The Singer ch. 3

Cadenza’s house felt different when she woke the next morning. Her sisters were already up and out of the room, though their day clothes still rested on their unmade beds. Cadenza stood up, not bothering to dress, and opened the shutter to look out the window. Even the morning sun and the cheery birdsong were changed, shifted out of their normal place.

Cadenza remembered her fear from the night before and shivered. It was going to be hard to keep it at bay during the day. She decided she would tell her mother she was ill and stay safely around the house the whole day. She returned to her bed and mussed up her hair so that she looked unwell.

Warm smells drifted into the room from the kitchen, and Cadenza revised her illness so that she was well enough to make it to the table for breakfast but not to work in the fields. She hopped around getting dressed and left the room hungry and eager to eat.

Rhythm was already sitting with Minuet and Bell when Cadenza entered the room. They had been speaking in hushed voices but stopped and looked up when Cadenza stepped through the door. Cadenza stopped short as three pairs of eyes regarded her; her mother’s eyes were carefully guarded, Minuet’s were fearful, and Bell’s were full of tears.

“What is it?” Cadenza asked, her breath quickening slightly as her chest tightened. “What’s wrong?”

Rhythm stood abruptly and began clearing the table of the food. “Nothing at all. I was just explaining to the girls that you won’t be able to work today and that I’ll be busy, so they’re going to go into the village to visit Partita, the merchant’s daughter. Hurry along and get dressed, girls.”

Cadenza remained frozen in the doorway while her sisters hurried past, keeping their eyes on the ground. Rhythm started cleaning up and packing some food into a basket.

“Mother, what is going on?” Cadenza asked, her voice forced and hard as stone. It took all her strength not to start crying in confusion and anger.

Rhythm looked up from the basket of food, obviously troubled. “I’ll explain everything to you,” she said, “just let me get your sisters into the town and then I’ll be back to talk.”

Without waiting for Cadenza to protest, Rhythm pulled Minuet and Bell out the front door.

Cadenza waited for an excruciating fifteen minutes until her mother returned. When she heard Rhythm’s footsteps on the gravel path outside, she leapt up and raced outside to confront her mother. She felt like taking the woman’s shirt by the collar and shaking an answer out of her, but instead she stopped when she saw her mother walking down the path. Rhythm was old, she realized, and as she drew closer, Cadenza could see the traces of hastily dried tears in her mother’s eyes.

“Wait here,” Rhythm said heavily, “I’ll be right out. It’s best not to keep them waiting.”

Cadenza let her mother pass, knowing with a sinking feeling that she did not have to ask who was waiting. When Rhythm returned with the food, Cadenza simply took the basket and walked alongside her mother in silence. They went through a gate and across the same fields that Cadenza had haunted the night before.

“Eat,” Rhythm said, “you haven’t had anything yet.”

Cadenza complied, taking out an apple and a chunk of fresh bread. She took a few bites, though it was hardly the breakfast she had expected, before saying anything.

“Can you tell me something?” she asked. “Anything that might make things a little clearer?”

Rhythm sighed heavily. “The two…strangers…that came into town yesterday, they’re interested in you. They want to talk with you.”

“Do you know why?” Cadenza asked patiently. She didn’t want to press her mother too much; Rhythm looked just as fragile as Cadenza felt.

Her mother paused before replying. “Yes.”

“And what is it?”

“They can tell you that better than I, Cadenza,” Rhythm said. “We’re almost there. Just wait.”

They went through another gate and Cadenza recognized that they were following the same path as she had after she ran away from Viola. She kept her questions in, deciding it would be easier to shout and rant at the strangers than to hurt her mother with harsh words. They were almost there, she told her impatient thoughts.

Rhythm walked purposefully ahead of Cadenza, into the enclosed meadow of Cadenza’s moonlit walk, where two figures were waiting, standing beside two horses: a bay and a silver grey.

Viola curtseyed as they approached, and the man named Cello made a deep bow. Rhythm nodded, on the verge of tears, and Cadenza watched the man straighten. His dark eyes met hers with a mocking glint, and she jerked her gaze away, fiercely battling the blush that worked its way up her face. Her fight was in vain, and she stood there, with flaming cheeks and writhing inside, as Viola spoke to Rhythm.

“How much have you told her?” she asked. Cadenza’s mother glanced at her daughter, who was glaring past at the trees.

“Just that you wanted to speak with her.”

“Good, then,” Viola said brightly, “I always like telling stories. True ones, of course,” she winked at Cadenza, who barely noticed it except to register how much they were treating her like a child. Not that they didn’t have any reason to, given that she had made her entrance by falling out of a tree.

“Sit down,” Viola said, plopping down on the grass, which was curiously flattened in a large circle to accommodate the four of them comfortably. Cadenza sat slowly, followed by her mother. Cello remained standing, and Cadenza looked up at his imposing height irritably, only to find that once again his eyes were on her. She turned her face away and concentrated on Viola, lining up a series of foul words to describe him in the privacy of her mind.

It took her a moment to realize that Viola was doing something rather strange; the woman was tracing her fingers in the air and mouthing words. Her long fingers arced over her head, and Cadenza felt a silent vibration hum past her. She started and looked to her mother, who had made no reaction but was instead twisting her hands in her lap and staring at Viola.

“There we go,” Viola said after a moment more. “No one will hear us now.”

Cadenza didn’t understand but kept quiet, wanting to know what story Viola would tell.

“So, Cadenza, as you are quite aptly named,” Viola began, “you may not realize it, but you are extremely gifted. Rhythm told us that you don’t know the whole story of your father, is that right?”

“Yes,” Cadenza mumbled. She took a quick look at her mother; discussions of her father always led to trouble. But Rhythm seemed calm, and slightly distant, making Cadenza feel alone and abandoned with the two strangers.

“Well,” Viola continued. “To be blatant and short, your father was a Singer. And an especially powerful one at that; he Sang storms. Weather and wind were his specialties, though they say he was also very good at Singing earth.”

Cadenza stared. Nothing Viola had said connected with any memory of hers. She had never remembered her father singing; he hardly had had a melodic voice.

Viola noticed Cadenza’s dumb silence and her eyebrows rose. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a Singer is!”

“She doesn’t,” Rhythm said softly. “I never told her anything about them. I just always hoped…”

“I suppose we are far enough from Allemande after all. Well, you have to know now,” Viola said, and recited, “a Singer is a human or creature that has some amount of control over the powers of Music and Silence. They usually focus on a specialized area of practice, such as water Singing or stone Singing.” Viola paused and looked at Cadenza, who still didn’t understand. “Meaning they can cast spells and the like, or just sing and change things. Sort of like magic.”

Cadenza frowned, wondering why her mother had brought her out here to listen to this obviously insane woman. “You mean my father was a wizard.”

“In one sense of the word, yes,” Viola answered.

“No, you’re wrong,” Cadenza protested, “He was just a soldier.”

“Cadenza, it’s true,” Rhythm said, putting a hand on Cadenza’s shoulder. Cadenza shook it away.

“It can’t be. He was a soldier.”

“He was a soldier—an unwilling one,” Viola said. “The reason he was forced into war was because he was a Singer. The king wanted to use him in his battles, thinking, quite stupidly, that your father would be able to bring down the other army with lightening. The king does not understand the finer points of storm-singing. For the last twenty years or so, the king has kept watch on all the singers in Cantabile, and when they are old enough, he spirits them away to training camps where they are forced to learn how to use their skills to fight and kill.

“This brings us to the reason we are here, which is to keep you, Cadenza, from being taken away to one of those camps and put to work in the king’s wars.”

“What…do…you…mean?” Cadenza asked, her blood rushing around her head, fear rising in her chest. The thought pushed to be recognized, but she forced it down and wouldn’t let it be voiced.

“Well, you are a Singer too.” Viola said simply. At this, Rhythm began to cry, while Cadenza burst out laughing. It was so absurd—it was too absurd to be true.

“Me?” she said, “a singer? I can’t sing at all; I’m always out of tune and can’t keep a beat.”

Viola silenced Cadenza’s laughter with a quick movement of her hand. “That is not the singing we speak of.” The woman’s face had lost its jolly smile and was dark and cold. “Do not be as childish as to laugh at something so important.”

Cadenza couldn’t make a sound, but she stared at Viola. The fear rose again and filled her so completely that she only wanted to get away. She scrambled away through the grass, scrabbling at her silent throat, wishing that she could scream. But all that came from her open lips was silence. The dark Silence that the village priest always warned about; the Silence that blocked out Music and festered in the soul. Cadenza fell into the deep grass, struggling against the power constricting her throat.

Only a moment passed and the spell was lifted, leaving Cadenza curled up on the ground, pitiful tears streaking down her cheeks. She cowered under her arm as someone’s shadow came over her. A hand gently took hers and lifted it away, and she was surprised to see Cello bending over her, his dark green eyes vacant of the previous mocking glint and instead filled with concern. She knew that she had made a fool of herself again, and pulled her hand out of his, filled with shame as she stood and backed away.

“You’ve made a mistake,” she said, furiously scrubbing at her eyes and cheeks. “I’m not a Singer. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

Cello didn’t say a word, but instead squinted out at the trees, and then down at the grass. Cadenza followed his gaze and saw a green shoot rising out of the grass, unfolding its leaves in a matter of seconds, until a purple flower bloomed and Cello plucked it easily and handed it to Cadenza. She took it, and Cello opened his mouth, about to say something, when Rhythm’s voice came across the meadow.

“Cadenza,” she called brokenly, “you must come back and listen. At least listen.”

Cadenza looked away from Cello, hurriedly dropping the flower and walking away towards her mother. Whatever Viola was going to tell her, it would be less frightening than standing next to Cello, accepting the flower that he had Sung for her, a flower that was eerily the same bruised purple color as her eyes.