She didn't really start to despair until she looked at the mud
beneath her fingernails. She was sitting in a great wide pool of the
stuff, and it had splattered her from head to toe, but it was the stuff
beneath her fingernails that really bothered her, as she normally kept them
scrupulously clean. She sat there with her legs sprawled out in the mud
for almost a full minute before her shoulders slumped and her hands fell
limply to her lap. She stared out between her toes at the edge of the mud
puddle as the last of the other children, who had been behind her in
groups, finally dispersed to escape the approaching rain.
This happens in books all the time, the girl thought to herself. I'll look around and a girl will be standing there waiting to help me up, and we'll become great friends. That's always how it goes. Satisfied at halfway convincing herself, she abruptly twisted around at the waist and looked up eagerly to meet the eyes of that sweet, kind-hearted girl who would surely become her best friend.
There was no one there. The lot was empty, and it was starting to rain.
"Can't get much worse than this," she muttered to herself, pulling her legs up beneath her and struggling to her feet. "All alone and covered in mud and it's starting to rain. Perfect." She angrily swiped away a tear that was burning its way down her cheek, leaving a fresh smear of mud among the other odd streaks, and stared disconsolately at the stretch of packed dirt that made up the lot in front of the schoolhouse.
"This is so stupid," she continued, crossing her arms in helpless frustration. "Why am I even here?"
The rain, before hardly a drizzle, began to fall harder, plastering her pale, mud-caked hair her head. She continued to glower at the empty lot for a moment, but then her anger evaporated and two more tears slipped down her cheeks, mingling with the rain.
"I'm not a bad person..." she whispered to no one. "Really."
(So why don't they like you?)
Anger boiled up again, as quickly as it had gone, and she lifted a foot to lash out at a rock... Or, she tried to lift her foot. The large, oversized boot was stuck firmly in the soupy mud. Yet again her anger disappeared in a fresh wave of despair. She tugged harder at the offending boot, throwing her weight against it with all of her might. Something had to give__ and it wasn't the mud. Her small foot, lubricated by the rain and mud that had slipped inside the boot, flew effortlessly from its lodging, sending the girl headlong into the mud once more, for her other boot was still stuck hard. She lifted her head briefly to shoot her boots and the mud an absolutely withering glance, and then misery enveloped her. She laid her cheek in the mud and her eyes as the rain continued to fall.
She woke up later, feeling panicked but not at first knowing why. Then she realized she could barely breathe and instantly coughed mud and rainwater from her nose and throat. She sat up, coughing still more fiercely and now feeling the throb in her right ankle from remaining at such an odd angle for such a time.
She opened her streaming eyes and shook her head to clear it. She didn't know how long she had remained there, asleep in the mud, but she could tell by the stabs of pain in her ankle that it was going to be a long, hard hobble home.
"Hey!"
Her heart leapt into her throat and beat there so hard she could barely think as she whipped around to face the source of the sudden call. Beneath the awning that stretched along the side of the schoolhouse stood a girl and a boy. It was the girl who had spoken, and now she spoke again:
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Of course she's not alright," the boy cut in. "She's stuck in the mud."
The girl shrugged in a non-committal manner and took a few hesitant steps toward the small girl who sat in the mud. "Are you alright?"
The small girl swallowed hard and nodded slowly. "Yeah... I'm okay. Did you... You didn't . . . see what happened, did you?"
"Nuh-uh. We saw you lying here from across the road and came to check."
The boy walked up beside the tall girl and offered the small girl a hand and a smile. "Better get out of the mud... Not that it makes any difference. You're covered!"
Tentatively, the small girl reached up and allowed the boy to take her hand and pull her to her feet. Her ankle whimpered in protest, but she ignored it. These people were speaking civilly to her, and she didn't want to do anything to disrupt it.
"Yeah," the taller girl agreed, also smiling. "What happened, didja fall?"
"Something like that," the small girl agreed quickly.
"Do you live far?" the boy enquired. "Our wagon is just in the field across the road."
"I... I'm living with my aunt," the small girl replied carefully. And it was halfway true.
"Will she miss you? We can send you on once you're cleaned up." The girl smiled warmly, looking vaguely hopeful.
"Oh, I'm sure she won't. I'd really appreciate it." Hardly daring to believe this was happening, the small girl smiled for the first time that day.
"Good, come on. I hate the rain." The boy jerked his head towards the road and began walking; the taller girl, after picking up the small girl's boots from the mud and tucking them under an arm, fell in beside the small behind him.
"My name's Wengothe," said the boy.
"And I'm Istiban," the tall girl added with a grin.
"I'm Dawn," the small girl reciprocated immediately. Another half- truth.
The tall girl smiled to herself and muttered something, but did not offer it to the other two.
Two horses were picketed in the grass not too far from the wagon, which was smallish but sturdy. It looked as though it had been a long, long way and had just as long a road again ahead of it. Wengothe walked immediately to the wagon's hind end and climbed a short set of steps that rested there, dripping rain. Istiban followed suit and motioned for Dawn to follow just before she disappeared into the gloom beyond a hanging curtain. Too weary, wet, and hopeful to be afraid, Dawn hobbled bravely up the steps (her ankle felt on fire), then slipped beneath the pouring eave and through the thick curtain.
The wagon's interior was terribly cluttered with various boxes and multiple mysterious leather cases. Wengothe sat on a short stool feeding the fire in a pot_bellied stove. Istiban sat in a chair close to the front, rummaging through a box at her feet. Dawn was surprised and delighted at the pleasant warmth and light within the wagon, and at the atmosphere of cozy friendliness.
"Sit," Wengothe offered, cocking a finger towards a second low stool just to Dawn's left. The girl pulled it a bit closer to the merrily crackling fire and sat down carefully, smiling nervously at her hosts.
"Here, these should fit," Istiban said suddenly, and stretched across to lay something at Dawn's feet. The girl poked at the darkish lump with a tentative finger, and a sudden flare of the fire revealed a pair of well- worn but fighting-fit boots that had obviously walked many a mile. But they were small enough to fit Dawn's feet, and certainly not ready to fall apart just yet. Stuck into the mouth of one was a pair of thick woolen socks, which Dawn gratefully pulled on over her freezing feet.
Wengothe, without getting up, shoved his stool back till he could lean against the wall beside the stove, and looked at Dawn with a such a look of frank appraisal that the girl felt uncomfortable. But Istiban was smiling kindly, so Dawn merely fidgeted a bit and waited for the boy to speak.
"Do you play anything?" he asked quietly. Istiban's smile turned to an expectant grin.
"Play . . . What?" the small girl returned, hating to seem ignorant but unable to help it.
"An instrument, silly!" Istiban burst out, and pulled a longish, thin leather case onto her lap. She undid the button-latches and opened it, and lifted something into the light. It looked at first to Dawn to be a mere stick of wood, but upon leaning closer and examining it, it was revealed to be much more. Long and slender and round, it was carved with a row of multiple holes, and the quality of the wood was such that it seemed to glow reddish-gold in the light of the fire.
"What is it?" Dawn asked, too amazed to worry over sounding foolish.
"It's my flute," Istiban replied, and there was a mixture of pride and love in her voice. "Weg, show her your horn."
As though he had been waiting for that summons, the boy pulled another leather case into his lap. This one was larger and wider, but Wengothe handled it with ease. He flipped the latches and from this case emerged what Dawn first took for a shaft of fire. Then she realized it was merely the reflection of the fire on smooth, well-tempered coppery metal. The bell was as wide as Dawn's spread hand, and this tapered into a complex series of winding tubes. Perched atop the mass were three round valves.
"It cost a year's earnings, but it was so worth it," the boy said, and Dawn heard the same intense pride in his voice. "My tin one wasn't nearly as good. Made by the best smith on the far side of the Hedrons!"
For a brief moment Dawn's wonder at the horn was broken by wonder at this statement. "You've been across the Hedrons?" The mountain range was enormous, towering, snow-capped year-round, craggy and heart-daunting.
"'Course," Istiban replied easily, and lifted the flute to her lips. At once Dawn was overcome by the most lovely melody she'd ever heard, sweet and flowing, and after a moment it began to speak without words, whispering into Dawn's heart. It spoke of hope, of high spirits and bright hearts, of cheer untouched by shadow. But slowly it changed, as Dawn sat utterly immersed. The hope never faded, always singing out in the background, but now the dominating tune spoke of growing doubt. And this slowly faded into fear, grim stubbornness, cold winds to daunt a warm heart. At last even the hope began to fade from the flute's voice, and the notes were harsh and cutting. They dwindled, softer and softer, until the sound of the flute could barely be guessed above the crackle of the fire and the pounding of Dawn's heart. But then, all-in-a-sudden, the notes flew out loud and clear, the hope rose above all else and soared. There were sounds of running water in the flute's voice, of sunshine and weary joy, the joy of perseverance well paid. The final note was low and mellow, long held out, speaking of comfort and rest on the far side of the storm. The song ended.
Dawn found to her surprise that tears now stood in her eyes. Istiban was looking at her with eager expectancy, a hopeful smile on her face. Wengothe laughed at Dawn's thunderstruck expression and began to speak.
"Isti wrote that. It's about our passage over the mountains, since you asked. That was two years ago, and a bit more. We'd traveled an incredible distance only to find ourselves backed up against the range, so we decided to go on over. A foolish decision, made lightly. The consequences were drowned in our carefree spirits. So up we went, and it was a long, long way. By the time we realized what we'd gotten into, it was too late to turn around. So we tightened the yoke, tied everything down tight, and pressed on. I haven't got much to say about that haul... It was terrible. Driving snow, ice falling from the sky, wind that cut you to the very bone. Time after time we had to climb down and chop the ice from our spokes so we could keep moving. There is a path that leads all the way over those mountains, and if we hadn't found it we would have died up there, and likely never have been found. But we came upon it, thank the Lord, and followed it for a week before finally coming up to the summit of the pass. And from then on it was all downhill, literally and figuratively. Everything got gradually better and better, and before we knew it we were down below, walking the paths of mid-spring with winter howling in the cliffs behind and above us."
"I heard it," Dawn said slowly. "That is, in the song, I heard all of that. It was . . . beautiful! The most beautiful thing I've ever heard! You . . . you wrote that?" She looked at Istiban in open awe and incredulity.
Istiban blushed slightly, and grinned. "Well, someone's got to write the songs! It's not hard, with inspiration."
"What do you mean?" Dawn asked, leaning forward in absorption.
"You hear songs every day. People sing them, hum them, play them. They're ever-present, and therefore taken for granted. But did you ever think about the people who wrote those songs?"
Dawn shook her head dumbly. She'd never been more fascinated in her life.
"Of course not; no one does." Istiban gazed with luminous yellow eyes up into the shadows above Dawn's head, and her voice throbbed with passion. "No one does. But now you should. Someone, long ago, wrote a song. Can you imagine what it's like to come up with a tune, out of your own head, that no one's ever heard before? Where did those long-ago people find their inspiration? Where were they sitting when that tune began to form? Who was the very first person to hear it from them, and what did that person think?
"How old are you, Dawn?"
Caught off-guard by the abrupt change of subject, the girl sat up quickly and replied honestly: "Thirteen."
"Well, I'm fifteen, and Weg's sixteen. I've been playing since I was eight and my grandfather handed me this very flute."
"I've played since I was ten," Wengothe added. "Little tin horn, but it worked well enough."
"Thirteen isn't too late to start!" Istiban finished in a rush. "Dawn, you could come with us, travel all over the place, and play with us! We just wander around playing for money, and giving children these little carved flutes and teaching them a few notes. We spread the gift of music."
For an instant, Istiban's offer shone out in Dawn's mind, clear and golden and brighter than the sun. It embodied everything that Dawn thought of as good and right; it was happiness and friendship and teamwork and a real purpose for her life. Then it faded. She couldn't take them seriously, surely they were only joking... But the light in their eyes didn't look like that of a jest.
"...Just the two of you have done this? For how long?" Dawn asked slowly, avoiding the most important subject.
"We've been a group for five years," Wengothe replied. "But it wasn't always just the two of us. A third was there at the beginning; a lovely little girl named Angel. But she died of malaria before a year. We found another, a boy called Lee, but he dropped out when we decided to go over the mountains. Seemed to think we'd never make it." The boy chuckled softly, but a shadow was over his eyes, which were bright blue rimmed with copper. "So right now it's just the two of us, yeah. I guess we were hoping you'd make it three, though."
"What makes you think I could be good enough?" Dawn countered swiftly, ignoring her mind's desperate protests that she was arguing against the best opportunity of her life.
"Music makes you free," Istiban said simply, with a slight shrug. "When we first saw you, it sure looked like you could use some freedom. Anyone with a passion for it can play an instrument."
Dawn looked down at the floor and thought. Her life wasn't exactly a bowl of cherries. She woke up before sunrise every morning, worked her fingers raw in the garden behind her late aunt's house, went to school, came home, and worked again until dark. And at school she was constantly persecuted, insulted, and downsized. She went only because she longed to learn. And though she was actually very intelligent, her spirit was so crushed in the lifestyle she'd been forced into that she struggled fiercely to make only mediocre marks. Her life was empty. She worked every spare moment to death, and endured everything else. She without friends, without family, without hope... Until this moment. Now she was offered friendship, happiness, freedom. The chance to never be tied to one spot of ground ever again, to prove she could do something well, to be accepted as part of a team. Her heart cried out, and she looked up. Wengothe and Istiban were silent and still as stone, concern mixed with the hope in their eyes. For a fleeting moment it had seemed to them that a very old woman sat hunched on that stool– an impression heightened by Dawn's dusky skin and cloud of pale hair– rather than a girl readying to leave childhood.
Dawn's lower lip trembled slightly; her mind was still undecided. She then thought of what it would be like to spend every night in this wagon, or out beneath the stars, and every day walking beside the horses or sitting on the rear gate of the wagon and watching the world roll away; to be free. To earn money and spend it. Surely they'd never be rich, but it certainly didn't seem that they were lacking.
But it was the thought of friendship that finally decided her. She longed so deeply to be accepted and appreciated by someone, anyone, and now sat before her two people who seemed quite eager to become her friend. It was a dream come true, if the girl's tired mind had managed to conjure up a dream.
"What could I play?" she asked softly, a shy smile lighting up her features.
Instantly grins of light and peace were returned to her by her new friends. Istiban lifted another leather case from a shadowy corner and slid it across the floor to Dawn. In size it was somewhere between that of Istiban's flute and that of Wengothe's horn. The girl lifted it eagerly to her lap, fumbled with the catches for a moment, and opened it.
Istiban slipped over and knelt beside her. "It's what we call a lillepet, or lily for short." She pulled out two pieces and fit them together, forming a straight wooden rod about the length of Dawn's arm with a spread bell at one end. "See, if you take this piece," (Istiban picked up a paper-thin strip of wood the length of Dawn's pinkie finger) "and tie it here at the top," (she placed the strip against an open slot on the lower side of the rod's upper end) "then you can make it vibrate and it makes the most lovely sound. It's not as hard as it sounds," she laughed, seeing Dawn's astonished face. "Really. See, take this bit of string and tie it. Make sure you can see just a hair's breadth of wood above the little piece where you tie it. After awhile you'll learn to adjust it to where it fits you best."
Furrowing her brow in concentration, Dawn managed, after a few faltering tries, to fasten the strip of wood to what was apparently the mouthpiece of the lily.
"Good!" Istiban said encouragingly. "Now you've got to put your upper teeth directly onto the wood, and curl your lower lip over your teeth so the reed rests on it." She smiled and as Dawn did so carefully. "Now, blow, and direct the air between the reed and the wood."
Wengothe watched indulgently, propped up against the wall. He felt that Istiban had chosen well in picking an instrument for their newest member.
And so the lesson began. They remained in the wagon well into the night, and Dawn learned how to force a noise from the lillepet. She began to understand how to make the reed vibrate, but the sound it produced was far from lovely yet. Istiban said it took time, but Dawn had made an excellent start.
No one so much as thought of Dawn's aunt that evening. Wengothe slept on the wagon seat up front, which was at waist-level to the floor. Istiban slept on the floor just beneath him, and Dawn lay in a bundle of blankets between the stove and the heavy cloth curtain at the back. Istiban had stolidly maintained that the horses made for the best alarm system you could hope for, so the girl didn't protest. She hadn't slept as well as she did that night in many a long year.
This happens in books all the time, the girl thought to herself. I'll look around and a girl will be standing there waiting to help me up, and we'll become great friends. That's always how it goes. Satisfied at halfway convincing herself, she abruptly twisted around at the waist and looked up eagerly to meet the eyes of that sweet, kind-hearted girl who would surely become her best friend.
There was no one there. The lot was empty, and it was starting to rain.
"Can't get much worse than this," she muttered to herself, pulling her legs up beneath her and struggling to her feet. "All alone and covered in mud and it's starting to rain. Perfect." She angrily swiped away a tear that was burning its way down her cheek, leaving a fresh smear of mud among the other odd streaks, and stared disconsolately at the stretch of packed dirt that made up the lot in front of the schoolhouse.
"This is so stupid," she continued, crossing her arms in helpless frustration. "Why am I even here?"
The rain, before hardly a drizzle, began to fall harder, plastering her pale, mud-caked hair her head. She continued to glower at the empty lot for a moment, but then her anger evaporated and two more tears slipped down her cheeks, mingling with the rain.
"I'm not a bad person..." she whispered to no one. "Really."
(So why don't they like you?)
Anger boiled up again, as quickly as it had gone, and she lifted a foot to lash out at a rock... Or, she tried to lift her foot. The large, oversized boot was stuck firmly in the soupy mud. Yet again her anger disappeared in a fresh wave of despair. She tugged harder at the offending boot, throwing her weight against it with all of her might. Something had to give__ and it wasn't the mud. Her small foot, lubricated by the rain and mud that had slipped inside the boot, flew effortlessly from its lodging, sending the girl headlong into the mud once more, for her other boot was still stuck hard. She lifted her head briefly to shoot her boots and the mud an absolutely withering glance, and then misery enveloped her. She laid her cheek in the mud and her eyes as the rain continued to fall.
She woke up later, feeling panicked but not at first knowing why. Then she realized she could barely breathe and instantly coughed mud and rainwater from her nose and throat. She sat up, coughing still more fiercely and now feeling the throb in her right ankle from remaining at such an odd angle for such a time.
She opened her streaming eyes and shook her head to clear it. She didn't know how long she had remained there, asleep in the mud, but she could tell by the stabs of pain in her ankle that it was going to be a long, hard hobble home.
"Hey!"
Her heart leapt into her throat and beat there so hard she could barely think as she whipped around to face the source of the sudden call. Beneath the awning that stretched along the side of the schoolhouse stood a girl and a boy. It was the girl who had spoken, and now she spoke again:
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Of course she's not alright," the boy cut in. "She's stuck in the mud."
The girl shrugged in a non-committal manner and took a few hesitant steps toward the small girl who sat in the mud. "Are you alright?"
The small girl swallowed hard and nodded slowly. "Yeah... I'm okay. Did you... You didn't . . . see what happened, did you?"
"Nuh-uh. We saw you lying here from across the road and came to check."
The boy walked up beside the tall girl and offered the small girl a hand and a smile. "Better get out of the mud... Not that it makes any difference. You're covered!"
Tentatively, the small girl reached up and allowed the boy to take her hand and pull her to her feet. Her ankle whimpered in protest, but she ignored it. These people were speaking civilly to her, and she didn't want to do anything to disrupt it.
"Yeah," the taller girl agreed, also smiling. "What happened, didja fall?"
"Something like that," the small girl agreed quickly.
"Do you live far?" the boy enquired. "Our wagon is just in the field across the road."
"I... I'm living with my aunt," the small girl replied carefully. And it was halfway true.
"Will she miss you? We can send you on once you're cleaned up." The girl smiled warmly, looking vaguely hopeful.
"Oh, I'm sure she won't. I'd really appreciate it." Hardly daring to believe this was happening, the small girl smiled for the first time that day.
"Good, come on. I hate the rain." The boy jerked his head towards the road and began walking; the taller girl, after picking up the small girl's boots from the mud and tucking them under an arm, fell in beside the small behind him.
"My name's Wengothe," said the boy.
"And I'm Istiban," the tall girl added with a grin.
"I'm Dawn," the small girl reciprocated immediately. Another half- truth.
The tall girl smiled to herself and muttered something, but did not offer it to the other two.
Two horses were picketed in the grass not too far from the wagon, which was smallish but sturdy. It looked as though it had been a long, long way and had just as long a road again ahead of it. Wengothe walked immediately to the wagon's hind end and climbed a short set of steps that rested there, dripping rain. Istiban followed suit and motioned for Dawn to follow just before she disappeared into the gloom beyond a hanging curtain. Too weary, wet, and hopeful to be afraid, Dawn hobbled bravely up the steps (her ankle felt on fire), then slipped beneath the pouring eave and through the thick curtain.
The wagon's interior was terribly cluttered with various boxes and multiple mysterious leather cases. Wengothe sat on a short stool feeding the fire in a pot_bellied stove. Istiban sat in a chair close to the front, rummaging through a box at her feet. Dawn was surprised and delighted at the pleasant warmth and light within the wagon, and at the atmosphere of cozy friendliness.
"Sit," Wengothe offered, cocking a finger towards a second low stool just to Dawn's left. The girl pulled it a bit closer to the merrily crackling fire and sat down carefully, smiling nervously at her hosts.
"Here, these should fit," Istiban said suddenly, and stretched across to lay something at Dawn's feet. The girl poked at the darkish lump with a tentative finger, and a sudden flare of the fire revealed a pair of well- worn but fighting-fit boots that had obviously walked many a mile. But they were small enough to fit Dawn's feet, and certainly not ready to fall apart just yet. Stuck into the mouth of one was a pair of thick woolen socks, which Dawn gratefully pulled on over her freezing feet.
Wengothe, without getting up, shoved his stool back till he could lean against the wall beside the stove, and looked at Dawn with a such a look of frank appraisal that the girl felt uncomfortable. But Istiban was smiling kindly, so Dawn merely fidgeted a bit and waited for the boy to speak.
"Do you play anything?" he asked quietly. Istiban's smile turned to an expectant grin.
"Play . . . What?" the small girl returned, hating to seem ignorant but unable to help it.
"An instrument, silly!" Istiban burst out, and pulled a longish, thin leather case onto her lap. She undid the button-latches and opened it, and lifted something into the light. It looked at first to Dawn to be a mere stick of wood, but upon leaning closer and examining it, it was revealed to be much more. Long and slender and round, it was carved with a row of multiple holes, and the quality of the wood was such that it seemed to glow reddish-gold in the light of the fire.
"What is it?" Dawn asked, too amazed to worry over sounding foolish.
"It's my flute," Istiban replied, and there was a mixture of pride and love in her voice. "Weg, show her your horn."
As though he had been waiting for that summons, the boy pulled another leather case into his lap. This one was larger and wider, but Wengothe handled it with ease. He flipped the latches and from this case emerged what Dawn first took for a shaft of fire. Then she realized it was merely the reflection of the fire on smooth, well-tempered coppery metal. The bell was as wide as Dawn's spread hand, and this tapered into a complex series of winding tubes. Perched atop the mass were three round valves.
"It cost a year's earnings, but it was so worth it," the boy said, and Dawn heard the same intense pride in his voice. "My tin one wasn't nearly as good. Made by the best smith on the far side of the Hedrons!"
For a brief moment Dawn's wonder at the horn was broken by wonder at this statement. "You've been across the Hedrons?" The mountain range was enormous, towering, snow-capped year-round, craggy and heart-daunting.
"'Course," Istiban replied easily, and lifted the flute to her lips. At once Dawn was overcome by the most lovely melody she'd ever heard, sweet and flowing, and after a moment it began to speak without words, whispering into Dawn's heart. It spoke of hope, of high spirits and bright hearts, of cheer untouched by shadow. But slowly it changed, as Dawn sat utterly immersed. The hope never faded, always singing out in the background, but now the dominating tune spoke of growing doubt. And this slowly faded into fear, grim stubbornness, cold winds to daunt a warm heart. At last even the hope began to fade from the flute's voice, and the notes were harsh and cutting. They dwindled, softer and softer, until the sound of the flute could barely be guessed above the crackle of the fire and the pounding of Dawn's heart. But then, all-in-a-sudden, the notes flew out loud and clear, the hope rose above all else and soared. There were sounds of running water in the flute's voice, of sunshine and weary joy, the joy of perseverance well paid. The final note was low and mellow, long held out, speaking of comfort and rest on the far side of the storm. The song ended.
Dawn found to her surprise that tears now stood in her eyes. Istiban was looking at her with eager expectancy, a hopeful smile on her face. Wengothe laughed at Dawn's thunderstruck expression and began to speak.
"Isti wrote that. It's about our passage over the mountains, since you asked. That was two years ago, and a bit more. We'd traveled an incredible distance only to find ourselves backed up against the range, so we decided to go on over. A foolish decision, made lightly. The consequences were drowned in our carefree spirits. So up we went, and it was a long, long way. By the time we realized what we'd gotten into, it was too late to turn around. So we tightened the yoke, tied everything down tight, and pressed on. I haven't got much to say about that haul... It was terrible. Driving snow, ice falling from the sky, wind that cut you to the very bone. Time after time we had to climb down and chop the ice from our spokes so we could keep moving. There is a path that leads all the way over those mountains, and if we hadn't found it we would have died up there, and likely never have been found. But we came upon it, thank the Lord, and followed it for a week before finally coming up to the summit of the pass. And from then on it was all downhill, literally and figuratively. Everything got gradually better and better, and before we knew it we were down below, walking the paths of mid-spring with winter howling in the cliffs behind and above us."
"I heard it," Dawn said slowly. "That is, in the song, I heard all of that. It was . . . beautiful! The most beautiful thing I've ever heard! You . . . you wrote that?" She looked at Istiban in open awe and incredulity.
Istiban blushed slightly, and grinned. "Well, someone's got to write the songs! It's not hard, with inspiration."
"What do you mean?" Dawn asked, leaning forward in absorption.
"You hear songs every day. People sing them, hum them, play them. They're ever-present, and therefore taken for granted. But did you ever think about the people who wrote those songs?"
Dawn shook her head dumbly. She'd never been more fascinated in her life.
"Of course not; no one does." Istiban gazed with luminous yellow eyes up into the shadows above Dawn's head, and her voice throbbed with passion. "No one does. But now you should. Someone, long ago, wrote a song. Can you imagine what it's like to come up with a tune, out of your own head, that no one's ever heard before? Where did those long-ago people find their inspiration? Where were they sitting when that tune began to form? Who was the very first person to hear it from them, and what did that person think?
"How old are you, Dawn?"
Caught off-guard by the abrupt change of subject, the girl sat up quickly and replied honestly: "Thirteen."
"Well, I'm fifteen, and Weg's sixteen. I've been playing since I was eight and my grandfather handed me this very flute."
"I've played since I was ten," Wengothe added. "Little tin horn, but it worked well enough."
"Thirteen isn't too late to start!" Istiban finished in a rush. "Dawn, you could come with us, travel all over the place, and play with us! We just wander around playing for money, and giving children these little carved flutes and teaching them a few notes. We spread the gift of music."
For an instant, Istiban's offer shone out in Dawn's mind, clear and golden and brighter than the sun. It embodied everything that Dawn thought of as good and right; it was happiness and friendship and teamwork and a real purpose for her life. Then it faded. She couldn't take them seriously, surely they were only joking... But the light in their eyes didn't look like that of a jest.
"...Just the two of you have done this? For how long?" Dawn asked slowly, avoiding the most important subject.
"We've been a group for five years," Wengothe replied. "But it wasn't always just the two of us. A third was there at the beginning; a lovely little girl named Angel. But she died of malaria before a year. We found another, a boy called Lee, but he dropped out when we decided to go over the mountains. Seemed to think we'd never make it." The boy chuckled softly, but a shadow was over his eyes, which were bright blue rimmed with copper. "So right now it's just the two of us, yeah. I guess we were hoping you'd make it three, though."
"What makes you think I could be good enough?" Dawn countered swiftly, ignoring her mind's desperate protests that she was arguing against the best opportunity of her life.
"Music makes you free," Istiban said simply, with a slight shrug. "When we first saw you, it sure looked like you could use some freedom. Anyone with a passion for it can play an instrument."
Dawn looked down at the floor and thought. Her life wasn't exactly a bowl of cherries. She woke up before sunrise every morning, worked her fingers raw in the garden behind her late aunt's house, went to school, came home, and worked again until dark. And at school she was constantly persecuted, insulted, and downsized. She went only because she longed to learn. And though she was actually very intelligent, her spirit was so crushed in the lifestyle she'd been forced into that she struggled fiercely to make only mediocre marks. Her life was empty. She worked every spare moment to death, and endured everything else. She without friends, without family, without hope... Until this moment. Now she was offered friendship, happiness, freedom. The chance to never be tied to one spot of ground ever again, to prove she could do something well, to be accepted as part of a team. Her heart cried out, and she looked up. Wengothe and Istiban were silent and still as stone, concern mixed with the hope in their eyes. For a fleeting moment it had seemed to them that a very old woman sat hunched on that stool– an impression heightened by Dawn's dusky skin and cloud of pale hair– rather than a girl readying to leave childhood.
Dawn's lower lip trembled slightly; her mind was still undecided. She then thought of what it would be like to spend every night in this wagon, or out beneath the stars, and every day walking beside the horses or sitting on the rear gate of the wagon and watching the world roll away; to be free. To earn money and spend it. Surely they'd never be rich, but it certainly didn't seem that they were lacking.
But it was the thought of friendship that finally decided her. She longed so deeply to be accepted and appreciated by someone, anyone, and now sat before her two people who seemed quite eager to become her friend. It was a dream come true, if the girl's tired mind had managed to conjure up a dream.
"What could I play?" she asked softly, a shy smile lighting up her features.
Instantly grins of light and peace were returned to her by her new friends. Istiban lifted another leather case from a shadowy corner and slid it across the floor to Dawn. In size it was somewhere between that of Istiban's flute and that of Wengothe's horn. The girl lifted it eagerly to her lap, fumbled with the catches for a moment, and opened it.
Istiban slipped over and knelt beside her. "It's what we call a lillepet, or lily for short." She pulled out two pieces and fit them together, forming a straight wooden rod about the length of Dawn's arm with a spread bell at one end. "See, if you take this piece," (Istiban picked up a paper-thin strip of wood the length of Dawn's pinkie finger) "and tie it here at the top," (she placed the strip against an open slot on the lower side of the rod's upper end) "then you can make it vibrate and it makes the most lovely sound. It's not as hard as it sounds," she laughed, seeing Dawn's astonished face. "Really. See, take this bit of string and tie it. Make sure you can see just a hair's breadth of wood above the little piece where you tie it. After awhile you'll learn to adjust it to where it fits you best."
Furrowing her brow in concentration, Dawn managed, after a few faltering tries, to fasten the strip of wood to what was apparently the mouthpiece of the lily.
"Good!" Istiban said encouragingly. "Now you've got to put your upper teeth directly onto the wood, and curl your lower lip over your teeth so the reed rests on it." She smiled and as Dawn did so carefully. "Now, blow, and direct the air between the reed and the wood."
Wengothe watched indulgently, propped up against the wall. He felt that Istiban had chosen well in picking an instrument for their newest member.
And so the lesson began. They remained in the wagon well into the night, and Dawn learned how to force a noise from the lillepet. She began to understand how to make the reed vibrate, but the sound it produced was far from lovely yet. Istiban said it took time, but Dawn had made an excellent start.
No one so much as thought of Dawn's aunt that evening. Wengothe slept on the wagon seat up front, which was at waist-level to the floor. Istiban slept on the floor just beneath him, and Dawn lay in a bundle of blankets between the stove and the heavy cloth curtain at the back. Istiban had stolidly maintained that the horses made for the best alarm system you could hope for, so the girl didn't protest. She hadn't slept as well as she did that night in many a long year.