The whole flock of lizards suddenly went aloft, startled by the return of the queen and the bronze who had flown her. The pair settled wearily in the warm shallow waters, wings spread as if both were too exhausted to fold them back. The bronze tenderly twined his neck about his queen’s and they floated so, while blues excitedly offered the resting pair fingertails and rock mites.
Entranced, Menolly watched from her screen of sea-grass. She was utterly engrossed by the small doings of eating, cleaning and resting. By and by, singly or in pairs, the lesser fire lizards winged up to the first of the sea-surrounded bluffs, lost quickly from Menolly’s sight as they secreted themselves in tiny creviced weyrs.
With graceful dignity, the queen and her bronze rose from their bathing. How they managed to fly with their glistening wings so close together, Menolly didn’t know. As one, they seemed to dart aloft, then glided in a slow spiral down to the Dragon Stones, disappearing on the seaside and out of Menolly’s vision.
Only then did she become conscious of discomfort; of the hot sun on her welted back, sand in the waist-band of her trousers, seeping into her shoes, dried as sweaty grit on her face and hands.
Cautiously, she wriggled back from the edge of the bluff. If the fire lizards knew they’d been overseen, they might not return to this cove. When she felt she’d crawled far enough, she got to a crouching position and ran for a way.
She felt as rarely privileged as if she’d been asked to Benden Weyr. She kicked up her heels in an excess of joy and then, spotting some thick marsh grass canes in the bog, snicked one off at the waterline. Her father may have taken her gitar away, but there were more materials than strings over a sounding box to make music.
She measured the proper length barrel and cut off the rest. She deftly made six holes top and two bottom, as Petiron had taught her, and in moments, she was playing her reed pipe. A saucy tune, bright and gay because she was happy inside. A tune about a little fire lizard queen, sitting on a rock in the lapping sea, preening herself for her adoring bronze.
She’d a bit of trouble with the obligatory runs and found herself changing keys, but when she’d rehearsed the tune several times, she decided she liked it. It sounded so different from the sort of melody Petiron had taught her, different from the traditional form. Furthermore, it sounded like a fire lizard song: sprightly, cunning, secretive.
She stopped her piping, puzzled. Did the dragons know about fire lizards?
Chapter 3
Holder, watch; Holder, learn
Something new in every Turn.
Oldest may be coldest, too.
Sense the right: find the true!
When Menolly finally got back to the Sea Hold, the sky was darkening. The Hall was bustling with the usual end of day activity. The oldsters were setting the dinner tables, tidying the great Hall and chattering away as if they hadn’t met for Turns instead of only that morning.
With luck, thought Menolly, she could get her sack down to the water rooms…
“Where did you go for those greens, Menolly? Nerat?” Her mother appeared in front of her.
“Almost.”
Immediately Menolly saw that her pert words were ill-timed. Mavi roughly grabbed the sack and peered inside critically. “If you’d not made the trip worth the while…Sail’s been sighted,”
“Sail?”
Mavi closed the sack and shoved it back into Menolly’s hands. “Yes, sail. You should have been back hours ago. Whatever possessed you to take off so far with Thread…”
“There weren’t any greens nearer…”
“With Thread due to fall anytime? You’re a fool twice over.”
“I was safe enough. I saw a dragonrider doing his sweep…”
That pleased Mavi. “Thank heavens we’re beholden to Benden. They’re a proper Weyr.” Mavi gave her daughter a shove towards the kitchen level. “Take those, and be sure the girls wash every speck of sand off. Who knows who’s sailing in?”
Menolly slipped through the busy kitchen, countering orders flung at her by various other women who saw in her a capable assistant at their own tasks. Menolly merely brandished the sack and proceeded down to the water rooms. There some of the older but still able women were busily sandscouring the best metal plates and trays.
“I must have one basin for the greens, auntie,” said Menolly, pushing up to the rank of stone sinks.
“Greens is easier on old skin than sand,” said one of the women in a quavering, long-suffering voice and promptly deposited her pile of plates into the sink be side her and pulled her plug.
“More sand in greens than cleaning,” another woman remarked in an acid tone.
“Yes, but take it off greens,” said the obliging one. “Oh, what a lovely mess of yellow-veins, too. Where did you find them this time of year, daughter?”
“Halfway to Nerat.” Menolly suppressed her grin at their startled shrieks of dismay. The furthest they’d stir from the Hold was the ledge in front on a sunny day.
“With Thread falling? You naughty girl!” “Did you hear about the sail?” ‘Who do you suppose?” “The new Harper, who else?” There was a wild chorus of cackling laughs and great wonderings about the appearance of the new Harper.
“They always send a young one here!’
“Petiron was old!”
“He got that way. Same as we did!”
“How would you remember?”
“Why not? I’ve lived through more Harpers than you have, my girl.”
“You have not! I came here from Red Sands in Ista…”
“You were born at Half-Circle, you old fool, and I birthed you!”
“Ha!”
Menolly listened to the four old women arguing back and forth until she heard her mother demanding to know if the greens had been washed. And where were the good plates and how was she to get anything done with all the gossip?
Menolly found a sieve large enough to hold the washed greens and brought them up for her mother’s inspection.
“Well, that’ll be enough for the head table,” Mavi said, poking at the glistening mound with her fork. Then she stared at her daughter. “You can’t appear like that. Here you, Bardie, take the greens and put the dressing on them. The one in the brown flask on the fourth shelf in the cool room. You, Menolly, have the goodness to get yourself sandfree and decently dressed. You’re to attend Old Uncle. The moment he opens his mouth, shove something into it or we’ll be hearing him all night long.”
Menolly groaned. Old Uncle smelled almost as much as he chattered.
“Sella’s much better handling him, Mavi…”
“Sella’s to attend head table. You do as you’re told and be grateful!” Mavi fixed her rebellious daughter with a stern eye, tacitly reminding her of her disgrace. Then Mavi was called away to check a sauce for the baking fish.
Menolly went off to the bathing rooms, trying to convince herself that she was lucky she hadn’t been banished completely from the Hall this evening. Though tending Old Uncle came as close as could be to banishment. Honor obliged the Sea Holder to have all his household there to greet the new Harper.
Menolly shucked off the dirty tunic and breeches, and slipped into the warm bathing pool. She swung her shoulders this way and that for the water to wash the sand and sweat as painlessly as possible from her sore back. Her hair was all gritty with sea sand, too, so she washed that. She was quick because she’d have her hands full with Old Uncle. It’d be much better to have him all arranged in his hearth seat before everyone else assembled for dinner.
Draping her dirty clothes around her, Menolly took the calculated risk that few people would be in the High Hold at this hour and charged up the dimly lit steps from the bathing pools to the sleeping level. Every glow in the main corridor was uncovered, which meant that the Harper, if such it were, would have a guided tour of the Hold later. She dashed down to the narrow steps leading to the girls’ dormitories, and got into her cubicle without a soul the wiser.
When she got to O
ld Uncle’s room, later, she had to clean his face and hands and slip a clean tunic over his bony shoulders. All the while he was chattering about new blood in the Hold and hee-hee who was the new Harper going to marry? He’d a thing or two to tell the Harper, give him the chance, and why did she have to be so rough? His bones ached. Must be a change in the weather because his old legs never failed to give warning. Hadn’t he warned them about the big storm a while back? Two boats had been lost with all crew. If they’d paid attention to his warning, it wouldn’t have happened. His own son was the worst one for not listening to what his father said and why was she hurrying him so? He liked to take his time. No, couldn’t he have the blue tunic? The one his daughter had made him, matching his eyes, she’d said. And why hadn’t Turlon come to see him today as he’d asked and asked and asked, but who paid him any heed anymore?
The old man was so frail that he was no burden to a strong girl like Menolly. She carried him down the steps, he complaining all the way about people who’d been dead before she was born. Old Uncle’s notion of time was distorted, that’s what Petiron had told her. Brightest in Uncle’s memory were his earlier days, when he’d been Sea Holder of Half-Circle, before a tangled trawler line had sliced off his legs below the knee. The great Hall was almost ready for guests when Menolly entered with him.
“They’re tacking into Dock,” someone was saying as Menolly arranged Old Uncle in his special seat by the fire. She wrapped him well in the softened wherhides and tied the strap that would keep him upright. When he got excited, Old Uncle had a tendency to forget he had no feet.
Who’s tacking into Dock? Who’s coming? What’s all the hubblebubble about?”
Menolly told him, and he subsided, moments later wanting to know in a querulous tone of voice if anyone was going to feed him or was he supposed to sit here dinnerless?
Sella, in the gown she’d spent all winter making, swirled past Menolly, pressing a small packet into her hand.
“Feed him these if he gets difficult!” And she skimmed away before Menolly could say a word.
Opening the packet, Menolly saw balls of a sweet made from seaweed, flavored with purple grass seed. One could chew these for hours, keeping the mouth fresh and moist. Small wonder Sella’d been able to keep Old Uncle happy. Menolly giggled and then wondered why Sella was being so helpful. It must have pleased Sella no end to learn Menolly had been displaced as Harper. Or would she know? Mavi wouldn’t have mentioned it. Ah, but the Harper was here now, anyhow.
Now that she had Old Uncle settled, Menolly’s curiosity got the better of her and she slipped over to the windows. There was no sign of the sail in the harbor now, but she could see the cluster of men, glows held high, as they walked around the shore from the Dock to the Hold proper. Keen though her eyes were, Menolly could not pick out the new faces and that was that.
Old Uncle began one of his monologues in a high-pitched voice, so Menolly scooted back to his side before her mother could notice she’d left her post. There was so much bustle, putting food on the tables, pouring the welcoming cups of wine, all the Hold arranging itself to meet the guests, no one noticed what Menolly was or wasn’t doing.
Just then, Old Uncle came to himself again, eyes bright and focused on her face. “What’s the stir today, girl? Good haul? Someone getting spliced? What’s the lay?”
“There’s a new Harper coming, everyone thinks, Old Uncle.”
“Not another one?” Old Uncle was disgusted. “Harpers ain’t what they used to be when I was Sea Holder, not by a long crack. I mind myself of one Harper we had…”
His voice fell clearly in the suddenly quiet Hall.
“Menolly!” Her mother’s voice was low, but the urgency was unmistakable.
Menolly fumbled in her skirt pocket, found two sweet-balls and popped them into old Uncle’s mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say was stopped by the necessity of dealing with two large round objects. He mumbled contentedly to himself as he chewed and chewed and chewed.
All the food had been served and everyone seated before Menolly got so much as a glimpse of the new arrivals. There had been a new Harper. She heard his name before she ever saw his face. Elgion, Harper Elgion. She heard that he was young and good-looking and had brought two gitars, two wooden pipes and three drums, each carried separately in its own case of stiffened wherhide. She heard that he’d been very seasick across Keroon Bay and wasn’t doing justice to the lavish dinner spread in his honor. With him had come a craftmaster from the Smith-crafthall to do the metal work required on the new ship and other repairs beyond the metalman in the Sea Hold. She heard that there was urgent need at Igen Hold for any salted or smoked fish the Sea Hold might have to spare on the return voyage.
From where Menolly sat with Old Uncle, she could see the backs of heads at the high table and occasionally a profile of one of the visitors. Very frustrating. So was Old Uncle and the other elderly relatives whose old bones rated them a spot near the fire. The aunts were, as usual, squabbling over who had received the choicer portions of fish, and then Old Uncle decided to call them to order, only his mouth was full at that moment and he choked. So the aunts turned on Menolly for trying to stuff him to an early death. Menolly could hear nothing over their babble. She tried to content herself with the prospect of hearing the Harper sing, as he surely would once the interminable meal was ended. But it was hot so close to the big fire and the heat made Old Uncle smell worse than ever, and she was very tired after the day’s exertions.
She was roused from a half doze by a sudden hall-wide thudding of heavy seaboots. She jerked fully awake to see the tall figure of the new Harper rising at the head table. He had his gitar ready and was taking an easy stance, one foot on the stone bench.
“You’re sure this Hall isn’t rocking?” he asked, strumming a few chords to test the instrument’s pitch. He was assured that the Hall had been steady for many, many Turns, never known to rock at all. The Harper affected not to be reassured as he tuned the G-string slightly higher (to Menolly’s relief). He made the gitar moan then, like a seasick soul.
As laughter rippled through the eager audience, Menolly strained to see how her father was taking this approach. The Sea Holder had little humor. A Harper’s welcome was a serious occasion, and Elgion did not appear to realize this. Petiron had often told Menolly how carefully Harpers were chosen for the Hold they were assigned to. Hadn’t anyone warned Elgion about her father’s temperament?
Suddenly Old Uncle cut across the gentle strumming with a cackle of laughter. “Ha! A man with humor! That’s what we need in this Hold—some laughter. Some music! Been missing it. Let’s have some rollicking tunes, some funny songs. Give us a good rib-popping ditty, Harper. You know the ones I like.”
Menolly was aghast. She fumbled in her skirt pocket for some of the sweetballs as she shushed Old Uncle. This was exactly the sort of incident that she was supposed to prevent.
Harper Elgion had turned at the imperious order, bowing with good respect to the old gentleman by the hearth.
“I would that I could, Old Uncle,” he said most courteously, “but these are serious times,” and his fingers plucked deep sombre notes, “very serious times and we must put lightness and laughter behind us. Square our backs to the problems that face us…” and with that he swung into a new exhortation to obey the Weyr and honor the dragonrider.
The sticky sweetballs had got warmed and stuck to the fabric of her pocket, but Menolly finally got some out and into Old Uncle’s mouth. He chewed angrily, fully aware that his mouth was being plugged and resenting it. He chewed as fast as he could, swallowing to clear his mouth for more complaints. Menolly was only just aware that the new tune was forceful, the words stirring. Harper Elgion had a rich tenor voice, strong and sure. Then old Uncle began to hiccup. Noisily, of course. And to complain, or try to, through the hiccups. Menolly hissed at him to hold his breath, but he was furious at not being allowed to talk, at getting hiccups, and he started to pound the arm of his chair. The thu
mps made an out-of-tempo counterpoint to the Harper’s song and brought her furious glances from the head table.
One of the aunts gave her some water for the old man, which he overturned on Menolly. The next thing, Sella was beside her, gesturing that they were to take the old man back to his quarters instantly.
He was still hiccuping as they put him back to bed, and still beating the air with punctuated gestures and half-uttered complaints.
“You’ll have to stay with him until he calms down, Menolly, or he’ll fall out of bed. Whyever didn’t you give him the sweetballs? They always shut him up,” Sella said.
“I did. They’re what started him hiccuping.”
“You can’t do anything right, can you?”
“Please, Sella. You stay with him. You manage him so well. I’ve had him all evening and not heard a word…”
“You were told to keep him quiet. You didn’t. You stay.” And Sella swept out of the room, leaving Menolly to cope.
That was the end of the first of Menolly’s difficult days. It took hours for the old man to calm down and go to sleep. Then, as Menolly wearily got to her cubicle, her mother arrived to berate her soundly for the inattention that had given Uncle a chance to embarrass the entire Hold. Menolly was given no chance to explain.
The next day, Thread fell, sequestering them all within the Hold for hours. When the Fall was over, she had to go with the flamethrower crews. The leading edge of Thread had tipped the marshes, which meant hours of plodding through sticky marsh mud and slimy sand.
Dragonsong (dragon riders of pern) Page 4