Something new I've been working on, and which I'm not sure how to categorise. All comments welcome.
*****
Rek took the bow from the strings, and wondered dismally if horsehair had ever been put to catgut with less happy results. His fingering had been clumsy, his timing off – on the plus side, he had discovered how to imitate a chorus of evil spirits.
‘It is a tricky section, though,’ he said to Lux, sprawled on a sunny chair.
Lux’s response was a long blink.
‘You don’t think I should give up on it?’
The black slits in their green orbs conveyed only a void of interest.
But at least the cat hadn’t fled the noise, Rek thought. And the ballad he was trying to learn, The Crossing of Creaking Bridge, was all about persistence. If Lyona Redmane could overcome Donkey-face Rodrigo through multiple battles of wits and reach the bridge’s far side, then he could overcome his lack of teacher and reach a state of not sounding terrible.
‘Five decent notes in a row, and that’ll be a good afternoon’s work.’ He tucked the fiddle under his chin again. ‘Just five.’
Lux meowed.
‘Fine, three.’ Then Rek noticed Lux had stood, and was looking at the window as if contemplating escape after all.
No, the cat’s ears were pricked forward.
And were those footsteps outside?
The front door banged downstairs, and Rek’s stomach turned to knots. Da, home early – hours early, first time ever. Had he heard the fiddle as he approached? Rek tried to gauge from the length of time since he’d stopped, Da’s walking speed…
Boots sounded on the stairs. Hard, fast: question answered. Rek darted a panicked glance at the space under the bed, then the window. But Lyona would never have been so cowardly. Fiddle clutched against thudding chest, he stood to meet what was coming.
The door crashed open. ‘What’s this?’ Da fumed as he stepped into Rek’s bedroom, beard bristling. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Using my fingers differently.’ Rek waggled the digits of his free hand. ‘Helps keep them strong.’
Da’s eyes narrowed: half-suspicious, half-persuaded, Rek judged. Maybe good enough. ‘Then find another way to use them differently. I’ve told you never to play that thing in my house.’
‘It’s my meal break.’
‘Makes no difference. One complaint from a neighbour, and I’m selling it.’
‘It’s not yours to sell!’
Da growled low in his throat, but didn’t dispute the fact. ‘We’ve no time for this. The ship’s come.’
Rek gaped. ‘Today? I thought—’
‘Yes, today. It’s fortunate somebody had the foresight to package the order.’
Da clumped back downstairs. Rek stashed the fiddle under his bed and followed down to the main room, anxious as to where Da’s comment about the neighbours might lead. He’d taken precautions against complaints, a few chores done in return for promises of deaf ears – or ears stuffed with cheesecloth. But now his attempts had been exposed, Da might ask the neighbours directly if they’d been put to any trouble, and Rek wasn’t sure they would actually lie for him. And if Da learned he’d been skiving off to practise most afternoons…
Then he reached the bottom stair, and neighbours were forgotten in a sharp breath of alarm. Da was standing over the work-bench by the bright window. The collar tabs, epaulettes and cuff patches Rek had embroidered that morning were stacked beside his spools of thread and his insignia charts, and next to them were the pair of blank tabs that alone remained of his day’s task.
Rek tried to think how to get Da away from the bench without seeming suspicious. But he could already sense his father’s thoughts. And soon came the words to back them up.
‘You’ve done all but these two, in little more than half the day?’
Only one excuse came to Rek: ‘It was an easy batch.’ Unfortunately the topmost epaulette was for a Pilot Officer, a single wing surrounded by zephyrs in silver and gold thread, intricate even by Navy standards.
He watched with a sick feeling as his father went through the others. But afterward, Da merely said, ‘We’ll get the goods loaded.’
The ten-dozen military tunics that made up the recently completed order were stacked ready by the back door, carefully folded and wrapped in cloth. All through the lengthy process of getting Black Lightning into his harness, hitching the pony to the cart and loading the work, Rek dreaded Da’s inevitable tirade. But though his father frowned and brooded, the outbreak of temper never came; and by the time everything was prepared, Rek thought perhaps Da had after all believed his ‘easy batch’ story.
‘See you later then,’ he said, and took the pony’s bridle.
Da laid a heavy hand on his arm. ‘I’ll deliver these. You stay.’
That was odd: Rek had often heard his father complain about having to deal with the Skylord quartermasters. ‘I might as well come too?’ He didn’t want to miss Captain Sevrena, nor her chocolate.
‘I need to speak to them,’ Da said in a measured voice. ‘I’m going to suggest they give us larger orders. It’s clear you could handle more.’
Rek didn’t like the sound of that. ‘I can only embroider for as many tunics as the three of you make.’
‘I can hire others to cut and sew with us at the workshop,’ Da said. ‘We’ve space: it’s your output that limits us, and now it seems the limit was always false. It all becomes clear,’ he went on, voice building with the anger Rek now realised he’d been keeping down. ‘Even those last two collar tabs – you planned to be working on them at my accustomed coming-home time, so I would think you’d been at your task all day!’ He stepped closer, towering; Rek had to force himself to not back off. ‘You asked to work at home so that you could sew without distraction. But now it seems distraction was your very aim!’
‘Not “distraction”!’ protested Rek. ‘I need to learn.’
‘And our trade isn’t “need”? Putting money by for times of illness or want, that isn’t “need”?’
‘When I can play well, I can make us money, like Gran did.’
He willed his father to take his point, but Da’s face only hardened further. ‘Rekla, I heard you as I neared home. It hurts me to say this, but you will never play well.’
‘Oh, it hurts you to say that! I bet.’
Da didn’t rise to the provocation. ‘Anything else would be a lie. Your grandmother lived on lies—’
‘On stories!’
‘I’m not talking about Lorna Redmoon.’
‘Lyona Redmane!’
‘Whoever! It pains me that you haven’t outgrown her influence. Deceit in a child is to be expected, but you’re fifteen, even if you don’t look it, and three years out of school. I won’t punish you for this dereliction, Rekla.’ Da clopped the pony toward the gate. ‘I’ll treat you as an adult, and ask you to understand where your responsibility lies. And your true interests.’
*****
Rek took the bow from the strings, and wondered dismally if horsehair had ever been put to catgut with less happy results. His fingering had been clumsy, his timing off – on the plus side, he had discovered how to imitate a chorus of evil spirits.
‘It is a tricky section, though,’ he said to Lux, sprawled on a sunny chair.
Lux’s response was a long blink.
‘You don’t think I should give up on it?’
The black slits in their green orbs conveyed only a void of interest.
But at least the cat hadn’t fled the noise, Rek thought. And the ballad he was trying to learn, The Crossing of Creaking Bridge, was all about persistence. If Lyona Redmane could overcome Donkey-face Rodrigo through multiple battles of wits and reach the bridge’s far side, then he could overcome his lack of teacher and reach a state of not sounding terrible.
‘Five decent notes in a row, and that’ll be a good afternoon’s work.’ He tucked the fiddle under his chin again. ‘Just five.’
Lux meowed.
‘Fine, three.’ Then Rek noticed Lux had stood, and was looking at the window as if contemplating escape after all.
No, the cat’s ears were pricked forward.
And were those footsteps outside?
The front door banged downstairs, and Rek’s stomach turned to knots. Da, home early – hours early, first time ever. Had he heard the fiddle as he approached? Rek tried to gauge from the length of time since he’d stopped, Da’s walking speed…
Boots sounded on the stairs. Hard, fast: question answered. Rek darted a panicked glance at the space under the bed, then the window. But Lyona would never have been so cowardly. Fiddle clutched against thudding chest, he stood to meet what was coming.
The door crashed open. ‘What’s this?’ Da fumed as he stepped into Rek’s bedroom, beard bristling. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Using my fingers differently.’ Rek waggled the digits of his free hand. ‘Helps keep them strong.’
Da’s eyes narrowed: half-suspicious, half-persuaded, Rek judged. Maybe good enough. ‘Then find another way to use them differently. I’ve told you never to play that thing in my house.’
‘It’s my meal break.’
‘Makes no difference. One complaint from a neighbour, and I’m selling it.’
‘It’s not yours to sell!’
Da growled low in his throat, but didn’t dispute the fact. ‘We’ve no time for this. The ship’s come.’
Rek gaped. ‘Today? I thought—’
‘Yes, today. It’s fortunate somebody had the foresight to package the order.’
Da clumped back downstairs. Rek stashed the fiddle under his bed and followed down to the main room, anxious as to where Da’s comment about the neighbours might lead. He’d taken precautions against complaints, a few chores done in return for promises of deaf ears – or ears stuffed with cheesecloth. But now his attempts had been exposed, Da might ask the neighbours directly if they’d been put to any trouble, and Rek wasn’t sure they would actually lie for him. And if Da learned he’d been skiving off to practise most afternoons…
Then he reached the bottom stair, and neighbours were forgotten in a sharp breath of alarm. Da was standing over the work-bench by the bright window. The collar tabs, epaulettes and cuff patches Rek had embroidered that morning were stacked beside his spools of thread and his insignia charts, and next to them were the pair of blank tabs that alone remained of his day’s task.
Rek tried to think how to get Da away from the bench without seeming suspicious. But he could already sense his father’s thoughts. And soon came the words to back them up.
‘You’ve done all but these two, in little more than half the day?’
Only one excuse came to Rek: ‘It was an easy batch.’ Unfortunately the topmost epaulette was for a Pilot Officer, a single wing surrounded by zephyrs in silver and gold thread, intricate even by Navy standards.
He watched with a sick feeling as his father went through the others. But afterward, Da merely said, ‘We’ll get the goods loaded.’
The ten-dozen military tunics that made up the recently completed order were stacked ready by the back door, carefully folded and wrapped in cloth. All through the lengthy process of getting Black Lightning into his harness, hitching the pony to the cart and loading the work, Rek dreaded Da’s inevitable tirade. But though his father frowned and brooded, the outbreak of temper never came; and by the time everything was prepared, Rek thought perhaps Da had after all believed his ‘easy batch’ story.
‘See you later then,’ he said, and took the pony’s bridle.
Da laid a heavy hand on his arm. ‘I’ll deliver these. You stay.’
That was odd: Rek had often heard his father complain about having to deal with the Skylord quartermasters. ‘I might as well come too?’ He didn’t want to miss Captain Sevrena, nor her chocolate.
‘I need to speak to them,’ Da said in a measured voice. ‘I’m going to suggest they give us larger orders. It’s clear you could handle more.’
Rek didn’t like the sound of that. ‘I can only embroider for as many tunics as the three of you make.’
‘I can hire others to cut and sew with us at the workshop,’ Da said. ‘We’ve space: it’s your output that limits us, and now it seems the limit was always false. It all becomes clear,’ he went on, voice building with the anger Rek now realised he’d been keeping down. ‘Even those last two collar tabs – you planned to be working on them at my accustomed coming-home time, so I would think you’d been at your task all day!’ He stepped closer, towering; Rek had to force himself to not back off. ‘You asked to work at home so that you could sew without distraction. But now it seems distraction was your very aim!’
‘Not “distraction”!’ protested Rek. ‘I need to learn.’
‘And our trade isn’t “need”? Putting money by for times of illness or want, that isn’t “need”?’
‘When I can play well, I can make us money, like Gran did.’
He willed his father to take his point, but Da’s face only hardened further. ‘Rekla, I heard you as I neared home. It hurts me to say this, but you will never play well.’
‘Oh, it hurts you to say that! I bet.’
Da didn’t rise to the provocation. ‘Anything else would be a lie. Your grandmother lived on lies—’
‘On stories!’
‘I’m not talking about Lorna Redmoon.’
‘Lyona Redmane!’
‘Whoever! It pains me that you haven’t outgrown her influence. Deceit in a child is to be expected, but you’re fifteen, even if you don’t look it, and three years out of school. I won’t punish you for this dereliction, Rekla.’ Da clopped the pony toward the gate. ‘I’ll treat you as an adult, and ask you to understand where your responsibility lies. And your true interests.’
