Only half an hour after I posted the first chapter of this story, I heard that Lloyd Alexander had died the day before, at 83.
It is hard to convey how this sad event has affected me. In the forum "Bards of Prydain" several of us have commented on our feelings in the aftermath of this news. Even though we never met Alexander face-to-face, we are as bereft as if we had lost a close family member—which, in some sense, we did: if not an actual relation, a mentor, friend, and guide to worlds of wonder.
I would like to dedicate the rest of this story—which, fittingly, is about mentoring, art, loss, and love--to Alexander's memory. In my own, very humble fashion, I try to follow in the path where he blazed the way.
Chapter Two: The Bard and the Prince
The first glimpse Prince Fflewddur had of the wandering bard was of his feet. Propped on a stool, they were encased in leather boots which, though of excellent quality, were dusty and scuffed. Peering beyond the kitchen door from his vantage point, Fflewddur could see that the feet belonged to long limbs clad in green leggings patched at the knees with jagged stitches. Holding his breath and hoping not to be spotted as he moved even further beyond the doorframe, Fflewddur finally had a full view of the visitor relaxing in one of the kitchen chairs while the cook, her assistant, and the scullery maid fed him leftovers. Fflewddur realized he need not worry overmuch about being seen; enthralled by the rare treat of a visitor—and a handsome one at that—the three women's attention was wholly fixed on the young man with whom they were talking and laughing.
Fflewddur himself could not take his eyes off the new arrival who, unlike most passing bards, was not yet grizzled or weathered by years on the road. Indeed, this one still had the boyish look of one who had just entered manhood. It was a wonder, thought Fflewddur, that he had managed to become so learned as such a tender age. It was well known that the heads of initiated bards were stuffed with knowledge gleaned from long, hard poring over dusty tomes.
If the youth was burdened with hard-won wisdom, he did not show the strain. His light brown hair—which looked as if he had cropped it himself without the aid of a mirror—framed a mobile face with finely shaped features and high cheekbones. Right now, his lips were curved in a smile, showing white, even teeth. His voice was light, musical, as boyish as his face. As if he had not had a chance to shave recently or well, scraggly hairs, a bit darker than those on his head, sprinkled his face and upper lip. He must have fairly recently started sprouting them, thought Fflewddur enviously. The prince knew several teenaged lads in the castle who sported similar stubble, which he personally thought the most wondrous of achievements.
Fflewddur didn't actually need to hide; he came often enough to the kitchen to cadge extra food or be made much of by the friendly cook and her helpers. But he stayed in the shadows near the door in order to do something grown-ups kept telling him was rude: stare.
Bards fascinated the prince. From the time his parents allowed him to stay up in the evening to hear the entertainment in the Great Hall, he had sat spell-bound by the music, poetry, and, yes, by the bards themselves, who ranged from one side of Prydain to another, singing for their supper and sharing with their audiences the treasures of the land's history and lore. Knowing that the kingdom to which he was heir could be crossed in a day, Fflewddur envied the bards their freedom of movement. How much they must see in their travels! Despite his youth, Fflewddur already knew that the calling was a hard one, trekking in all kinds of weather and not always meeting the friendliest reception. Still, given his own circumscribed view of the world, even these drawbacks seemed exciting.
Tearing his eyes from the bard, Fflewddur scanned the room for something which he soon located on a table in the back of the kitchen. There it stood: a harp with a beautiful sweeping curve of dark wood. Fflewddur's fingers itched to hold it, to pluck just a few strings. Thus far, he had never been able to do this, but here the harp stood, untended and inviting, a temptation too great to be withstood.
Glancing quickly at the bard, who was still occupied eating and laughing with the women, Fflewddur edged silently around the hall to another door which stood just behind the table with the harp. The table was far enough from the bard, and sufficiently in shadow, that he would not immediately notice the boy making free with his harp. Fflewddur did not stop to consider what would happen when he did notice. The prince was too intent on the instrument, which loomed gorgeously in front of him. But when his hand brushed its frame, he was eager enough to be clumsy. The harp swayed alarmingly and, to the prince's horror, fell off the table, only narrowly missing the stone floor when Fflewddur caught it in his arms with a jangle of strings.
"Oi!"
The bard stood before Fflewddur, hands on hips. So startled had he been by the danger to his harp that his voice shot up a notch, like that of a boy on the cusp of manhood. As if embarrassed by this reminder of his youth, the bard reddened and spoke more gruffly.
"Have a care, young master," he said, gently removing the instrument from Fflewddur's arms and replacing it carefully on the table. "My harp is my bread."
"Prince Fflewddur!" Dilwen, the cook's buxom assistant, stepped forward, giving Fflewddur, as she always did in his scapegrace moments, a look of mingled affection and admonition. Turning to the bard, she explained. "This is King Godo's and Queen Gwennan's son."
The bard raised his eyebrows, then swept Fflewddur a deep, graceful bow. "My pardon, young prince," he said, smiling. "I did not mean to offend, but I would prefer to keep my harp in one piece, if possible."
"I'm sorry," murmured Fflewddur, gazing fixedly at his toes for an embarrassed instant. Then he looked up swiftly. "Can you play it right now, so we don't have to wait until later?" he begged.
In response the bard brought the harp to his shoulder with a single fluid movement. Bowing his head, his face grew meditative. Then his hands swept the strings.
Fflewddur felt, as he always did upon hearing music, that he was happily rooted to the spot. More so than ever, indeed: though he had listened to harp music many a time, he had never heard anything quite like this. The resonant beauty had a life of its own, the tune shifting from fast to slow, from merry to poignant, as if the harp were a tree and the harper's fingers the wind sighing through its leaves in numberless patterns of light and shade.
Then, suddenly, the harp fell silent. With a smile the bard lifted it from his shoulder and the spell was broken. Fflewddur saw that the three women looked as disappointed as he felt.
"Ooh," breathed the scullery maid, a winsome lass of about sixteen. "That was lovely." She drew out the word as if it had three syllables.
Dilwen stepped forward. "Perhaps," she said, moving so close to the bard that her shoulder brushed his, "you'd like to put your pack in your chamber now." She moved even closer. The bard took a step back. "I'll show you the way," Dilwen continued, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.
The bard cleared his throat. "Yes, well," he replied, "thank you, but I think I can find the way myself." He reddened again, more boyish than ever.
Fflewddur had no idea why Dilwen's offer should make the bard so uncomfortable. He had, however, a request of his own.
"Would you like to see my castle outside?" he blurted out. The bard's gray-green eyes swung to the prince's face with a look of relief. Dilwen pouted, but the scullery maid spoke.
"Your pretend castle in the trees, Prince Fflewddur?" The youngest of the kitchen staff, she sometimes, when her work was done, watched Fflewddur while he played outside, a task that—though she would never admit it—allowed her to enjoy the kind of games she had supposedly outgrown.
Fflewddur brightened. "That's it." He turned to the bard. "Would you like to come? Please?"
"Yes," the bard said firmly. "I would love to." Sweeping the misty-eyed women another of his graceful bows, he also bowed again to Fflewddur and, gesturing him to lead the way, followed the prince out of the kitchen.
Stepping from the castle's dim grayness they blinked in the bright autumn sun. Scarcely daring to believe that a bard had deigned to venture into his little-boy world, Fflewddur delightedly proceeded to the large tree under which Queen Gwennan had earlier spotted him playing.
"This is my castle," he announced importantly, gesturing at walls that only he could see. "And this," he added, venturing under one of the tree's loftiest boughs, "is the Great Hall." He looked proudly at the bard. "It is the grandest in the land," he intoned in the most regal voice he could muster.
"Is it now?" smiled the bard, laying down his harp and pack and sitting down beneath a tree.
"Indeed," continued Fflewddur, taking in, with one of his father's expansive gestures, the entire greensward. "The House of Fflam is second only in valor to the House of Don," He spoke for a moment in a more normal voice. "They're our relatives, you know." Then, resuming his earlier grandiloquence, he went on. "King Fflewddur is the scourge of his enemies, the bravest of warriors, the most trusted of the High King's allies . . ." He trailed off, wondering what else he could add. "And," he finally said, "the king is beloved by all the bards of Prydain. He himself," he warmed to his subject," is as learned as the Chief Bard Taliesin!"
Another smile crossed his auditor's face as he gestured for Fflewddur to take a seat beside him under the tree.
"You've heard of Taliesin?" he asked the prince, once Fflewddur had settled himself upon a carpet of fallen leaves.
Looking up at the bright, handsome face beside him, Fflewddur desperately wanted to impress the young man. He often wanted to impress people, and now more than ever, when he met someone who was, as he suddenly realized, what he most wanted one day to be himself. A familiar feeling coursed through his veins, a warm, reckless sensation like the one he got when his father allowed him a few sips of mulled mead. At such times Fflewddur uttered words that surprised even himself. This happened now.
"Taliesin," he proclaimed, "has told me that he himself will instruct me how to play the harp." Noting the slightly skeptical look on the bard's face, he plunged on. "We often go to Caer Dathyl, since the High King relies so on my father's judgment. Taliesin," he improvised wildly, hoping to add convincing details, "is very, very old, with a white beard right down to the floor."
The bard raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" he queried dryly. "He must have lost the beard somewhere. When I saw him several months ago, at my bardic examinations, he was clean-shaven."
Silence spread slowly between them like a widening pool of water.
Aware that he was reddening to the tip of a nose which, while still childishly rounded, would soon be long and pointy, Fflewddur stared miserably at his knees. It had happened again: his tongue had run away from him, and he had been found out. Words he had heard uttered by castle guards and a few of the newly-bearded teenage boys flitted through his head. But he had not yet dared use such language, and feared moreover it would only lower him further in the bard's estimation. As it was, he resorted to the next-wickedest words in his vocabulary.
"Drat," he muttered fiercely.
"And blast," he added for good measure.
He thought he heard a faint, quickly suppressed chuckle. Normally Fflewddur, like most children, would be indignant at being laughed at by an adult. But not only was the chuckle considerately stifled, it was proof that the bard—whom he had wished so much to impress—was not frowning at the prince's lack of truthfulness.
Tentatively raising his head, Fflewddur glanced at the bard, who was regarding him closely but kindly.
"You've met Taliesin, then?" asked Fflewddur in a small voice. Why hadn't he thought of that before?
"Yes," replied the bard. "As I said, when I presented myself to the Bardic Council for initiation."
Fflewddur dared look him in the eye. "I've never met him," he admitted.
"So I gathered," said the bard delicately. He regarded the prince. "Why did you say you had, then?" His tone was less censorious than curious.
"I don't know," Fflewddur murmured. Then suddenly, as if long pent inside him, words burst out.
"It's so boring here. And so—so small. You can see almost to the borders from the top of that tree. It's not that anyone comes here either, unless it's a wandering bard like you, or someone going someplace else. I've never been to Caer Dathyl, though I badly want to. We may be kin to the Sons of Don, but they're there and we're, well—here."
He paused for breath, then continued. "I keep climbing that tree," he said, gazing up at it wistfully "imagining what it would be like to go beyond what I can see. I'd love to see everything. I wish," he ended, sighing, "I could be like you, going wherever you want, and playing music too."
The bard did not reply at once, but seemed to consider Fflewddur's words. "I know myself," he finally said slowly, "what it is to feel trapped, like you can't do what you most want to."
"But you're doing what you want now," interrupted Fflewddur. "You're a bard."
"Yes," admitted the young man. "Now, I am a bard." He placed a slight emphasis on the word "now." Then, again, he paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Once you're grown," he went on, "there's no reason you can't go where you want to."
"But at some point I'll be king," said Fflewddur. "I'll have to stay here."
"Well, even kings can get away sometimes. And," the bard leaned closer to Fflewddur, "you can always travel here." He pointed to his head. "You always have your imagination. It will take you wherever you want to go. I gather," he smiled, "you like using your imagination."
Fflewddur thought about this a moment. "Sometimes," he said, "the things I say—like what I said about meeting Taliesin—it's as if I'm pretending the world is the way I want it to be, rather than the way it really is."
"That's what imagination is for," replied the bard. "But"—he fixed Fflewddur with a half-stern, half-smiling gaze—"it's better to make it clear when you're making things up." Fflewddur glanced, embarrassed, at his knees again. "Yet," added the bard, "it strikes me you could be a good storyteller, if you just made sure people knew that what you were telling them was of your own invention."
"And," he continued, "you love music too, don't you? I could tell by the way you looked while I played in the kitchen." Fflewddur nodded fervently.
"Well," said the bard, "why not learn to play the harp yourself? You don't need Taliesin next door to do that. In fact, why not study to be a bard if you want to?"
Fflewddur gulped. "But I said I have to be a king when I grow up. I don't have a choice."
"But lore tells us there have been bard-kings before," the young man pointed out. He smiled. "Maybe one day you will meet Taliesin, as I did, when you take your examinations."
"Is he wonderful?" Fflewddur asked.
The bard smiled a small, private smile. "Yes," he said quietly, "he is wonderful."
They were silent a moment. Then the bard lifted his harp from the ground and handed it to Fflewddur. "Here," he said kindly, "why don't you try it?"
Dazed by his good fortune, Fflewddur nevertheless took care not to drop the harp this time. Indeed, he handled it as if it were made of spun glass. The bard encouraged him to relax, then showed him how to hold it and place his hands on the strings.
"There," the young man said, "pluck that one now. That's good—but do it thus, a bit cleaner."
They worked at the lesson for a while. Fflewddur's face was shining, even as he winced at the way his fingertips stung from plucking the strings.
"You get calluses soon enough," laughed the bard, showing Fflewddur his own fingers. "Now," he said, rising from the grass after the prince returned his harp, "I fear I must be going inside to prepare for the night's festivities. You must promise me, though, that you will ask for more harp lessons!"
"And then," Fflewddur sprang to his feet, "it will be only a short time before I pass my examinations! Taliesin will be most impressed!" He stopped, seeing the bard gently raise an eyebrow.
"At least," Fflewddur added quickly, "I will do my best. After all, a Fflam always does."