truth. Who will be the first to confirm the old man’s death? she wondered. Will Emma tell someone? Or will the curious eventually go up to the cave and find the grave there? Because Emma had asked her to keep the truth to herself, she had.
Later that day, Meg saw Iris Baker go to the front door of the house and speak to Dawn. When Iris left, Dawn came out to where Meg was cleaning the fowl yard and said, ‘It’s true. Old Samuel is dead.’
Meg stopped raking and leaned on the rake. ‘Who found out?’
‘Fletcher Archer went up to the cave. He said someone had already buried Samuel, so he went to see Emma and she said it was her. Apparently she found him dead in his cave. He was old. It’s not a surprise.’
‘Did Fletcher say anything about what he found?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Meg stumbled, realising she knew more than anyone else was meant to know. ‘I—what will happen to all of his things?’
Dawn shrugged and brushed flour from her yellow apron. ‘Who knows? I think Emma will get them. There’s not much the old man had that anyone else would want.’
Meg nodded. ‘So I guess everyone knows,’ she said.
‘Iris is spreading the word. She says there’ll be a Singing On tonight at the inn. We should go and pay respect to the old man. Samuel knew a lot of things, more than most people. I expect you to come along.’
‘As if I wouldn’t,’ Meg answered indignantly.
Dawn shook her head. ‘I remember what you thought of him. Respect for older people is important. It’s time to show that respect.’
The minstrel’s arrival was a welcome addition to the night at Archer’s Inn, a distraction from what otherwise threatened to become a depressing evening with the Singing On in memory of Samuel. No one in the Inn said as much, but Meg could tell that most people thought it. ‘It’s times like these that we could do with a Jarudhan priest,’ Fletcher Archer said when he called for everyone’s attention to begin the Singing On.
‘We don’t need religious twaddle,’ argued Millwheel Miller. ‘You go to the towns, Fletcher, and you find out just what sort of trouble those priests create.’
‘There’s a war going on because of them,’ Beam Carpenter chimed in.
‘You men leave off arguing long enough to pay the dead respect,’ Dawn interrupted. ‘Where’s Emma?’
‘She won’t come,’ said Brightday Tailor.
‘Then let’s get the Singing On done with,’ said Fletcher, ‘so the minstrel can sing us the latest news.’
The small gathering sang two songs for Samuel. First there was the traditional elegiac piece sung at every Singing On—‘The Journeyman’s Call’—that reminded everyone of the long journey through darkness the dead undertake to reach the golden shores of Paradise. When it was done, they hesitated, unsure of what else to offer respectfully to a man who’d been well known to them all and yet utterly unknown. The visiting minstrel broke the uncomfortable hiatus. ‘What about a round of “Friends Who Are Awaiting”?’ he asked, and the suggestion received ragged, relieved approval.
Meg joined in the quiet dirge, singing:
‘And at the edge of Death’s pathway we sit and gaze in wonder,
Unsure of what our life-lost friends will find on paths up yonder,
But there will come for us a time to walk the paths alone,
And in the mists of death we’ll find our friends we thought were gone.’
The second song concluded, Fletcher Archer passed around a jug of mead from which every person poured a measure, and in unison they drank to Samuel’s memory. ‘Well now,’ Fletcher said, wiping his lips, ‘that’s the formalities done with. Let’s hear what our minstrel has brought for us this evening.’
Meg wished that there was someone who could have spoken for Samuel. The Singing On seemed too brief to celebrate a life. But who could have spoken for him? No one knew the truth about his background—except for Emma. Still, she felt as if
Later that day, Meg saw Iris Baker go to the front door of the house and speak to Dawn. When Iris left, Dawn came out to where Meg was cleaning the fowl yard and said, ‘It’s true. Old Samuel is dead.’
Meg stopped raking and leaned on the rake. ‘Who found out?’
‘Fletcher Archer went up to the cave. He said someone had already buried Samuel, so he went to see Emma and she said it was her. Apparently she found him dead in his cave. He was old. It’s not a surprise.’
‘Did Fletcher say anything about what he found?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Meg stumbled, realising she knew more than anyone else was meant to know. ‘I—what will happen to all of his things?’
Dawn shrugged and brushed flour from her yellow apron. ‘Who knows? I think Emma will get them. There’s not much the old man had that anyone else would want.’
Meg nodded. ‘So I guess everyone knows,’ she said.
‘Iris is spreading the word. She says there’ll be a Singing On tonight at the inn. We should go and pay respect to the old man. Samuel knew a lot of things, more than most people. I expect you to come along.’
‘As if I wouldn’t,’ Meg answered indignantly.
Dawn shook her head. ‘I remember what you thought of him. Respect for older people is important. It’s time to show that respect.’
The minstrel’s arrival was a welcome addition to the night at Archer’s Inn, a distraction from what otherwise threatened to become a depressing evening with the Singing On in memory of Samuel. No one in the Inn said as much, but Meg could tell that most people thought it. ‘It’s times like these that we could do with a Jarudhan priest,’ Fletcher Archer said when he called for everyone’s attention to begin the Singing On.
‘We don’t need religious twaddle,’ argued Millwheel Miller. ‘You go to the towns, Fletcher, and you find out just what sort of trouble those priests create.’
‘There’s a war going on because of them,’ Beam Carpenter chimed in.
‘You men leave off arguing long enough to pay the dead respect,’ Dawn interrupted. ‘Where’s Emma?’
‘She won’t come,’ said Brightday Tailor.
‘Then let’s get the Singing On done with,’ said Fletcher, ‘so the minstrel can sing us the latest news.’
The small gathering sang two songs for Samuel. First there was the traditional elegiac piece sung at every Singing On—‘The Journeyman’s Call’—that reminded everyone of the long journey through darkness the dead undertake to reach the golden shores of Paradise. When it was done, they hesitated, unsure of what else to offer respectfully to a man who’d been well known to them all and yet utterly unknown. The visiting minstrel broke the uncomfortable hiatus. ‘What about a round of “Friends Who Are Awaiting”?’ he asked, and the suggestion received ragged, relieved approval.
Meg joined in the quiet dirge, singing:
‘And at the edge of Death’s pathway we sit and gaze in wonder,
Unsure of what our life-lost friends will find on paths up yonder,
But there will come for us a time to walk the paths alone,
And in the mists of death we’ll find our friends we thought were gone.’
The second song concluded, Fletcher Archer passed around a jug of mead from which every person poured a measure, and in unison they drank to Samuel’s memory. ‘Well now,’ Fletcher said, wiping his lips, ‘that’s the formalities done with. Let’s hear what our minstrel has brought for us this evening.’
Meg wished that there was someone who could have spoken for Samuel. The Singing On seemed too brief to celebrate a life. But who could have spoken for him? No one knew the truth about his background—except for Emma. Still, she felt as if
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