolic and skip
With laughs on my lip!
My bells jingle sweetly,
I thrill you completely.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!

As the wailing continued, I turned to Cairpré. “Doesn’t he know how he sounds? He is the least funny person I have ever heard.”

The poet heaved a sigh. “I think he does know. But he keeps on trying anyway. His name is Bumbelwy. Ever since he was a child, when he first frightened away the birds with his singing, he has dreamed of being a jester. Not just an amusing frolicker, but a true jester, someone who practices the high art of dressing wisdom in the garb of humor. Bumbelwy the Mirthful, he calls himself.”

“Bumbelwy the Painful suits him better.”

“I know, I know. As I’ve said before,
Bread yearns to rise beyond its size.”

The townspeople, meanwhile, seemed every bit as dismal as Bumbelwy himself. Many held their heads in their hands; all wore scowls. One young girl shook loose of a woman’s arms and ran into a nearby house, her black hair streaming behind her. While the woman stayed in her seat, she looked as if she envied the girl.

I turned back to Cairpré, scowling myself. “Why does anyone listen to him?”

“One of his, ah, humorous recitals, as he calls them, can ruin your next three meals. But like every other resident of Caer Neithan, he gets to perform in the village circle each year on the date of his birth.” Cairpré shook his head. “And the rest of us have to listen. Even those like me who don’t live here but are unlucky enough to be here on the wrong day.”

He waved at the village circle, his voice no longer a whisper. “To think of all the truly memorable performances this same spot has seen!
Night Hammer. The Vessel of Illusion. Geraint’s Vow.”

Swiveling, he gestured toward one of the smaller, older-looking houses. “Pwyll, whose despairing smile itself inspired volumes of poems, wrote her first poem there.” He pointed to a low house with a wooden porch. “Laon the Lame was born there. And let’s not forget Banja. Jussiva the Jubilant. Ziffian. They all called this town home. As have so many other fabled bards.”

Again I peered at Bumbelwy, whose long arms flailed as he droned on. “The only place he will ever be a jester is in his dreams.”

Cairpré nodded grimly. “All of us have our private dreams. But few of us cling to dreams so far removed from our true capabilities! In days long past, Bumbelwy might have been saved by one of the Treasures of Fincayra, the magical horn known as the Caller of Dreams. Think of it, Merlin. The Caller, when blown by someone immensely wise, could bring a person’s most cherished dream to life. Even a dream as far-fetched as Bumbelwy’s. That is why it was often called, in story and song, the Horn of Good Tidings.”

Lines deeper than the scars on my own face appeared on Cairpré’s brow. I knew that he was remembering how Rhita Gawr had perverted the magic of the Caller of Dreams to bring only evil tidings to life. In the case of this very village, he had brought about the most terrifying dream of any poet, bard, or musician: He had silenced completely the voices of all who dwelled here, rendering useless the very instruments of their souls. That was why the Town of Bards had been as quiet as a graveyard when I last came here. Cairpré’s tormented expression told me that, while the curse itself had departed with the collapse of the Shrouded Castle, its memory lived on.

The bells on Bumbelwy’s hat started jangling again, louder than before. If I had not been holding my staff, I would have covered my ears. Nudging Cairpré, I asked, “Why don’t you try the Caller of Dreams on him yourself?”

“I couldn’t”

“Why not?”

“First of all, my boy, I’m not about to try to take anything—certainly not one of the Treasures—from the Grand Elusa’s cave where they now reside. I’ll leave that to someone much braver. Or stupider. But that isn’t the main reason. The fact is, I am not wise enough to use the Caller.”

I blinked in surprise. “Not wise enough? Why, the poet Cairpré is known throughout the land as—”

“As a rhymer, a quoter, an idealistic fool,” he finished.
“Have no illusions, I brim with confusions.
But at least I am wise enough to know one important thing: how little I really do know.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen your library. All those books! You can’t tell me you don’t know anything.”

“I didn’t say I don’t know anything, my boy. I said I don’t know
enough.
There’s a difference. And to think that I could command the legendary Caller of Dreams—well, that would be a terrible act of hubris.”

“Hubris?”

“From the Greek word
hybris,
meaning arrogance. Excessive pride in oneself. It’s a flaw that has felled many a great person.” His voice dropped again to a whisper. “Including, I am told, your own grandfather.”

I stiffened. “You mean . . . Tuatha?”

“Yes. Tuatha. The most powerful wizard Fincayra has ever known. The only mortal ever allowed to visit the Otherworld to consult with Dagda—and return alive. Even he was susceptible to hubris. And it killed him.”

The Flowering Harp felt suddenly heavier, the sling digging into my shoulder. “How did he die?”

Cairpré leaned closer. “I don’t know the details. No one does. All I know is he overestimated his own power, and underestimated Rhita Gawr’s most fearsome servant, a one-eyed ogre named Balor.”

He shook himself. “But let us speak of more pleasant things! My boy, tell me about the Harp. You’ve made quick work of the Dark Hills if you’re already down here in the plains.”

I shifted uncomfortably, rubbing my hand over the knotted top of my staff. As I felt the deep grooves, the scent of hemlock spiced the air, reminding me of the woman whose fragrances had filled my childhood. The time had come to tell Cairpré what I wanted to do—and what I had left undone.

Taking a deep breath, I declared, “I haven’t finished my work in the hills.”

He caught his breath. “You haven’t? Did you meet trouble? Warrior goblins on the loose?”

I shook my head. “The only trouble is of my own making.”

The bottomless pools of his eyes examined me. “What are you saying?”

“That I’ve discovered something more important than my task.” I faced the poet squarely. “I want to find my mother. To bring her to Fincayra.”

Anger flashed across his face. “You would place us all in danger because of that?”

My throat tightened. “Cairpré, please. I will finish the task. I promise! But I need to see her again. And soon. Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes! You are putting all the creatures of this land at risk.”

I tried to swallow. “Elen gave up everything for me, Cairpré! She loved her life here. Loved it to the depths of her soul. And she left it all just to protect me. During our time in Gwynedd, I was—well, her only companion. Her only friend. Even though I never did much to deserve it.”

I paused, thinking about her sad songs, her healing hands, her wondrously blue eyes. “We had our problems, believe me. But we were much closer than either of us knew. Then one day I left her there, all alone. Just left her. She must be miserable, in that cold stone room. She might even be sick, or in trouble. So while I want to bring her here for me, it’s also for her.”

Cairpré’s expression softened slightly. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Merlin. I understand. How many times I myself have longed to see Elen again! But even if we put aside the Dark Hills, to bring someone here from the world beyond the mists—well, to do that is impossibly dangerous.”

“Are you certain? The sea has spared me twice.”

“It’s not the sea, my boy, though that voyage is dangerous enough. Fincayra has its own ways, its own rhythms, that mortals can only guess. Even Dagda himself, it is said, dares not predict who may be allowed to pass through the curtains of mist.”

“I don’t believe it.”

His gaze darkened. “There would be dangers to anyone brought here from outside, and dangers to the rest of Fincayra as well.” He closed his eyes in thought. “What you may not understand is that anyone who arrives here—even the tiniest little butterfly—could change the balance of life on Fincayra and cause untold destruction.”

“You’re sounding like Domnu,” I scoffed. “Saying I’m going to be the ruin of all Fincayra.”

He swung his head toward the village gates, no longer aglow with golden light. Beyond them, the Dark Hills rolled like waves on a stormy sea. “You could be just that. Especially if you don’t finish what you’ve begun.”

“Won’t you help me?”

“Even if I knew a way, I wouldn’t help you. You’re only a boy. And a more foolish one than I had thought.”

I pounded my staff on the ground. “I have the power to make the Harp work, don’t I? You yourself told the Great Council that I have the heart of a wizard. Well, perhaps I also have the power to bring my mother here.”

His hand squeezed my shoulder so hard I winced. “Don’t say such things, even in jest. It takes far more than heart to be a true wizard. You need the spirit, the intuition, the experience. You need the knowledge—enormous knowledge about the patterns of the cosmos and all the arts of magic. And, even more, you need the wisdom, the sort of wisdom that tells you when to use those arts, and when to refrain. For a true wizard wields his power judiciously, the way an expert bowman wields his arrows.”