“Which I gladly accept,” said Guyal, “but first I must stable my horse.”
“He will be content in the house yonder. We have no stable.” Guyal, following her finger, saw a low stone building with a door opening into blackness.
He took the white horse thither and removed the bridle and saddle; then, standing in the doorway, he listened to the music he had noted before, the piping of a weird and ancient air.
“Strange, strange,” he muttered, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “The uncle plays music, the girl stares alone at the stars of the night …” He considered a moment. “I may be over suspicious. If witch she be, there is naught to be gained from me. If they be simple refugees as she says, and lovers of music, they may enjoy the airs from Ascolais; it will repay, in some measure, their hospitality.” He reached into his saddlebag, brought forth his flute, and tucked it inside his jerkin.
He ran back to where the girl awaited him.
“You have not told me your name,” she reminded him, “that I may introduce you to my uncle.”
“I am Guyal of Sfere, by the River Scaum in Ascolais. And you?”
She smiled, pushing the portal wider. Warm yellow light fell into the cobbled street.
“I have no name. I need none. There has never been any but my uncle; and when he speaks, there is no one to answer but I.”
Guyal stared in astonishment; then, deeming his wonder too apparent for courtesy, he controlled his expression. Perhaps she suspected him of wizardry and feared to pronounce her name lest he make magic with it.
They entered a flagged hall, and the sound of piping grew louder.
“I will call you Ameth, if I may,” said Guyal. “That is a flower of the south, as golden and kind and fragrant as you seem to be.”
She nodded. “You may call me Ameth.”
They entered a tapestry-hung chamber, large and warm. A great fire glowed at one wall, and here stood a table bearing food. On a bench sat the musician — an old man, untidy, unkempt. His white hair hung tangled down his back; his beard, in no better case, was dirty and yellow. He wore a ragged kirtle, by no means clean, and the leather of his sandals had broken into dry cracks. Strangely, he did not take the flute from his mouth, but kept up his piping; and the girl in yellow, so Guyal noted, seemed to move in rhythm to the tones.
“Uncle Ludowik,” she cried in a gay voice, “I bring you a guest, Sir Guyal of Sfere.”
Guyal looked into the man’s face and wondered. The eyes though somewhat rheumy with age, were gray and bright — feverishly bright and intelligent; and, so Guyal thought, awake with a strange joy. This joy further puzzled Guyal, for the lines of the face indicated nothing other than years of misery.
“Perhaps you play?” inquired Ameth. “My uncle is a great musician, and this is his time for music. He has kept the routine for many years …” She turned and smiled at Ludowik the musician. Guyal nodded politely.
Ameth motioned to the bounteous table. “Eat, Guyal, and I will pour you wine. Afterwards perhaps you will play the flute for us.”
“Gladly,” said Guyal, and he noticed how the joy on Ludowik’s face grew more apparent, quivering around the corners of his mouth.
He ate and Ameth poured him golden wine until his head went to reeling. And never did Ludowik cease his piping — now a tender melody of running water, again a grave tune that told of the lost ocean to the west, another time a simple melody such as a child might sing at his games. Guyal noted with wonder how Ameth fitted her mood to the music — grave and gay as the music led her. Strange! thought Guyal. But then — people thus isolated were apt to develop peculiar mannerisms, and they seemed kindly withal.
He finished his meal and stood erect, steadying himself against the table. Ludowik was playing a lilting tune, a melody of glass birds swinging round and round on a red string in the sunlight. Ameth came dancing over to him and stood close — very close — and he smelled the warm perfume of her loose golden hair. Her face was happy and wild … Peculiar how Ludowik watched so grimly, and yet without a word. Perhaps he misdoubted a stranger’s intent. Still …
“Now,” breathed Ameth, “perhaps you will play the flute; you are so strong and young.” Then she said quickly, as she saw Guyal’s eyes widen, “I mean you will play on the flute for old uncle Ludowik, and he will be happy and go off to bed — and then we will sit and talk far into the night.”
“Gladly will I play the flute,” said Guyal. Curse the tongue of his, at once so fluent and yet so numb. It was the wine. “Gladly will I play. I am accounted quite skillful at my home manse at Sfere.”
He glanced at Ludowik, then stared at the expression of crazy gladness he had surprised. Marvellous that a man should be so fond of music.
“Then — play!” breathed Ameth, urging him a little toward Ludowik and the flute.
“Perhaps,” suggested Guyal, “I had better wait till your uncle pauses. I would seem discourteous —”
“No, as soon as you indicate that you wish to play, he will let off. Merely take the flute. You see,” she confided, “he is rather deaf.”
“Very well,” said Guyal, “except that I have my own flute.” And he brought it out from under his jerkin. “Why — what is the matter?” For a startling change had come over the girl and the old man. A quick light had risen in her eyes, and Ludowik’s strange gladness had gone, and there was but dull hopelessness in his eyes, stupid resignation.
Guyal slowly stood back, bewildered. “Do you not wish me to play?”
There was a pause. “Of course,” said Ameth, young and charming once more. “But I’m sure that Uncle Ludowik would enjoy hearing you play his flute. He is accustomed to the pitch — another scale might be unfamiliar …”
Ludowik nodded, and hope again shone in the rheumy old eyes. It was indeed a fine flute, Guyal saw, a rich piece of white metal, chased and set with gold, and Ludowik clutched this flute as if he would never let go.
“Take the flute,” suggested Ameth. “He will not mind in the least.” Ludowik shook his head, to signify the absence of his objections. But Guyal, noting with distaste the long stained beard, also shook his head. “I can play any scale, any tone on my flute. There is no need for me to use that of your uncle and possibly distress him. Listen,” and he raised his instrument. “Here is a song of Kaiin, called ‘The Opal, the Pearl and the Peacock’.”
He put the pipe to his lips and began to play, very skillfully indeed, and Ludowik followed him, filling in gaps, making chords. Ameth, forgetting her vexation, listened with eyes half-closed, and moved her arm to the rhythm.
“Did you enjoy that?” asked Guyal, when he had finished.
“Very much. Perhaps you would try it on Uncle Ludowik’s flute? It is a fine flute to play, very soft and easy to the breath.”
“No,” said Guyal, with sudden obstinacy. “I am able to play only my own instrument.” He blew again, and it was a dance of the festival, a quirking carnival air. Ludowik, playing with supernal skill, ran merry phrases as might fit, and Ameth, carried away by the rhythm, danced a dance of her own, a merry step in time to the music.
Guyal played a wild tarantella of the peasant folk, and Ameth danced wilder and faster, flung her arms, wheeled, jerked her head in a fine display. And Ludowik’s flute played a brilliant obbligato, hurtling over, now under, chording, veering, warping little silver strings of sound around Guyal’s melody, adding urgent little grace-phrases.
Ludowik’s eyes now clung to the whirling figure of the dancing girl. And suddenly he struck up a theme of his own, a tune of wildest abandon, of a frenzied beating rhythm; and Guyal, carried away by the force of the music, blew as he never had blown before, invented trills and runs, gyrating arpeggios, blew high and shrill, loud and fast and clear.
It was as nothing to Ludowik’s music. His eyes were starting; sweat streamed from his seamed old forehead; his flute tore the air into quivering ecstatic shreds.
Ameth danced frenzy; she was no longer beautiful, she appeared grotesque and unfamiliar. The music became something more than the senses could bear. Guyal’s own vision turned pink and gray; he saw Ameth fall in a faint, in a foaming fit; and Ludowik, fiery-eyed, staggered erect, hobbled to her body and began a terrible intense concord, slow measures of most solemn and frightening meaning.
