As she sees the shack, she perks up, obviously realizing that her journey is coming to an end. Pulling a finely tooled leather bag from over her shoulder, she opens the toggles holding it closed and pulls a lute from within.
She pauses her walk for a moment to ensure that the instrument is in tune and begins to move again. A few chords and scales warm her fingers and accompanying the music of the lute, her voice echoes the notes. The high soprano voice eliminates all doubt that it is indeed a woman.
Drawn by the sounds, the guards leave their endless card game behind and step out into the failing sun to listen. As she breaks into song, the tempo of the music quickens her feet and moves her rapidly forward.
- My harp and lute are wood and wire,
Crafted lovingly and slow
Their music brings me from the pain
Of this frail world here below
And takes me to the doors of heav'n;
Whither upward I would go.
My drum's a heartbeat, keeping time,
Marks the measure of the tune
Counts the moments of the dance
Sets the sigil of the rune.
On that rock I build my song
Singing to the rising moon.
Harp and lute, and drum....and voice;
Words to sweep, and twist, and roll,
Words the weft to weave the web
Woven with a single goal:
A web to catch My Laddy's heart;
A web to touch My Laddy's Soul.*
Passing further along, she sees some small buildings to the west fading in the shadow of a tower as it blocks the sun. She hangs the lute over her shoulder, pulls a folded and crumpled paper from a belt pouch, turns the parchment to orient the map it contains and screws up her forehead in concentration. Focused on the paper, seemingly unable to figure the directions, she turns and then turns again, finally reaching a point that seems to satisfy her.
Without raising her head, she starts walking forward, only to find herself off the road, heading into the forest and away from the tower. With an angry shake, she reverses the map in her hands, turns one hundred eighty degrees and walks along the grassy path past the buildings and the tower. Mumbling to herself she turns and walks further on to a fine looking building with an empty patio. Walking past the sign that identifies the building as the Outpost Tavern she pushes into the room.
In spite of a burning fire in the fireplace, torches on the walls and candles throughout the room, there is a close dimness that seems to caress her as she enters. “There’s no place like home”, she murmurs as she walks to the bar.
Walking to the leftmost side of the bar where it meets the wall, she unloads her burdens. The pack drops to the floor then a sword, the short spear she had been using as a walking staff and on and on. The pile grows until it seems almost her height. Slapping the bar surface with her hand she calls out “Barkeep! Publican! Anyone!” and looks about.
Coming out of a door on the far side of the room a stocky red headed man sporting a magnificent moustache moves towards her, drying his hands on a towel hanging over his shoulder. “Keep your skirt on little girl”, he responds. “There is all the time in the world.”
“No there’s not. I need a dri….”. Her voice taper’s off as she leans over the bar to look at the barkeeps knees. “Are you wearing a skirt?” she asks him incredulously?
“No silly one, I am not wearing a skirt. I am Grymloch MacKennion and like a proper man, I am wearing a kilt. Now you were whining about being thirsty I believe?”
Still staring and clearly distracted, she starts to respond and stops. Starts and stops again and finally succeeds. “Umm yes, uh. Ale. Yes ale, unn ale would be nice.”
Grym walks across the room to one of many barrels resting on a table and draws off a foaming mug of dark liquid. “That is one gold lassie,” he says, placing it before her. “One gold or if that lute ye carry is not for decoration, I’ll accept a song.”
“A song it is,” replies the young woman and reaches for the mug, meaning to lubricate her voice before starting the song. Before she can lift the mug she finds Grymloch’s hand holding her wrist to the bar.
“After payment songbird,” he growls. “After the song.”
“That is cruel, with me dying of thirst, but it does bring a song to mind. If you will get your grubby hand off of me, I’ll sing. I need that drink!”
With the lute already tuned, she leans against the wall and begins to sing.
- In an abbey on the coast long side of the Vast’s shores,
An acolyte, named Bunstable, was told to do his chores.
He did not have an inkling of just what fate had in mind,
Patron saint of fermentation, alcohol, beer, mead, and wine.
Bunstable, he was a simple soul, he wasn't very bright.
But he did his duty faithfully, morning, noon, and night.
His chores, they weren't too complex, for that would tax his head.
On in particular was simple. This is what his abbot said:
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
No matter what may happen, you make sure that wine stays hid.
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
Now we all guard our wine like Saint Bunstable did.
One fateful day came pirate raiders, like a dark wave on the coast.
The abbey was unable to repel the invaders host.
Bunstable in the cellar, heard them slaughter young and old.
And though trembling with fear, he knew to do as he'd been told.
The cellar door it had been locked, but the pirates would break through
So grimly looking round, he knew exactly what to do.
He broke open each and every cask, he did not think of flight.
And when the deed was done, he'd drunk every drop in sight.
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
No matter what may happen, you make sure that wine stays hid.
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
Now we all guard our wine like Saint Bunstable did.
When the pirates came downstairs, they were somewhat less than pleased
That Bunstable had drunk the wine, there was none to be seized.
They threatened Bunstable with flame, but when fire met his breath,
There was a great explosion, and they all burned to death.
When the pirates reached the other side, they were certainly surprised,
And for his act of brav'ry Bunstable was canonized.
It truly is a miracle, to drink up as he did,
And it is to his credit that he kept the wine well hid.
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
No matter what may happen, you make sure that wine stays hid.
Guard the wine, guard the wine.
Now we all guard our wine like Saint Bunstable did.**
Shaking his head in wonder, MacKennion quietly replied. “Paid in full.” and shoves the mug across the bar. To his surprise, the singer nimbly climbs onto the bar, slides her back against the wall, crosses her legs under her, reaches forward to pick up the mug and takes a long slow swallow.
“That is fine ale Mister MacKennion. Fine indeed. You are an excellent brew master and I hope you will be here for a long time to come. Skirt or no skirt.”
“Ya know lassie, we have chairs for that type of thing. Get cher little fanny offa my bar.”
“Pulling a clinking bag from her belt,” Storm smiles and asks, “What would it cost to buy a few feet of your bar?”
*MY HARP AND LUTE
Ioseph of Locksley
(c) copyright 1990 W. J. Bethancourt III
**BALLAD OF SAINT BUNSTABLE (With Apologies)
-Cerian Cantwr
(c) copyright 1990 Charles Grab