Page 66 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

All around me life surges with the sound of music, stomping feet, clapping hands, and laughter ringing from the corners of the packed square. In a rare occurrence, the Council invited all musicians up onto the platform outside their house, and we’re packed on here, a mix of villagers and Traders, playing our fingers until they're raw, alternating between groups to fill the air with song. We’ve played together long enough into the evening that we’re catching each other’s melodies and occasionally are able to join in on repeated choruses. Even the people in the square are calling out on the echoed refrains of the Traders’ music, funny, lilting songs they call short-haul shanties, full of strange words.

Lift and pull and rise up oh

Warp and weft and waves below

Lift and pull and rise up oh

Fall away and leeward go…

Children are running between twirling skirts and spinning bodies, shouting with sheer happiness, tugging on smiling Traders’ tunics and being rewarded with small pieces of sweets from their seemingly endless pockets. Almost every woman is dancing — with villager or Trader, it doesn’t matter tonight — and any man who isn’t in thecenter of the square is sitting at a table around the outside, sharing a drink and a story with an unfamiliar face. More came on this Trade than from any of the stories in the past — a full two hundred, by my count, though it could be less or more. They’re a funny mix, though I’m sure they’d say the same about us. Most are friendly, open with their laughter and words, but there is a small group of twenty or so that floats surreptitiously around the edges, not drawing attention to themselves but never fully blending in either. They’re ready with a flashed smile, a clapped shoulder, but never step into the dancing, never stay in one place too long, always watching, seemingly on guard.

I don’t suppose I blame them, really. It’s been a long time — a full generation, really— since they were here, and no one knows why they stopped coming. It hasn’t been broached yet; the first day of the trade is always for welcome and warmth. It’s not until the morning that we settle into exchange of wares, a trade we desperately need. Shaking my head to loose the gloom of tomorrow from settling, I wrap my hands more firmly on my lute and turn to Davvy beside me.

“What do you think, Dav? One or two more?” Darting my eyes up the mountain, I try to judge how much daylight we have until we’re forced inside. No villager has mentioned blood moths, or being inside at full dark; the Traders have never been here when it’s been a worry, and we’re not sure how much to say. But the thought of breaking this happiness into rationed pieces cuts at my heart, which is suddenly and so unexpectedly full of love for this place and these people that I find it hard to hold in, my fingers calling out the emotion that is flooding me.

Dav grins at the familiar song, turning and shouting to the others on the platform, who immediately pick it up, the Trader musicians looking on curiously. It’s an old song, more of a child’s tune than anything, but it’sours— our people’s, our town’s, sung at almost every birth, every wedding, every name day — it’s a song of joy, and belonging, of the land beneath our feet and the strength of the rock around our homes. Davvy normally takes the lead on this one, but his eyes are locked on his wife, Bri, who has appeared in front of him, baby on hip,staring up at him with all of the lights of the village shining in her eyes as though she’s seeing him for the first time, and he has no space in his head for anything other than her face, so I start, to raucous cheers, and hundreds of voices join in, wrapping around me, pulling me to them in song and spirit.

Here is the butcher and here is the baker,

Here is the potter, here the meadmaker,

Here is the farmer, home from the field

Golden from sunshine where gold is the yield

There goes the miner, and there goes the child

When the weather is light and the winds all blow mild,

Home they all come when the hearth’s glowing bright

To fresh bread, and pearled barley, and warmth for the night.

Oh for love, oh for love, oh for love, oh for love,

For the dirt on our shoes and the stones up above…

By the second chorus of “Oh for love”, the Traders have the rhythm and are shouting it out with us, and the voices of a thousand or more people rise up in something that carves itself into me.For love, for love, for love…I can tell I’m not the only one drinking the moment in, looking around me, meeting the eyes of friends and strangers alike, sharing this between us. It is as near perfect a piece of time as has ever existed.

A trembling breeze skirts down from the mountain face, cooling the air only slightly, but it is enough. Even as packed as the square is, the heat of bodies twisting together in changing patterns, I can almost see it as it curls through the crowd, close to a living thing, rustling skirts and reminding those of us who live here that we don’t have long left tonight. The first night of the Trade is closing fast, and I can see the concern on people’s faces even as they continue dancing. In previous years, when the Traders came during the Dancing or Haymaking, they took advantage of open fields and moonless skies, of the warmth of summer and the cave-bound blood moths. But we are into cooler weather now, and the nights aren’t safe.

There is a break in the music when the song ends, people looking askance at each other, unsure of what to do. Behind me the door tothe Council House opens unexpectedly, and the Father steps out with Rannoch and another Councilman, faces placid. Even silent, he draws attention, waiting until everyone nearest the stage is quiet, looking at him, before he speaks.

“Honored guests–” The Father’s voice rings out through the square, and the laughter fades as the rest of the people turn towards him. “At this time of year, we would not usually stay out past the twilight. But if we light all the beacon fires around the square, as well as the bonfire in the middle, we believe we should be fine until full dark. At that hour, any Trader may accompany a new friend home with a torch in hand, or, for any who are in need, room and board will be provided within the Council Keep. If you’d prefer to stay in your camp, of course you are welcome to, but we ask you, for safety, to stay inside your wagons or tents until dawn breaks. Our nights here are not friendly.”

A loud, boisterous cheer goes up from the villagers, who ignore the Traders’ questioning eyes, and music rushes forth again to fill the empty spaces with dancing sound. Davvy grins at me and puts down his lute.

“We’ve played enough, friend, and there are enough who still have flesh on their fingers to continue our share. Come dance a bit!”

Bri is still in front of the stage, her friend now beside her, reaching out with welcoming fingers, face flushed from heat and movement.

“Come, Tahrik!” Bri cajoles. Dav wraps an arm around me, motioning with his other hand expansive merriment toward the village.

“Tonight, of all nights, be free!”

Shrugging off my lute, I turn to put it on the chair behind me, ready to jump into the fray, when, from the side of the square, in the midst of all the color and frenetic gaiety, a cool, pale shadow catches my attention.

Her face is gutted, naked longing raw and painful, enough that it stings my throat, that I want to run to her and smooth away whatever weight is bending her to breaking. I can’t — it’s impossible, likedrinking dirt — but I have to dosomething, give her one small gift if nothing else.

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