The Faeries' Harp

10: Down by the Water

Bergljot thunders through the mystical forest, dodging trees and leaping underbrush like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Saoirse, being an experienced rider, manages fairly well, keeping herself low to Bergljot’s back and holding on tight with her legs. After the first few branches to the face, Rhys follows suit, clinging to Saoirse as though his life depends on it. Which, at this pace, it might, he thinks grimly as he catches a glimpse of the ground flying by below them. The path is long gone; the horse has full control of their direction and destination. Instinct guides Bergljot; she weaves a zigzagging path between the trees, hoping to throw whoever or whatever’s been watching them off their trail.

Peering around Bergljot’s neck, Saoirse sees that the trees seem thinner to their right and tries to guide Bergljot in that direction. Bergljot immediately complies, and not long after they burst through the trees into an open area beside a river. Bergljot rears to make a turn and avoid plunging into the river.

“Whoa!” Rhys yells. Unprepared for this, he falls off Bergljot’s back, pulling Saoirse down with him. They hit the stony ground hard and roll apart, while Bergljot clatters to a stop a short distance away.

“Oof. It’s been a long time since I’ve been thrown,” Saoirse grumbles, struggling to her feet.

“Sorry about that,” Rhys grunts as he struggles to catch his breath. The fall winded him.

“No matter. A first riding lesson never should have included galloping through a forest. D’you s’pose we’ve lost them?”

“For a bit, anyway.” Rhys sits up and looks around. The water of the river is a vibrant aquamarine color, and it gleams and sparkles like crystal as it rushes melodiously past them. The river is rough here, with many rocks in various shades of yellow, orange, and pale green interrupting its flow.

“This place is beautiful. Good job, Bergljot.” The mare whinnies and tosses her head upstream. Saoirse follows her movement, and then her breath catches in her throat.

A harp, glistening golden and formed in fantastical designs, sits in the middle of the river on a smooth, flat rock island, impervious to the melodious rapids around it.

“Impossible,” she breathes. Rhys gets up to get a better look, and his jaw drops at the sight.

“We found a harp,” he says, unable to believe it even as he says the words.

“It’s the one from my dream….”

“You’ve had a dream about a harp in a river?”

“Every night, for ages. As long as I can remember.” Saoirse seems to be entranced, staring at the harp, and Rhys can hardly blame her; the sight before them is enchantingly beautiful. The river itself seems to be singing, and lilting, ethereal voices and birdsongs fill the trees around them, creating intricate harmonies.

“I’ve never seen or heard or imagined anything like this,” Rhys remarks in awe. Saoirse has gone to Bergljot and is gently stroking the horse’s long face, but her eyes seldom leave the harp.

“The music, Bergljot…. You hear it too, don’t you?”

“It’s a beautiful song,” Rhys interjects, slightly jealous that Saoirse is having this conversation with her horse, although after the way he’s treated her on this trip, he supposed he can’t blame her.

“It’s missing something. It calls out for another part.”

“You think this music can be improved upon?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. It aches to be completed.”

“I haven’t the first clue what you’re talking about.”

“You and Bergljot watch out for each other for a few minutes.” Saoirse starts looping and tying her skirts up to make pants, of a sort, tucking ends of fabric into her belt to secure the arrangement.

“What in blazes d’you think you’re doing? You’re just going to leave us here?” Rhys exclaims.

“I’m not going far. I’m just going to make my way to the harp,” Saoirse assures him.

“What if you fall in?”

“Then I’ll flounder to shore somehow, or Bergljot will plunge in and help me out. It doesn’t look that deep.”

This plan sounds half-baked at best to Rhys, but it’s clear that this line of reasoning won’t dissuade Saoirse from her goal, so he tries a different tactic. “What are you going to do once you get there?”

“Well, play the harp, of course. What else did you think I would do with it?”

“You…play the harp?”

“I’ve been playing for years and years. Longer than I’ve been riding.”

“Rich girl education,” Rhys mutters, and Saoirse winces.

“I promise I’m not trying to show off or rub it in or anything. I just…. Maybe the harp playing will get whoever’s been following us to show themselves—”

“That’s part of what I’m afraid of.”

“—or maybe the harp is what the song of the forest and the river is missing, or maybe this is our key to getting you back to your mother. The shape in the vines looked something like this, didn’t it?”

Rhys hates to admit it, but based on his memory of the wall of vines, Saoirse very much has a valid point here.

“Aye, as I recall….”

“I won’t be long. Please, just wait for me here.”

Before he can say anything else, Saoirse takes her first step onto one of the rocks that’s partially submerged in the river.