The Keeper of Songs: A Short Story

scattered about. And these things were marvelous, amazing to behold.

  "Ho, boy," a voice called, and Nathan was startled. It was the first voice he'd ever heard except his Papa's and his own. He looked all around.

  There on the ground by a mossy apple tree sat a girl. She was older than he was. . . maybe sixteen or so. Nathan stared at her openly, lost in curiosity. He was conscious of rudeness, but couldn't seem to help it. He didn't know quite what to say.

  "What's your name?" the girl asked, when the silence had grown too long.

  "I'm . . . Nathan," he told her, the name sounding strange on his lips. It was the first time he ever had uttered it.

  "Just Nathan, that's all?" she smiled. He couldn't reply; only yesterday he'd lacked even that much. He shrugged.

  "Well, Nathan, I'm Cynthia, and if you're not in a hurry I hope you'll sit down and have lunch with me. You're the first one I've seen on this road all day long," she said. Nathan was happy to take up her offer. She reached in her pack and brought out bread and cheese, which she cut into slices for both of them. At first they said little. "Where are you from?" she'd ask. (That way.) "Then where are you headed?" (Don't know.) Cynthia finally became exasperated.

  "Did you just fall out of the sky then, boy?" she asked. He could tell she expected no answer to that, and he wisely didn't offer her one. They sat there in the quiet for a while, and the girl absentmindedly began to hum a little tune. Something clicked in Nathan's mind, and he knew this girl instantly for who she was. The sudden knowledge made him gasp.

  "What is it, Nathan?" she asked, concerned. She half rose, to put out a hand to his cheek.

  "You're the great singer!" he exclaimed with delight, for he remembered his Papa telling him about her, long ago. He almost went on to say something more, but he noticed the way she was staring.

  "I'm headed for the City to study my music," she said to him slowly, "All of my life I've dreamed of the day when I'd sing at the court of the Queen, but how did you know that?"

  Nathan was speechless again, but knew she wouldn't simply let it drop. She was much too determined for that. He knew more about her than she knew about herself, and realized he would have to say something. He muttered a word or two under his breath.

  "What's that?" she prodded, leaning toward him expectantly. He held back another minute, then told her a bit of the truth.

  "I. . . know a Song about you," he confessed.

  "A song about me?" she asked, amused.

  "Yes. It's a very beautiful Song," Nathan told her. And this was certainly true, for all the Songs were beautiful.

  The girl smiled prettily, and because he wished to please her he opened his mouth to sing. He sang her own Song, which his Papa had taught him on the hill in the woods where the sweet grass flowed in a soft green wave in the breeze. He sang of all that was true and good inside her, of her deepest hopes and dreams, and everything she had ever loved. He captured her soul in his Song, and never saw her tears till the music was done. Then he noticed.

  "What-" he began, but she cut him off sharply.

  "Why did you tell me!" she screamed in rage and grief, and he pulled back from her hastily, scared. What had he done to her? She tore at her hair and her clothes, and her body shrank as he watched until nothing was left but a bright blue pebble that sat upon the ground by the tree.

  A pale sparrow alighted nearby and looked up at Nathan with steady black eyes, full of death and unspeakable cold. With a dart of its head it swallowed the stone, then departed as quickly as it came.

  Here was Nathan's first sorrow, and the beginning of wisdom. No one could bear to know his own soul too well.

  And Nathan never forgot.

  For days he wandered the old country roads. He took Cynthia's pack rather than leave it by the road, but the food was soon gone. Then he starved. Sometimes he passed people who would give him a crust or even a meal, but more often not. It was lonely country, so near to the Wilds. He became very weak, as time went on. At first he didn't know what was wrong when the coughing and fever came over him. He'd never been sick before. He was frightened again and searched through his memories till he found one of a man who might help.

  He came to a place where the land fell away in high cliffs to the sea, and many bright birds called and soared in the sere blue sky. And here on the close cropped grass stood an ancient old man, weathered and cracked as the stones down below. His name was Timias, and he was a hermit, a seeker after wisdom and knowledge. He was a kindly soul, and would understand what to do. All this Nathan knew, and he knew also that no other healer lived in this desolate region. The hermit was his only chance. He stumbled out of the forest and fell at the side of the path, and for many days he knew no more.

  When he woke he was lying in a bed, and the old man Timias stood close beside him, with something that steamed in a bowl.

  "I thought you would wake soon," the man whispered in a papery voice, "You've been very ill, child. . . you must eat something now."

  Nathan had no strength to reply, but he opened his mouth just a little. The old man fed him with a carved wooden spoon, as if he were a baby, till all the broth was gone. Then he slept again. Many more days passed in this way.

  At last a morning came when the chill winds of November rattled like ghosts around the eaves of the house, and Nathan sat up in bed and knew he was well. Timias' care had saved him. He was still not too strong, but knew that would pass in time.

  The year was growing late, and winter could be cruel to those unprepared. When Timias heard that Nathan was alone, he refused to let him leave until spring. Nathan was grateful, and spent the long winter in the old hermit's house. It became a pleasant habit to sit before the fire in the long nights together, for Timias was wise and had many tales to tell which Nathan had never heard. He spoke of wytches and ghosts, and evil things that walked the moors by night and drank the blood of babes asleep; such things as terrified a boy who had never heard a falsehood in his life. But he kept his fear inside, for he noticed that in all the stories Timias told, the good and the right overcame the dark and the evil in the end, terrible as the monsters might be. That gave him courage.

  The most terrible stories were of Jòkai the Dark One, who dwelt in the cold north beyond the mountains. Even Timias' voice betrayed a tremble when he spoke of the Dark One, for this story was real.

  "He is the spiritual vampire, child. He feeds upon pain and terror. . . especially does he love to drink the blood of the innocent. Once he came often into Colmar by night and filled all our land with horror and death. But we made a pact with him long ago, little Nathan. . . he cannot hurt us now," Timias promised. Nathan's curiosity was aroused, but Timias would say no more about the Dark One then.

  Sometimes Timias did speak of nobler things, or read from his books, and there were memories, memories. . . always memories. In this way Timias reminded Nathan of his Papa, and he grew to love the old man. So it was that just before the first pale buds of spring appeared on the trees by the path, Nathan confessed to him all that had happened and all that he knew, in spite of his father's warning. Timias was silent for a long while. When he spoke again his voice was cold.

  "If I had known, I would have taken your Stone and cut your throat where you fell upon the path," Timias said, staring into the depths of the fire. At Nathan's sudden look of horror the old man waved a weary hand.

  "No, sit down, boy; I won't harm you. It wouldn't do any good now. The time is past, and you have learned too much. Your father has destroyed the world, and nothing can undo it. You might as well live. . . much good may it do you," Timias said bitterly, and then cursed King Ulysses in the foulest terms possible. Nathan trembled on the verge of tears.

  "But Timias, why? Papa wouldn't tell me; I don't understand!" he begged. Timias sighed.

  "Your father had a silver necklace he always wore, did he not?"

  Nathan agreed that he had.

  "That was
his Scepter; a gift of Jòkai to the kings of our land. With it, your father looked deep into the hearts of all his subjects, and then taught you all the good things he found there. And this he did, so that when the autumn of your twelfth year came, he might spill your blood upon the Stone of Possibilities and cause all that you remembered to come true. There is great power in the blood, boy. That was our pact with the Dark One. . . one pure and innocent life as a sacrifice for him to devour; in return he would grant the heart's desire of all others in Colmar. Just one sacrifice in each generation, but if ever we fail to give it then Jòkai will come ravening as a wolf from the north to devour us all and utterly destroy our land forever. Why do you think Ulysses taught you so many joyful things, and showed you only goodness? And now he has let you go, and turned all our hopes into ashes." The vicious hatred in the old man's voice was unmistakable.

  "Get out!" Timias screamed harshly, raising a clenched fist as he jumped to his feet. Nathan leaped from his chair and fled the house in tears, for even by that time he had never dreamed that such hatred could exist.

  But all this too, Nathan never forgot.

  He walked alone and shivering in the cold light of late winter, and the wind cut cruelly through his thin indoor clothing. He wept for a time at the evil of the world, but soon gave that up. It did him no good. And as he walked he