Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner

you do not mind your manners, maybe you will not have more.” She stood up to take the bowls to the large bowl she used to clean dishes. “And do not be leaning on the bench. You will make the legs bad.”
    When the plates were cleaned, David leaned over, resting his elbows on the table. “Mama Lydea?” He had been holding the question in for what felt like an age. She was folding the cloth she had used to wipe the table. Lydea stopped, and her fingers froze.
    “Did my mother have green eyes?”
    Jahra pulled his bench away from the table and began tuning the strings of Lydea’s harp with unusual concentration. Hunched over the instrument, he seemed to be listening intently as he plucked each string repeatedly, twisting the knobs with exquisite care. Looking at his friend, David wondered for the first time whether Jahra knew more about his birth than he did.
    David’s glance shifted back to Lydea. She was staring at the spray of yellow, white, and blue flowers on the table. The rag in her hand was now being twisted into a rope. Her face and eyes were hollow.
    “Why can’t you tell me?” he asked.
    She did not answer.
    “Mama Lydea, you said that someday Father would tell me, but you know that will never happen.” He put his hands over hers. Her fingers continued working the rag, as if disconnected from her. She was fixated on the small bouquet but seemed to be remembering something long past.
    “I must know about her,” he said through clenched teeth. His hands closed hard, and the movement grew still. “All I have been told is that she died giving me birth. That’s it, nothing more. And my brothers act as if it were my fault.”
    He felt her hand shake.
    “Was it?” he whispered, his voice cracking.
    It looked as though she were trying to speak but could not. Her eyes brimmed, and David saw her bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. One escaped and ran down her lined, brown cheek. She looked up at him and softly uttered one word.
    “No.”
    Something seemed to melt inside David’s chest. His mouth felt parched. He wished he could stand and get some water, but his legs felt too weak. The last time David had seen Lydea cry was when she had cut the poison out of his arm. That had been almost ten years ago. He waited, growing impatient, but she said nothing further. Jahra leaned over the tall instrument he was holding and quietly began to play the tune David had heard when he entered the house. But this time the tempo was slower, transforming the song into a lament.
    David kept quiet, afraid that one wrong question would ruin the moment. Finally Lydea spoke. “She was a beauty. And, yes, she had green eyes. Similar to yours.” Her voice caught. “They were so beautiful, you can’t imagine it. I think that is what your father”—she paused, considering her words carefully—“noticed first.”
    David waited, searching her eyes, willing her to continue. She shook her head. “I have said to you as much as I can—perhaps too much.”
    “No! You’ve barely said anything.” Desperation was rising within him.
    She shook her head again, more emphatically. “I must keep my word.”
    “Why? Did he make you promise?”
    Her head was still shaking, but now with sadness. “I had not a choice.” The words were barely audible.
    David struck the table with the flat of his hand. The vase tipped, spilling water and flowers, and began rolling off the side. Reaching out, Jahra stopped it, then set it next to his bench.
    “You’ve seen and heard him,” David said. “He barely speaks to me. Father hates me.” The emotion swelling inside him constricted his words, making him sound like a child. He stopped, waiting for the pressure to ease. Then he spit out the accusation that had been building up inside him for months. “Why do you bother keeping his secrets?”
    She raised herself to her full height and stared directly at him. There was steel in her eyes. “Because of respect. He is your father. And