Cricket's Song

by Michael A. Hooten

  Cricket nodded. “I saw a man die,” he said quietly. “Things haven’t been the same since.”

  “Death changes things,” Byrn said. “We know; our oldest boy died fighting in the Border Wars about the time you were born. And our youngest was stillborn. We know about death.”

  “I just keep wondering if there was some other way, or something I could have done...”

  Wylla silenced him with a touch. “If you live in yesterday, you’ll never make it to tomorrow. Learn from it and move on.”

  Cricket shook his head. “I’m trying to.”

  “Alright,” Byrn said brightly. “Enough melancholia. This is supposed to be a happy occasion, so unlimber that old pot of yours and give us a last jig before you leave.

  Smiling through sudden tears, Cricket gave them the best that a bard had to offer.

  Several hours later, Cricket attended a completely different gathering. Instead of taking fond leave of loved ones, he found himself meeting the strangers that would be his constant companions for the foreseeable future.

  Sean, as one of Glencairck’s twenty four ollam, commanded a respectable feast for his company, taken in one of the small banquet halls of the Academy. He also served a powerful but subtle wine that soon loosened the tongues of all present. Cricket could tell how strong it was after one swallow, and nursed one glass for the rest of the evening while pitcher after pitcher emptied on its way around the table. He answered most questions put to him, but deferred on those that touched on sensitive areas, listening closely the exchanges around him without getting too involved.

  Thankfully, Sean dismissed the patronymics early. “We are all bards—and you are all cerddorion—so this is now our family. Our original family and station is unimportant.” Cricket could tell that Branwen, at least, thought rank had importance; from the way she tossed her honey blonde hair and batted her lashes at the ollave and acknowledged everyone else with her shoulder, Cricket hoped he didn’t have to spend much time with her.

  The only other woman in the group was Serca, who brushed unruly brown curls from her face while she talked to Culweth, a heavy-set northerner, and Morch, a plain looking Lienathman. Gwales had good looks but dull eyes, Arcath fidgeted and kept asking if he should get his harp, and Flann had the mischievous eyes of a ferret, and looked about as trustworthy.

  Cricket sighed inwardly and wished a friend would just appear out of nowhere. He was the only one who had never been with a company before, and he just smiled at comments like, “I hope we don’t have to winter anywhere near Caer Innis,” or, “Cantref Gwennedd is always good to bards, especially Caer Dathyl.” Cricket nodded and ate and wondered if it would ever end.

  After Sean recounted a bawdy story about the hunting accident of Seamus, a former Lord of Cantref Jaryd, and how the maidservants helped “heal” him, the ollave held up his hands against the laughter. “Now, off with you all,” he said. “We leave at dawn, and I expect you all to be ready for a full day’s ride. So sleep well!”

  Cricket fled back to his own room, closing the door on the world. Well, it’s never been much of a home, he thought, looking at the bare stone walls, but at least it was private.

  He checked the wardrobe one last time, but he had already put everything into the small pack by the door. He laid down on the narrow bunk and worried himself to sleep.

  Dawn found the company assembled in the stables, with several members cursing their lack of tolerance the night before. Sean seemed unaffected, however, so Cricket pulled his bay beside the Ollave’s roan. “Can you tell us where we’re going now? You hedged on the subject quite a bit last night.”

  “I think we’ll go north first. Maybe Cantref Keirnally or Cantref Bettany, but I’m really not sure.” Seeing Cricket’s puzzled expression, Sean said, “What? You thought this was all planned? There are nine companies ranging all over Glencairck at any given time, and the only planning involved is to keep moving if another company is present. Otherwise, we drift with the wind.”

  Cricket thought about it for a moment. “It seems that everyone would end up in the south for the winter,” he said.

  “Not if you’re in Caer Bath at Samhain,” Sean replied. “It just depends on what’s going on as to whether we stay in one place for a month or a season. But it’s sure we won’t get anywhere if we don’t start. Flann! Get your butt on that horse. I don’t care what your head feels like.”

  Cricket had intended to ride in the rear, but the lingering hangovers took that position. But he found himself next to Branwen, which was almost like being alone.

  He spent the day watching the scenery unfold around him. Beltain was just a week past, and the foliage was busy putting on summer colors. The apple trees dropped the last of their blossoms and the spring flowers continued to wither away, but the grass glowed green and the sun shone warmly.

  They spent the first night camped by a bridge that crossed a small tributary of the Lannae. After eating a simple dinner, Arcath pulled out his harp and began playing. The group sang along, and Cricket joined in, enjoying the music. Serca started playing a bodhrán, drumming a deep rhythm reflected by the river, and soon other instruments appeared: Culweth played a set of bellows pipes, and Flann scraped a fiddle. Cricket pulled out his flute to play, eyes widening when Branwen produced her own flute and wove a complex harmony around his tune. Morch and Gwales sang, while Sean watched it all with a smile, content just to clap his hands in time.

  The impromptu festival did not end so much as fall apart; each player tried to finish with a grand flourish, only to have the next player try something fancier.

  “Enough!” Sean cried. “It’s been fun, but there’s more travel in the morning, so empty your bladders and climb in your blankets.”

  Cricket settled somewhat away from the fire, wondering if his first impressions had been wrong.

  But the next day, the others left him alone while riding again. Cricket couldn’t blame it on the hangovers any more, but that night, they welcomed his contributions to the music just as they had the night before. He laid on the hard ground afterwards feeling like he belonged to two different companies, the one that excluded him during the day, the other that made him an integral part of the music at night. He tried figuring it out as he stared at the waxing moon. He guessed it had something to do with Bres’ death, but trying to find a solution only made his head spin. Sighing, he rolled over into sleep, wondering how long it would take him to get used to another new set of rules.

  The next day, Serca dropped back beside him. She said nothing for awhile, and then: “There are a lot of strange stories being told about you.”

  “Excuse me?” Cricket asked.

  “I said—”

  “Never mind, I heard you,” he interrupted. “I’m just trying to figure out how to respond, or even if I should.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s to figure out?”

  “How about: what kind of person ignores someone for days and then starts asking deep and personal questions?”

  “I didn’t ask you a question,” she said, blowing a stray curl out of her eye. “And we weren’t ignoring you... maybe studying would be a better word. No one knows quite what to make of you.”

  “I’m nothing special.” When she lifted both eyebrows, he amended, “Okay, I’m a little different, but not that different.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  She shrugged. “Something happened in Uislign. One student died and another was awarded the star... Half the Academy thinks you’re the spirit of Gwydion reborn, and the other half hopes that you’ll just go away.”

  Looking at her sideways, he said, “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m tired of treating you like a leper. You’re either a good person or you’re not; either way, I’ll never know if I don’t talk to you.”

  “So instead of studying me from afar, you’ve decided to do it up close?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re going t
o make this difficult, aren’t you?”

  “It had occurred to me.”

  They rode in silence for awhile. “Would it help to start over?” Serca finally asked.

  “Maybe.”

  She sighed. “If you don’t cooperate, this is never going to work.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cricket straightened up and looked straight ahead. Glancing casually over, he did a double take. “Oh, hello,” he said. “I didn’t see you there. My name’s Cricket. What’s yours?”

  She laughed. “Well, you can certainly be charming when you try. My name’s Serca.”

  “How do you do?” he asked. “I’ve never been to Duvnecht before. Is it always this nice?”

  “Only in the summer,” she replied. “Are you truly beardless, or do you simply shave when nobody is looking?”

  Cricket wagged his finger at her. “You’re not playing by the rules,” he accused. “We have to be inane and trivial for at least an hour before we can start getting personal.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  They stared at each other seriously for a moment before dissolving into laughter. “You’re not dangerous at all, are you?” Serca asked.

  “Not much,” he answered, grimacing at the hidden irony.

  After that, things became easier. Serca remained the friendliest, but the others started talking to him. He discovered that he liked them all, even Branwen (although she was still cold except when she played). The land around them had risen to a wide, grassy plateau where sturdy herdsmen watched over herds of glossy black cattle. Cricket looked around in amazement, realizing that this must be where the famous bull of Cooley was stolen by Queen Maeve of Airu, starting a war that lasted a generation and produced the mightiest hero of Glencairck, CuChulainn. If he remembered correctly, cattle raids were still common in the alpine valleys further north, although it was now considered more of a sport than an offense.

  Sean led them to the foothills of the jagged Grevnerry Mountains, where Caer Bath nestled against a granite cliff. Volmeth, Lord Batteny, drove his chariot out to meet them, racing ahead of the kerns that accompanied him, his long red hair and beard streaming behind him. “Your company is welcome to my Caer and my Cantref,” he said as he pulled his horses to a stop. The formality dissolved as the other horsemen arrived. “And right on bloody time, too. I’ve got to knock a couple of heads together, and I could use a bard’s skills so that I don’t shed their bloody stupid blood.”

  “Certainly,” Sean bowed. “Cricket, Serca, come with me. The rest of you get settled, and if we’re not back by sundown, I want you to lead the company, Branwen.”

  The blonde woman gave the warmest smile Cricket had yet seen. “Certainly, ollave.”

  As they rode, Volmeth said, “Do I recognize you, ollave?”

  “I’ve been here before,” Sean admitted.

  “Then you probably know Dalgeth and Iolu, the two bloody lairds who are tearing up my cantref,” he said, bouncing along in his chariot. “No one even remembers why they bloody hate each other, but every few years they start going at it like a couple of bucks in heat, and then I have to come in and rough them up. It settles them for a while, but I’m getting sick and bloody tired of it, and I’m about to start taking their heads as compensation.”

  “The queen shares your concern,” Sean said. “Tales of Dalgeth and Iolu are common as examples of how not to act, but she has felt for some time that it’s time to settle things once and for all.”

  Volmeth fingered his axe. “Then I get to...?”

  “I’m sorry, but not yet. Ard Righanna Elhonna still wants to find a peaceful way, if possible.” Begging the lord’s pardon, Sean pulled off to the side with his cerddorion. “Cricket, I want you to judge this one.”

  “Me?” he said in surprise. “But wouldn’t they listen to an ollave better?”

  “Not these two,” Sean replied. “As I said, I’ve judged them before, and I’m sure Serca has talked to them, too.”

  “I was worried that they might be at it again when we crossed the border,” she confided. “The companies have been starting to avoid Cantref Batteny just because of them.”

  “Right,” Sean agreed. “So we need to end it if we can. That’s why I chose you, Cricket; you will be completely unbiased, and unfrustrated, so maybe you’ll find something that we’ve missed.”

  Caer Blayloch and Caer Tethran shared a valley, separated by a river. Each had three duns, one of which was currently on fire; two armies bludgeoned each other in the twilight, while horsemen wheeled around the blazing buildings.

  With a bellow, Volmeth drove his chariot right into the middle of the battle and began laying about with the flat of his axe. The armies backed off in confusion, and the cantref lord roared, “Put out that bloody fire!”

  The soldiers looked at each other suspiciously and did not move. Two men in chariots trailed by their horsemen pulled up and began talking and gesturing at each other. “Shut your bloody mouths!” Volmeth yelled, and the two stopped in mid sentence. “Now, tell your men to put out the fire. And the first one who so much as thinks about using a weapon will feel mine first! Do I make myself bloody bleeding clear?”

  While both armies hastily dropped swords and pikes and ran for the blaze, Volmeth’s party and the three bards finally caught up. Volmeth cursed his lairds thoroughly, and Sean took the opportunity to tell Cricket, “The blonde man is Dalgeth. He’s vain and greedy. The dark haired man is Iolu. He doesn’t give a damn about appearance, but he’s just as proud as Dalgeth, and maybe even more stubborn.”

  “What happened to the hostages?” Volmeth demanded.

  Each man looked away.

  Volmeth became very still, his eyes narrowing. “I want your heads,” he said with a growl. “By the creator, I should take them, you miserable misbegotten maggots! But, I promised the ollave that you would receive judgment.”

  Dismounting, Sean stepped forward. “My lairds,” he said with a bow. “I have judged you before. Truth be told, almost every cerddorion and ollave in Glencairck has. So I’m giving this judgment to my newest cerddorion, who might be able to see some lasting solution. Ogmah knows the rest of us can’t.”

  Cricket dropped to the ground and pulled Linnaia from her case, feeling his stomach flutter and flip. As he stepped forward, both men began to complain. “This is a mere boy!” Dalgeth shouted. “He doesn’t look old enough to dress himself!”

  “Are you mocking us, ollave?” Iolu asked contemptuously.

  The insults came like a slap in the face. Cricket stood taller and said, “It looks as though you are mocking yourselves with your ignorance.” He began playing a soft tune, but with a disdainful edge. He wove in just enough magic to give himself a louder voice and a more menacing appearance. “I understand you do this regularly: breaking your vows in order to wage your petty war. And this time you killed hostages that I assume were meant to help you keep the peace? You have no right to say anything to anyone.”

  Dalgeth began offering explanations, and Iolu sat sullen and silent. Cricket silenced the blonde man with a chord and a glance. “Instead of dragging this out, lairds, I want to hear two things from each of you. First, I want to know what started all of this originally, why you hate each other. And second, I want to know what started it on this particular occasion. Laird Iolu, please begin.”

  “It originally started when this monster slew my cousin’s son—”

  “It was an accident!” Dalgeth protested. “Besides, he was stealing my cattle!”

  “You just thought he was stealing!” Iolu yelled back.

  The blonde man drew breath to reply when Volmeth cleared his throat, loudly. Both men looked at their lord, who ran a huge thumb over his axe blade and fixed each of them with a meaningful stare. They quieted rapidly, and Iolu continued his story.

  By the time they had finished, Cricket’s head spun from all the false accusations and equally false denials. As he tried to sort it out, h
e glanced back his companions; Sean kept a blank face, but Serca gave him an encouraging smile.

  He looked at the two noblemen again. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “There was a cattle raid twenty years ago where Iolu’s distant kinsman was killed, and you two have sent your men to die for it ever since?”

  Iolu opened his mouth to protest that it wasn’t a raid, but he finally just nodded. Dalgeth didn’t even look up.

  “And every few years you start thinking of it again. Why?”

  Dalgeth shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You know how it is... our bards sing of it occasionally, and you just start brooding over it...”

  “Your bards?” Cricket asked. “And just where are these fine gentlemen?”

  “Here, cerddorion,” they said, pushing their mounts forward. Both had the same coloring as their laird, and both wore a bland, even bored expression when facing the young bard. But Cricket had not missed the expression of pure hatred that they had given each other.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Cricket said. “Why would you inflame your lairds to violence? Doesn’t that go against the bardic code of preserving peace?”

  Somewhat shocked, they looked at their lairds. “We just play what we’re told,” said the dark haired bard.

  “I see. And are you related to Laird Iolu?”

  “I’m his cousin,” the man admitted.

  “And you?” Cricket asked the other.

  “Laird Dalgeth is my uncle,” the blonde bard said with pride.

  “And you play just what they ask? Even though you know how short tempered they are?”

  “When you become bard teulu—or maybe if—then you will understand,” Dalgeth’s bard said arrogantly.

  “I think I understand already,” Cricket answered coldly. Using a little magic in his tune to draw everyone’s attention, he ended it suddenly. Into the deafening silence, he said, “Lords! I will now render judgment, as is my right as a bard of Glencairck!”

  The soldiers abandoned their fire fighting efforts and moved closer.