reached the village gates, I halted. Unlike the last time I was here, no guard met me with a spear aimed at my chest. Instead, my greeting came from a newly carved sign attached to one of the gateposts. Shining in the late afternoon light, it read, Caer Neithan, Town of the Bards, welcomes all who come in peace. Below those words, I recognized one of Cairpré’s own couplets: Here song is ever in the air, while story climbs the spiral stair.
No sooner had I stepped inside the gates when a slender, shaggy-haired man jumped up from one of the planks and strode over. His tangled brows, as unruly as brambles, hung over his dark eyes. I waited for him, leaning against my staff.
“Hello, Cairpré.”
“Merlin,” he whispered, spreading his arms as if he were about to clap his hands with joy. Then, glancing over his shoulder at the gaunt man who was reciting some passage, he apparently changed his mind about clapping. “Good to see you, my boy.”
I nodded, realizing that he must have assumed that my work in the Dark Hills was done. It would not be easy to tell him the truth.
Again he glanced at the man reciting, and at the somber, almost tearful faces of the people in the audience. “I am only sorry you didn’t arrive for a happier performance.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I whispered. “From all those sullen faces, it appears that fellow has a gift for making people feel sad. What is he reciting? Some sort of tragic poem?”
Cairpré’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Unfortunately not.” He shook his shaggy mane. “Believe it or not, the poor fellow is trying to be funny.”
“Funny?”
“That’s right.”
Just then a clamorous clinking and rattling reached my ears. I turned back to the performer to see him shaking his head wildly, tossing his pointed hat from side to side. The sound came from the metal spheres. They were bells! Of course, I thought. Just right for making people laugh. Too bad they sounded so jarring, more like banging swords than ringing bells.
I observed the man for a moment. His hands drooped, his shoulders sagged, and his back stooped. In addition, his entire face—including his brow, his eyes, and his mouth—seemed to frown. The effect was compounded because, despite his thin frame, he had a flabby neck with row upon row of extra chins. So when his mouth turned down once, it turned down five or six times.
Suddenly he drew his heavy cloak around himself as if he were about to deliver a speech. Then, in sad, slow tones, he started to sing—or, more accurately, to wail. His voice seemed to cry, his breathing came like sobs. Like Cairpré, and most of the villagers, I winced. The man may have been trying to be funny, but his singing conveyed all the joy of a funeral dirge.
When bells reach your ears,
Abandon all fears!
Your lingering sadness
Will turn into gladness.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
I frolic and skip
With laughs on my lip!
My bells jingle sweetly,
I thrill you completely.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
As the wailing continued, I turned to Cairpré. “Doesn’t he know how he sounds? He is the least funny person I have ever heard.”
The poet heaved a sigh. “I think he does know. But he keeps on trying anyway. His name is Bumbelwy. Ever since he was a child, when he first frightened away the birds with his singing, he has dreamed of being a jester. Not just an amusing frolicker, but a true jester, someone who practices the high art of dressing wisdom in the garb of humor. Bumbelwy the Mirthful, he calls himself.”
“Bumbelwy the Painful suits him better.”
“I know, I know. As I’ve said before, Bread yearns to rise beyond its size.”
The townspeople, meanwhile, seemed every bit as dismal as Bumbelwy himself. Many held their heads in their hands; all wore scowls. One young girl shook loose of a woman’s arms and ran into a nearby house, her black hair streaming behind her. While the woman stayed in her seat, she
No sooner had I stepped inside the gates when a slender, shaggy-haired man jumped up from one of the planks and strode over. His tangled brows, as unruly as brambles, hung over his dark eyes. I waited for him, leaning against my staff.
“Hello, Cairpré.”
“Merlin,” he whispered, spreading his arms as if he were about to clap his hands with joy. Then, glancing over his shoulder at the gaunt man who was reciting some passage, he apparently changed his mind about clapping. “Good to see you, my boy.”
I nodded, realizing that he must have assumed that my work in the Dark Hills was done. It would not be easy to tell him the truth.
Again he glanced at the man reciting, and at the somber, almost tearful faces of the people in the audience. “I am only sorry you didn’t arrive for a happier performance.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I whispered. “From all those sullen faces, it appears that fellow has a gift for making people feel sad. What is he reciting? Some sort of tragic poem?”
Cairpré’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Unfortunately not.” He shook his shaggy mane. “Believe it or not, the poor fellow is trying to be funny.”
“Funny?”
“That’s right.”
Just then a clamorous clinking and rattling reached my ears. I turned back to the performer to see him shaking his head wildly, tossing his pointed hat from side to side. The sound came from the metal spheres. They were bells! Of course, I thought. Just right for making people laugh. Too bad they sounded so jarring, more like banging swords than ringing bells.
I observed the man for a moment. His hands drooped, his shoulders sagged, and his back stooped. In addition, his entire face—including his brow, his eyes, and his mouth—seemed to frown. The effect was compounded because, despite his thin frame, he had a flabby neck with row upon row of extra chins. So when his mouth turned down once, it turned down five or six times.
Suddenly he drew his heavy cloak around himself as if he were about to deliver a speech. Then, in sad, slow tones, he started to sing—or, more accurately, to wail. His voice seemed to cry, his breathing came like sobs. Like Cairpré, and most of the villagers, I winced. The man may have been trying to be funny, but his singing conveyed all the joy of a funeral dirge.
When bells reach your ears,
Abandon all fears!
Your lingering sadness
Will turn into gladness.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
I frolic and skip
With laughs on my lip!
My bells jingle sweetly,
I thrill you completely.
Be joyful, have cheer:
The jester is here!
As the wailing continued, I turned to Cairpré. “Doesn’t he know how he sounds? He is the least funny person I have ever heard.”
The poet heaved a sigh. “I think he does know. But he keeps on trying anyway. His name is Bumbelwy. Ever since he was a child, when he first frightened away the birds with his singing, he has dreamed of being a jester. Not just an amusing frolicker, but a true jester, someone who practices the high art of dressing wisdom in the garb of humor. Bumbelwy the Mirthful, he calls himself.”
“Bumbelwy the Painful suits him better.”
“I know, I know. As I’ve said before, Bread yearns to rise beyond its size.”
The townspeople, meanwhile, seemed every bit as dismal as Bumbelwy himself. Many held their heads in their hands; all wore scowls. One young girl shook loose of a woman’s arms and ran into a nearby house, her black hair streaming behind her. While the woman stayed in her seat, she
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