Heartfelt Sounds
Heartfelt Sounds
C.M. Estopare
Copyright © 2016 C.M. Estopare
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Table of Contents
Deft fingers swim across thin silver strings.
I'm shaking—I can't perform like this.
Thick sandals slam onto the stage behind me. The dancers present themselves. I open my mouth as the dancers still behind me. They are statues. Dolls sprinkled in white beneath dimming candlelight.
The stillness is a learned reaction. One given by time and misfortune.
I open my mouth. I sing.
“In this bitter world…”
Fans glide open with a
snap
of paper. My eyes stay to my hands and fingers as they sail over sixteen strings. As the long cherrywood body of the zither rocks beneath me, in time to the foot falls of the dancers.
“…who can declare the difference between love and hate?”
The dancers still, their faces stoic.
“In these mortal realms…”
I cast my gaze up to steal a look at our audience. Three women curve their legs beneath skirts which balloon out around them. They litter the carpet like fallen petals. They are not strangers, nor are they patrons.
A gray haired woman snaps her gaze from the dancers to me. Hard opal eyes narrow to slits. She raises a hand, her drop sleeve rises with her like the erratic tail of a ghost. A crooked finger frees itself from the long crimson sleeve. It points, squarely at me.
Althea's eyes—they make me shiver.
I snap my gaze to my fingers. I breathe. I sing.
“…who can declare the difference between right and wrong?”
Feet shuffle as the dancers behind me glide into the next act. Fans disappear into the deep pockets of pastel colored drop sleeves. Lacy cloth draped upon the stage resemble wind and they shower themselves with it. The tissue-like fabric floats in the air around them as they make movements to hold the falling cloth there, suspended in midair. Floating about their persons.
Before they snap the cloth back with quick hands, sliding the cloth along the length of the stage as they jump and leap like tumbling winds. They form a line now, as rushing feet halt. They form a line, heads bowed to the front.
I open my mouth.
“Someday, I would like to ask
—
”
Hands strike out—vipers reach for their prey. They strike at opposite intervals.
“'In this world, who writes the scrolls of our fates?'”
Arms move as waves that heave. The lead dancer raises her right arm to the sky, questioning the gods.
“Someday, I would like to ask
—
”
The leader falls. Arms forward, legs curved behind her. The dancers begin to vary in height, resembling the mortal who fights through trials. She comes from nothing. Gains strength from what the gods place before her. Trial after trial, failure after failure—she prevails. The final dancer raises her right arm in a straight arc—her body rises onto its toes. She has ascended.
“'When mortals dream, who plucks the strings of the ancient zither?'”
Hands soar across an ocean of silver strings.
As one simple pluck ends with a sharp
twang.
As a string upon my precious zither rips from its wooden base.
My hands shake as I take both ends of the little silver string. I tie them together only for them to wind apart again.
Again and again and again.
I retreat to my room, zither cradled in my arms like an injured child.
It falls upon my lumpy bed, hay hisses. Breaks with a dry
crunch.
I lower myself to my knees and dig into the pocket hidden amongst my skirts. Peach silks bunch around my sweaty hand. I search for a string as hurried steps invade my space, pushing through the curtain that cuts my room off from the corridor outside.
“Naia.” I recognize Lore's voice with a nod and a sigh. “
Naia!”
A voice like bell chimes tinkle in my ear as I search. As I ignore her and focus on my poor zither.
“Naia, you need to listen.”
But I cannot. Not until my zither is fixed. Not until I am able to strum it's strings without it crying out. Without that hurting
twang.
Lore crosses the room in three quick steps. Panicked steps. Her hand grasps my shoulder before I am able to register that she has come so close. Heat hovers behind me. A tightening hand presses it's fingers into the bone of my shoulder. I wince.
“
Naia
—
”
I shoot to standing. I want to scream—to yell and force her to leave. But, red flecks the corners of her eyes as a single tear waits to be shed. Golden hair springs from her head like the unkempt leaves of a rebellious bush.
Tonight hadn't been Lore's night to perform. Tonight had been her off night, her night to venture outside of the silkhouse's doors and enjoy freedom. But here she was, crying?
“Has something happened?” are the first words that pour from my mouth, like vomit. “Are you alright?”
Lore lowers her head. Shakes it. Combs trembling fingers through her knotty mane. Words bubble from her mouth, but they are incoherent. She shakes her head again, raising it. Green eyes meet mine. They lock. A light glaze brightens her eyes. “I've done it.” she says. “I've done it—
again.”
and she brings her fingers to her lips. She chews her nails. Stops. “Tomorrow, Naia, you'll have to take my place.”
I grin as a sadness wells up in my chest. Whether Lore was drunk or high—it didn't matter. This was her normal now. This was her way of dealing with sorrow. Of being slave to a silkhouse. But I couldn't help her anymore. “Did you forget?”
She cocks her head. “Althea will give me to the Saints if I perform like this—Naia, will you help me?”
I sigh. “You really think she'd give you to a brothel? Besides, tonight was my last performance.”
Lore nods, breathing unsteadily. “Can you help me? Take my place like you've always done? I thought you liked the dance, Naia.”
I nod. “Yes.” I tell her, the grin evaporates. My heart tremors. “And I'll miss it very much.”
Lore opens her mouth—twists her face. She wants to argue, to talk me into doing her job as she has always done. But realization hits her when she notices that the walls of my room are bare. The sliding wood panel of my closet is clamped shut, it no longer overflows with beautiful silken gowns. They have been taken from me. Everything has been taken from me because I possess no money. No family. My bed of hay has a single white sheet upon it, and in the morning even that will be gone. The only thing Althea allows me to keep is my zither—which is not even my own, but a gift. A gift from Lore during happier days. When she wasn't trying so hard to forget.
“No.” she murmurs. “No—where have your things gone?”
I shrug. “Althea has taken them and sold them.”
A dejected look plagues her face, making the glaze disappear from her eyes. It is replaced by bleak sorrow, the sorrow she wallows in when her mind is not swimming in sake. “I—I am a
horrible
sister!”
My hand falls to her shoulder, then. Gently, I pat it. Her gown is slick with sweat. “You are the best sister I have ever known.”
Sister.
The word made the sides of my lips twitch. Truly, she was only a house sister. Nothing more.
The curtain behind her rises, the lacy white fabric breathing as one of the girls lets herself into my room. A gown like snow graces her thin frame. Her hair is pulled tight into a black topknot.
Wide eyes greet me before she bows her head. Lore rounds on her. “How dare you!”
The girl stiffens. Her chin rises. “I'm only doing my job, mistress. Making sure I don't end up on the streets—or
worse.”
she hugs a small writing board to her chest, a brush and ink cup balances on its curved edge. “I've come to claim what is the Orthella's.”
“A senior of the house working under that red-witch—
Hana,
you throw your own sisters to the streets! How do you—”
Lightly, I touch Lore's arm—which has risen in her anger. It hovers over the poor girl, readying itself to slap her clean across the cheek. I look at Hana, face soft. “What does Althea want?”
What more could she take from me?
Hana swallows. Taps her slipper upon the floorboards. “Your gown.” she spits. “Not the slip.”
I blink, taken aback. “My clothes?”
Hana nods. Lore snorts and hangs her head. Shakes it.
“
Now
, Naia—she wants your dress,
now
. Y—you can keep the slip.”
Color drains from my face. I feel cold and I haven't even taken the gown off. Peach colored skirts, slick sleeves complete with a V-neck bodice that was made specifically for me—for my frame. Given as a gift of the house when I finally began my apprenticeship. Lore chose the color, the silky fabric. She wanted her apprentice to mirror her. It was in this gown that I learned that a songstress never cuts her hair. Never, ever.
I begin to undo the ties at my back. The skirt slips, its attachment to the bodice undone as I unlace that as well. Everything comes off. Everything. I am left with slippers and an off-white linen slip. My arms hang at their sides once I pass the pieces of the gown to Hana. I ignore the urge to cry. The urge to throw myself at her feet.
She throws the pieces over her shoulder. Turns on her heel. Leaves.
Lore grinds her teeth, a vein pops from her forehead.
I hang my head.
“I'm sorry.” comes a light whisper. I raise my head to meet Hana's gaze. Her face is red. “It's not right—but times are tough, you know that. You saw the turnout tonight. No one. Not a soul came to the Orthella. It scares her. It scares us all—and now even the most talented are getting pushed to the streets. Don't you get it, Naia?
You're in trouble.
Which means we
all
are. If you had been a full-fledged songstress—if you had earned your title—you would have been the last. The absolute last to go.”
With that, she disappears behind the curtain. Leaving. Slippers hiss, gliding on wood.
“If I could take your place…”
Lore's voice. I look at her—dazed. A fog creeps into my mind, swallows everything. Leaves nothing.
I back up to the bed. Move the zither away. When I sit, I place it in my lap.
A string's still missing, but it still sings beautifully.
…
When the morning comes, Hana ushers me out.
Stone the color of midnight is overwhelmed by a bleak dawn. The dark face of the Orthella stands before me as Hana squares herself before the entrance.
Hana stares me down. A grimace mars her face. “You can go there.” she points, my gaze follows. Across a street of gray flagstones and dirt stands an oblong building with round stones dimpling it's wide face. Rectangular windows glow with orange light while others are closed with soft pink curtains. Its front door is steepled by pillars painted a crisp, foamy, white.