plaintive; Tika,
with great enjoyment, sang it as sadly as she could.
By the second verse she had dropped her scrub-rag and shut her eyes, oblivious to Otik. He
listened qui etly, knowing that if she
remembered his presence, she would blush and fall silent. Lately, Tika had become awkward
and shy around men-a bad trait for a barmaid, but at her age, quite natural. He kept
patient, knowing how soon that shyness would end. Tika sang:
THE TREE BY MY DOOR I'VE WATCHED TURN BEFORE AND I'VE WATCHED AS IT'S BRANCHED OUT AND
GROWN; WHEN IT TURNS NEXT YEAR, WILL I STILL BE HERE, AND WILL I BE HERE ALONE?
WHEN MY LOVE WAS THERE, BIRDS SANG IN THE AIR, AND THEY SOARED LIKE THE DREAMS THAT WE
HAD; NOW HE'S OFF TO WAR, THEY SING LIKE BEFORE, BUT ALL OF THEIR SONGS ARE SAD.
MY GOOD FRIENDS, I KNOW, WILL MARRY AND GO, AND FAREWELL WITH A KISS AND A TEAR, WITH
LOVERS TO TELL, AND CHILDREN AS WELL, WHILE I WAIT ANOTHER YEAR.
THEIR FUTURES ARE BRIGHT, THEY SING DAY AND NIGHT, AND I'M HAPPY TO THINK THEM SO GLAD . .
. THE BIRDS THAT I SEE STILL SING BACK TO ME, BUT ALL OF THEIR SONGS ARE SAD.
Otik enjoyed the tune without recognizing it. He watched Tika, her eyes shut and her arms
waving in the air as she sang, and he thought with a sudden ache, “She's old enough for
her own place.”
Tika had lived with him for a long time; she was as close to a daughter as he would ever
have. Before that, for many years, he had lived alone happily. Now he could not imagine
how he had stood it.
Finally she finished, and he said, “Nicely sung. What was that?”
“That?” She blushed. "Oh, the song. It's called The Song of
Elen Waiting.' I heard it last night.“ ”I remember." The singer had been all of
twenty-three, most of
his listeners fifteen. He had curly dark hair and deep blue eyes, and by his second song
half the girls of Solace were around him. “Some young man sang it, didn't he?”
“You're teasing me.” Tika scowled, even when Otik smiled and shook his head. “You don't
take me seriously.”
“Oh, but I do, I do. This young man that sang-”
“Rian.” She said it softly, and the scowl went. “He wasn't so young. Do you know, he had
seven gray hairs?”
“Really? Seven, exactly?”
She didn't notice the tease, but nodded vigorously, her own hair bouncing off her
shoulders. “Exactly. He let three of us count them after he was done singing, and we all
came up with the same number.”
“Nice of him to let you.”
“Oh, I think he liked it,” Tika said innocently. Then she frowned. “Especially when Loriel
did it.”
“Which one was Loriel?” There'd been a lot of them. After Rian had sung, the young women
had walked around the Inn with their heads high, thinking noble thoughts, to Otik's vast
amusement. One young man, a red-haired, spindly local with wide eyes, sat in the corner
afterward determinedly mouthing lyrics to himself. His friends had seemed afraid he might
sing.
Tika scrubbed fiercely at one of the barrels, tipping it. Otik steadied it for her as she
said casually, “Loriel? Oh, you know. Turned-up nose, too many freckles, shows her teeth
when she laughs-it's a shame they're not straight-and she's the one with all that hair,
you know, the yellow stuff?”
“Oh, is she the one with all that pretty blonde hair?” She was around a lot lately. She
laughed too often for Otik's taste, but the boys her age seemed to like it. She also had a
habit of spinning away from people so that her hair flew straight out and settled back.
Otik had twice caught Tika practicing it.
“Do you think it's pretty, then?” Tika tried to look surprised. “That's nice. Poor thing,
she'd be pleased.” Scrub, scrub.
She began to daub her eyes. “Oh, Otik! He liked HER and not me.”
“There now.” Otik put an arm around her, thinking (not for the first time) that if he'd
only found a wife, there'd be someone more sensitive to
with great enjoyment, sang it as sadly as she could.
By the second verse she had dropped her scrub-rag and shut her eyes, oblivious to Otik. He
listened qui etly, knowing that if she
remembered his presence, she would blush and fall silent. Lately, Tika had become awkward
and shy around men-a bad trait for a barmaid, but at her age, quite natural. He kept
patient, knowing how soon that shyness would end. Tika sang:
THE TREE BY MY DOOR I'VE WATCHED TURN BEFORE AND I'VE WATCHED AS IT'S BRANCHED OUT AND
GROWN; WHEN IT TURNS NEXT YEAR, WILL I STILL BE HERE, AND WILL I BE HERE ALONE?
WHEN MY LOVE WAS THERE, BIRDS SANG IN THE AIR, AND THEY SOARED LIKE THE DREAMS THAT WE
HAD; NOW HE'S OFF TO WAR, THEY SING LIKE BEFORE, BUT ALL OF THEIR SONGS ARE SAD.
MY GOOD FRIENDS, I KNOW, WILL MARRY AND GO, AND FAREWELL WITH A KISS AND A TEAR, WITH
LOVERS TO TELL, AND CHILDREN AS WELL, WHILE I WAIT ANOTHER YEAR.
THEIR FUTURES ARE BRIGHT, THEY SING DAY AND NIGHT, AND I'M HAPPY TO THINK THEM SO GLAD . .
. THE BIRDS THAT I SEE STILL SING BACK TO ME, BUT ALL OF THEIR SONGS ARE SAD.
Otik enjoyed the tune without recognizing it. He watched Tika, her eyes shut and her arms
waving in the air as she sang, and he thought with a sudden ache, “She's old enough for
her own place.”
Tika had lived with him for a long time; she was as close to a daughter as he would ever
have. Before that, for many years, he had lived alone happily. Now he could not imagine
how he had stood it.
Finally she finished, and he said, “Nicely sung. What was that?”
“That?” She blushed. "Oh, the song. It's called The Song of
Elen Waiting.' I heard it last night.“ ”I remember." The singer had been all of
twenty-three, most of
his listeners fifteen. He had curly dark hair and deep blue eyes, and by his second song
half the girls of Solace were around him. “Some young man sang it, didn't he?”
“You're teasing me.” Tika scowled, even when Otik smiled and shook his head. “You don't
take me seriously.”
“Oh, but I do, I do. This young man that sang-”
“Rian.” She said it softly, and the scowl went. “He wasn't so young. Do you know, he had
seven gray hairs?”
“Really? Seven, exactly?”
She didn't notice the tease, but nodded vigorously, her own hair bouncing off her
shoulders. “Exactly. He let three of us count them after he was done singing, and we all
came up with the same number.”
“Nice of him to let you.”
“Oh, I think he liked it,” Tika said innocently. Then she frowned. “Especially when Loriel
did it.”
“Which one was Loriel?” There'd been a lot of them. After Rian had sung, the young women
had walked around the Inn with their heads high, thinking noble thoughts, to Otik's vast
amusement. One young man, a red-haired, spindly local with wide eyes, sat in the corner
afterward determinedly mouthing lyrics to himself. His friends had seemed afraid he might
sing.
Tika scrubbed fiercely at one of the barrels, tipping it. Otik steadied it for her as she
said casually, “Loriel? Oh, you know. Turned-up nose, too many freckles, shows her teeth
when she laughs-it's a shame they're not straight-and she's the one with all that hair,
you know, the yellow stuff?”
“Oh, is she the one with all that pretty blonde hair?” She was around a lot lately. She
laughed too often for Otik's taste, but the boys her age seemed to like it. She also had a
habit of spinning away from people so that her hair flew straight out and settled back.
Otik had twice caught Tika practicing it.
“Do you think it's pretty, then?” Tika tried to look surprised. “That's nice. Poor thing,
she'd be pleased.” Scrub, scrub.
She began to daub her eyes. “Oh, Otik! He liked HER and not me.”
“There now.” Otik put an arm around her, thinking (not for the first time) that if he'd
only found a wife, there'd be someone more sensitive to
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