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"SSC24-Song of the Seasons"

This is 1st draft v 0.7, so I may change a little if I'm allowed. I would REALLY appreciate some immediate feedback on this one, because it's due to be entered in a competition tomorrow. methinks I went heavy on the description.

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I arrived in the wood tired and alone, having walked many hard miles through the sweltering midday heat. I had overstretched myself in my travels, and reached the stage beyond tiredness, passed through it, and collapsed, exhausted, in these unfamiliar woods which now tower all around me.

Shortly after entering the woods I became aware of an overwhelming thirst that had been building inside me all day, brought to the surface of my thoughts again by the sound of nearby running water. I staggered towards the sound, to find myself bursting out of the swathes of shoulder height bracken I had been wading through into a grass-covered clearing. In the centre of the clearing ran a babbling stream, jewelled waters glinting as they splashed into the warm summer sunlight.

Needless to say, I drank my fill and more, before lying down by the brook and sleeping a long, dream-filled sleep while the night air swept in around me. When I woke, it was to the sound of music, elegantly struck chords emanating from deeper into the forest, distant, but at the same time, very near. It was evident that they were being played upon a harp or lyre, and every note penetrated my deepest consciousness. I was gripped with a desire to find the heavenly musician who persuaded such gentle, melodic notes from whatever simple instrument, and, without consideration for my own safety, I set off in the direction of the music.

It was early in the morning, and as I walked, the forest came alive around me, springing into life at the bidding of the music. Birds sang in tune, weaving intricate countermelodies around the strong, full notes of the musician, and as the sun began to rise and dapple the dew-dropped clearings with its first rays, the music became gradually louder and more intense, and creatures of all kinds began to stir and awaken.

Listening ever more intently to those celestial tones, I proceeded through the woodland until I reached, about half an hour later, the place from where the music had been emanating. It was an empty glade, similar to those that I had passed through already, but for the occupant, and his golden harp. He was seated cross legged on the ground in the middle of the clearing, unmoving except for his hands, which skipped along the strings of the harp with incredible precision and grace. His hair was long and straggly, the colour dry bone, and it hung down onto the earthy floor he sat upon, shadowing his face. He seemed to be extremely old, judging by his hands and arms, which were very thin and wrinkled, as if the skin had been stretched over bare bones devoid of flesh.

Growing up around and over him were thick coils of ivy, rooted in his very flesh, chaining him to the ground and covering most of his body. He was trapped within this leafy prison, but did not seem to be attempting to escape. Though this plant was living off him, and was indeed growing through him in some places, he took no notice, and in many places he seemed to have wilted away entirely, merging into the forest floor, although this could have been a trick of the unpredictable forest light.

As I approached he paid me no notice, but his music intensified further, and gradually, as I edged my way towards his location, deeper, more sombre notes were added to his tune. When I was barely six feet away from him, I spoke; “Old man.” I whispered, “Can you help me? I desire a way out of this forest, I am lost here and I need to return to my family.” He did not respond, so I simply repeated the question. Still, there was nothing. I reached over and touched his shoulder, he didn’t react, but he was no ghost or spirit of the wild. Still not knowing what to do, I sat down beside him, waiting for something to happen, and watched him play.

My eyes were soon drawn to his harp, and how could they not have been, for I had never seen such a magnificent instrument before or one so tuneful. It was carved of mahogany, and adorned with strips of engraved bark, denoting elegant runes of a language unknown to me. The strings were silvery and ethereal, threads of a gossamer substance that were barely visible, a spider’s web spun by fairies within the wooden frame.

Gradually, as I absorbed the sheer wonder of this instrument, a curious notion occurred to me: Why shouldn’t I just take it? The old man probably wouldn’t do anything; indeed I was beginning to believe that he was something other, held by enchantment in this grove. One hears stories, the tales that are spun at the fireside that seem to have little sense or meaning, perhaps this was one. I dismissed this line of thought soon, as even if the man was ‘enchanted’, it shouldn’t affect me, and if I take his instrument, perhaps I would be doing him a favour by ‘releasing’ him. The vine he was entwined in was most certainly connected with this instrument, and in my mind, it was likely that if I were to take the instrument, the plant would waste away.

If I were to take this instrument, I could carry it back to civilization as proof of my adventures, I could learn to play it as he did, and become famous. I could even sell it to a collector and live happily for all my days. It was achieving nothing languishing in this deserted corner of the world. As these thoughts piled up in the forefront of my mind, my notion began to make more and more sense, and suddenly I reached out and pulled the instrument from the man’s unresisting arms.

It took a few minutes for the old man’s fingers to stop moving, and when they did, they relaxed instantly as if all their strength had disappeared in that single instant. He looked up at me, and his face shocked me, not only because of its age, but also the sheer humanity of his expression, a look of tired happiness, but mixed with pity, distilled in those quiet eyes. As he died, he simply said in a quiet voice, without a hint of malice; “Bear my curse.”

With those words the living bonds that had been holding him released their grip and he slid to the ground, where he lay for a few seconds before decomposing before my eyes, as if a thousand years worth of time were taking their toll within the space of a minute, and he was gone. I watched this take place before me without averting my eyes, for I have seen magic before in my travels of the world. Fools may call it fable, but those who are truly wise will know not to mock the power that is manifest in the oldest places of the world.

With this firmly in mind, I resolved to put as much distance between myself and that place as possible, and set off Eastwards, carrying the bulky instrument in both hands. As I walked, I noticed that, as well as the music disappearing, all other sounds had also ceased. No birds sang, there was no rustling of creatures in the undergrowth, and wind no longer whistled its forlorn tune amongst the treetops. To say that the air grew colder would surely render my tale beyond all credibility, but I swear by every God of every faith that this is what happened. When I stopped at a stream to quench my thirst, the waters were murky, and had lost their lustrous sheen. When I picked brambleberries from the bushes that ran, in all directions, spider-like, around the edges of the clearings, they tasted sour. As I fled from the scene of my theft, the very forest that I stood in seemed to be dying around me.

Eventually my legs would carry me no further, and I prepared to rest for the night within the forest with my back against one of the great chestnut trees. Before I slept, I looked for a while at the harp which I had taken. It was most certainly magical, there could be no doubt about that, but did I really desire to unlock its power in the way that the old man had? Regardless, I picked experimentally at the strings, producing a simple arrangement of notes, my fingers plucking gracelessly at the place that suited them most. I was unable to play any more, because my eyes were diverted to the leaves that had suddenly begun to fall all around me. It seemed as if I had triggered a premature autumn, and as the myriad colours covered the ground, a large horse chestnut fell on my head, and others started to fall with it. I heard evening birds calling to each other, awakened by the sound of the harp once more.

Several seconds after I stopped playing, the leaves ceased to fall, and the silence reigned again. I was amazed, to say the least, that such a transformation could have taken place so rapidly, for it was the last day of July, if I am to believe my calendar. I felt an urge to play once more, and break the eerie silence, for what harm could come of it? I stroked lazily at the harp, playing long, ascending scales instead of picking at half a dozen strings. This time the effect was even more bizarre, and as I swept the length of the harp, the seasons flowed around me, and I saw the golden autumn become a frosty winter, then spring and finally a sweet, flower-scented summer evening. I kept playing, eager to sustain this wonderland I had created, but as I did so I struck a wrong note, a discord, and the forest warped around me. Although the summer warmth remained, the leaves were swept from the trees by what seemed like a solid force, and they became skeletons of their summer selves, though summer Nightingales still sang around them. Every variation in style or tone altered my surroundings in some way, for now I realised, the forest obeyed the harp’s every command.

As I redressed my fingers leaves returned to the trees and new buds swelled and opened on the previously dead limbs. I kept playing, practicing, for several hours more until the night descended and my eyelids drooped. I prepared to stop playing before realising that I couldn’t. I was no longer playing the instrument, although my fingers were moving across the strings. I knew that I had within me neither the dexterity nor the talent to create the sounds that were now issuing forth.

I tried to move, but I discovered that this too was impossible; the sylvan magic that possessed the wooden harp now controlled me utterly. I tried to cry out, to scream, but only silence ensued.

The summer night continued as it had before, my silent desperation having no impression on my surroundings. It continued as it had been before my encounter, a normal summer night in this enchanted forest, and me, a lost soul, sitting beneath the chestnut tree.

That autumn the trees lost their leaves and I was almost lost beneath their all-enveloping blanket. During winter my form was frozen and icy, except for my ever-moving fingers, plucking their eternal music. Through spring I sheltered a family of wood mice, and flowering plants twined themselves around me. All the time I survived. All the time I played my tune. All the time, I bore the curse.

Perhaps in many years, another lost traveller will find an old man playing a harp within this wood. Perhaps he will release this man. Perhaps he will take the harp for himself, or perhaps he will finally end this song of the seasons.

Thanks. I be happy.

Excellent, fantastic.
Very vivid, and a wonderfully original tale well told.

By far the best thing you've written on here, top stuff.

That was utterly beautiful, except one thing: how was he able to tell such a tale?

Very picturesque. Reminds me of a book I'm reading, 'The Manuscript found in Saragossa' - similar real world meets surreal world and old world magic. I like it.

The big edit has been written and will appear sometime tomorrow morning.

But how did he come to tell this tale? Not sure that's important, actually.

I agree with Rickoss that parts of it seem rather matter of fact, and could do with a little of the magic that you describe so well in other parts.

It was a nice enough read, but I felt it was missing something.

Even though the story was told by one person, by the end we know very little about him, and you don't really give much to connect with. Seemed a bit matter-of-fact at times, instead of letting you figure out the character.

On the plus side, lovely use of words and some great descriptions.

Mehnessity.

You demanding feedback put me off reading this.

Sorry.