Stolen Song [September 2004]

A northland night stretched over the browning tundra, crisp with fall’s sharp bite, wind howling loneliness over the empty land. A slice of silver moon frowned down at a solitary figure in concern, stardrop gaze blinking curious confusion. Chill night, bitter wind, crystal sky, a vastness that inspired insignificance on anything living: it fit Shira Shadowdance’s mood perfectly.

She trudged northward, wind whipping her cloak like a tattered banner. Each step was mechanical, the exhausted one... two... one... two broken only by frequent stumbling. All day, all night she’d walked, not caring how her stomach growled and shrank, scarcely noticing the brutal gale, not stopping when fatigue turned frozen limbs to icy lead. To stop, to rest, to sleep was to dream, and the dreams…

The girl’s eyes closed tight and she shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the northland autumn. She would not sleep. She would not dream. She would not remember!

One foot in front of the next, eyes on the ground, keep moving, don’t stop, don’t rest. Memory drove her onward, demons nipping at her heels. Next foot forward, down. Time, distance, cold—all lost meaning, melding into endless numbness…

…until an unnoticed stone caught her dragging feet and sent her sprawling, a marionette with frayed strings finally snapping in twain.

The last bit of endurance within melted away at last. She didn’t stir, fatigue weighing her entire body into the frozen earth, making movement impossible.

Rest...

A whispered thought in her dulled mind, laborious just to think the single word. A stubborn thread of fear curled about her consciousness, insisted she shouldn’t let sleep overtake her, but she was too tired to care. Exhaustion weighed down her eyelids, darkness enveloping her mind before she even closed her eyes.

Too tired to resist sleep. Not too tired to dream.

Music drifted from the void and something within responded. Music—she recalled the joy it once brought, the delight, lifting her clear voice in song, soaring soprano above her mother’s harmonizing alto. It brought forth memory of comfort, of happiness, and she moved towards it, floating through the night on dreamthought.

Little singer, nightingale
Clear voice bringing life to tales
Sing the past
Sing the night
My song, my Shirili.

Her mother’s voice, low and rich, singing the gentle lullaby she’d written for her daughter. And now she stood before Shira, lit by golden sunlight, a beacon in the darkness. “Sing with me, Shirili,” she said, words still carrying the lullaby’s melody.

Shira’s mouth opened but no sound came forth, no music formed within her mind. I... can’t...

Sadness crossed her mother’s face, kindled dark in her expressive eyes. “Shirili...”

The lullaby changed, quickened, sped to a tempo that forced feet into dance. Shira turned like a planet on its axis as her mother’s glow dimmed with sudden distance. Darkness enveloped the girl once more as she hurtled towards a flame whirling in the distance, lightning leaping through the void.

Little dreamer, lightfoot grace
Sunset brush weaves stardust chase
Dance the moonbeams
Dance the sky
My moon fairy, my Lunshea.

The flames coalesced into a man, a lithe dancer, purest energy and grace. He whirled, leapt, tumbled, letting the music flow through him, around him, become him... Laughing eyes alight with life fell on Shira then and he drew nearer, every step a part of the whirlwind dance.

“Little Lunshea!” A smile flashed across the dark face and he held out a hand. “Dance with me?"

Time froze. Dance... She remembered the thrill of letting sound overtake motion, remembered whirling in breathless dance, a physical manifestation of music, movement for the sheer joy of it... and yet she remained still, unable to accept his hand, unable to accept the dance.

Time resumed its course. Her father shook his head sadly, set off into dance as the music turned soft, slow, shifted to a haunting minor key. “You haven’t danced with me much at all lately, Lunshea...” His movements joined the music in expressing melancholy... regret? “You’ve been spending all your time with that rogue Furis. I wish you wouldn’t—he’s...”

“...fun, and interesting, and not nearly so dull as this little village!”

Her voice, and suddenly she was looking down at herself—a version of herself without the deadened eyes, the stilled tongue. No... A pleading cry, protest against the replay of memory, and completely useless. No, don’t; listen to Father, please...

A sigh from her father, light brown gaze turning away from the girl whose eyes flashed fiery defiance. “I don’t want you hurt.”

“Furis wouldn’t hurt me! Why can’t you understand? Just because he borrows things—“

Her father’s eyes narrowed, the normally carefree dancer transformed into a protective parent. “Call it by its name, Lunshea. He’s a no good thief who’ll never set down roots and he’ll steal more than just pies and trinkets. He’ll steal your heart and he’ll break it and then...” His countenance softened, saddened, concern clear in the angular features. “...where will my spirited dancer be then?”

She looked away, not meeting his gaze. “I like him. He’s fun. He’s smart. He knows things other than music and dancing. And he’s been places, more than just this little nowhere town.”

“...you were happy enough here before he came.” Soft, almost hesitant. Afraid?

“Maybe I just didn’t know enough about the outside world then.” The obstinate set to the memory-Shira’s jaw brooked no further argument. She’d not change her mind, not on this matter. “Can I go now?”

The dancer closed his eyes, bowed his head. “Yes. You may go.”

She didn’t react to the pain in his soft voice, scarcely even seemed to notice it. Shira turned on her heel, anger stiffening her shoulders, and stalked away into the void.

No...! Can’t you see he’s worried about you, he loves you, he knows more about others than you! Don’t go to Furis, please don’t go to Furis...

...but her tormented thoughts went unheard by her relentless memory and the song continued, grieving for the inevitable.

Little dancer, whirling blade
Moonlight shattered, spirit shade
Dance to blood
Dance to death
My lost star, my Shadowdance.

“Shirili Lunshea... A beautiful name.”

A young man stretched out on the grass, propped up on one elbow, amber gaze fixed on Shira’s face. He was handsome in a roguish way, a beret perched jauntily over one ear. His smile was a match for his devil-may-care manner, irresistible to a girl growing up with no one but farmers for companionship.

But it was the memory-Shira once more, sitting on a flat rock, charmed by the wandering thief. The dream-Shira could only stand apart and watch. Helpless...

“It means ‘my song.’ Shirili does, anyway.” She felt inarticulate next to the smooth, worldly rogue, but he listened with such attentive interest that it hardly mattered. “Though most people call me ‘Shira,’ that just means ‘song.’ Lunshea’s what my da calls me. It means ‘moon fairy.’” Her own dark eyes shifted away, sought the sliver of moon in the sky, embarrassment preventing eye contact. “Silly, I know...”

“Oh, no.” The thief smiled, his tone easing embarrassment into self-consciousness. “I think it’s a very pretty name, and it fits you quite well. You dance like I believe a fairy might.”

Her face grew warm. “Er... I...” Breathe, Shira. She drew in air, long and deep like when she had a song to sing, calming butterflies and blowing away the stammer. “Thank you, Furis.”

“May I call you Shirili?”

The void enveloped her mind, surprise at the request. Shirili was a rather personal name, used mostly by her mother; she didn’t think she belonged to anyone. Only her mother had the right to call her that. To everyone else she was just... a song. Shira.

Furis must have sensed her hesitation. “I can just call you Shira if you prefer... but Shirili has so much more music about it, fits you far better, and you are a song I carry within my heart... I’d like it if I could call you my song. My inspiration.”

If it were a song someone had written, Shira would immediately dismiss it as terrible—but it was not a song, and her mind was far from good songcrafting at the moment. Her eyes widened more than they had at his initial request and finally she nodded, slow and wondrous. “I—yes. Yes, I’d like that.”

The night wore on in chatter, time spinning forward, night to dawn to dusk to night again and again, days whirling by with blinding speed as the grieving strains soared above it all.

Little singer, silent soul
Deadened night, heart’s gaping hole
Sing the sorrow
Sing the loss
My stolen song, my silenced Shira.

Dream and memory fused, horror and fear mingling uneasily with laughter and thrill. She ran at the heels of a grinning Furis, not noticing or perhaps ignoring the cruel gleam in his eyes, the fear-crazed edge to his smile.

In the woods, new moon invisible, trees garbed in endless shadow. Advancing on her, still smiling, and she finally noticed the feral cast to the expression. Uncertainty eliminated the laughter in her eyes. “Furis? Is something...”

“Wrong? Na, na, nothin’ wrong.” All elegance gone, voice harsh with fear not quite disguised by an empty laugh. “Just a horde comin’ this way. Th’ Nighthunt. E’er heard of ‘em, Shirili?”

Her eyes widened. “Horde? I—no, I’ve never heard—what...?”

“Expert fighters. Merciless. They live te pillage, stealin’ food from others an’ takin’ slaves ev’rywhere they go—an’ yer liddle village’s no match fer ‘em.”

“But the village Guardian will fight, she’s a good warrior... And she’s taught me how to use a blade, so I can help... and you’re here.” Staring up at him, almost pleading. “You can fight, I know you can.”

Another haunted laugh. “Shirili, Shirili, so innocent, so naïve...” His voice smoothed into a caress with a whisper of a taunt. “I’ve lived alone ‘cos I ain’t a hero. A horde like th’ Nighthunt, ain’t nothing te do but run.” The usual roguish grin twisted into a smirk. “I’m a thief, Shirili. Not a hero.”

“But...”

“A thief. An expert thief.” He drew her into an embrace that she was too stunned to resist. “I steal more’n sweets an’ treasures, you see... an’ yer an easy bit te steal.”

Shock coursed through her; she stiffened in Furis’s arms. “You’re... you’re going to kidnap me?”

He chuckled at that, genuinely amused. “Na, I’m not so foolish as that. I’m goin’ te steal somethin’ far more...rewarding...”

No...!

Drawing back, realization dawning, but the wiry thief’s arms were a cage and all martial learning fled her mind from the consuming fear.

Don’t touch me...

Knowing it’s nightmare, knowing it’s only memory but unable to wake, unable to tear away from the scene, unable to resist.

Leave me alone!

Caught in the hellish memory, forced to relive every shame, every pain, every moment. Helpless...

Leave... me... be...

A whimper as the useless screams wore themselves down into sobs, as she curled into a miserable ball of blood and sweat and tears, as he rose, caressed with a calloused hand. Flinching away and he laughed at her revulsion, her fear, her pain.

...no...

Staring mindless, soulless, broken. Not hearing, scarcely caring as he turned, as he crunched away in the autumn leaves, fading to silence.

Dancer—you dance to blood now
Dancer—where is your joy?
Dancer—you dance to death now
Dancer—who stole your life?

The music surrounding her huddled form changed again as the scene dissipated into the void, leaving naught but memory whirling through a series of images and words. Her mother, staring in shocked concern when she stumbled into the village, bleeding and battered and silent. Her father, seeing that Furis was gone, guessing that the two had been attacked by the vicious horde, assuming Furis had been captured or killed. The villagers, mourning the death of the thief they deemed a hero for protecting their Shira.

Herself... sitting silent wherever she was placed, staring into nothing, locked into an endless cycle of memory. The music—gone. The dance—gone. All life, all spirit—stolen from her by an expert thief.

Not eating, not bathing, not moving, not speaking. Fearing sleep, for sleep brought nightmare, forced her to live that night again... and again... and again...

Singer—you sing to none now
Singer—where is your voice?
Singer—your music is lost now
Singer—who stole your song?

She would have died. Would have been happy to waste away to a ghost but her parents wouldn’t let her, forced food down her throat, tried all they knew to bring back the carefree Shirili, the exuberant Lunshea. No success. She remained silent, dead to the world.

Until her mother spoke prophecy.

The gentle bardess reappeared in the void of dreams, pinpoint starlight expanding in an eyeblink to a woman-shaped glow, eyes wide and staring in the thrall of visions, mouth moving in a sing-song chant. Dancer—who stole your life? Singer—who stole your song?

Dance your way through winter to life
Sing to find your soul
Search among the searching lost
And therein find your stolen song.

Silent still, she took up her sword.

Silent still, she donned traveler’s garb.

Silent still, she walked to the village border, gazed to the north.

Her parents found her there, stopped at the light of purpose in her still-lifeless gaze, and then the silence cracked with the blow of a single word.

“Farewell.”

They let her go.

Search among the searching lost...

The void released her, the memories faded to murmurs in her mind, and sunlight pulled her to consciousness. She drew in a deep breath of crisp northland air, cleansing after the night of memory and nightmare and torment. The girl rose, shook off lingering fatigue, and set her face to the north once again. The wind, lessened to a breeze, swirled about her with the echo of a sing-song chant on its back, the whisper of a melody. Shira Shadowdance closed her eyes, nodded in slow acceptance, and set off to the towering stone building on the dawn touched horizon.

...therein find your stolen song...