Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. The introduction rises to a swell before stopping in a sudden silence. Then, the first note. I sing with the second.
“I knew you,
When the trees
Were on fire.
“I saw you,
When you were
Not a liar.”
A brief interlude.I rock with the music. Swaying with the trees and breezes that round out my merry troupe. Strumming as we reach the chorus.
“Our song, rode on the mists of mountains high.”I close my eyes, feeling the music within me as much as around me. The forest has fallen to a hush, as if listening to me play. It’s been ages since I had a space to play and sing. “Our song, lurked in crypts of kings gone by.”
I shiftmy fingers on the neck, transitioning back to the verse, now playing each note in harmony as I find the melody once more.
“I saw you,
When the—”
“Well aren’t you a surprise?”
I’ve only heard his voice once before and yet I would know it anywhere. That resonance is deeper than a bass string. Richer than dark chocolate. I jerk, startled, and glance over my shoulder on instinct.
“Don’t look,” he reminds me.
I quickly stare forward again. “I didn’t see anything. Well, just your shoulder again.” He’s hiding behind a tree.
“You’re going to make me think you have some kind of obsession with my shoulders.”
I let out a soft snort of laughter and play along. “Well, so far as I can tell, they are quite nice shoulders.”
It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is as bright as sunlight and as sumptuous as velvet. I have to force my hands to stay still so I don’t try and harmonize with it on instinct. I know how annoying I am with the lute in my hands.
“I didn’t know you can play the lute.”
“I suspect there’s much about each other we don’t know.” He hadn’t seemed interested in opening up the night before to discover such things.
“Where did you learn that song?”
“I’m not sure…” The taste of metal explodes in my mouth, like I ate something burnt or bit my tongue and now have blood on the insides of my cheeks. I hate lying. Whenever someone tries to tell a lie to me, I smell smoke. Whenever I tell a lie, I taste metal. Either way, lies are unpleasantness I try to avoid at all costs. “I must’ve heard it somewhere when I was very young. I’ve known it for a long time.” Half-truths are easier.
My mother was the one who taught me that song. It was my lullaby. But as I grew older, and Joyce entered our lives, my father always told me to keep the things she taught me a secret.
“I suppose those sorts of old songs have a way of lingering in places like this.”
“I suppose so.” I grip the lute protectively. “Is it all right that I was singing it?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
I think back to Helen, my mother, and their scolding. Laura’s encouragement is weak by comparison. “I’m not a very good singer, or player.”
“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying. You’re exceptional.”
The air is still crisp and clear; my nose isn’t singed. He’s not lying. He really thinks I’m good. “Thank you.”
