different choice."
Solid dwarvish
fingers were tapping on the skin drumheads, ever so softly, a beat
like a pulse just at the edge of hearing.
"There was
hunger, there was deprivation, there was darkness and mud and cold.
But worst of all was the fear. It kept us under the ground. It
stilled our voices, it chilled our hearts. We became something less
than dwarves. We became moles, cowering underground, afraid of the
light."
The krummhorn
began to moan, a low, deep sound that made Tira's breastbone
vibrate. The drums rose in volume, ever so slightly, and the dwarf
with the gittern kept time, plucking a single string over and
over.
"Dwarves with
spears and axes kept us safe." His voice rang out, suddenly loud,
and Tira flinched back involuntarily. She saw the children do the
same, and a dwarf chuckled.
"Dwarves with
hoes and spades gave us crops, and dwarves with bows and nets
brought us meat and fish. They kept us alive." His fingers caressed
the crewth, and he brought the bow sweeping across the strings. The
crewth seemed to wail, as if giving voice to every moment of
loneliness and fear the dwarves had ever endured.
"Brave dwarves
preserved our lives. But my grandfather, and men like him, did
something else. In the darkest, coldest hours of the night, with
goblins pressing close and fear pressing closer, they made music.
They preserved our courage. They preserved our hearts!"
He sawed with
the bow, and the crewth gave a triumphant cry. The drums beat
louder and faster, and the listening crowd stirred.
"He reminded us
that we were dwarves. He reminded us why we fought, why we endured.
He gave us the courage to break free." The bow made quick,
back-and-forth movements, the same two notes, over and over, in
time with the beat of Tira's heart.
"In time we
left the Cold Mountains." His fingers moved on the strings and the
two notes that he played became deeper. "We wandered." The triumph
was gone from the music. Instead it became weary and sad. "We had
no home. No place of our own. We were pariahs."
The fire seemed
to grow dim, the circle of light contracting, and a slender dwarf,
young enough that his beard was sparse and wispy, leaned in to prod
it with an iron poker. A log fell into the coals, and sparks shot
upward.
"My father
played the crewth." He stopped sawing with the bow long enough to
stroke the curved spine of the instrument. "He played this crewth,
that he made with his own hands." The bow resumed its
back-and-forth movement, and the dwarf squared his shoulders, pride
giving strength to his words.
"When every
ounce had a cost that climbed and climbed with every weary mile, he
carried wood, he carried tools. When the crewth was finished, he
carried that." His fingers moved on the strings, and the
back-and-forth surge of the bow changed to something more
complex.
"We had no
homes!" The movement of the bow was a dance now, the fingers of his
other hand doing a dance of their own on the strings. "No door was
open to us. No place made us welcome. We carried tents on our
backs, and put them up each night under cold starlight, or under
pouring rain, or in fields of snow."
The other
musicians were following his lead, the music taking on a life of
its own, dwarves on either side of Tira taking up the beat with
fingers or mugs that tapped on the tables and benches.
"And each
night, as we made our poor camp in a new place, my father played
the crewth, and his friends and kinsmen brought out drums and horns
and pipes. And they played the songs that my grandfather played,
and his grandfather before him. And we remembered that we were
dwarves! And for just one night, wherever we were, we were
home."
A cheer went up
from the assembled dwarves, the children clapped, and the musicians
started a lively jig. A score of dwarves clapped in time, and
someone tapped a beer keg. The gathering grew louder and more
festive as the drink began to flow.
There was
dancing on the grass, the small number of women in great demand
Solid dwarvish
fingers were tapping on the skin drumheads, ever so softly, a beat
like a pulse just at the edge of hearing.
"There was
hunger, there was deprivation, there was darkness and mud and cold.
But worst of all was the fear. It kept us under the ground. It
stilled our voices, it chilled our hearts. We became something less
than dwarves. We became moles, cowering underground, afraid of the
light."
The krummhorn
began to moan, a low, deep sound that made Tira's breastbone
vibrate. The drums rose in volume, ever so slightly, and the dwarf
with the gittern kept time, plucking a single string over and
over.
"Dwarves with
spears and axes kept us safe." His voice rang out, suddenly loud,
and Tira flinched back involuntarily. She saw the children do the
same, and a dwarf chuckled.
"Dwarves with
hoes and spades gave us crops, and dwarves with bows and nets
brought us meat and fish. They kept us alive." His fingers caressed
the crewth, and he brought the bow sweeping across the strings. The
crewth seemed to wail, as if giving voice to every moment of
loneliness and fear the dwarves had ever endured.
"Brave dwarves
preserved our lives. But my grandfather, and men like him, did
something else. In the darkest, coldest hours of the night, with
goblins pressing close and fear pressing closer, they made music.
They preserved our courage. They preserved our hearts!"
He sawed with
the bow, and the crewth gave a triumphant cry. The drums beat
louder and faster, and the listening crowd stirred.
"He reminded us
that we were dwarves. He reminded us why we fought, why we endured.
He gave us the courage to break free." The bow made quick,
back-and-forth movements, the same two notes, over and over, in
time with the beat of Tira's heart.
"In time we
left the Cold Mountains." His fingers moved on the strings and the
two notes that he played became deeper. "We wandered." The triumph
was gone from the music. Instead it became weary and sad. "We had
no home. No place of our own. We were pariahs."
The fire seemed
to grow dim, the circle of light contracting, and a slender dwarf,
young enough that his beard was sparse and wispy, leaned in to prod
it with an iron poker. A log fell into the coals, and sparks shot
upward.
"My father
played the crewth." He stopped sawing with the bow long enough to
stroke the curved spine of the instrument. "He played this crewth,
that he made with his own hands." The bow resumed its
back-and-forth movement, and the dwarf squared his shoulders, pride
giving strength to his words.
"When every
ounce had a cost that climbed and climbed with every weary mile, he
carried wood, he carried tools. When the crewth was finished, he
carried that." His fingers moved on the strings, and the
back-and-forth surge of the bow changed to something more
complex.
"We had no
homes!" The movement of the bow was a dance now, the fingers of his
other hand doing a dance of their own on the strings. "No door was
open to us. No place made us welcome. We carried tents on our
backs, and put them up each night under cold starlight, or under
pouring rain, or in fields of snow."
The other
musicians were following his lead, the music taking on a life of
its own, dwarves on either side of Tira taking up the beat with
fingers or mugs that tapped on the tables and benches.
"And each
night, as we made our poor camp in a new place, my father played
the crewth, and his friends and kinsmen brought out drums and horns
and pipes. And they played the songs that my grandfather played,
and his grandfather before him. And we remembered that we were
dwarves! And for just one night, wherever we were, we were
home."
A cheer went up
from the assembled dwarves, the children clapped, and the musicians
started a lively jig. A score of dwarves clapped in time, and
someone tapped a beer keg. The gathering grew louder and more
festive as the drink began to flow.
There was
dancing on the grass, the small number of women in great demand
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