Harmony
Crows shrieked their outrage above Timias, dropping twigs, leaves, and pebbles on his head. One of many torments Wilona had cast on him for the sin of loving her daughter.
Forever shall you sing,
Forever shall you long,
Forever shall those who listen loathe the song that spills from your lips.
His lover's face, like her name, hung at the edges of his memory, faded and impossible to focus on, a shadow he craved and couldn’t grasp.
In the distance smoke curled in lazy tendrils, rising from stone chimneys, and fading to oblivion as it joined clouds hanging dark and low in the sky. They promised rain and a poor turnout.
Today was nothing more than his next performance in a never-ending line of villages Timias was cursed to visit and bless with the beauty of his voice. Perhaps this village wouldn’t be as poor as the last and he’d have shelter, not only for his performance but also for the time he’d be allowed to stay. Shelter and food in his belly, that was all he wished for now.
Lost in the effort of summoning the impossible memory of his love, he wandered into the center of the ramshackle village, a muddy oasis surrounding a crooked pathetic stage. It listed to one side, tired but unwilling to fall.
Nevertheless, he climbed onto it, balanced himself precariously, and sang until his throat was scratchy and his voice hoarse. Only three coins were left at his feet, and no invitations to dinner were offered. He did find shelter in the barn attached to the inn, with the understanding he’d move on at daybreak and not bother the residents of the wretched hamlet again. The hay he lay on stunk of manure and mold, but he ignored it. He’d slept in worse places.
Daybreak found him stealing a few apples from the orchard just outside of town. The promise of the new day was a pale streak of light in the east, ensuring he’d not be caught and striped for the theft. He ate them quickly, making his stomach ache with the fullness, and resumed his travels, his mind meandering as much as his feet while the sun rose until it was glaring down as if to bake him alive.
“Where will you stop next, Bard?” The musical voice washed over him like silk, familiar in a way he didn’t understand.
Unaccustomed to a kind word Timias blinked away the stupor of his thoughts, his steps slowing and then stopping as his eyes fell on the source.
She stood in the middle of the path, one arm curled around the handle of a basket bursting with brightly colored vegetables and brown eggs. He eyed the eggs, it had been months since he’d managed the theft of one, and then he’d eaten half the shell trying to suck out the slimy meal inside.
Her smile disarmed him, and he found himself unwilling to harm her for the momentary thrill of a full belly twice in one day. Truth be told, he wanted to sit and talk to her. If only he could. He sang instead.
I’ve had the heart-ache many times,
At the mere mention of a name
I’ve never woven in my rhymes,
Though from it inspiration came.
It is in truth a holy thing,
Life-cherished from the world apart--
A dove that never tries its wing,
But broods and nestles in the heart.
The words flowed from his mouth, whether he wanted them or not, bringing the only memory he’d been allowed to keep. That of Wilona and her final words to him as she’d sent him on this journey. His lot was to wander, sing, and hope his love would find him.
“That’s a sad song you greet me with. Perhaps you are in need of warm food and drink to brighten your tune?” Cerulean blue eyes that matched the sky behind her searched his face.
If only he knew the question they asked, but the beauty before him seemed unwilling to part with it. The promise in her smile suggested if he sang the right words she might.
“Come with me, minstrel. I’ll see you washed and fed and offer you a soft bed for the night.”
Bewitched by her unexpected kindness he followed, song failing him for the first time in the year since he’d been cursed. The maiden led him to a cottage, a single room set in a clearing of trees that leaned away from the small building as if to let the sun brighten her little haven.
For haven it was.
Pale pink flowers crept up the stone and wound around the eaves under the thatch. She pushed a delicately carved door open to reveal a brightly lit interior. Two rockers, crafted of winding branches, sat facing a stone fireplace in which logs were laid for tonight’s fire. A counter along the back wall boasted a water pump, a bowl of fresh fruit that made his mouth water, and a messy pile of fresh flowers. A bed nestled under a window that looked out over a small square garden. Given the explosion of color it created, it must have been the source of the flowers. That bed, covered with a lovingly stitched quilt, sent a chill down his spine, familiar in a way that made him want to run away. Instead, he sang again.
That name of melody recalls
Her gentle look and winning ways
Whose portrait hangs on memory’s walls,
In the fond light of other days.
In the dream-land of Poetry,
Reclining in its leafy bowers,
Her bright eyes in the stars I see,
And her sweet semblance in the flowers.
Timias, afraid to breathe lest it break the spell cast by the young woman, watched her blond curls bounce on her shoulders as she went about boiling water for tea, cutting bread and spreading jam on it, and setting the little table that held court in the center of her humble home.
“Sing more if it pleases you.” She peeked a glance at him, her long lashes fluttering as if to hide the longing in her eyes. “If you need quiet, that’s fine too.”
It was the first time in months that permission to be quiet had been offered kindly. He reveled in the feeling of choosing not to sing as he sat in the chair she pointed to and waited for the food that would warm his spirit. Tremors wracked him, whispers of a trap muttering at the edge of his mind, but under the brightness of her smile, he couldn’t pay them heed.
Harmony.
The name crashed into him, burying him under the weight of emotions that warred with each other for his attention. He pushed them away and sipped the plum tea she poured into a chipped china teacup and, careful not to scare her with his hunger, broke a piece of bread, licking crumbs and strawberry jam from his finger after he’d eaten it. He thanked her with more song.
Her artless dalliance and grace--
The joy that lighted up her brow--
The sweet expression of her face--
Her form--it stands before me now!
And I can fancy that I hear
The woodland songs she used to sing,
Which stole to my attending ear,
Like the first harbingers of spring.
She sat, eyes wide as she drank him in, humming the very tune he sang. Her gentle tone pulling free the emotion he’d hidden behind his shame. The memory beckoned him to pay it heed. Soft moss under them, soft hands between them, and kisses, oh the sweet soft kisses of love they’d shared.
He frowned, pushing the memory away to focus on the kind-hearted woman in front of him. Her blond curls reminiscent of the one he was cursed to forget. Again, music broke from his mouth.
The beauty of the earth was hers,
And hers the purity of heaven;
Alone, of all her worshippers,
To me her maiden vows were given.
They little know the human heart,
Who think such love with time expires;
Once kindled, it will ne’er depart,
But burn through life with all its fires.
“Please, finish your song.” She encouraged him.
Though the words fought him he pressed on, letting the song find its own way through his lips.
We parted--doomed no more to meet--
The blow fell with a stunning power--
And yet my pulse will strangely beat
At the remembrance of that hour!
But time and change their healing brought,
And years have passed in seeming glee,
But still alone of her I’ve thought
Who’s now a memory to me.
Joy lit her face as she knelt before him and rested her head on his knee. “All this year I’ve searched for you. I never dared to hope it would be you who found me.”
Timias frowned. He had no friends, no one who missed him or sought his presence. He was doomed. Doomed to wander and sing, never to speak or stay. Doomed to be cast from village after village, a pariah despite the beauty he offered them in the gift of his song.
“I imagine I’m still a mystery to you.” She hummed against his knee. “Fortunately, though she did not realize it, she gave me the words to break your curse.”
She tipped her head up and met his gaze, exquisitely full lips curling into a smile, red like the sweet strawberries she’d made her jam with. How he longed to taste them, to see if they were as sweet.
“Nevermore shall you sing, nevermore shall you long, nevermore shall those who listen loathe the words that spill from your lips.”
The chains that held his mind, his will, and his sense of self, burned away in the light of her blessing.
Harmony.
She was Harmony! The echo to his call. The alto to his tenor. Alone, their voices were beautiful, together they were magical.
“My love!” His long unused words rasped as they burst from him in joy.
“Timias.” Contentment borne of patience filled his name as it flowed from her mouth.
His hand, halfway to caressing her cheek, froze. The last time he’d touched her he’d lost everything, his freedom, his memories, years of his life. Was one caress of the woman he loved all he’d ever get? How many times had this scene repeated itself? Only Harmony had that answer.
“She won’t find us this time.” She pulled his fingers to her lips and then buried her cheek in his palm. “My mother is gone, my love. Never to thwart us again.”
One final time, words he did not choose burst from his chest, this time in dazzling triumph as Harmony joined him in the final verse of their story.
There may be many who will deem
This strain a wayward, youthful folly,
To be derided as a dream
Born of the poet’s melancholy.
The wealth of worlds, if it were mine,
With all that follows in its train,
I would with gratitude resign,
To dream that dream of love again.
With the tune complete, he was free. Free to love the woman gazing up at him, free to join her in her simple cottage and face the world together. Outside birdsong filled the air, drowning out the squawk of crows that had tormented him on his journey, and in the corner, their bed, covered with the quilt Harmony had lovingly sewn, waited for their reunion.
Poem: The Dream of Love by George Pope Morris
