Kitten Courna

I didn't know there was a part two. Turns out there is. I suppose it could stand alone, as "Song" did. Ah well, we learn new things every day, don't we.

-Kitten


Song II:

He was never alone. It was always with a melody, his hand clutched over silent strings, that he walked the streets.

Though he was never alone, he noticed the distance it put between him and others. With shy glances he noticed their turning away, their slightest smiles filled with deceit, their steps taken just a foot farther away from him.

He heard music. He heard music all the time. In his head, from his fingers, from the wooden planks on the snow covered streets, it played for him and only him. He tried to make them understand, he had his harp, his only instrument, and he tried to show them what it all was. But they heard only the pluck of soft gut strings. They didn’t hear the striking of the cat’s gut like the beat of their own heart. They didn't feel the pull inside, as if the cat's gut had been replaced with their own.

His harp was his only tool. His voice was worn and unflattering, he could not even strike a beat unless he sat, for his form also lacked the music. Though his harp helped him get by society with little trouble, the awkward turn of his foot would not be disguised either by beautiful melody or rich clothing.

The snow fell like cow’s bells, only gentle ones, ringing clearly through the specially thinned and crisp air. Tonight he played for society, he tried one more time to show them that he did not need to speak, nor did he need to run. Though the cold did cause his leg to ache.

“Welcome you, lad, welcome. You’ll be playing for us tonight?”

He nodded. The man didn’t know his voice was tenor, and it echoed against the bass stones of the Great Hall in perfect harmony. He smiled; if only he knew.

“Be ready to strike a dance then, lad, we’ll have no foulness in our halls tonight!”

“Aye, tonight is our night!”

“Tonight we rode high!”

“Tonight we rode swift!”

“Tonight we rode to victory!”

“Aye!”

The resounding shouts echoed cacophonously. Though he cringed, he also smiled. Cacophony was also music. But that was his secret.

He approached the dias, smiling to his hosts who spilled golden water onto the hay strewn floor with abandon. Slings and bloodied bandages abounded, as did broken arrow tips and dirt, but all was forgotten in the midst of the high spirit of victory that rode above them all. He approached the front quickly. He thought of battle songs, victory, high spirits, songs that would blend well with the bright fires and faces, the howling hounds and golden mead. He gazed upon the dias, the space reserved for those who could only celebrate the victories of others. The colors were horrendous.

“There you go, we’ve brought something for entertainment, bard. The song of a captured sparrow to brighten the room.”

They laughed. He saw discordant melody. The singer stared back at him, pale, trapped, dying. He approached his seat. Though the music was fading, he played what he had to. He knew he could teach them nothing, so he could only please, to play the simple melodies that came after the thirst for war. They goaded the singer into singing. He thought the hosts had lied to him. It was not the sparrow they trapped, but the only bird that might have slipped over the Father’s shoulder and drunk from the blood of poetry itself.

He thought of himself, trapped in a body that provided him nothing with which he might touch the music he saw in everything. Even his fingers felt clumsy, the well worn callouses suddenly obstructions to his feeling, keeping from him the comfort he had felt in his music before. He thought of what it would be like to be his own instrument, to produce the sound himself, to be a clear instrument like the air around him.

Freedom was a terrible melody that he never touched. But tonight, tonight was for victory. Tonight, he would reach out for it, and guide the hands of another.

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Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'

Lily

Kitten, this is an interesting piece, and I really like the imagery you have here, but I found the beginning a little awkward. There were bits and pieces that you put in which felt like information that the reader could figure out from the context of the story. For instance, in the first line: "He was never alone. It was always with a melody, his hand clutched over silent strings, that he walked the streets", I don't think you need to say that 'He was never alone". Since he's always walking with a melody, we can figure out that he's never alone. Also, I found the fragments a little off-putting, but that's just me being anal retentive about grammar again, so if you think it lends something to the story, go right ahead with them! Other than that, I thought the way you illustrated the scene and the characters was quite wonderful. Keep up the good work!

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Insufferable Know-it-all.

Kitten Courna

Lily, thanks for your comment, I appreciate your time!

I see what you mean about the beginning, however I'm loath to change it. To me, it has somewhat of a repetitive quality in more a sense of theme and repitition, the musical quality. Like a rhythm I suppose. It's also the reason for the repetitive quality of the cheers, and the cows' bells comment. I will definitely have to see if I'm conveying that well enough now that you've mentioned it. You've a sharp eye.

As for the fragments, I tried my best to avoid them, since I tend to get carried away. The thought of over abundant fragments gives me chills *smile*.

I'm gald you enjoyed the story, and thank you very much for commenting.

-Kitten

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Cadmus: Poor child, like a white swan warding its weak old father, why do you clasp those white arms about my neck?
Euripides; 'The Bacchae'