Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  The creatures turned around, dripping shiny blood from their dark skin. One of the students moaned, and Scathna whimpered, “Save us, Cricket. Please.”

  Cricket turned Linnaia in his hands, his mind paralyzed with fear; a song had called these monsters, so a song could banish them, but what song?

  The creatures began moving towards him, and Cricket started playing in desperation. They stopped, cocking their heads to one side like dogs. Cricket tried to find the right sub-harmonies, but his fingers slipped, and the creatures began to shuffle forward again.

  Sweat and tears flowed down his face, but Cricket forced himself to close his eyes and concentrate on the music. The notes turned over and over and over in his mind, suddenly tumbling into place like pieces in a puzzle box. Cricket could feel the song that Bres had played, knew he could duplicate it, but also saw why he shouldn’t; the magic was as twisted as what it had called. Quickly he modified it to a cleaner pitch, worked as much simple joy as he could into it to combat Bres’ hatred, and felt the Chord of Laughter come forth.

  He cracked open his eyes. The creatures had stopped, and were doing what evidently passed as laughter among their kind. The students rolled with belly laughs and great guffaws. Cricket listened closely, feeling the power ebb and flow around him like the sea. He still did not know how to banish the monsters, he suddenly realized; what was worse, he didn’t know how long he could hold them. Sheltered from the Chord, he began to weep with frustration. He would have to do more.

  The creatures howled and beat the ground. Cricket almost panicked, feeling the Chord slip and falter. The monsters cavorted in place, still unable to move against the humans, but seeing their freedom nonetheless.

  Cricket locked out his fear and concentrated. He could not drive them away with the Chord, but what if he called on another Power? He had to call the right one, and he would only have one chance, else he would share Bres’ fate. He heard wings flapping around his ears, and suddenly he knew the song and the magic that he would need.

  The sub-harmonies, elusive as smoke, shied from his initial efforts. Closing his eyes again, he bore down, holding an image of light and love over the dark and hatred. He played until he had the pattern, then fed it into a soaring crescendo.

  He opened his eyes. The three central stones began to glow, becoming brighter with each moment, herding the creatures into their center. Cricket squinted against the glare, but he thought he saw three women rise up and touch each creature with the wands they held. The monsters howled again, this time in rage and frustration, but faded back into their own reality.

  Cricket collapsed, breathing like a bellows. He heard wings again, and he saw two dark birds rise into the air. His numb fingers fell from the strings, and without the music, the glow faded. He thought the women had left as well, but felt three light touches. He looked up to find them surrounding him, each laying their wand on his head.

  “We are well pleased with thee, Amyrian,” they said in a harmony that cut deep into Cricket’s soul. He began to cry in happiness and relief. “You have done us a great service this eve’n, young bard, and we thank thee.”

  “I am not a bard,” Cricket protested.

  “You would gainsay our judgment?” A touch of humor took the sting out of the rebuke.

  “I am simply not worthy, great ladies.”

  “That is for us to decide,” they said. “If left to yourself, you would never feel worthy.”

  “Thank you,” Cricket said. “I—thank you.”

  The wands descended again. “Rest well,” they intoned in harmony. Dawn broke over the land, and the women faded from sight.

  The Pen Bardd, roused from his sleep by the violent magic, found them fifteen minutes later. Cricket slept soundly between the center stones, with the eight remaining students arrayed like spokes of a wheel around him.

  Chapter 12: Bard

  Cricket awoke feeling like he had been crushed by a boulder. Every inch of his body ached; it hurt to blink.

  “This is the last time I’m going to play nursemaid to you,” Ewan MacDougall said. He sat beside the bed, his presence both comforting and intimidating.

  “I know,” Cricket whispered, hearing the strain behind the Pen Bardd’s light words. “I’m sorry, Master.”

  “We’ll talk of it later. Here, drink this.”

  Cricket wanted to talk, but the cup, smelling of herbs and salt, was lifted to his lips while he was trying to explain. He drank it greedily, and the cup of water that followed rinsed away the bitter aftertaste. The medicine pulled him back into sleep before he could protest.

  He woke feeling better, but parched and ravenous. He stood gingerly, testing his legs, and tottered over to the side table. Drinking the entire pitcher of water took some of the shakes away, but did nothing for his hunger. He took a deep breath, feeling suddenly light headed and nauseous. Lying down on the bed helped some, although the room still spun alarmingly, and the water sloshed uncomfortably in his stomach.

  A few minutes or hours later, the room brightened, the world slowed, and Cricket’s head returned to his body. He sat up—slowly, carefully—and when he felt ready, inched himself off the bed and over to the door.

  The hallway outside was lit by only a single torch, confusing him for a moment until he realized it must be the middle of the night. He made his way towards the kitchen, feeling steadier as he walked, although the soreness remained.

  The night cook, a burly man with thick, hairy arms, took one look at Cricket and said, “Shouldn’t you be in bed, boy? You look like the banshee’s about to call your name.”

  “Hungry,” Cricket answered simply.

  “Well, sit,” the cook said, “before you fall over.”

  Cricket sank gratefully onto a stool by the cook’s worktable, sighing as the warmth of the fire penetrated his stiff muscles. The cook set a plate of sliced bread and butter and a jar of honey in front of him, returning a moment later with a steaming mug. “Just plain mint tea, with a dollop of brandy,” the cook said with a wink. “Fix you better than all those fancy medicines.”

  “Thank you,” Cricket remembered to say before attacking the food. The soft, chewy bread filled his stomach and the tea made his nose numb. The cook replaced the empty plate and mug with full ones and sat beside him.

  “Heard about you,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you up so soon.”

  “How long has it been?” Cricket asked.

  “Two, no three days, I guess. Hard to keep track of time on this watch.”

  “Hard to eat when you’re asleep,” Cricket said. His exhaustion was returning, but he continued to devour the bread.

  The cook nodded. “Guess that makes sense.” He stood up and went to the other end of the table, where he began to knead a heap of dough. “Shame about that Bres, though. Knew he was lumpy, but didn’t expect him to be rotten.”

  Cricket nodded dumbly. He pushed the plate away and put his head on the table, letting the cook’s words drone meaninglessly through his head.

  Strong, flour dusted arms lifted him up. The hallways of the Academy felt cold after the glowing kitchen, but Cricket couldn’t wake up enough to care. Warmth returned with a quilt pulled around his shoulders. “Good night, bardling,” the cook said.

  Cricket mumbled a thank you and drifted away.

  He healed quickly after that, although the physicians forced him to stay in bed for most of the week. And as soon as he was allowed up, the Pen Bardd summoned him to his chambers.

  The chief bard sat in a huge, fur covered chair turned towards the fire, his face lost in shadow. “You wanted to see me, master?” Cricket said hesitantly.

  The Penn Bardd said nothing, but indicated the matching chair facing him. Cricket sat on the edge, unwilling to be seduced by the luxury. For ten minutes, the young man fidgeted while the only sound was the pop and hiss of the fire.

  Finally, the Pen Bardd spoke. “Do you have any idea how close you came not only to dying, but to wreaking havoc on Glencairck
as well?”

  Cricket opened his mouth to protest, but he changed his mind. “Yes master,” he mumbled.

  “Bres almost managed to do something that hasn’t happened since Cathbar overthrew the bards seven hundred years ago: he almost managed to take a life with his music. In a way he succeeded, although his was the only life lost.”

  “I’m sorry, master.”

  The Pen Bardd waved his apology away. “Yours was not the fault. In fact, you did exceptionally well. No, you are a problem of a completely different caliber, one which we will touch on in a moment. First, though, I want to hear your version of the story. The others can’t remember much, and there was so much residual power around the stones that I couldn’t untangle the events magically.”

  Cricket recounted the events leading up to the battle, and told of how the creatures appeared. An instinct that he could not name made him leave out his discovery of the Chord of Laughter, but he told the Pen Bardd of the three women and what they had said.

  “They called you a bard, did they?” Ewan mused. “Well, in way that’s comforting, I suppose, since it has been decided that you were going to be awarded the star anyway.”

  “Pardon me, master, but why does that upset you?”

  “Perceptive boy,” the Pen Bardd grunted. “You’re right, of course. I don’t particularly want to make you a full bard, because you have only been in the Academy for a year, and the training is supposed to take five.” He shifted in his seat. “Unfortunately, you have proven your skills above and beyond anything we intended to teach you. There will be an examining board of ollam, but this is a formality, really; the star is to be yours.”

  “Master, what of the others?”

  “They will stay here, under an intensive training program similar to what you went through. They don’t seem to share yours or Bres’ skills, but we want to make sure. But they will learn the proper way to use any power they may acquire before they get the star.”

  Cricket shuddered at the implication of what would happen if they didn’t learn. The two men sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until the Pen Bardd stirred.

  “You have much to prepare, young Cricket,” he said. “You’ll need a good set of clothes, something that will make you presentable before the queen. You also need to study for your exam.”

  Cricket stood and bowed. “Thank you, master.”

  “And my thanks to you as well, Cricket; you have learned your lessons well, and have already put that knowledge to good use.”

  Cricket was halfway back to his room before he realized that except for the magic, most of what he had learned had come not from the Academy, but from Harper and Duncan.

  Two weeks later, Cricket stood with three other candidates in the Bardic Hall. The faces in the audience this time were all bards and student bards, and all of them were smiling. During Cricket’s convalescence he had gained a certain notoriety, positive for a change. Byrn and Wylla sat in the front row as well, beaming like proud parents.

  Ewan MacDougall appeared, harp in hand. He played a song that quickly quieted the crowd, and made the candidates stand even taller.

  “Her Majesty, Elhonna, Ard Righanna of Glencairck, Lady of Taris, and Sovereign of the Seven Isles!” the Pen Bardd announced.

  She swept into the hall, smiling at the audience graciously. Cricket watched with less awe than he had ever had in her presence before, and he began to see what Bannock had mentioned on the way back from Salwick so long ago: the smile lit her face, but did not reach her eyes, which glittered impersonally. Her beauty still impressed the young harpist, but he was no longer so smitten.

  “Cynvalin naHalfgar!” called the Pen Bardd, and the young woman at the end of the line stepped forward to receive her star from the queen.

  It had started after the interview with the Pen Bardd, and had been reinforced by the ollam who had tested him soon after. Cricket thought that bards stood above all other men, could see and know things that other men couldn’t, but with his new insight he tested the ollam as much as they tested him, and found them somehow lacking. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, but he mentally compared them with Harper, and knew who was the true bard.

  “Dougall MacRhodrick!”

  It didn’t help that the Chord of Laughter floated around inside of Cricket like a fluttering bird, and no one knew but him. He had talked to Scathna, much subdued after his experiences, but the deep-voiced student did not remember anything after the creatures killed Bres. Cricket had even taken an afternoon to go back to Gorsedd Ogham. He cast about with the other senses he could feel growing inside of him, and found that he could see traces of the battle, like chalk drawings in the air. But the scene was only understandable up to Bres’ death; everything after that was blurred, and gave him a headache when he tried to tease out the truth.

  “Peirneth of Caer Allys!”

  He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the ceremony. He was being given the star of the bards, the apex of all his dreams, and he was questioning everything about the Academy and what it stood for.

  “Daffyd of Dun Aillel, also known as Cricket!”

  Cricket’s stepped forward promptly, too well trained to let his doubts fudge the ceremony. Standing before the queen, he looked deep into her eyes as she pinned the star shaped brooch on his cloak. He had never been this close to her before, and he could smell a spicy perfume lingering about her.

  “Well done, Cricket,” she said, and her eyes joined the smile this time.

  The newest bard bowed deeply to cover his resurgent confusion. “I live only to serve Glencairck and thee,” he said. Deep inside, Harper’s memory protested that a true bard served only the country, but Cricket hushed the thought and did not let it show on his face. He bowed to the Pen Bardd. “I pledge my fealty to thee, my leader, and the chief of all bards.”

  “Thy pledge is accepted,” Ewan replied. “Welcome be thee unto our fellowship.”

  Cricket returned to his place in line, and Ewan faced the audience. “These four have been proclaimed worthy to wear the star of the bards!” he proclaimed. He turned to the queen. “Wilt thou, Majesty, accept the judgment that these four may render?”

  “I will,” she answered.

  Four ollam came forward, each holding a cloak of six colors. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pride that each of the other three candidates felt at their new rank, but his cloak felt heavy on his shoulders, and all he felt was the added weight of responsibility.

  The Pen Bardd turned back to the expectant faces lining the hall. “Now let all Glencairck know that they are now without honor price, having traded it for the duty of being a voice of justice throughout the land!”

  The crowd cheered, and after the queen departed, they swarmed the new bards. Byrn and Wylla captured Cricket and hugged him tightly, carrying him off to the White Owl for a celebration. As they left the hall, Cricket caught the eye of the Pen Bardd, where he still stood on the dais. Ewan MacDougall smiled and nodded back, but after the young man had disappeared, the look turned pensive.

  Chapter 13: Judgment

  Sean MacBannock leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed. Cricket wasn’t fooled; he knew the ollave saw everything and everyone around, but guessed that many people didn’t know that. Cricket bowed, but the ollave waved it away.

  “None of that. And none of that ‘Ollave’ crap, either. Don’t forget it, mind, but we’ll be on the road a lot and the formalities annoy me. Call me Sean.”

  “Yes, Sean.”

  “Good.” The ollave sat up and poured himself a cup of beer. “Help yourself. You’ll meet the others later, but as the newest cerddorion in the group, I thought I’d give you a few hints.

  “First, we’ll travel as a group to the cantrefs, but from there we’ll split up, and you’ll go out to the duns, abbeys, towns, or what have you. You will hear disputes and make judgments, and if the participants aren’t happy with the result, they’ll come to me in the Caer, where I will
be busy hearing the lord’s complaints. So I’d rather not hear anything else.

  “Second, discretion is paramount. I don’t expect you to live up to the Bardic Code, necessarily, but if some young lass comes to me complaining that you got her pregnant, I’ll string you up myself. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sean.”

  “Excellent.” The ollave leaned back again and said, “Any questions?”

  Cricket shrugged. “When do we leave?”

  “I like you, Cricket.” Sean took a swallow of beer before replying, “Tomorrow at dawn. Meet the company tonight for dinner, but make sure your arrangements are made before hand.”

  “Alright.”

  “My advice: get your horse first. It might make a difference in how much you decide to bring.”

  “I didn’t think we needed much.”

  Sean tugged at his moustache. “True enough, I guess. Now, off with you.”

  Cricket spent the afternoon in the Academy’s stables, then went to the White Owl one last time. The first thing that Wylla asked was, “Is something wrong? You look older, somehow.”

  “He’s just apprehensive, love,” Byrn said, clapping the young man on the shoulder.

  “Well, it certainly isn’t my beard,” Cricket said, fingering his perennially bare chin.

  “Whiskers are just a nuisance,” Byrn confided. “Women berate you for the first part of your life for not having them, and then spend the rest of your life complaining that they scratch.”

  Wylla shot her husband a hard look. “No, this is something more, I think. It’s been there for some time.”

  “My wonderful Wylla,” Cricket said, putting an arm around her. “If you weren’t already married, I’d steal you away from this old goat.” He let her go and took up the tankard that Byrn handed him. “It’s true, though; I feel like getting the star and going out with a company all across Glencairck should be more exciting, somehow.”

  “It’s that business that ended you up in bed, isn’t it?” Byrn asked gently. Cricket hadn’t told them the tale, but an inn floated on rumors as well as beer.