Alys Clare - Music of the Distant Stars

The long day was at last starting to come to a close when finally we gave up and turned for home. We walked without speaking. I had apologized to my aunt for not having told her I’d come across Derman the previous morning as I raced for help after making my discovery, and for omitting to repeat the discussion concerning him that I’d had with my mother. She had forgiven me, graciously agreeing that so much had happened recently that it was not surprising I had been so uncharacteristically forgetful.

I was so tired that I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. I was stumbling along with my head down, concentrating so hard on the simple act of walking that I did not realize Hrype was there until he spoke. Looking up, I saw him standing on the track in front of us. Sibert and Haward were with him.

‘What are you doing out here?’ Edild asked. Her tone was courteous, no more; she has a way of disguising her feelings for Hrype so skilfully that sometimes even I, who know better, doubt that the two of them are any more than colleagues and friends.

‘Zarina told Haward that you and Lassair had gone to look for Derman,’ Hrype replied. ‘We came to find you.’

‘We have discovered no sign of him,’ Edild said. ‘We have searched the ground between the island and the hall, without success.’

‘We t-too have been searching, out on the other side of the village, and we didn’t find him either,’ Haward said. I met his eyes and tried to smile. He must have seen my exhaustion on my face, for straight away he hurried to my side and put his arm round my waist. ‘You should g-g-go home!’ he said to me. ‘You’re w-worn out.’

‘We must find him,’ I said dully.

‘We will search again in the morning,’ Hrype announced. ‘For now, it is too dark to pursue the hunt. Besides, you two should not be out here by yourselves.’ He looked at Edild, a worried frown on his face.

She was tired too, but not so tired that she did not stiffen at his words. ‘Why not?’ she asked, and I detected a warning chill in her tone.

‘Someone has just been murdered,’ he said gently, ‘not a mile from where we now stand. We have no idea why she was killed and no idea who killed her. It is not safe for you.’

‘But it is all right for you men to risk the danger of being attacked?’ Now Edild sounded plainly angry.

Hrype sighed. ‘Edild, there are three of us, and we are armed.’ He carried a long knife in a scabbard at his belt. Haward and Sibert held heavy clubs.

I glanced at Sibert. He raised his eyes to the darkening skies in a gesture of exasperation, and I very nearly laughed. He knows his uncle — his father — pretty well, although I don’t think he’s aware of the relationship between Hrype and my aunt.

I was sagging against Haward, and I guessed he was having quite a job to support me. ‘I want to go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll search for Derman all day tomorrow, but now I need to sleep.’

Edild brushed past Hrype and Sibert and, beckoning to Haward, said, ‘Bring her back to my house, please, Haward.’ She shot Hrype an icy look. ‘We shall speak of this in the morning.’

We plodded the remaining mile or so to Aelf Fen in silence. When we reached the first of the houses, Edild stopped, for our way led off up to our right and the others would go straight on into the village. ‘I will take her now,’ she said regally to Haward, who relinquished his hold on me, kissed me briefly on the cheek and strode away.

‘I can manage on my own!’ I exclaimed, twisting away out of her reach as she went to take my arm. I’d had enough. Without a backward glance, I strode away up the track to Edild’s house. I was aware of Hrype’s and Edild’s voices muttering in the darkness behind me, although I could not make out the words. I did not care. I wanted my bed.

I made a detour to the jakes and the water trough before I went inside. Even the chill of cold water on my hands, face and neck did not revive me; I was worn out. I stumbled back round the side of the house, and my hand was on the door latch when I heard it.

He was singing the same song. The same eerie sequence of notes filled the night air, eloquent of misery and loss. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I shivered as some strong emotion evoked by the chant coursed through me. I wanted to weep for all the sorrows in the world.

Slowly, I turned my head. Where was he? I stared wide-eyed into the shadows, but I could make out no human shape. But he was close, he must be! Why couldn’t I see him?

Dread filled me. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all. Perhaps he was a spirit, a sad ghost trapped here on earth by his grief and impotently singing his pain to the stars. .

All at once my nerve broke. Flinging open the door, I fell inside the house, slamming the solid wood behind me. I stood for some moments with my hands behind me, pressed against the door. It took a while for me to realize that I could no longer hear the singing.

I threw myself down on my bed and, just in case it started up again, covered my head with my pillow.

The singer watched as the young girl with the copper-coloured hair and the boyish figure wrested open the door of the little house and disappeared inside. You hear me, don’t you, lass? he thought. You listen to my song and you go rigid as you perceive my pain. You have a good heart, and I am sorry that I frighten you .

He heard footsteps on the path: a quick, light step that he recognized as belonging to the older woman who lived in the little house. He slipped back into his hiding place and watched as she hurried up to the door and let herself in. She was a healer; his sense of smell was strong, and he could detect her profession from the scent of her clothes, as he could from those of the copper-haired girl. The house itself smelt of clean, fresh things: of herbs and fresh-cut grass. He liked the smell. He liked being close to the house. It gave him comfort, of a sort.

But there was no real comfort, not any more. His world had come to an end. He was alone, away from the place he had known all his life. He felt the great surge of anguish rise up in him, and a few notes of his song emerged from his lips. As if the music lanced his pain, for a few moments it eased.

Music. There was always the music.

His sense of hearing was even more finely developed than his sense of smell. Ever since he had been a small boy he had heard music in the natural world all around him: in birdsong, in the rustle of leaves in spring, in the rush of water over a stream bed, in human activities such as hammering and sawing. In the cool breeze of evening, and in the distant stars that lit the heavens. He had a small harp that he liked to play, although his preferred form of expression was his own voice.

He used to sing with her . His love for her had begun when she was quite young, and it had started with a song. He had been singing at a village celebration, a well-known song that everybody knew and, a little drunk as they were, the people had bawled out the chorus. He didn’t mind; in fact he liked it when people joined in. It was good to sing. It made you happy, made you forget the hardships of life.

He knew a lot about life’s hardships. He had endured many; one in particular, vicious and bitter, that had taken all the joy from living. Until that day at the festival when he had suddenly realized that a sweet, high voice was not just singing the chorus but joining in with him for the verses.

She was harmonizing with him.

His heart had filled with happiness. He had turned to see who it was, feasted his eyes on the vision of her sweet face and fallen in love.

It had been as simple, as easy, as that.

And now she was dead.

His eyes filled with tears. He crept away, leaving the safe place from where he watched and sang and melting back into the darkness.