A String in the Harp by Nancy Bond

hut. They were bareheaded, barefoot, wearing loose, bright-colored tunics that reached to their knees and were caught at the waist with belts of tanned leather. They were quiet, their faces expectant and a little apprehensive. All around, the waters of thelake lay still, reflecting the autumn sky, the forests beyond flushed faintly with color.
    Near the doorway of the hut stood a tall, bearded man, his lined, timeless face quiet, his eyes dark and unseeing, quite blind.
    Although Peter saw everything as if he were standing on the hill himself, he had no place there. He could only watch unseen without taking part.
    There was movement in the hut, and the deerskin that hung across the opening was pushed back. Into the light and air stepped a tall, black-haired woman. Taller even than the blind man, she was slim and proud, her head high. She wore a long, loose-fitting robe of fine woven stuff that shimmered first blue, like the dome of sky, then the green of new grass, then the firey gold of gorsebloom. But it wasn’t the gown that held Peter’s eyes, it was her face. Such a face that it made him unable to look away, even had he wanted. It was perfect and complete; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, beautiful in a way that frightened him even as he was drawn to her. Without taking his eyes from the woman, Peter knew that all the boys were staring as he was. If none of them saw her again, ever, they would not forget. Without hearing her name, Peter knew it. She was Caridwen.
    At her side stood a sturdy, fair-skinned young man whose quizzical blue eyes studied each boy in turn, looking for something. A faint smile touched his mouth. He did not see Peter.
    The blind man spoke without moving from his place by the door.
    “This is the hour at which one of you will be chosen to go from here with the Bard, Aneirin. He who is chosen is he who has learned from this place all it can teach; but his learning will only have begun. With Aneirin as companion and guide, his thoughts will be shaped by wandering the world until he, too, can be called ‘Bard.’ From among you there is one who is ready for such a beginning.”
    Only one of the handful. They would have cast sidelong glances at each other if they could have looked away from the eyes of Caridwen, eyes that seemed to see them all without looking at any one of them.
    Slowly the old man called each boy’s name, pausing after each.
    “Gwyn.”
    Silence.
    “Elvan.”
    Silence.
    “Huw.”
    Silence.
    “Owain.”
    Silence.
    “Gwion.”
    At this name Caridwen smiled a distant, triumphant smile and held out her hand. The boy who must be Gwion could not but step forward. That it was he whom she had chosen, there could be no question. The blind man called no more names, he too knew.
    In Caridwen’s outstretched hand was a silver tuning key, a harp key that shone in the light, and she said, “You are Gwion no longer. Henceforth you shall be Taliesin.” Her voice filled the waiting air. It reached the listeners from within, it was felt rather than heard.
    The island, lake, and sky spun together in a dizzying spiral, the wind rose over the song of the Key in Peter’s ears, and he was a perfectly ordinary boy standing shivering in his flannel pajamas in his dark bedroom with a curious tarnished object in his hand. Even after he’d gotten back into bed under the covers he lay ice-cold, eyes as blind as the old man’s, sure he had learned something important, but not yet able to grasp what.

3
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Storm and Flood
    P ETER WOKE to hear someone banging around in the kitchen. Through his window he could see a rag of the same gray sky that had hung over them all day Monday. His mouth tasted even worse this morning. He got up and dressed and went out to find his father rummaging for breakfast. David looked rumpled and sleepy, as if he’d spent a restless night.
    “Morning,” said Peter noncommittally.
    “Good morning. You’re up early, aren’t you? For vacation? No one