He played the tunes that he knew by heart, fumbling occasionally as he encountered places where he’d depended on his sight to set his fingers. Every plaintive tune and sweet, sad melody flowed from his clever hands, and he leaned his bandaged head against the harp, wearily, losing himself in the music.
When no more music that suited his mood found his fingers, he straightened, turning his head blindly toward the nearer dragon, the larger of the two. “I don’t know your name,” the Harper said softly, “but I know that you must be terribly sad. My daughter, Kelene, is dragonless. She lost her brown Chakelth in a plague, and she was…very far away. She wrote to me, because I could not come, and said that she felt as though she’d lost half of her soul, half her mind, all her senses. For you, it must be a thousand times worse. People can live without dragons, but very few dragons can live without people.” Cantrell smiled, wistfully. “People can live without people, too, but it’s hard. What should I do, lost one? My daughter lives, but she is beyond my reach. My wife is within my reach, but she is dead twenty-three Turns, and I am loathe to join her by my own hand. My post is denied to me, and my Craftmaster has no other job for me. I cannot bear to return to the Hall. I merely sit here and spill my musings to you, waiting for a blind rider to come and teach me how to read again. Do you mind?” he asked, cocking his head. The dragons made no reply.
When the Healer allowed Cantrell some small exertion, he labored to do more than entertain the abandoned dragons. Stubbornly, he oiled hides by feel, his callused fingers tracing the soothing oil into their dry hides.
The smaller one, the green, ceased coming when the goldrider Jhetarya took an interest, her scathing hatred of all golds driving her away from the Harper.
“Meilizath,” tall Jhetarya said, her voice still scratchy. Arosambyth hummed back at her recovering rider, basking in the warm sand wallow she had claimed.
Cantrell tilted his head, brushing the sweat away with the back of an oily hand. “Pardon, m’lady?”
“The dragon that you talk to. His name is Meilizath. Why are you doing this? There are many other places in the Weyr where you could be useful, if you wish.”
The Harper lost his smile, and the lines in his face deepened. “The rest of the Weyr lacks for nothing. Life goes on for you, m’lady, no matter what, but Meilizath has lost his. Where are his friends, his companions? He looks, but cannot touch, hears the music, but cannot sing. There is little purpose or happiness left to him. I…sympathize with Meilizath. And while I have the power in me to make one life less miserable,” he said fiercely, “I will do so. Lady Aschiene could not stop me, the Healers /will/ not interfere, and I will not let an inconsequential loss of sight keep me from bringing the world back to a creature who was made specifically to be with one person for the rest of his life. Meilizath has displayed fortitude and courage far beyond most of his kind. When /they/ have lost their purpose, they fling themselves into -=between=-, letting that chill void swallow their despair; Meilizath has chosen life, instead of death, uncertainty instead of a sure ending. And if there are people who believe that there are better uses for a Master Harper than this, they can have my knot and welcome!” Cantrell clutched at his temples as his impassioned speech made his dark world spin again.
Jhetarya stood stock-still. “I meant no disrespect to you or Meilizath, Harper Cantrell,” she said huskily. “He is your focus now, I see that. Keep doing good if you can, Harper, the world needs more people like you.”
After she was gone, Cantrell sat at his harp again, musing. The sun’s warmth was nearly gone, and the biting insects were coming out in force, but the Harper’s attention was fixed solely on Meilizath.
“Are you my focus?” he whispered. “I’m no do-gooder, Meilizath, no shining virtue. For everything there is a purpose…and you’ve become mine. Do you mind? Do you care? Are you listening to me, in this torture you’re living?”
He let the silence lay thick as fog around him for a long time. At last, he turned back to his instrument, picking out a hesitant, plaintive tune. The Harper lifted his face to the dragon, and sang: low, heart-rending, sepulchral.
“’Will you go away? Will you leave me be?
No one else will stay, and disturb my sanctity.’
His voice spirals up to his own rich tenor.
“I’ll not leave you here, in anguish and despair.
Without the ease of tears, in some chill, abandoned weyr.’
‘Can’t you leave me be? Let me mourn alone.
In my sorrow’s lea, I am cold as stone.’
I cannot leave you mourn, nor add unto the frost.
Come into the warm, I will not leave you lost.
‘Vigil here you keep, why do you voice this cry?
Through my restless sleep, I wonder if you lie.
My soul is old and sick, yet you stand sentry.
Is it all some trick? Why would you save me?’
My life, my heart, my soul, I’d gladly give you all.
Should it make you whole, should you heed my call.
I do not claim to be like her, nor for her crime atone.
But I am here, throughout the night, and you are not alone.”
He stilled the three rows of strings, palms flattened against the vibrating gut, and sat in silence as the twilight turned into a brisk, cool night.
