The Minstrel Boy Read online

  THE

  MINSTREL BOY

  THE

  MINSTREL BOY

  Sharon Stewart

  Text © 1997 by Sharon Stewart

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover art:

  Christopher Chuckry

  Book design:

  Craig McConnell

  Napoleon Publishing

  A Division of TransMedia Enterprises Inc.

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  05 04 03 02 01 00 99 98 97 5 4 3 2 1

  The author gratefully acknowledges

  the support of the Ontario Arts Council.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Stewart, Sharon(Sharon Roberta), date

  The minstrel boy

  ISBN 0-929141-54-7

  I. Title.

  PS8587.T4895M55 1997 jC813’.54 C97-931309-0

  PZ7.S8499Mi 1997

  TIME IS

  TIME WAS

  TIME IS NOT

  –Sundial Proverb

  TO RODERICK, FOR ALL THE REASONS

  S. S.

  PROLOGUE

  He had always dreamed of fire. Flames flaring against a night sky and the dark figures of people running. With this, a sense of loss so keen that he ached with it. Then shouts, cries, and a searing blast of heat. A figure looming ahead of him, then a heavy blow that sent him spinning downward into darkness.

  When he was small, he used to wake up crying. Now he was older. Shocked awake, he would lie in a cold sweat, aching with a loss he couldn’t explain. Hoping not to sleep again before morning.

  ONE

  Bat-black night rushed at the motorcycle headlight. The road threaded through the valley toward the wild hills, and the lights of sleeping villages flashed by. The noise of his passing shattered the peace and quiet. David grinned and felt the wind against his teeth. About time someone stirred things up around here. Bloody Wales!

  A signpost reared out of the dark at the side of the road. He wheeled around it for a moment, revving the engine. Caerleon he had just come from. And wasn’t about to go back to. Not for awhile. Maybe a long while. Where, then? Usk? Abergavenny? Who cared, anyway? He chose the road that climbed.

  Stupid. Stubborn. Selfish. His father’s words hammered in his brain even as he tried to outrun them. It had been a monumental fight, one they had both been spoiling for. Well, he’d got in a few choice words he’d wanted to say. And he was glad. Glad!

  They’d almost come to blows. With all the hateful words spoken, they’d stood glaring at each other.

  It had been his father who had backed down. “All right,” he had said, passing a hand through his hair, “let’s cool off. We’ve both had our say. I can’t seem to reach you, David. I know how hard it’s been for you . . .”

  “Oh, do you?” David sneered. “Do you really? I don’t remember your ever being there for me. What did you care?”

  “That’s not fair, David.” His father paused, reaching for words. “Things just didn’t . . . work out between your mother and me. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “So you just walked out and left us with nothing.” Remembering the hurt. Then, later, the shame of being poor, of having to wear old clothes to school. His naked yearning for the gear other guys had. His growing impatience with his mother’s “crafty stuff,” the pots and wreaths and wall hangings she made and sold to trendy shops uptown. They had brought in enough money to scrape by on, but no more. It hadn’t seemed to matter all that much to his mother. She loved creating things, was proud that she kept the two of them going. But it had mattered to him. So did her oddness—her long, straight hair, the gypsy dresses she wore. She wasn’t like other guys’ moms. He’d loved her, but had wished she were different. It hurt to remember that now.

  His father stared at him. “You could at least listen, David,” he protested. “I said I didn’t abandon you. I sent cheques, more than enough money to keep both of you going. She tore them up and mailed me the pieces.”

  “Good for her!” But he hadn’t known that. Not that it mattered now. “So I guess that got you off the hook, huh? Very convenient!” he retorted.

  His father shrugged. “Don’t you remember how I used to phone? Ask to see you? She used to hang up on me. Then she taught you to do it.” He paused to light a cigarette. “Anyway, what good does it do to keep harping on the past? Your mother’s dead.”

  “I know that!” David snapped. And suddenly saw her face, thin against the pillows, her eyes enormous. And himself feeling frightened. Wanting to cry. Not being able to.

  “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that no matter what you think of me, we have to try to get along now. That’s why I wanted to have you with me when I got the chance to teach over here. I thought we could make a fresh start . . .”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to barge into my life and take over?” David asked bitterly. “At least I had some friends back home. And I had my music.” His voice choked up, and he hated himself for his weakness. “Not that you’ve ever understood that, or anything else I care about,” he finished lamely.

  “Oh, yes, your ‘musical’ friends.” His father’s voice hardened. “The ones you skipped school with. The ones who got so high on pills that they couldn’t see straight. I met some of them the night you were arrested, remember? I still can’t believe you were stupid enough to take any kind of drugs. And get into a car with someone who had taken them too. You’re lucky the judge let you off so lightly!”

  David scowled. He wasn’t sure he understood himself why he’d gone along with the drugs. He’d said no dozens of time before. Maybe he’d just got tired of being the outsider. Needed to belong for once. And one of the guys had urged, “Aw, lighten up, Ice King. It’s only pills. Why don’t you fall off your pedestal for once?”

  So he’d said, “Yeah, why not?”

  It hadn’t worked, of course, not the way he’d wanted it to. The pills had built a spiky high inside him. Too high. It felt like climbing a mountain of broken glass. He could hear himself talking, babbling. Doing his thing with words. And the others laughing. But inside the bubble of words, he was still alone, as he always had been.

  “As for your music,” his father continued, “you’re right. I don’t understand it. It’s a waste of your talent, and it leads you to mix with scum! Why do you think I brought you over here? I’m hoping that you’ll snap out of all this nonsense!”

  “Snap out of it? You’re unreal!” David shot back. “After all this time, you just don’t get it, do you? Music is me, and I’m it. Without it, I’m nothing. Like you.” He headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “What do you care?”

  “David!”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Without it, I’m nothing. David zipped up his windbreaker against the chilly spring air. After hesitating a moment, he jogged off, not much caring which direction he took. I shouldn’t have said that, he told himself angrily. He’d broken his own rule. Never let anyone know how you feel inside. Not anyone! Not ever!

  What would be the point, anyway? Nobody would understand. Oh, he’d tried to tell his mother when he was little. She had soothed him, saying not to be afraid, the dream was only a dream. What he couldn’t explain was the terrible feeling the dream left behind. An emptiness, as if part of him were lost somewhere, and he couldn’t find it.

  No one else knew. Not even Jamie, who was the closest thing he’d had to a friend. And Jamie . . . His mind touched the memory like a tongue probing a rotten too
th. Gingerly. Turning up his jacket collar, he jogged on.

  Jamie. The only kid who saw something in him. No one else thought either of them was much good, but they’d suited each other. They’d muddled their way through school, scraping by in class, bench-mates on third-string teams, beginning to eye girls.

  Then one day David had started fooling around with a beaten-up electric guitar Jamie’s older brother had dumped in the garage. That changed a lot of things, at least on the outside. Because David found out he was good. Very, very good. Good without even knowing how to read music. He didn’t have to. He could feel it, think it, on any instrument he picked up, after a little practice. He could write songs and sing them, too.

  He took a chance and entered a school talent show, and won. Then a guy who heard him knew another guy who needed a guitarist for a band that played weekend gigs and school dances. That was the beginning. From being a loner and outsider, he became someone who counted, someone others followed and flattered. And he had some money in his jeans. Not a lot, but more than he’d ever had before.

  He’d let Jamie tag along, got the band to give him a chance on drums. Jamie wasn’t exactly a natural, but he did okay. And he never seemed to begrudge David the limelight. Or the girls. The great-looking girls. Cheerleader girls with fuzzy sweaters and glossy, bouncing hair. All of them wanting something from David. Something that he couldn’t feel, though he wrote about it endlessly in his songs. Love.

  The music and what it gave him should have been enough. But after the first thrill, it hadn’t been. Something was still missing. Maybe that was why he . . .

  David cursed under his breath at the memory. Why had he messed around with Jeannie? It wasn’t as if she had mattered to him all that much. She was a nice kid, that was all. But that wasn’t how Jamie felt about her. David had known it and had still gone ahead. Just because he was bored, and she was there.

  I thought we were friends! Jamie’s words, wild with hurt.

  That had been the end of it with Jamie. Then David had only the others left—the followers and the wasters with nothing inside them, either. He wished he could make it up to Jamie somehow. But he knew he couldn’t. Wouldn’t, because he was too ashamed even to try. Anyway, it was too late now.

  David stopped, panting, under a lamp post, his breath a cloud in the cold, damp air. He shivered. All very well to take off, but now what? Back home he could just head for wherever the band was getting together. And dive into music, his own personal painkiller. He rubbed his calloused fingertips on his jeans, itching for a guitar. If only he could plug into the biggest amp around and blast out sound! That always got the blackness out of him. For a while.

  But in this hick town? Where could he go? There was a chippy on the corner, its windows clouded with steam. Someone came out hugging a parcel wrapped in newspaper, and he caught a savoury whiff of fish and chips laced with the tang of vinegar. The smell made his stomach rumble. But he couldn’t eat here. His father would probably come looking for him, and it wasn’t all that big a town. He had to get out, away, at least for a while. But how? He felt in his pockets. He had some money, but the buses had long since stopped running.

  Then he remembered Hywel, a kid he knew at school. And Hwyel’s motorcycle. David grinned. Hyw had been so eager to show it to him—something he could impress the Canadian kid with.

  A few minutes later, confronting Hyw’s bike in the dusty back shed, David hesitated. It was Hyw’s pride and joy. Still, he probably wouldn’t mind too much, so long as David did the bike no harm and gassed it up afterward. And if he did mind? Too bad. He shouldn’t have shown David where he hid the key, then, should he? He touched one of the handle bars. It was ice-cold.

  Where could he go? He knew no-one outside Caerleon. But he had to get away for awhile. Had to. And this was the only way. Unwanted, a thought floated to the top of his mind. Jamie would have understood how he was feeling. Hadn’t he always?

  Except once.

  David kicked away the stand and quietly rolled the bike down the alley and around the corner. It roared into life at the first try. Once away from the town he speeded up, leaning into the curves, almost parallel to the road. Heading into the dark.

  That had been more than an hour ago. By now he must be fifty miles from Caerleon. How much fuel had Hyw left in the bike, anyway? It would be stupid to get stranded miles from nowhere. To have to phone his father to pick him up. No, thanks! He must be getting near the top. Surely there’d be a village up here or at least somewhere to buy gas.

  He swept on around a steep turn, then another, the road doubling back on itself in a series of snaky curves. Then he was over some kind of pass. He pulled up to look around. He turned off the engine, removing the helmet and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. Around him, the barren landscape of the high hills lay bathed in unearthly brightness. A horned moon rode high above a wrack of clouds. From far and away below somewhere came the deep murmur of water over stone. High on the left, the rocky bones of a great stone tomb reared against the sky. There wasn’t the gleam of a friendly light anywhere.

  David let out his breath in a whistle. “Spooooky,” he said aloud. Then wished he hadn’t, for his voice sounded very lonely in the brilliant dark. There was a soft whir of pinions, and something white swooped over his head. He ducked as it swept back over him, closer this time.

  For a moment his heart rose into his throat. Then the thing swooped again, and he chuckled. “Hey, owl,” he said, relieved. “Give me a break. I’m not your dinner. Go find a mouse!”

  The huge white owl landed on a bush beside the road and sat watching him. David pulled on his helmet. It was no use going any further. He’d have to go back. At least it was all downhill.

  Then he saw a spark of light in the distance. There was somebody out there! The light wavered, then grew a little brighter. It divided and became two and three and four flickering points, then more. It looked like torches. The chain of lights seemed to be moving up out of the valley toward the ruins. Dimly, as from a great distance, came the faint sound of singing.

  David snorted in contempt. Now, who would go wandering around in the middle of the night with torches? Singing, no less! Must be some crazy Welsh custom. He watched the lights for a few moments. Judging by the direction they were taking, they’d be crossing the road not too far ahead of him. Then, almost as though it had been put there, a thought popped into his mind. Why not zoom down on these yokels, just to remind them this was the twentieth century! And when he’d had his fun, he could ask the way to the nearest gas station too.

  He switched on the ignition, and the bike coughed into life. “So long, owl,” he said, looking around. But the owl had vanished.

  As he bore down on the lights, he expected them to waver, to take note of his presence somehow. Whoever it was must surely be able to hear him coming! Stubborn, were they? Thought they owned the road? Suddenly he wanted to give them a real scare. Of course, he wouldn’t really hurt anyone. He’d pull up in plenty of time.

  He gunned the bike toward the lights. They were right on the road now, and seemed to be flaring up, growing brighter. The weird thing was that he could hear the singing even through his helmet. Now the lights were all around him, but he still couldn’t see anything.

  Then he did. His last thought was, “Where’d that blasted tree come from?” Then he hit it.

  TWO

  When he opened his eyes, all he could make out at first was a white flower-like thing above him. A splitting pain in his head made him groan and close his eyes again. After a few moments, he sat up cautiously, holding his head. It was only then that he noticed the sharp, throbbing pain in his left leg. He groaned again.

  The flower-thing was still there, except that now he could see that it wasn’t a flower at all.

  That wretched owl again! It was perched on a branch right above him.

  “Yaaah! Get off, you!” he yelled, waving his arms. The owl just flapped one branch higher and stared down at him. He tried to get to hi
s feet, but the movement made him so sick with pain that the ground heaved under him.

  I can’t just lie here! he told himself. Gritting his teeth, he managed to get his good leg under him and pull himself up, using a tree trunk for support.

  Tree trunk? He gazed around, wildly. He was in the middle of a forest. All about him, great trees loomed in the dark. How could there be trees? He’d been up on the barren hills. Not a tree for miles. And even back home he’d never seen trees like these giants, their tops lost in darkness.

  Never mind the trees now, he told himself. You’ve crashed the bike, you stupid fool. You’d better find it! Painfully, he edged around in a circle, trying to keep the weight off his bad leg. He kept expecting to stumble over the motorcycle any minute. It couldn’t be far away.

  But there was no sign of the bike. Lovely, he thought. Lost in a forest, alone, can’t find the bloody bike. Now what? He turned again, slowly, trying to pierce the surrounding darkness. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he thought he could make out a faint glow through the trees. He limped toward it, cursing as he stumbled over roots in the dark.

  It took him forever to reach the light. When he got there, he found a campfire, neatly banked behind a ring of stones. Its ruddy-orange glow lit up a simple campsite. The camp was deserted, but clearly hadn’t been for long. A rough blanket was spread on the grass, and a small stew pot of something savoury-smelling hung steaming on a crude frame over the fire.

  David sank down on the blanket, and rested his head on his knees.When the worst of the pain had passed, he suddenly began to feel his hunger. It had been hours since he’d eaten. “Anybody here?” he called, but not too loudly. Surely, whoever’s camp this was wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to a bit of supper. After he’d been in an accident, and all. He found a piece of bark that had been used as a scoop and another that had served as a plate, and helped himself. The meat was nothing he could identify. It was chewy and full of flavour, well-seasoned with herbs and onion. David wolfed it down.