Very Best of Charles de Lint, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

enough and Cerin was always twice as bad in their company. So she kept it to herself, but did wonder about a name for her flute. She’d finger it through its bag during the day, listen to its tone when she played tunes with the others around the fire in the evening, and late at night, she’d sit up sometimes, looking at its wooden gleam in the moonlight and under the stars.

    * * *

    Two weeks later they were camping in a hollow, with hills on one side, rolling off into gorse-thick downs, and dunes on the other, shifting to the sea. They all stayed up late that night, drinking a little too much of Tulo Jen’s heather whiskey. Eventually, Cerin and the tinker fell asleep, but the strong drink just made Meran feel too awake. She got up and wandered down by the water to see if she could make out what the tide was saying to the shore.
    There was something hypnotic about the lap of the waves as they came to land. If she didn’t love her father’s wood so much, she could easily live by the sea, forever and a day. She came upon an outfall not far from the camp, a brook that ran down to the water from the gorse-backed hills. Seabirds stood by it, settled down for the night. A black and white oyster-catcher, as big as a duck, took to flight when she came too near, its wings beating rapidly as it flew off along the shore, sounding its high piping alarm call. But the gulls stayed put and watched her.
    She backed away, not wanting to disturb them as well, and made a slow circuit back towards the camp. Standing on the highest dune, the one that overlooked the camp, she held her breath as a small greyish shape with a striped head crept away from where Tulo Jen and Cerin lay sleeping. Meran slipped out of sight behind the dune and then followed the little shape, her heart beating fast in her breast. She gave herself a pinch at one point, just to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t dreaming, then realized that she could just as easily be drunk.
    The little badger led her a good distance away from the camp before it finally paused and crouched down amongst driftwood and drying seaweed to gaze out to sea. It began to sing then, a low mournful song that sounded for all the world like a fiddle’s strings when the bow pulled a slow air from them.
    Oh, this can’t be, Meran thought, who’d seen marvels in her time, but nothing like this. Not ever anything like this.
    But the little badger stayed there by the edge of the sea and sang, sometimes jaunty tunes and sometimes sad airs. The jigs and reels made Meran want to get up and dance in the wet sand, to feel it press up between her toes as she stomped about to the music. The slower tunes made her want to weep. Then her fingers crept to the bag that held her flute and she caressed the wood through the cloth, wanting to play along with the badger, but not daring to break the spell.
    There were more sad tunes than happy ones. And after a while, there were no more happy ones. What could make it feel such hurt? Meran wondered. When the little badger finally fell quiet, Meran’s eyes were brimmed with tears as salty as the briny water that lapped against the sand.
    “Don’t go!” she called softly as the little beast began to leave.
    The badger froze and met her gaze with eyes that seemed to hold their own inner light.
    “Who are you?” Meran asked. “What makes you so sad? Why were you singing?”
    Her head was filled with a hundred questions and they all came out in a jumble when all she really wanted to ask was, how can I ease your hurt?
    I sing the music that was never played on me , the little badger replied. His voice was like fiddle notes resounding in her head, staccato notes played on the high strings. Not unpleasant, just strange sounding. The music that never had a chance to live. If I leave it unsounded, it builds up in me until I can no longer bear it. It becomes a pain that…hurts.
    “Are you sad?” she asked, coming nearer.
    The badger held its ground, watching her.