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Part 2: BARD
Vulture leaned back on his chair, resting his feet on the table as he played with the flip lighter he’d stolen from the dead prisoner. Most everyone else was complaining about this – mostly about his feet being on the table – but I just couldn’t focus on it. I sat cross-legged and straight-backed against the wall next to Chief’s chair, eyes closed as I tapped my fingers idly against the floorboards and tried to hold the song in my memory. I hummed gently to myself, trying to keep the melody alive.
‘If you burn him bad enough that he can’t work tomorrow, I will personally drown you in the gruel kettle.’
Chief’s threat startled me back to reality. I looked around: everyone was staring at me, some in simple befuddlement, others darkly glowering. I turned to my right: Vulture was there, arm outstretched, the lighter aflame and halfway to my elbow. He looked at me, embarrassed at having been caught, and then chucked a dark look at Chief before thumbing his nose at me, closing the lighter, and returning to his chair.
‘Quit it with that humming,’ he said. ‘It’s driving us crazy!’ I looked at the assembled ranks; they all saw me as the strange one?
‘So we’re not going to talk about what we heard?’ I asked, failing to catch the affronted laugh that escaped with the question.
‘Nothing to discuss,’ said Vulture. ‘Just a normal work day, except you tried to escape.’
‘You know that’s not what happened,’ I said levelly. ‘We all heard the song, right?’
There was an awkward silence as everyone turned to their neighbours. By unspoken agreement, they all returned a stony-faced silence of denial in my direction.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Vulture said. ‘And neither does anyone else!’ He pounded the table emphatically.
‘Yeah you do, Vulture.’
They all turned. I stood – Ox, who was sitting on his bed and polishing his boots (a habit of his every evening), continued.
‘The song from the bridge,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard it too, I remember because you asked me about it on your first day, only Chief said-’
‘We don’t discuss the song,’ Chief said, closing his book with a snap. ‘It happens every day at around the same time, there’s nothing to be done except block it out and get on with your work. Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.’
‘Is that from one of your plays?’ Vulture sneered. Chief ignored him and turned to me.
‘I hope you understand, trying to follow the song leads to only one end,’ he said. I glanced at the lighter in Vulture’s hand and nodded. ‘I’m glad you understand. Try to put it out of your mind.’
‘And rid us of that dreadful humming!’ Vulture snapped. I sighed.
‘I can’t help it, Chief,’ I said. ‘This is no mortal business, nor no sound that the earth owes. I hear it now above me.’
‘You know the bard?’ Chief asked, eyes twinkling. Vulture groaned – we ignored him. ‘You know I tried to get theses philistines to put on King Lear before your turned up – they weren’t really into it.’
‘Perhaps one of his comedies next time? We have too much tragedy in our lives as it is.’
‘Yes, well if I’d had my pick we could. As it is, I only remember The Tempest in fragments, and most of what we have are the tragedies or histories. They don’t like us to laugh so much.’
‘That is a shame,’ I sighed. ‘May I borrow one anyway? Just for something to pass the evening.’
He gestured to the bookshelf. It was a meagre selection – I chose King John as I had little memory of it, and settled into bed to read.
After ten minutes, Vulture threw his cup at me and yelled, ‘You’re driving me up the wall! Think you’re such a bloody smart bard with all that humming? Just see I don’t set fire to your bedding tonight!’ He continued with such fury that it took all of the men around the table to restrain him, and one of them even offered to swap beds with me that night.
‘Thank you, but no,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t subject anyone else to Vulture’s habits. Maybe I ought to just get some sleep – hopefully that’ll stop me humming.’
I returned the book to the shelf and returned to my bed – it was nearest the stove, which was in all honesty a better reason not to give it up. Wrapping myself in the thin blanket, I closed my eyes and tried to think about anything except the song.
By all accounts, the humming continued until it was replaced by soft snoring, and they knew I’d finally fallen asleep. It was only then that they let Vulture go.
We were back up to our full complement of twenty-four when the captain shouted us awake – I had no memory of the new prisoner being brought in, nor could I pick him out from our twenty-three survivors. But then I was more focused on myself – I seemed to have stopped humming. I got dressed and tapped my foot impatiently as we waited for the captain’s return.
‘Move out!’
I sighed as Vulture shoved me into the bedframe. Things were back to normal, I guessed.
‘Try not to run off today, Bard,’ he said, spitting the last word. His mood was not improved when a guard caught him playing with the lighter in the breakfast line and confiscated it from him.
We were all silent on the way to the bridge, as usual, although Chief coughed meaningfully as my chilly fingers tapped out a rhythm on the side of my tin cup. I stopped and focused on trying to be quiet.
We unloaded, took shovels (Vulture shoved the wobbly one into my hands again, thanks Vulture), and began clearing the snow again. Both Chief and I were singled out for punishment today, possibly for our communications on the truck, although you can never be sure with the guards. Maybe they just picked us today.
I found myself shovelling faster as the sun began to rise. I was barely paying attention to my work in anticipation of hearing the song again.
Vulture elbowed me in the ribs, and as I doubled over he whispered to me, ‘If you don’t stop that humming, I’m going to ram this shovel up your-’ before the guards dragged him away for a beating. I resumed my shovelling, perplexed; I was humming again? I hadn’t heard myself, and no one else had mentioned… but perhaps they simply wouldn’t complain like Vulture would? Maybe everyone was being polite.
And then I heard the song again.
I say again: it was the same tune, but with different words. Here it is as I remember:
Where must I wander
That the sun bids me hello no more?
What terrible crime
Deserves a punishment so sore?
Whose heart did I steal
That the fates trap me here in time?
The world outside turns,
The brambles grow thick and trap me within.
I am stuck with thorns,
How much must I bleed for you?
I am stuck with thorns,
My wings are staked wide for you.
I am stuck with thorns,
The brambles grow thick and trap me within.
And this time I could not help but hum it as it sang out in our hearts. I wanted, dearly wanted, to sing out loud the words as I knew them; but my enchained heart was conscious of the gaolers all around us, both the guards and the prisoners – I would only be punished if I were too loud, and I would likely be beaten for even this humming.
But all was still. The guards stood, confused, entranced. Vulture lay face-down in the snow between two of them, covering his ears until long after it finished. Most of the prisoners paused in their digging, but then returned to it as soon as the song was done. I looked at the shovel in my hands – was this it? Every day the hope of the song was all I had to look forward to?
The guards finally seemed to notice Vulture, and one of them kicked him hard in the side until he got up and loped back to his spot next to me. He was halfway back when there was a commotion amongst the guards, and one of them raised his rifle and fired again.
Another of us lay near the far bank, halfway between our line and the bridge. Blood carved a channel which widened over the river and was still warm enough to melt into the snow.
The sun rose. My hands were raw and blistering even with the gloves by the time we were done, the sun arcing high over the bridge. I dumped my shovel into the crate and joined the line into the truck. As I pulled myself onto the footplate, I paused to catch my breath, and my eyes lingered over the body on the far bank. Vulture squatted in front of it, going through its pockets, until a guard barked an order at him raised the butt of his rifle. Cringing, Vulture made his awkward, hopping run back to our group. The remaining twenty-three of us sat in silence on the way back, most staring at the floor, though I kept my wary eyes on Vulture.
He returned my gaze levelly, as though he’d done nothing wrong.