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Skald heard soft sighs and hoped they were sounds of admiration. He fine-tuned one lute string, struck another, and then stroked his finger over all the strings until a clear, satisfying sound emerged. He glanced at the crowd gathered in the tavern and found that only a few were looking at him with anticipation. Among them, he saw a charming peasant woman with light blond hair entwined in a thick braid, not ugly, smiling mysteriously and enticingly. He began to play, staring into the girl's grey eyes, shimmering in the light with a slight shade of blue. He did not leave any doubt that the ballad was dedicated to her.
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Let the magic dwell in you
Embrace her grace and charm
Let it be reborn in you
The power that slumbered so far
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A slight blush on the villager's cheek has not escaped his attention. Behind the window, a greyish dusk had already fallen, hence the choice of a quiet, stirring song.
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She moulded us from the clay of the earth
She breathed into our breast
She gathered us in a drop of ice
And cast a shadow of a flame
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The soft and gentle voice of the skald carried around the tavern, providing a pleasant backdrop, suitable for the quietly conducted conversations. The evening was hot, too warm for the late summer or rather the upcoming winter. The relaxing aura invited locals and newcomers for long sittings over a pint of ale and a graceful ballad.
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The oceans have parted
To reveal the summit of the land
He went all the way around the world
Gave existence and shelter
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Grey-eyed did not look at him, busy talking to a much older man who was keeping her company throughout the evening. The skald secretly hoped that he’d just turn out to be a father, who would soon be drunk to death and the next day would not remember whether his daughter had come back home at night.
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The lands have yielded crops
They are blessed by the summer rains
But when the mantle of snow covers them
They will fall into a long sleep
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He intoned the last stanza and ended with the refrain sung at the beginning. He was rewarded with polite applause, which he accepted with appreciation, but with a slight sense of disenchantment.
“Play something lively, poet,” insisted a hefty peasant, looking like many other equally fat gentlemen. "We'd like to have fun and dance.”
"I'll play," said the skald, trying to smile. "I just have to rinse my throat."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the grey-eyed woman following him to the bar with her eyes. But he didn't turn towards her.
“Ale,” he replied to the innkeeper's enquiring gaze. "One that is at your expense.”
He pretended not to notice the grimace that was probably meant as a comment on the nature of the request. Before a small jug of a murky liquid resembling piss rather than a noble liquor appeared in front of him, he listened to the discussion led by three peasants sitting next to him.
“A brawler, I tell you!” cried the one sitting nearest to the skald, grizzled, whose even number of chins was something to boast. “Pour more ale!” Now he turned to the innkeeper.
“Which jug is it?
“Sixth, sire.
"Sixth, you say? huh, the night is still young. Pour, pour, briskly!” The shouts were accompanied by dynamic waving of hands. "And that one… how did you call her?”
"She-man," said the second, or rather, squawked, as the skald judged.
“A fight-girl!”
“And why is she called a she-man, Dukduk?" asked the third one, different from his companions, with a head full of black, curly hair. "What does she-man mean?"
“Don't you get it?” The second one, called Dukduk, was surprised. “Looks like a man from the front and a woman from the back!"
"How do you know not the other way around?" cackled the curly-haired.
“What are you talking about, Dukduk?" Grimaced the grizzled one. "How can it be, the lad from the front, and from the back… uh, you’re babbling. After all, she is the truest woman in the world, with this and that. That's how you can tell it's a woman."
“No, not quite well, Hrunan,” claimed the black-haired man. “They say you can't do those things with her.”
“How is that? A woman without boobs?”
“Such are her boobs, as the old Gorgen has.” Dukduk looked around, most probably towards the mentioned villager. “That’s what I’m saying—she-man.”
"Hasn't anyone properly humped her and checked it out? Pour more ale!
How many is it now?"
"It's your seventh, sire,” the innkeeper said calmly.
“Night is still young! Pour, don't skimp.”
Skald turned for a moment to see if the grey-eyed woman hadn't accidentally changed her mind. He didn't even look closely, as he was more intrigued at that point by the further course of the discussion.
“That is not appropriate to hump her, not in this profession, at no time!" shouted the curly-haired, and also asked for a refill.
"And, you know, the peasants are gambling, so, how can they be willing to hump?" Dukduk squeaked, looking into an empty mug yet not asking for its supplementation.
"I would not even want it." The grimace returned to Hrunan's face and remained there for a long time. "Ugly, supposedly.”
"A cripple, they say." Dukduk's voice was growing in the treble. "Disfigured by her witch mother."
"They talk, that the dogs have plucked her,” said the black-haired gravely. “They gnawed out one ear whole, and only bit the other a little. That they jumped on her while she was still a teenybopper, and used to walk on the streets alone at night.”
“Soir's bitches,” Hrunan snorted with disrespect. “All alike, witches and dogs.”
“And you, poet, what do you think about it?“ Skald was surprised that his guests considered him a participant in the dispute. “Have you heard about this famous card player, who outplayed the whole Soir and is going to join the Frosk's tournament?”
“I haven't,” he admitted. “That's why I am so curious about it.”
"You sang beautifully a moment ago," stated the curly-haired. "How magic has called us to this world, spilt water and planted trees. And you will be able to sing beautifully about the card player, too."
“About the she-man,” Dukduk screamed. “A ballad about the she-man.”
“Better leave the titles to the poets, Dukduk,” replied the black-haired. "We differ from the singers, we can compose only folk rhymes. And here is what it takes… as with a woman. Slowly, deliciously and around, but not openly. So, no, Dukduk, it’s not going to be a ballad about the she-man. She will be… the queen," he came alive suddenly. "Queen of cards, oh yeah! Write it down somewhere, poet, or remember.”
“That sounds not bad at all,” acknowledged the skald. “The Card's Queen, the cripple and the terror of the Jord.”
“You will come up with something, poet, I believe in you." One could hear approval in Hrunan's voice. "Let's drink, gentlemen. To the Card's Queen and the she-man!"
“To the queen!” they cried as a choir.
“To the she-man! Skál!” Dukduk’s voice drowned out the whole group.
"Well, gentlemen," said Hrunan, "Night is not so young anymore, it is high time I came back home." He finished the content of the mug in one gulp and then wiped the foam from his mouth with a sleeve. "And you, poet, amuse the guests as all of them are going to drift off to sleep!" He put a large handful of coins on the counter, which the innkeeper immediately picked up and hid, without feeling the need to recalculate them. “Goodbye, gentlemen!”
“Well, goodbye, then!” Dukduk’s croak accompanied the curly-haired's farewell.
“And you, don’t hurry home?” he asked the black-haired companion. “To your woman and kid?”
"Eh…" Dukduk sighed carelessly and became somewhat serious. “I'm in haste, hence, forced. Gentlemen, we must play cards, to set the she-man upright." He chuckled, to which the curly-haired responded with a forced smile. "So be it, Maelikard, poet." He bowed awkwardly in front of each of them, then, with a slightly shaky step, nudging a few guests of the inn sitting at the tables, wandered towards the exit.
“He has never had a strong head, oh never,” sighed a man whose name the skald had only learned a moment ago. “So, one more ale, what do you say, poet?”
"Thank you, but I think I'll pass." He looked into an empty mug with a hint of disgust, but also satisfaction. "I still have to entertain some locals here, and I can't wobble or mumble."
“After that horse piss? Don't overdo it.” Maelikard patted himself on the pockets of his trousers. "Bloody hell, Dukduk rolled out and did not leave a penny, the shitty bastard." He counted a bunch of coins he had taken out. "Everything is getting harder and harder, Mr. poet," he sighed sadly. "It rains little, the crops wither, and the beer is more expensive." He hid the copper, and leaned slightly towards the skald, lowering his voice. "They claim it started in Frosk, during the Solin's Night. I don't remember much, as I had been a kid, but old Elliot got a lot of attention back then.”
“They said he got mad,” nodded the skald. "Some even swore that he drowned and came back to life."
"Don't you believe that, do you?" Maelikard snorted. "Drowned or not, something's changed. People talk nonsense and will always do, but there are more… things like those. Not only peasants talk but also scholars that ghosts and demons, living only in legends, are coming back. Seamen complain that the mischievous klabautermann cuts off the ropes, eats their food and plays tricks on them. Were it a woman or a kid, I would understand, but no, peasants, lads who have a good head on their shoulder say that they can't sleep at night, for they have bad dreams and their thoughts are muddled."
"You don't believe that the old lunatic drowned, but in the klabautermann and the maras you do? " asked the skald with surprise. "And what else, drunkards force you to swill the liquor?"
"No kidding, poet. Summer is coming to an end, and after it, winter is soon to come, and here there's no need to wear a doublet or a cape. One may say it's beautiful when the sun warms the earth, but no, no, it was pleasant, when the snow melted, but now? People claim that we will not experience real frosts. Earlier, believe me, we were afraid of the cold, that it would freeze all of us to death, and now the eternal drought is coming, with the scarcity of yields and water. We have summoned the sun, so it came. It is not the darkness that should frighten us, but the light.”
"Oh, you took it too far!" The skald grimaced, what was supposed to be a wary smirk. "Who knows what the gods and heavens are up to? But what do the maras and swampmen have in common with this?"
“Magic, poet,” Maelikard replied without thinking. "It’s coming back. How did you sing in this ballad?"
"About the magic which is inside us!" shouted the skald with annoyance, grasping his head. "Love, sire, goodness and truth, that kinds of magic have stayed with us!"
“Eh, bullshit,” grumbled Maelikard, peering into an empty mug. "You’re very down-to-earth, a little odd for a poetaster."
"We, poets, although we don’t avoid colourful and sophisticated metaphors, apparently stick to whatever exists in reality and not to what might be."
"I will tell you what exists, that strange woman, as Dukduk called her… a she-man." It seemed to the Skald that Maelikard had trouble getting the last word out of his throat. "A dverg walks with her, a dwarf, I mean, called Eitir. The old lad, adept supposedly, taught that woman to play. There are many more like him there, in Soir, the habitat of filth. One can more often see scoundrels and rascals of all kinds there.”
“Phi, midgets?” the skald didn’t hide his disdain. "Well, those are only little men, halflings, not magical creatures."
"Are they?" Maelikard made a scary face. "And have you ever seen a she-dwarf pregnant?" Or did you hear about anyone delivering a dverg childbirth?"
“Strictly speaking, I didn’t witness any childbirth," said the skald emotionlessly. "What are you driving at? Dwarfs hatch out in Meremin mines, like maggots? Do not be ridiculous."
"Say what you like, poet, I know otherwise," growled the wavy-haired, looking stealthily into a still-empty mug and counting something on his fingers. "It seems to me, you were probably supposed to amuse villagers with a lively song, weren’t you?"
"Well, it was the idea," sighed the scald gravely, “otherwise the innkeeper won’t give me a place to stay, and I haven't got a penny with my broken soul. The broken penny with the broken soul…" he felt a sudden wave of melancholy swept over him.
“Hey, don't be so sad." Maelikard slapped him on the back. "But remember what I said, you won't forget it. Magic is being reborn."
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The potential audience shrunk by at least half, but it didn't discourage the singer from chanting a few, according to expectations, lively songs that he would never admit to having written if such amateur hackwork came from his pen by any chance. Chats visibly warmed up, and what’s more, some guests started up from their seats and in a stupor initiated a wobbly dance, which was in reality more bumping against one another. However, the grey-eyed woman didn't join the dancing peasants. She was stroking the hair of the undoubtedly sleeping bastard, slumped against the table, who was – as the skald still hoped – her father.
The fun did not last long. At some point, tottering dancers, knocked each other over, prompting slightly more sober companions to intervene. The poet, as he didn't see sense in chanting subsequent songs, followed towards the bright-haired peasant. She, however, seemed not to notice him.
“Respect, ma'am.” He bowed gently, knowing that by doing that, he could make a fool of himself.
The girl shuddered as if awakened from a deep sleep. Turning around, she came across the skald's gaze and instantly went all shy. She looked away, but only for a moment because immediately afterwards she followed with her eyes a pretty, boyish face, whose owner could not have been more than thirty years old. A short-cut beard, slightly darker than light shoulder-length hair, gave him a little older, serious appearance. As the poet noted, the peasant woman didn't miss a deep neckline in a white, airy tunic, revealing a slightly hairy chest and impressive, silver-plated pendants. For a split second, she lingered on them and then went further, towards tight, leather trousers. They made the man seem not only exceptionally slim but also tall. She cast one last glance at the leather boots, reaching ankles and then returned to his eyes-brown, piercing, and above all, captivating, as the poet himself thought them to be.
The girl's face brightened, although she was still serious.
“If the gentleman needs to be taken home,” said the skald politely, “then I will gladly serve. . . “
“Screw him, the old creep,” she interrupted with surprising relentlessness for her delicate beauty. "I'm not going to babysit him… though, actually, that's the reason I'm here." Dammit…”
She was nervous, but the poet sensed a slight dose of timidity in her voice. He wanted to believe that his presence caused this feeling.
“Are you going to come back in the dark? I’ll serve with pleasure…”
“There's no need, poet,” replied the girl confidently, "I can take care of myself. And you, without offence, compose beautiful rhymes, but the arms are hard to be found with you."
“Not every fight can be won with a sword.” He smiled mysteriously.
“How else?” she laughed, which pleased him very much, “with an aphorism, maybe? You're funny.”
“That's my job.“ Skald had a melodious voice even when he was speaking. “Although it would be more accurate to say: a vocation.”
“I don’t know any of those words,” she said sweetly. The poet would have sworn that he saw something coquettish in her look. “What you call a vocation, for me, it can be at best… a fate, a lousy fate. And what men consider to be a profession, for women it's… hmm, a duty?“ She pondered. “Service?”
"We need to explore different paths," he declared solemnly, although the smirk didn't leave his face. "You probably know that being the skald is a profession… let it be, a respected profession taught by the great-grandfathers, passed from fathers to sons for many years. Hence, at the royal courts and taverns, only the elderly or at least more mature people play music. Do you mind…?”
He didn't wait for permission to sit at the table but received it immediately anyway.
“As you see,” he allowed himself a little more intimacy, ” it has been said that to pass on ballads, to compose wise and not trivial rhymes, one needs experience, secret knowledge, which cannot be acquired just like that. And how does it look afterwards? One comes with the other, if he is still capable of walking, with a hoarse throat and a lack of memory. With the face of the sage and the pace of the laden donkey, he mutters something under his breath that he dares to call a ballad. And that's not what poetry is all about." He looked into the grey, alluring eyes, seeing in them the glow of the reflected candle flames. "Poetry has to be light and melodious. Sometimes also calm, yes, but often turbulent, full of vigour, putting you upright. It should be beautiful and… alive. Life is supposed to smoulder in it.”
He put his hands on the farmer's hands. He felt they were cold, so he began to massage them gently to warm them up.
"Poetry is like love," he said slowly, melodiously, seeing in the girl's eyes not only a pleasure but a bit of delight, "and love is like poetry. It should not be called by its name, because it breaks the spell. You have to constantly make your way through the maze of metaphors and understatements, behind which there is never the same content hidden. Everybody perceives it differently, and it moves everyone another way. But so far, no one has been able to define the nature of a poem for certain."
Her hands were already warm, but the skald didn't stop massaging them, slowly, sensing scars and scratches here and there.
“That is why I am here.” He continued a bit more lively. “I’m a child among the old skalds known in Jord. I'm here because something is changing. And no, it's not about rain and drought, it doesn't bother me much. I’ve realised that I am the one who must be the change, as they say, I’m a master of my destiny. I am the poet of my poem, and I'm writing it in my way, with a dose of freshness, differently, better." He squeezed her hands. "It's up to me whether it will be a panegyric, a poem, or a funeral song."
The sleeping bastard murmured something, waking them up for a moment from a strange trance. The grey-eyed lowered her eyes and sighed heavily. Skald withdrew his hands, momentarily embarrassed.
“I'd better go now,” she said sadly. “Mother is probably worried that I got drunk with him.”
She wanted to get up but was stopped by the skald's hands gently embracing her wrists.
“You are a change,” he whispered a little more seriously, “you can be a change.”
“But… what is this change going to be… ?”
"You're trembling." He got up, went around the table and found himself next to the girl. Hugged her tenderly and then began slowly massaging her shoulders. "There is a cosy chamber upstairs, you'll warm up."
“I… I don’t know if I should…”
“ The change.” He was drawing her closer and closer. “Every big change starts with a small step. From climbing a few steps, reaching a small peak, after which there will be another, larger, greater. What have you always dreamed of? About travels? Great love? Or maybe…”
“What is your name, skald? “she sighed. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“Gaspar,” he replied softly, feeling her face close to his chest. “Forgive my lack of manners. I'd love to know your name.”
“Aeinne,” she whispered. “O, Gaspar, I…”
“The river,” he interrupted her with delight, “You're a river, Aeinne. And not just a stream. You are a river of ancient peoples, a legend, a trace of a great past. You are…”
She ran her hand over his chest and began to play with the pendants.
“I knew that it would end up like that, poet," she whispered to his ear, "but I would never suppose that ordinary courtship can develop into such a far-reaching consideration" She giggled, brushing his cheek with her lips. "So, let's be the change."
When she spoke to him, he noticed they had a few gapers, most likely knowing the girl. He knew that it couldn't be a good sign.
“Let’s go, Aeinne,” now he whispered to her ear. “At least let them think I walked you home.”
"Nonsense," she looked at him boldly, "Rumours are important to me as little as last year's snow, or rather its lack." She saw the surprise in Gaspar's eyes. "Yes, I know what they'll say, how they'll call me. I couldn't care less. You like me, and I like you. Let's not complicate it, right?"
Suddenly, they both looked towards the snoring bastard.
“What about him?”
"Leave him." Aeinne waved her hand. "He will wake up and go home himself. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. That I am a bad daughter who doesn't care about the daddy. That's true, I do not care. He doesn't bother with my fate anymore.”
“Let's go then” He took her arm. “I like your enthusiasm. I don't want it to pass.”
“And even so, what's wrong with it?“ she giggled. “We're the change, after all. Big change.”
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