The Faeries' Harp

12: Soul Song

If my father could only see me now, Saoirse muses to herself as she leaps from one rock to another, narrowly avoiding slipping into the water swirling around them. The pink moss on the rocks is slippery, making her intended journey more perilous than she’d originally thought it would be. However, Saoirse is not the sort of person to back down from a challenge; instead, she pauses, takes a deep breath, and then plans her next movement more carefully. Just like climbing down from the window. A little at a time. It’s not a race. Still, something in her asks her to hurry. The harp seems to be calling to her, like the voices in her dreams have been calling her for years.

Another jump, and then another. Closer and closer she comes to the mystical golden instrument, until at last she lands on the small island that holds the harp. She is pleasantly surprised to discover that there is a small stool next to it, which she had not seen from the bank where Rhys and Bergljot are currently waiting for her.

“I wonder….” she murmurs, circling the instrument carefully. It almost seems to be growing out of the rock on which it sits. The craftsmanship of the harp is masterful, with intricate forms and figures seeming to tell some sort of story, although not one with which Saoirse is already familiar. The strings seem to be made of glass or crystal, by the way the pinkish sunlight refracts in them. Impulsively, Saoirse plucks a couple strings at random. The notes that result are breathtakingly clear and bright and pure. The air itself seems to shimmer with the string’s vibration, and something in Saoirse resonates with it, too. A hush seems to fall over the river and the ethereal voices in the trees.

The world is listening. There must be something about this harp, more strange and important than its location, Saoirse realizes. She plucks a few more strings, then plays a quick scale, mostly just to ascertain whether it’s tuned the way her instrument is at home. To her relief, the instrument is flawlessly in tune.

“The greatest musician in the world couldn’t hope for anything better,” she marvels. Come on. You’ve stalled enough. You said you were going to play it. Do it.

Though her nerves are fluttering and her body is trembling, Saoirse carefully sits down to play the golden harp.

She begins with a simple piece she learned from one of her tutors early on, the first piece she ever memorized for a recital. Father was so bored and annoyed, she remembers as she plays. However, the piece doesn’t feel right for this place, this instrument, this moment. It seems to clash with the melodies the forest and the river were making earlier.

“Perhaps something more advanced, more sophisticated,” she suggests quietly before switching to another classical piece. This one, too, feels and sounds wrong to her.

What is it you want me to do? she cries out silently, closing her eyes to listen for anything or anyone that might have heard or felt her call. The music of the river and the trees resumes, quietly, like it’s waiting for something or someone to join in.

Play to match them, something inside her urges. Saoirse listens for a few moments more, and then her fingers begin to move across the strings of the harp, almost of their own accord. The resulting music is hauntingly beautiful, a perfect fit with what nature was already creating. Wild and passionate and entirely unfamiliar, each note seems to flow from somewhere deep in Saoirse’s soul.

Meanwhile, on the riverbank where she’d left them, Rhys and Bergljot stand transfixed, staring at the harp and the woman playing it, swaying subconsciously to the melody. Everything in the surrounding area seems to be either contributing to the song or mesmerized by it. Even the air seems to sparkle with the music of the golden harp.

The music ends naturally, when Saoirse feels the song is complete. The last notes hang and reverberate in the air. There seems to be an expectant hush over the river and the forest. Saoirse hesitantly opens her eyes and rises from her stool, but instantly regrets it. The world seems to be spinning around her and the island beneath her feet suddenly rises to meet her face, and then darkness overtakes her.

When Rhys sees Saoirse collapse, his legs start moving towards her before his mind processes the event. What in the world happened to her? I’ve been watching the whole time. Nothing touched her….

But for him, too, the world is spinning around him, far too quickly for his liking. His knees buckle and the world becomes nonsensical shapes and colors, moving in incomprehensible patterns, and then, nothingness.