Chapter the Fourth of Part the Second
In which the narrative recounts acts from the life of Polnar in Rekkmerr.
“No signs of plague so far,” said Murmansk from the driver’s seat of the wagon.
That was encouraging. The new singing group had already skirted two small towns that were suffering from plague, knowing they would not be welcome and that they would only endanger themselves by entering them.
“Just drought, drought, and more drought,” said Ritzvah.
In spite of the heat, Polnar and the other members of the new singing group were riding on top of the wagon in the dying sun because the heat inside the wagon was so stifling. Outside, they could at least catch the slight breeze stirred up by the wagon’s motion, From their vantage point, Polnar and his companions could see the parched fields for themselves.
“Little grain means little food and little food means few listeners for us and few listeners mean fewer coins for our music,” Murmansk growled.
“If we get a little from this town, we’ll have more than we have now,” said Ritzvah.
“Yes, and three drops of rain will make the drought come to an end,” said Murmansk.
The wagon was now painted a bright red with a painting of a thumb string on its side. As was the intent in going to the expense and work of painting, the colorful wagon was attracting attention as the ox pulled the wagon into the town. A few people, mostly children, started to follow them to see what they were about. They were mostly dressed in tunics that were more elaborate than the simple ones Polnar and everybody else in his own village wore. The skin of these people was light brown in contrast to the dark bronze color of Polnar and his companions from his village. Many of the buildings were very different than anything Polnar had ever seen, but then he had never been out of his village until the plague destroyed it and his family.
“Do people live in places like that?” Polnar asked, pointing to buildings that seemed much too big compared to the thatched huts his family had always lived in.
“I hope not,” said Petzkah who was just as perplexed as Polnar.
“In that building and in that one they do,” Ritzvah answered, “but this bigger gray stone building is a temple.”
“What’s that for?” asked Polnar.
“It is a home for one of the gods,” Murmansk replied, “and is used for making sacrifices to the god who lives there.”
“How can a god live in a house like that when he roams the sky all the time?” asked Ned.
“Some gods are different,” said Murmansk.
“But we don’t even build a hut just to sacrifice a chicken or a cow in it,” said Polnar.
“Like I said,” said Murmansk, “different gods have different tastes—just like people. Some people like to eat inside and some people like to eat outside. Some gods like to eat outside and some gods like to eat inside.”
“How do you know if your god wants to eat inside a house or outside in the middle of the village?” asked Polnar.
“The god tells somebody who is called a priest,” Ritzvah replied.
“What’s a priest?”
“It’s a priest’s job to know what the gods want.”
“Then how come we know our gods like to eat outside when we don’t have any priests?”
“In a village, these things are simpler,” said Murmansk. “Keep asking questions and you’ll be more confused than you are already.”
“Do the people here like to eat inside too, like their gods?” asked Polnar.
“Yes,” said Murmansk.
The wagon passed by the temple and rolled into what appeared to be the town center. Word was getting around fast, thanks to some fleet-footed children and people were coming out of their buildings to look at the wagon that was different from than anything they had ever seen. For all their curiosity, most of the people looked anxious and their cheeks were as hollow.
“Get your instruments,” said Murmansk “and we’ll give them a sample that ought to convince them it’s worth their hearing us tonight.”
Ritzvah, Ned and Petzkah jumped off the top and went inside to fetch their instruments. Polnar, of course, had no instrument except for his voice and so he stayed where he was.
“IS THERE ANYBODY WHO WANTS TO HEAR A SONG FOR FREE?” Murmansk yelled.
At first there was no response except for a few bewildered looks.
“I’ll listen to a good song for free,” said a burly man.
“Why did you come here?” asked a woman.
“We came here to sing for you!” Ritzvah exclaimed as she came out the door with her pipe and Murmansk’s drone. “WHO WANTS TO HEAR A SONG?”
This time several children called out “me!” and “I do!”
“Then we shall sing you a song for free,” said Murmansk. “If you don’t like it, you can put your hands over your ears.”
Murmansk immediately started the drone and Ritzvah played a piercing phrase on her pipe. Petzkah established a beat on her drum and Ned answered Ritzvah’s phrase on the thumb strings. Polnar’s nerves jumped higher with each bit of the introduction until he entered with his opening line: “O where have gone the graceful swallows?” Once he started, his nerves almost came under control and Polnar thought more about the song than about his nerves. As he sang, more people gathered to hear him. At the end of the verse, Petzkah pounded out a much faster beat and everybody in the group joined in on the chorus that sang that the swallows had gone to the land of trees with a nest in every branch. At the end of the song, there was a smattering of applause.
“We’ll get ourselves a bite to eat and then we will sing for your acorn coins!” Murmansk shouted.
There were scattered outcries of assent, half-hearted, perhaps, but enough interest to make it worth singing that evening. Most of the people scattered but a few children remained to stare at the wagon and the strange people riding it. Standing behind the children was a plump man who wore a white smock covered with food stains and a bearded man wearing a dark gray sheet folded several times about his body. The man in gray stared at Polnar in a way that made him nervous. Then a man wearing a green tunic fringed with silver and wearing a circlet of beads on his head came up to the cart. As far as Polnar could tell, the man had not been on hand to listen to the song. He looked very important and he did not appear to be making a friendly visit.
“I am the Queen’s Viceroy,” announced the man as if he were the king himself. “Do you have the plague on you?”
“Does it look like we do?” Murmansk asked in return.
“No, but you never know.”
“Neither do we,” said Murmansk. “You look healthy, we look healthy. You believe in our health and we’ll believe in your health. I care enough about my life not to sing where I see signs of the coughing death and so do the rest of my band.”
“Do you have a permit to sing in our town?” asked the green-clad man.
“Where do we get that?” Ritzvah asked him.
“From me.”
“And are you going to give us one?” asked Murmansk.
“I might, if you can meet my price.”
“The Dedicated Ones will pay the price, if you need a price,” said the man in gray.
There were startled sounds from all who were close enough to hear. The viceroy suddenly ceased to have the air of being the one in authority.
“I had no idea that the Dedicated Ones had an interest in such a worldly group of traveling players and their songs,” said the viceroy.
“We are the judges as to what is profane and what is dedicated to Righthand.”
“Yes, you are the judges as to everything that has to do with Redhand,” said the man in the green tunic, “but Redhand has not furnished much in the way of rain and crops this hot season.”
The man in gray bristled.
“It is because the hearts of the people are so ungenerous in their offerings to Righthand that Righthand has closed the clouds to us. We will need to perform another Great Sacrifice before long if the people do not release Righthand’s bounty with more offerings.”
“I will offer what I can to pay the fee for the singers and so spare the sacred treasury of the Dedicated Ones,” said the man with the food stained smock. “Will a sixth of ale and a thick bowl of Anna’s soup do for a fee?”
The man in gray nodded solemnly in recognition of the offer.
“I suppose it could, if you will give me refill of ale and soup,” said the man in green with an eye on the man in gray.
“Done!” cried the man. Then he turned to the musicians. “I will give a sixth of ale and a bowl of soup to each of you. May Righthand and the gods of his court bring rain to raise our crops and so make us prosper in return for this offering.”
“Much obliged to you,” said Murmansk.
The man in gray appeared satisfied and he walked away. Although Ritzvah and Murmansk still had some food stored in the wagon, they were glad to have a fresh meal. For Polnar, it was the first meal that reminded him of his mother’s cooking since the plague killed her.
As people from the town gathered again, Ned tuned his thumb string and Ritzvah moistened the mouthpiece of her pipe, Petzkah tapped on her drums and Murmansk gave Polnar some last-minute advice about his singing. The viceroy to the queen arrived, accompanied by his wife and three children, who were also richly dressed. Four servants carried bowls of food and jars of water and served them to the family while the other people looked on hungrily. Just as Murmansk was saying it was time to start, there came a small procession of gray-clad men with a red-haired boy, also clad in the same dark gray. The men positioned themselves in front of everybody else with the boy in the center.
“The Dedicated Ones,” Murmansk whispered.
The people of the town looked at each other and at the Dedicated Ones with a combination of respect and apprehension. They clearly had not expected to see them all come to hear a group of traveling musicians.
“I don’t like the feel of this,” Ritzvah murmured.
“Me neither, but we can’t run off now,” Murmansk replied. “Ready everybody?”
“Ready,” was the ragged response.
“AND NOW KEEP YOUR EARS OPEN FOR THE BEST MUSIC MAKING YOU WILL HEAR IN MANY A SEASON!” Murmansk yelled.
Petzkah pounded on her drum, Murmansk played the drone, Ned played a figure on the thumb string and the whole company broke into a song about two minkles who agreed to race to the top of a tree. Polnar sang the verses solo, telling the story of the minkles’ race and then of their argument afterwards over who won the race and how that led to their knocking each other out of the tree and breaking their heads on the ground. The lively village song put the listeners in a good humor. Polnar relaxed and began to enjoy himself, especially when it was time for his favorite song, a song about the stars in the sky who were attacked by the gigantic, fierce sun who forced them to retreat under the earth. The stars, however, armed themselves, rose up, attacked the sun and drove it out of the sky and under the earth. The stars then reigned supreme over the sky until the sun attacked them again. The only thing that bothered Polnar was the dark presence of the Dedicated Ones. They did not applaud and they gave no sign that they cared about the music; they only stood in place as if they were gods come to judge the five of them. Polnar felt that the men and the boy were staring at him more than his fellow musicians, perhaps because he was doing most of the singing. Polnar tried to drive them from his mind during the next song about a banana fight between the children of a village. Everybody laughed except for the five gray ones. The red-haired boy almost laughed, but stopped himself when one of the men looked at him sharply.
After the last song, a lullaby, the applause was loud and Murmansk made Polnar take several deep bows. Ned passed a reed basket around and some people dropped a few acorn coins into it. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be something. Polnar sighed with relief that the Dedicated Ones had not broken up the performance as he had feared they might. But then he saw their dark figures surround the wagon.
“Uh—I hope you liked the show,” said Murmansk.
“The boy will be our next Dedicated Singer,” said a man with a long white beard, tilting his head in Polnar’s direction.
Excited but subdued murmurs filled the air around the wagon.
“The boy is not for sale,” said Ritzvah firmly.
Polnar looked at the red-haired boy. He appeared to be impassive, giving no indication of how he felt about Polnar being asked to be the Dedicated Singer.
“You do not seem to appreciate the honor we are offering the boy,” said the Dedicated One.
“We appreciate the honor and I am sure Polnar appreciates the honor as well,” said Murmansk, “but we do not share the devotion to your gods that you do.”
The deep murmuring, sounding like distant thunder, tipped the musicians off that Murmansk had said the wrong thing. Everybody surged forward and joined the Dedicated Ones in surrounding the wagon. Ritzvah, Ned, Petzkah and Murmansk tried to fight the people off but they were quickly subdued and a struggling Polnar found himself caught in the grip of two gray-clad men who dragged him through the crowd. Ritzvah cried out several times but suddenly her voice, too, was stilled and Polnar heard only the sound of people chattering about Righthand and the gods of his court and their hope that Righthand would open the clouds to them through the singing of the new Dedicated Singer.
Proceed to Chapter the Fifth of Part the Second