The
heat of the flames burned my skin. I
could feel the sweat beading on my brow.
How could this happen? How could we have failed? Alyra, little one… Everything hurt. The song was like hissing snakes in my head;
no rhythm, no melody. I could see him…off
in the distance, Discord beating on his back.
The sound was sickly, like the beating of a torn drum and the breaking
of twigs. If only I could find the
melody, if only I could remember the tune.
Gasping for air through clenched teeth, I pushed myself to my feet. A warm, dark syrup tricked down my
shoulder. Just then, the wind pounded
against my back chilling me to the bone.
Promise me, Ali. Promise me you will not search for the song,
you will not search for revenge. Promise
me my dearest little one. There was
nothing left to do, no other choice. I
rushed the creature knowing I would fail, but mayhaps I might drive it back
into the void. Goodbye, little one.
Ali nearly shrieked as she jolted forward drenched in a cold sweat. This is the third time this week. Shaking as if she had run the night away, she quietly climbed down from her bunk and limped over to her trunk. It was still dark out; not even the morning birds were out of bed yet. Gathering a fresh change of clothes, her towel, and her toiletries, she headed off for the showers. The water was ice cold. Great, the boiler went out again. I will need to fix that before the others wake up. Shivering under the water, she quickly scrubbed the dirt from her skin and studied the shampoo bottle. She only had about a tablespoon left and would not be able to get more until her vegetables were ready to harvest. Hmm, today is Damien’s special day. She smiled broadly and dabbed a bit of shampoo onto her wet hand. I want to look my best for him today. Finishing quickly, she was rather rough with the towel hoping the friction would warm and ease her cold, aching muscles. She reached for her shirt and regretted her attire. She had grabbed her Sunday best, but they were still worn and tattered cutoff jeans and a ratty T-shirt that was four sizes too big. She tied off the extra length around her waist and pulled her boots on over what was left of her socks. She then set about attempting to comb her hair. Her hair was naturally curly, but tangled easily leading to a common nickname growing up, Rats-nest Lyra. The childish taunt came back in her ears and she laughed at the little diddy; “Ratty, ratty, rat’s nest, ratty, ratty, rat’s nest…” over and over again with barely the hint of a respectable rhyme.
Letting her mind wander, she finished detangling and braiding her hair before gathering her things and creeping back to her trunk. The light from the bathroom blinded her in the blackness, but she had made this walk countless times and knew the steps by count. Quietly stowing her belongings, she grabbed her jacket, and work gloves heading for the door. “And where are you headed this early in the morning, little toad?” Bud’s voice whispered from the table near the door. His voice was smooth as silk, but had the bite of a viper when he called her “little toad.” She winced at the nickname. It was a constant barb, a thorny reminder that whenever she tried to sing, she sounded like a croaking toad. Once, after a particularly hard day for Bud, he caught her humming to herself and said, “Ali, if toads could ever harmonize at the symphony, you would be their lead soprano.” Startled by the intrusion to her thoughts, she quickly turned and nearly tripped when the rug coiled around her boot. Bud caught her arm before she fell and woke the others. “You are as graceful as a fish flopping on the shoreline. Where are you sneaking off to?” he growled at her. “I’m not sneaking. I am just heading to the boilers. The pilot burnt out again and there is no hot water,” she squeaked in response. Shuddering at her pitch, he let go and shooed her out the door, “Well, go on then. The others will be waking up soon.” She quietly obliged scuttling for the door.
Outside, the biting wind cut through her jacket quickly chilling her. Pulling it close, she sprinted to the boiler room. The door had blown open in the night; the entire room had grown cold. She closed the door and pulled her matchbox out. Not many matches left. I will have to find a stick to light the furnace from the lantern. Striking the match, she lit the lantern sheltering the flame from the draft. The smoke window at the top of the boiler room had been left open. After heaping coal in the furnace, she lit the stick and set about starting the coal. What seemed like an eternity passed before one finally caught. She guarded and nurtured the flame until it slowly spread to the others. And soon, the furnace was ablaze again. She sat for a moment, warming herself before closing the furnace door and climbing the stairs to the open window. The sun was just coming over the tree tops of her garden. It was going to be a beautiful day, the perfect day for Damien to take his test. Damien!!! Oh man, I forgot. I was going to give him one of my oranges. She leapt from the top of the stairs to the boiler room door. Crossing the green at a dead run, she pushed her way through the dense foliage to the garden shed. Snatching up her shoulder bag, she toppled one of the potted peppermints as she bolted for the grove. Most of the harvest was not ready yet, but she was sure she had seen an orange towards the top of one of the trees that was ripe.
The wind blew through the grove, calling to her as it bellowed past her head. Not today. Today, Damien takes his last test. Today, he will be joining the Wandering Bards or maybe even the Mockingbirds. Damien was not exactly her friend mind you. At least he did not see himself as such. More like the tutor no one wants to admit they need. Everyone knew Ali could not sing to save her soul, but no one questioned her ability to write a song. Damien had been trying, unsuccessfully to be accepted into the Wandering Bards, but every tune he came up with was flat and emotionless. Rather begrudgingly, he worked up the nerve to go to Ali’s garden one day. Stop it. Focus. You need to find that orange. Damien is counting on you. Frantically searching, she began leaping from branch to branch, careful to distribute her weight evenly. Finally, she spotted one; a perfect orange lay nestled at the top of one of the taller trees two rows up. The wind called to her again. This time she accepted its offer. Launching into the gust, she spread her jacket like a sail pushing her towards the tree. Touching down briefly, she sprung back into the wind twirling and spinning through the grove until she stood before the tree. She climbed the branches with the skill and grace she imaged the elves from children’s stories had. Clutching at Damien’s orange, she pushed off the tree and let the wind carry her to the ground gently. Glancing at the sky, she knew she was running late. The wind was against her on the way back, making her work to return to the garden shed. Panting and heaving from the effort, she whipped the sweat from her brow as she threw the shoulder bag into the shed. She heard the meeting bell toll and broke into an open sprint when she was clear of the trees.
Gasping, she finally made it to the hall. Everyone had already gathered when she threw the doors open. The whispers and snickering began almost immediately. “Oh how cute, the blackened toad has finally made it,” she heard someone say. “Did she even bother to shower?” another asked incredulously. Ignoring the comments, she pushed her way to the stage and called out for Damien. He paled at the sight of her and then blushed as he went for her. “Gee, thanks for looking your best for me Ali. I greatly appreciate the effort. The twigs in your hair and soot all over your face really add to your usual appeal.” Shocked, Ali reached for her face and hair. Pulling a leaf from her braid, she blushed furiously and meekly handed Damien the orange. “I’m sorry Damien, I did try. I just knew you liked the oranges and…” “Look, its fine. Whatever, thanks for your help and everything, but I kinda’ need to get ready. Bud has been breathing down my neck all morning,” he interrupted. “Oh, right. Of course. I’m sorry. Good luck!” she called after him as he stalked away. Embarrassed, Ali hurried to the back of the hall, careful to avoid looking at anyone. “What did she think was going to happen? Was she expecting him to ask her for a duet? Hahaha!” She buried her head in her hands as she slumped against the wall. “What are you doing? You’re getting soot all over the freshly painted walls! Get off, go stand outside by the window if you really want to hear him,” said Bud as he pulled her to her feet. Outside, the wind pulled at her as she sat beneath the window ledge, tears streaking down her soot stained cheeks. She angrily whipped them away smudging the soot with her hand.
The ceremony began. Bud gave the usual words of inspiration and sang a small ballad for each of the Bards; he sang of their bravery and various achievements as was customary before the trial of another. When all were introduced, with cheers erupting for each, Damien was brought out. Ali could not bring herself to look in through the window. The hall grew quiet and the lights were turned low leaving just the spotlight on the stage. His chair squeaked as he sat making everyone lean forward in anticipation. Damien began strumming the lute in the melody Ali had written for him. Humming to himself as he drew the courage, he began playing louder and louder until the opening words. “Dreaming of the time, when I could spread my wings…flying through the doorway, out before the springs…” Ali knew the words and nearly sang along before she caught herself. The song was her hearts greatest desire, to fly like the song bird her mother used to be; to fight and defend her home and family. Although she was an orphan that no one seemed to want, she loved them all and wanted to protect them. The tears flowed like rivers as the song went on; the harmony was perfect. Damien was sure to be accepted. She stood as the song ended and clapped with the rest of them. The bards all stood and cast their votes. Bud came forward to congratulate Damien on an excellent performance.
Ali had heard enough, she knew her friend had done well. And the wind was calling to her, always wanting to dance. As she again crossed the field, heading back to her garden, the wind blew strongly. She let it sweep her off her feet and danced with it, spinning and twirling as if a leaf on the wind. Drifting higher and higher, she spun until she was dizzy before pulling in her sail and touching down again. Not looking back, she ran to her garden, content that her friend had achieved his dream.
Ali nearly shrieked as she jolted forward drenched in a cold sweat. This is the third time this week. Shaking as if she had run the night away, she quietly climbed down from her bunk and limped over to her trunk. It was still dark out; not even the morning birds were out of bed yet. Gathering a fresh change of clothes, her towel, and her toiletries, she headed off for the showers. The water was ice cold. Great, the boiler went out again. I will need to fix that before the others wake up. Shivering under the water, she quickly scrubbed the dirt from her skin and studied the shampoo bottle. She only had about a tablespoon left and would not be able to get more until her vegetables were ready to harvest. Hmm, today is Damien’s special day. She smiled broadly and dabbed a bit of shampoo onto her wet hand. I want to look my best for him today. Finishing quickly, she was rather rough with the towel hoping the friction would warm and ease her cold, aching muscles. She reached for her shirt and regretted her attire. She had grabbed her Sunday best, but they were still worn and tattered cutoff jeans and a ratty T-shirt that was four sizes too big. She tied off the extra length around her waist and pulled her boots on over what was left of her socks. She then set about attempting to comb her hair. Her hair was naturally curly, but tangled easily leading to a common nickname growing up, Rats-nest Lyra. The childish taunt came back in her ears and she laughed at the little diddy; “Ratty, ratty, rat’s nest, ratty, ratty, rat’s nest…” over and over again with barely the hint of a respectable rhyme.
Letting her mind wander, she finished detangling and braiding her hair before gathering her things and creeping back to her trunk. The light from the bathroom blinded her in the blackness, but she had made this walk countless times and knew the steps by count. Quietly stowing her belongings, she grabbed her jacket, and work gloves heading for the door. “And where are you headed this early in the morning, little toad?” Bud’s voice whispered from the table near the door. His voice was smooth as silk, but had the bite of a viper when he called her “little toad.” She winced at the nickname. It was a constant barb, a thorny reminder that whenever she tried to sing, she sounded like a croaking toad. Once, after a particularly hard day for Bud, he caught her humming to herself and said, “Ali, if toads could ever harmonize at the symphony, you would be their lead soprano.” Startled by the intrusion to her thoughts, she quickly turned and nearly tripped when the rug coiled around her boot. Bud caught her arm before she fell and woke the others. “You are as graceful as a fish flopping on the shoreline. Where are you sneaking off to?” he growled at her. “I’m not sneaking. I am just heading to the boilers. The pilot burnt out again and there is no hot water,” she squeaked in response. Shuddering at her pitch, he let go and shooed her out the door, “Well, go on then. The others will be waking up soon.” She quietly obliged scuttling for the door.
Outside, the biting wind cut through her jacket quickly chilling her. Pulling it close, she sprinted to the boiler room. The door had blown open in the night; the entire room had grown cold. She closed the door and pulled her matchbox out. Not many matches left. I will have to find a stick to light the furnace from the lantern. Striking the match, she lit the lantern sheltering the flame from the draft. The smoke window at the top of the boiler room had been left open. After heaping coal in the furnace, she lit the stick and set about starting the coal. What seemed like an eternity passed before one finally caught. She guarded and nurtured the flame until it slowly spread to the others. And soon, the furnace was ablaze again. She sat for a moment, warming herself before closing the furnace door and climbing the stairs to the open window. The sun was just coming over the tree tops of her garden. It was going to be a beautiful day, the perfect day for Damien to take his test. Damien!!! Oh man, I forgot. I was going to give him one of my oranges. She leapt from the top of the stairs to the boiler room door. Crossing the green at a dead run, she pushed her way through the dense foliage to the garden shed. Snatching up her shoulder bag, she toppled one of the potted peppermints as she bolted for the grove. Most of the harvest was not ready yet, but she was sure she had seen an orange towards the top of one of the trees that was ripe.
The wind blew through the grove, calling to her as it bellowed past her head. Not today. Today, Damien takes his last test. Today, he will be joining the Wandering Bards or maybe even the Mockingbirds. Damien was not exactly her friend mind you. At least he did not see himself as such. More like the tutor no one wants to admit they need. Everyone knew Ali could not sing to save her soul, but no one questioned her ability to write a song. Damien had been trying, unsuccessfully to be accepted into the Wandering Bards, but every tune he came up with was flat and emotionless. Rather begrudgingly, he worked up the nerve to go to Ali’s garden one day. Stop it. Focus. You need to find that orange. Damien is counting on you. Frantically searching, she began leaping from branch to branch, careful to distribute her weight evenly. Finally, she spotted one; a perfect orange lay nestled at the top of one of the taller trees two rows up. The wind called to her again. This time she accepted its offer. Launching into the gust, she spread her jacket like a sail pushing her towards the tree. Touching down briefly, she sprung back into the wind twirling and spinning through the grove until she stood before the tree. She climbed the branches with the skill and grace she imaged the elves from children’s stories had. Clutching at Damien’s orange, she pushed off the tree and let the wind carry her to the ground gently. Glancing at the sky, she knew she was running late. The wind was against her on the way back, making her work to return to the garden shed. Panting and heaving from the effort, she whipped the sweat from her brow as she threw the shoulder bag into the shed. She heard the meeting bell toll and broke into an open sprint when she was clear of the trees.
Gasping, she finally made it to the hall. Everyone had already gathered when she threw the doors open. The whispers and snickering began almost immediately. “Oh how cute, the blackened toad has finally made it,” she heard someone say. “Did she even bother to shower?” another asked incredulously. Ignoring the comments, she pushed her way to the stage and called out for Damien. He paled at the sight of her and then blushed as he went for her. “Gee, thanks for looking your best for me Ali. I greatly appreciate the effort. The twigs in your hair and soot all over your face really add to your usual appeal.” Shocked, Ali reached for her face and hair. Pulling a leaf from her braid, she blushed furiously and meekly handed Damien the orange. “I’m sorry Damien, I did try. I just knew you liked the oranges and…” “Look, its fine. Whatever, thanks for your help and everything, but I kinda’ need to get ready. Bud has been breathing down my neck all morning,” he interrupted. “Oh, right. Of course. I’m sorry. Good luck!” she called after him as he stalked away. Embarrassed, Ali hurried to the back of the hall, careful to avoid looking at anyone. “What did she think was going to happen? Was she expecting him to ask her for a duet? Hahaha!” She buried her head in her hands as she slumped against the wall. “What are you doing? You’re getting soot all over the freshly painted walls! Get off, go stand outside by the window if you really want to hear him,” said Bud as he pulled her to her feet. Outside, the wind pulled at her as she sat beneath the window ledge, tears streaking down her soot stained cheeks. She angrily whipped them away smudging the soot with her hand.
The ceremony began. Bud gave the usual words of inspiration and sang a small ballad for each of the Bards; he sang of their bravery and various achievements as was customary before the trial of another. When all were introduced, with cheers erupting for each, Damien was brought out. Ali could not bring herself to look in through the window. The hall grew quiet and the lights were turned low leaving just the spotlight on the stage. His chair squeaked as he sat making everyone lean forward in anticipation. Damien began strumming the lute in the melody Ali had written for him. Humming to himself as he drew the courage, he began playing louder and louder until the opening words. “Dreaming of the time, when I could spread my wings…flying through the doorway, out before the springs…” Ali knew the words and nearly sang along before she caught herself. The song was her hearts greatest desire, to fly like the song bird her mother used to be; to fight and defend her home and family. Although she was an orphan that no one seemed to want, she loved them all and wanted to protect them. The tears flowed like rivers as the song went on; the harmony was perfect. Damien was sure to be accepted. She stood as the song ended and clapped with the rest of them. The bards all stood and cast their votes. Bud came forward to congratulate Damien on an excellent performance.
Ali had heard enough, she knew her friend had done well. And the wind was calling to her, always wanting to dance. As she again crossed the field, heading back to her garden, the wind blew strongly. She let it sweep her off her feet and danced with it, spinning and twirling as if a leaf on the wind. Drifting higher and higher, she spun until she was dizzy before pulling in her sail and touching down again. Not looking back, she ran to her garden, content that her friend had achieved his dream.
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