Melly Knows Best
THAT GIFT-BLASTED THIEF HAS STOLEN MY SONG!
Not the music itself, of course; he didn’t open my head and pluck it out, or snip it from my soul. It’s still in there, somewhere. I could still sing it now—play it, too, if the room would just stop spinning for one gifted moment. But the scroll, with the words and notes—the one I jotted down for my own personal use, and only showed to him once he was crying so hard my head hurt . . . or maybe he was laughing. Was I laughing? That sounds right; we were singing, and laughing, and crying, and then . . . I woke up, and the scroll was gone.
So he stole it . . . didn’t he?
It’s all muddy and swirling in my memory—but that’s why I’m here. Melly always says: “Write it down, sort it out!” So, I’m writing . . . though the light is so bright on the paper, and the letters are all jumping around like they’re a jig come to life, and the words are bouncing around to the same tune in my head . . .
A tune. That’s what started it.
He heard me before I saw him—said he did, anyway. Heard me whistling my new song as I was walking home, and caught up to me right outside the pub. “Just passin’ through,” he said, “collectin’ tales and tunes as I go. Shall we trade a few, and share some drinks into the bargain?”
He didn’t look evil—a tad unusual, but that’s to be expected with strangers. Tiny fella, but with a smile and a spirit big as a house. We don’t get too many newcomers, and precious little of new tales or tunes. A drink and a few stories sounded mighty fine, and I said as much, so into the pub we went.
It’s coming clear now—sorting itself out, just like Melly said it would. He didn’t ask for my tune straight out; he laid the trap all sweet and sunny, singing and playing songs and stories from places I’ve never heard of. But I saw them all last night—saw them, heard them, and felt myself there. That’s the main picture I can’t get out of my mind: that little fella, perched on the bench, wailing away on that lute like it was part of him, weaving us all into his spell.
Then he asked me to share my tune, and it seemed only fitting to invite him back here, where I could play and sing in the comfort of home. No idea what time it was, though Melly seemed pretty put-out when we showed up at the door—I’ll get an earful about that today, for sure. I played my song, and he was surely the best listener I’ve ever had; he asked for it again, and played along this time, and then we played and sang it together, over and over. I felt right close to this little fella; he seemed to understand the song even better than I did.
Next thing I knew, I was showing him my song-scrolls. I even showed him my great-great-great grandpa’s journals: records of one of the first Song Sanctuaries ever built, back when the Gift was mostly just used for learning.
Mighty precious, those journals—but he didn’t take them. He just took the song. I’m starting to remember . . . he did ask for it. Said he was collecting songs from all over, and keeping a record for future generations, long after we’re all dead and gone . . . some high-minded mission or other. I said no, of course . . . or was it maybe? Or did I just fall asleep?
No matter: that silver-tongued traveler stole my song, and he’s gonna give it to all them future generations.
Melly’s gonna have my hide.
THAT GIFT-BLASTED THIEF HAS STOLEN MY SONG!
Not the music itself, of course; he didn’t open my head and pluck it out, or snip it from my soul. It’s still in there, somewhere. I could still sing it now—play it, too, if the room would just stop spinning for one gifted moment. But the scroll, with the words and notes—the one I jotted down for my own personal use, and only showed to him once he was crying so hard my head hurt . . . or maybe he was laughing. Was I laughing? That sounds right; we were singing, and laughing, and crying, and then . . . I woke up, and the scroll was gone.
So he stole it . . . didn’t he?
It’s all muddy and swirling in my memory—but that’s why I’m here. Melly always says: “Write it down, sort it out!” So, I’m writing . . . though the light is so bright on the paper, and the letters are all jumping around like they’re a jig come to life, and the words are bouncing around to the same tune in my head . . .
A tune. That’s what started it.
He heard me before I saw him—said he did, anyway. Heard me whistling my new song as I was walking home, and caught up to me right outside the pub. “Just passin’ through,” he said, “collectin’ tales and tunes as I go. Shall we trade a few, and share some drinks into the bargain?”
He didn’t look evil—a tad unusual, but that’s to be expected with strangers. Tiny fella, but with a smile and a spirit big as a house. We don’t get too many newcomers, and precious little of new tales or tunes. A drink and a few stories sounded mighty fine, and I said as much, so into the pub we went.
It’s coming clear now—sorting itself out, just like Melly said it would. He didn’t ask for my tune straight out; he laid the trap all sweet and sunny, singing and playing songs and stories from places I’ve never heard of. But I saw them all last night—saw them, heard them, and felt myself there. That’s the main picture I can’t get out of my mind: that little fella, perched on the bench, wailing away on that lute like it was part of him, weaving us all into his spell.
Then he asked me to share my tune, and it seemed only fitting to invite him back here, where I could play and sing in the comfort of home. No idea what time it was, though Melly seemed pretty put-out when we showed up at the door—I’ll get an earful about that today, for sure. I played my song, and he was surely the best listener I’ve ever had; he asked for it again, and played along this time, and then we played and sang it together, over and over. I felt right close to this little fella; he seemed to understand the song even better than I did.
Next thing I knew, I was showing him my song-scrolls. I even showed him my great-great-great grandpa’s journals: records of one of the first Song Sanctuaries ever built, back when the Gift was mostly just used for learning.
Mighty precious, those journals—but he didn’t take them. He just took the song. I’m starting to remember . . . he did ask for it. Said he was collecting songs from all over, and keeping a record for future generations, long after we’re all dead and gone . . . some high-minded mission or other. I said no, of course . . . or was it maybe? Or did I just fall asleep?
No matter: that silver-tongued traveler stole my song, and he’s gonna give it to all them future generations.
Melly’s gonna have my hide.
