The Hēathernet 20oz. to Geekdom

CWW: The Instrument (Part 2)

(Creative Work Weekends:  On Fridays The Heathernet will feature a completed or in progress work of creative writing. Constructive feedback and ideas/prompts for more CWWs are always appreciated in the comments.)

Read: The Instrument (Part 2)

Kicking sand on the fire Meralock went to a crouch and backed away from the sparking mess with both hands going to his hilt. He couldn’t tell from the sound of the intruders gait if either the firelight had been seen or his scuffle to the dark had been heard. He waited, silent, watching and listening to whatever was on the path.  The glow of torchlight appeared and the sound of jovial humming. Meralock relaxed and called out.

“Kuipo!”

The intruder gave a high-pitched and startled cry and the woods rustled with the clatter of a fallen pack.

“By the Mercies!” shouted the voice, “Be you friend and you have not been friendly, or be you foe and have you been foolish? Answer, and I’ll know which way to run.”

“Relax Kuipo of Gern, it is Meralock of Fueradale, neither friend or foe today.”

Meralock knelt by the fire pit, stoked the coals with his sword, and blew the flames back to life. Kuipo drew up from the path dragging his dropped things. Meralock looked up to see a slender man in chocolate brown leggings and tunic with flamboyant violet flourishes. In his outstretched hand he was juggling three coals lit with long colorful flame through his fingers. He narrowed his eyes at Meralock and sneered through thin lips.

“Fool, you tempt fate calling at me in the darkness, I should singe your fur for nearly making me shed my soul.”

Meralock rose to his full height and raised his hand glowering intensely. Kuipo’s menace melted immediately and he stumbled and stammered backwards. 

“Relax, friend. Merely the words of a constant showman is all.”

He worked to regain his composure while tossing each coal in the air, spinning underneath each before catching them in his mouth. He made a concentrated face before spitting out a single white marble, which he held on the tip of this finger for Meralock to see.

For a moment Merlaock appeared ready to swat his raised hand at the trickster’s prop, but a thought occurred to him, and he dropped his hand while giving Kuipo an inquisitive stare.

“Enough, come and sit by the fire. Bring your things.”

Kuipo raised his finger and rolled the marble up his arm and into some hidden compartment of his sleeve.

“I have a schedule to keep Meralock, I will rest for just a bit. Perhaps we may share some libation to make it worth my delay?

Meralock smirked.

“Of course, I have some wineskins in my saddle bag. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Ah! And I have always thought it was your brother who was the gentleman, you are most kind.”

Meralock erased his smirk and studied Kuipo some more as he propped up his bursting bag of props and instruments for a makeshift backrest. He felt for a moment as though the Mercies were toying with him, pushing him gently from within his skull and making his skin crawl. Justice, he felt, could very well have been sitting with him at the fire pit tonight.

He returned to the fire, wineskin in each fist, and found Kuipo using a length of oiled wool to polish a foot long wooden instrument resting in his lap. It was almost as thick as his arm, one end was whittled to a thin mouthpiece and the other was carved to look like the roots of a tree. Finger holes littered the entirety of the cylindrical body and the shapes of animals made of blonde wood were inset down the center. Meralock paused a moment, remembering the wondrous music Kuipo was playing while walking on the trail.

“Fire,” Meralock said, handing a wineskin over.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s new, the fire, I’ve never seen it in your act before.”

Kuipo’s face flashed a hint of something briefly, before breaking in an ego dripped smile. Meralock could not be sure it was the emotion what he sought. It was fear, he was certain of that, but was it a fear from guilt?

“It has been a while since I have been in Fueradale. Earning a livelihood from my crafts means I must pick up a few new things along the way, does it not?

He indicated the instrument to prove his claim.

“I’ve been away securing this,” he looked down the length of it with tenderness, “I spent three years in personal service of the Windlemere court to seek this out. You know their people only create a new instrument once every 26 months? Each one unique in form and function.”

“I did not ask how long you’ve had your flute, I asked how long you’ve had your flames!”

“If you insist on knowing than consider yourself a lucky spectator Meralock, my flamework is untested on the mass—” he stopped, “Did you just call this a flute? I’ll have you know they call this—”

“Enough! I will discuss your flute in a moment. Kuipo. Answer me, please. Does my brother still give shelter you in his barn during your visits to Fueradale?”

“Why?” Kuipo asked, rigid.

Meralock watched the man try and keep still while he must have been writhing inside. With the eyes of a battle tested interrogator he tried to interpret the story Kuipo’s body was silently telling him. He chose his words carefully, speaking evenly and without emotion.

“There was a fire at my family farm today, Kuipo. Faligaard. My brother. He died in the barn.”

“I, Meralock, I—”

He looked away and took a sloppy gulp of wine. He turned back, grave.

“I am sorry,” he said, “But I have not been to Fuerabush in three years.”

This was a shame Meralock thought. He knew there was no malice here, but as talented as Kuipo was, he was a poor actor and Meralock knew Kuipo was in that barn today. He closed his eyes and sat back, imagining himself eating the rage he felt. The Mercies had shown him a path. He drank slowly from his wineskin. He opened his eyes and looked at Kuipo next to him, clutching his instrument and staring at the stars.

“About that instrument, Kuipo, what is it called?”

Kuipo visibly relaxed.

“This is the Liferoot Hollow of Windlemere. I could tell you the story of how this came in to my possession. Truly, it is my greatest affection.”

“No,” Meralock said, “That won’t be necessary. I request a song. The song you played on the path just now. It reminded me of younger times, running the fields with Faligaard and our dogs.”

“Of course,” Kuipo said getting up.

He lifted the flute to his mouth a moment, and then paused.

“I understand you have suffered a great loss, but I’m not used to performing without pay.”

Meralock gave a grim smile, “There will be pay, Kuipo.”

“Very well,” Kuipo said, “Let us dance and celebrate.”

Meralock stood as Kuipo sounded the opening tones. His fingers moved magnificently around the holes on the instrument. Meralock let himself feel lifted. He drank deep and knocked his wineskin in a friendly manner against the musicians shoulder. The men circled each other and the fire, Kuipo masterfully playing his instrument and Meralock shouting exaltations. Together they were momentarily joined together with the third personality that now appeared at the fire, the one created by the connection of a performer and his audience. When Kuipo finished he bowed to Meralock, and Meralock imagined that third personality thanking them both and leaving the fire to once again leave nothing in between the two men and the truth. Meralock bowed back to Kuipo.

“I should take your life,” he said, drawing his sword.

“Meralock!” Kuipo tried to back away quickly but Meralock’s free hand lashed out and caught his ruffles.

“Yet my life is not the one you took.”

He shoved the frightened man away and as Kuipo fell back he flailed his arms, trying to gain some sort of balance. Kuipo’s instrument floated free in his weakened grasp and Meralock batted it to the ground. Kuipo went to the ground, his eyes riveted to the fallen Liferoot Hollow.

“Were you in my brother’s barn today?”

Kuipo’s jaw shuddered and opened, tears began to well in his eyes.

“Meralock, I would never want to harm your brother! He was always so kind to me when while I was a mere amateur! I owe him my career.”

“Were you in the barn? Did you start the fire?” Meralock shouted at the collapsed man.

“Yes,” Kuipo gasped, ‘Oh, the Mercies, yes I was.”

Meralock put his boot to the instrument on the ground.

“You would never want to take the life of Faligaard, and yet you did. I would never want to destroy an instrument as beautiful as this Liferoot Hollow, and yet I must.”

Meralock resolutely pushed the instrument into the fire. For a moment nothing happened, then the oil caught fire and the surface was ablaze, the beautiful insets fell out of their hollows, and the instrument burnt away.

“The instrument of my affection for the instrument of your affection. Our debt has been settled.”

Meralock took the reigns of his horse and walked down the path, silent and head down. Kuipo remained at the fire, pawing at the coals and letting out the wailing moans of a grieving man.

End.