All These Shiny Worlds

by Jefferson Smith

  Whilst Pawl renewed old acquaintances and practiced for his first recital, Bronwen began to learn her way around the maze of inner corridors and outer paths, and listened as much to what was said as to what was played, and watched.

  There were many like Pawl amid the contenders—skilled but ill-equipped—and many others who but for their fine pipes would not have been there at all. Bronwen was not surprised by that discovery. She had learnt that life was ever thus.

  Yet, there were some present who had the good fortune to be both skilled and wealthy, and it was from these that the final selection would be made, according to Pawl’s somewhat gloomy predictions; those who had been there before would have been inclined to agree with him.

  One such contender was Marika. She might have taken the title last year but for a spell of poor health which took the edge off her performance. The year before that she had taken part, but with low expectations, having just given birth to her baby daughter. This was her year, of that she was certain. She stood aloof from the crowd and practiced only in private—this year everything was going her way.

  Bronwen watched the women pipers with interest, and the elegant Marika especially. She had thought at first that Marika, with her young daughter clinging to her skirts, was merely accompanying one of the contenders, like she was; some subtle quizzing had corrected that mistake: Marika was the likely Finder for the year to come, so the rumours suggested.

  “Her music is her life,” said one.

  “She can afford for it to be,” grumbled another.

  “Always the most beautiful pipes—and new ones each year,” sighed a third.

  Bronwen smiled, hopeful, an idea forming. “She likes the best?” she suggested.

  “She tolerates nothing less,” was the reply.

  No one would see Marika’s new pipes until the Quest reached its climax, but Bronwen had seen the set Pawl coveted: blackwood and silver, smooth with age, bright in tone and not for sale, even if they could have afforded them. They belonged to Gloran Smithson, had been his father’s and grandfather’s, and on the first day of the Quest they put their owner into prime position and won for him the blue sash of First Quest Leader. Pawl played well; he was not placed. Marika was elected fourth and seemed unconcerned.

  “Not her best pipes,” whispered an admirer.

  “Not her best playing,” scorned a detractor.

  Bronwen heard the exchange but took little notice, she needed to be with her husband.

  “Tell me about Marika,” she suggested, when he had come out of the dark mood she had found him in and was prepared to eat and speak again.

  “Marika? She is very wealthy. She lives nearby, I think. Certainly her music master comes from the city; her pipes are made here. What do you want to know?”

  His tone said Why do you want to know?

  She answered the question he had asked aloud. “Was she rich before she wed?”

  He laughed, and she wished that someday he would laugh, or even smile, simply with pleasure. “You of all people should know that without asking! Of course she was rich.” He turned away.

  “As rich as she is now?”

  “No!” he snarled, and rubbed his face distractedly. “I’m tired—can we talk of something else?”

  ***

  The air was cold but the sun shone brightly in a clear sky and Bronwen, well wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, sat outside in the garden, sewing. The child’s gown was finished, all but for the design over the heart square. The other three quarters of the breast panel held minute representations of the Bird of Joy, the Tree of Learning and the Lake of Tranquility. Bronwen heard footsteps approaching and started to wrap her few remaining threads to pack them away.

  “Surely you are not leaving the heart square!”

  Bronwen glanced up with a slight smile. Marika was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, uncertainty in her eyes, and admiration. Bronwen ignored the gown but left it in her lap. Marika was alone, giving Bronwen a subject for conversation where she had feared she might have none.

  “Where is your little girl?” The child was always at her mother’s side except during performances, and mother and daughter walked in the garden daily.

  “With her aunt. She has a slight fever.”

  “I am sorry,” Bronwen said sincerely, sensing the mother’s concern. “It must be worrying; she is very young, I think.”

  “Two years. She is not very strong,” Marika replied.

  Bronwen could see she had spent a sleepless night, and moved her satchel to give the other room. Marika sat down beside her while Bronwen absently fingered the cherry-red lights in the gown.

  “Red for good health,” Marika said ruefully. “Who is it for? Why have you left it unfinished?” She reached over and smoothed the fine cloth, and Bronwen, who had been waiting for that moment, turned her head away to brush an unbidden tear from her cheek. She knew what she had planned to say, planned to do. Everything had fallen into place as if it were meant to be: she had traded her marriage picture for the materials to make this gown, and she knew that she could persuade Marika to trade a set of pipes for it, pipes Pawl could make real music with. Yet parting with a marriage picture was one thing—she was not searching for security, Pawl had no home, had promised her none—but to give a heart gown away, that was something else again. Pawl may have reacted with horror when he thought she might be having a child, but one day she would need more than a wandering shearer’s life and a yearly pilgrimage to Myron. Even with good pipes, how many years might it take him to achieve the Quest? The best pipes in the world could be no guarantee. Bronwen knew that, of all the many things she wanted, what she desired most was a child of her own. She was prepared to wait but when the time came she wanted it to have the robe she had just made: the Robe of Life.

  “It is for no one as yet, thus it cannot be finished.”

  Bronwen’s heart sank as she recognised the expression that stole over Marika’s face, she had seen it in the farmer’s widow over the Hill when that woman had first seen the marriage token Bronwen sewed.

  “Not for a child of yours, then? Do you mean to sell it?”

  ‘Yes—for the right price,’ Bronwen meant to say. Instead she said, “I think not. I hope to have need of it one day. May your little girl be better soon.”

  And she left the garden, and Marika sitting alone on a stone bench wanting a baby’s dress as dearly as she wanted the Piper’s Quest.

  ***

  Pawl played even better that day and won some favourable comment, though nothing else. Marika was distracted and fell from her high placing. The blacksmith’s son regained the prime position and earned a purse of silver coins. The contest was into its eighth day.

  Marika approached Bronwen that evening after supper. They were in the great hall and Bronwen was studying the tapestry hanging over the doorway—the wedding gift to the Master of Myron and his new wife, from their overlord, the Ruler of All Eral, who would attend the final days of the Quest.

  Bronwen would rather have continued with her appraisal than deal with Marika’s need. She turned down the offer of a bolt of sky-blue silk imported from Tesk, a second horse, a purse of silver. The child’s gown was beyond price. Finally Marika bowed her head slightly, seemingly acquiescent, obviously disappointed.

  “Is that your husband?” she asked, watching Pawl approach and be waylaid by a heavily-built, bearded man. “He has much talent,” she continued casually, when Bronwen indicated that he was. “A pity he has only inferior pipes. Should you desire it I will trade you a set of mine for the gown. If your answer is still no, I will not raise the matter again, but maybe you would consider it?”

  Bronwen closed her eyes. She had resolved not to ask. But to refuse the offer—how, in good conscience, could she do that? Opening her eyes she saw Pawl’s strained expression across the hall; he wanted to be away, alone with his frustration.

  “Maybe,” she whispered. “Let me think on it.”

  “Tomorrow mor
ning?” Marika pleaded.

  Bronwen hesitated just for a moment. “All right. You will have an answer in the morning.”

  ***

  Pawl was quiet that night. He lay down on the thin mattress provided by their host and pulled a woollen blanket, which Bronwen had woven, over himself. He pretended to sleep.

  Bronwen unwrapped her sewing and conjured a vision of Marika’s little daughter, Rosa. Not focussing her attention, she let her hands select threads without reason, and worked the first image that came to mind, surprised at her choice, for the child was delicate and quiet.

  Beyond their window the broad crescent of the moon hung amid pale stars, muted by wispy clouds. Bronwen sat, cross-legged, beneath the casement and doubted her decision. The lightning flash filling the heart square was surely not for Rosa. Had she been untrue when she assured Pawl they were not expecting a child? She looked at him and allowed herself a faint smile. He had relaxed and was actually sleeping.

  ***

  Bronwen assumed she would meet Marika in the garden, as before. She waited in the bower, sheltered from the driving rain, and steeled herself to say, that, despite Marika’s kind offer, the answer had to be no. To bolster her resolve, she had gone empty-handed, leaving the little garment in her sewing bag under the bedcover.

  Time passed, the contest was about to resume and Marika had still not shown. Almost relieved, Bronwen rubbed the cold from her hands and rose, intending to go to the hall and listen to the playing. Only when her hand was on the latch did she realise that she was at Marika’s door instead.

  The room beyond the door was rather different than the one she shared with Pawl, which was little more than a sleeping alcove with a small window. There were servants, dressed better than she, attending to their duties with quiet competence and barely suppressed concern. Bronwen guessed the cause of their unease and her resolve crumbled. Recalling the days when she, too, had servants to command—though admittedly far fewer than Marika—she gave directions to her room, a description of the garment to be collected, and where it was to be found. She left without seeing Marika.

  ***

  Pawl had gone to the hall without waiting for Bronwen to return. He listened with admiration to Sareb Delver, the bearded man with whom he had spoken the day previous. A mood of resignation stole over him and he felt better for it. There was no reason to think this year might be different from any other, and he knew from past experience that when he accepted that fact he could begin to enjoy the music for its own sake.

  He felt better still when he saw Bronwen walking across the room towards him.

  “Each day I wonder if you will still be here.”

  They were the first words he had spoken to her since the competition yesterday.

  She was glad he did not take it for granted that she would be.

  Three pipers performed before she felt something being pressed into her hands. Marika, smiling, moved away. It was her turn to play next and murmurs of inquiry were already circulating as to her whereabouts.

  The pipes Bronwen held were in no wood she recognised. Honey-red and hard as iron, they were bound not with reed, as were Pawl’s, nor with leather or bronze, as was common, nor with silver, as were the smith’s son’s, but with gold—or so she took it to be, for she had never seen gold before, only heard tell of the precious metal found far beyond their shores.

  They did not hear Marika play. Bronwen pulled Pawl away, took him outside to give him the pipes.

  “What did you give for these?” The question was ungracious but his smile, for once, was genuine.

  “Nothing—they are a gift freely given,” she replied, with mock severity. “Go away and learn to play them. The noon break is soon; you have little time.”

  Pawl returned just as the afternoon session began. Marika had played brilliantly—Rosa was over the worst of her illness. Come the final days, according to her admirers, she would astound all with an even greater performance, from even more exquisite pipes. Bronwen had no opinion on the first matter and knew better on the second. She knew something else—the symbol of the lightning was for little Rosa, after all: two years ago, at the time of Rosa’s birth, autumn in Myron had reluctantly given way to winter after days of furious storms. Bronwen felt unaccountably relieved and, as she told Marika later, if lightning was the symbol of tempestuous character it was also the sign of genius. Marika was not unduly troubled as to what it indicated; only one thing mattered: Rosa was going to be well.

  Marika took the third sash, her playing inspired by her daughter’s recovery and her wish fulfilled, but among the leading contenders was Pawl, playing pipes he had never held before that morning, feeling the stir of a genuine hope in place of an unobtainable dream.

  Pawl’s elevation improved his mood and secured him a place in the last stage as the moon reached three-quarters full. Most of those passed over stayed at Myron to listen, nowhere else to go. As the year turned to its coldest it seemed that life was centred around the Piper’s Quest.

  On the night of the full moon, Bronwen dreamt of a great forest of huge honey-red trees, tall and straight, rising higher than the eye could see. Trees with gold-green leaves, hard and pointed, like spearheads. Trees with amber, clear as sunlight, seeping from their bark. All was gold and green, bright as morning.

  The next day, while the rivers of Myron lay under a solid layer of ice, Pawl took the sash of seventh Quest Leader. It occurred to him that he almost wished Olber Stoson were there.

  Three more times in the course of the competition, Pawl regained the prime position and earned more silver than he had ever seen. If he was even more single-minded than before Bronwen did not blame him, yet she looked forward to the spring, whatever that might hold.

  By the time the Ruler of All Eral arrived at Myron, the moon was in decline, and the tensions among the remaining contestants were almost palpable. There were twelve left in the Quest and, of those, six were considered likely candidates for the title of Finder. Marika seemed to harbour no regrets in having parted with her best pipes, nor in having given them to a man who now posed a real threat to her ambitions.

  Bronwen, caught up in the excitement, began to wonder what life would be like in Eral’s seaport capital, where the Finder would go after the Quest was achieved. By night the trees in her dreams grew broader and taller—she feared they were telling her that she really wanted to be in the forest, not at the coast. Awake she had no firm opinion on the matter.

  Pawl, meanwhile, tried just to live from day to day, tried not to speculate on a future still so tenuous, tried not to grasp at hopes too fragile to hold. Not that he could imagine what life would be like if he were to prove successful in the Quest. He had never met the Finder of any previous year once they had left Myron, no one spoke of what befell them once the year of their victory was over, maybe no one knew. One thing seemed certain: they would not return to the life they had left.

  ***

  The final day of the competition seemed the coldest day of the year. Pawl, unable to sleep, rose long before the feeble winter sun. The water in the wash bowl was crusted over with ice but he washed as well as he could, shivering.

  “Come back to bed!” Bronwen scolded. “It’s dark yet.”

  “I was concerned I would disturb you.”

  “You have disturbed me, now come back to bed.”

  He needed no more encouragement than that and stayed there, glad of her warmth, until the low, sullen gong sounded: in the dining hall the morning meal was prepared.

  Pawl refused to go near the laden food trestles, taking only a cup of hot milk. Time hung heavy. He knew he had to be patient. The twelve remaining contestants had to play before the final decision was made. He would be fifth to perform. Already his heart beat faster than normal.

  Marika had drawn to play first, a position she relished, which Pawl would have loathed. She played with the same pipes she had used throughout the contest, yet her recital that day surpassed all her previous performances, holding her
audience spellbound.

  Bronwen thought it sang of winds billowing in sails, of seabirds soaring effortlessly over the waves. She felt an ache when the music faded, and a pang of guilt.

  Gloran, the blacksmith’s son, had taken the place immediately prior to Pawl’s and, unlike the three before him, gave a performance to rival Marika’s. Bronwen was reminded of her early childhood, when the Finder had come to their farm and played for their harvests. The memory warmed her but, unskilled in music as she was, she would not have presumed to choose between Marika and the smith’s son.

  Pawl could not consider the merits of others’ performances either, if for reasons other than his wife’s. Gloran’s final notes signalled the start of his trial. Moments later he was stepping up onto the dais and moistening dry lips. Just as he could not afford to think of those who had gone before, neither could he think of those who were judging. He stared into the middle distance, at a memory of grassy banks and fruit-laden trees, and played as if he were alone in the sheep pastures of his youth, before he had ever heard of the Piper’s Quest.

  Bronwen knew that it was not merely biased pride that told her Pawl’s playing transcended anything she had ever heard before, for it could have quickened the buds on the trees and the seeds in the ground long before their appointed time. It sang of the great trees of her dreams, the trees from whose wood his pipes had been cut, and it sung of the spring she yearned after, for, while he played, spring slipped into the winterbound halls of Myron.