IN THE GRAIN OF THE PEASANTRY, LIFE OF THE RAGGED ARMIES.
THEY CARRIED HIM BACK TO THE KEEP OF THE CASTLE
WHERE PYRRHUS THE LIGHTBRINGER CANCELED THE WORLD
BENEATH THE DENIAL OF BATTLEMENTS,
WHERE HE DIED AMID STONE WITH HIS HOVERING ARMIES.
FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS THE COUNTRY OF CAERGOTH
HAS TURNED AND TURNED IN HIS EMBRACING HAND,
A GARDEN OF SHIRES AND HAMLETS,
AND Lightbringer HISTORY HANGS ON THE PATH OF HIS NAME.”
It was as though Father had never been satisfied.
Something had drawn him to these lines again and again, as
if changing them would . . .
Would straighten the past, make it true.
” ‘Tis here, Mother,” I announced, so softly that at first
she did not hear, though she was staring directly at me as I
read.
She cupped her ear, leaned forward.
” ‘Tis in the poem. Or, rather, NOT in the poem.”
Mother frowned. I knew she saw Orestes in me now-
poetic and full of contradictions.
I tried to be more clear about it.
“These lines Father wrote and rewrote and worked over
are… are the lie. Don’t you see, Mother? The druidess said
that THE PAST IS LIES, AND LIES CAN ALWAYS
CHANGE. These are – ” I thumbed through the book,
looking early and late ” – these are the only lines he has
fretted over.
“It’s as though … he was trying to …” I looked at
Mother. “… change the lies back to the truth.”
I did not know whether that was so or not. I stepped
quietly to the strongbox and took out my father’s harp, one
thick string missing, and held it for a long moment. It fit my
hand exactly and when I put it down, I could not shake
away its memory from my grasp. When I looked at Mother
again, her eyes had changed. We both knew what I would
say next.
“Yes, I MUST go, but not because they seek me. I will
go because I have to find the lost song,” I announced.
“Father’s words are still hiding something.”
One of the dogs rumbled and rose from the shadows,
stretching and sniffing lazily in the dwindling firelight.
Then his ears perked and he gave a low, angry growl.
Mother scrambled to her feet and to the door, a
confusion of soundless sobs and flickering hands.
“I know. They’re coming,” I said. “I must hurry.
Finding the truth is saving my life. The druidess said so.”
I stroked the ears of Mateo, the largest of the dogs, who
looked up at me solemnly, his thick shoulders pressing
against my legs until I staggered a little at the weight. I had
no thought of how small I was – how things far greater
would press against me when I stepped across the threshold
into the early winter morning.
Mother moved slowly aside as I passed into the pale
sunlight, her fingers brushing softly, mutely against my
hair. I gave her a smile and a long hug, and she assured me
of her own safety. In the sled lay an old hide bag, big
enough for the harp and the book, a loaf of bread, and a
wedge of cheese. I tossed everything in and moved off, as
quickly and silently as I could.
One of the dogs barked as I lost the cottage behind a
cluster of blue AETERNA branches, and the high wind
shivered faintly at their icicles like the vanished notes of a
song. Above the hillside nearest my home, four long
shadows fell across the trackless snow.
*****
There were other adventures that led me back to the
peninsula – a wide arc of years and travels across the
continent, Finn’s men at first only hours behind me, then
less constant, less menacing the farther south I traveled. I
sent the dogs back to Mother soon and traveled alone,
sometimes working for a while at jobs where nobody knew
me or thought they knew me, where nobody cared that I
never removed my hood.
It was a year, six seasons perhaps, before I realized
exactly what it was about the song I was searching for.
It has long been practice that when a bard travels and