The Faeries' Harp

11: River Crossing

Rhys watches with his heart in his throat as Saoirse slowly, methodically makes her way from rock to rock towards the harp that rests serenely, impossible, on a small, smooth, flat island in the middle of the river. His hand tightens involuntarily on Bergljot’s bridle when Saoirse’s foot slips, but the young woman rights herself without falling into the turbulent water, and Bergljot neighs irritably at Rhys to knock it off.

“This is nonsense and you know it,” he mutters, scolding himself. You haven’t even known her a day. What are you so worked up about? he continues silently after catching some sassy side-eye from the mare beside him.

He finds himself jealous of Saoirse as she slowly but surely gets closer to her goal. He would never admit as much aloud, but she’s much bolder than he is. Why did she ask me, of all people, to go on an adventure with her? Surely there are braver men than me in that mansion, perhaps some knight or traveling merchant or sell-sword—someone, he finds himself wondering yet again. And why did I agree to go with her, when I’m too afraid to jump stone to stone across a river like she’s doing now? 

He hates to admit it, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something stupid on account of a pretty face. For a whole year, the sight of Ammalie, the baker’s daughter, made him completely tongue-tied and clumsy, and more than once he’d dropped whatever he was carrying on his feet or ran into a door-post because he was distracted by the way her hips moved in her skirts. But his memory of Ammalie’s beauty seems pale in comparison to Saoirse, who is daring and smart as well as beautiful. His fascination with Ammalie faded when he found she was incapable of having an interesting conversation with anyone, but he feels Saoirse’s allure will never fade on that account.

“Please be careful,” he finds himself whispering as Saoirse makes the final leap to the harp. To his relief, her landing is secure. She then proceeds to examine the harp, seeming utterly in awe of the instrument. To his mind, there’s nothing much interesting about it, beyond the fact that it’s sitting in the middle of a river for some reason, and it looks to be worth an incomprehensible amount of money.

Hesitantly, Saoirse plucks a couple of the harp’s strings. Shimmering, crystalline notes fill the air, and something seems to resonate in Rhys at their sound. Bergljot somehow seems similarly affected; though she had been nibbling at the unfamiliar plants along the river’s edge, Saoirse and the harp now have all of the horse’s attention.

She plucks another few strings, then something of a scale. The air seems to shimmer with the sound. The birds and the voices in the trees have gone quiet. Even the river seems to have lost its melodiousness. The whole surrounding area seems to be listening, to see what Saoirse might do with this harp, what notes might come next.

Seemingly satisfied with her inspection, Saoirse sits down on the small golden stool next to the harp and positions herself to play.