The air in the tavern was thick, and loud, redolent with the chortling joviality of the throng within its walls. The crowd was thick as well, aye, in more ways than one. But it mattered not to the bard, for a simple crowd was often a merry crowd and all the more grateful for the presence of a Bard to enliven the night.
The walls were white-washed wattle-and-daub, the corner-posts of the modest were four living tea-trees whose leaves shaded the thatched roof. The Tea-Tree Tippler was a most unusual pub, its publican always doing some maintenance as the cornerposts grew or moved in the wind. But on a quiet day, sitting in a pool of afternoon sunlight near the brick fireplace supping on a mug of tea, you could smell the tea-tree scent and just relax.
But now, with the parlour full and the patrons hell-bent on being fuller, the press of the crowd and the smell of sweat and beer was what assailed the nose, while the ears reeled to the cries of "Ale! Ale! Ale!" In the swirl of noise and bodies, the Bard grinned. He had paused to let his audience regale him with laughter for the bawdy jokes he had just told them. They slapped their thighs and called for ale, "and one for the Bard too!" But he would wave it away, for the moment, and claim some fanciful ailment which restricted him to iced tea.
"Pshaw! That's no drink for no ordinary man," his grinning compatriots would yell.
He smiled, of course, because it was perfectly true -- it was no drink for an ordinary man. It was not that he hated drink -- far from it. But a drink-befuddled Bard could not make the most of every copper- earning moment. Perhaps once an hour he would "grudgingly" accept the pintmug thrust in his hand, and a gleeful cheer would go up. But the brief surrender to the collective will never altered his state of mind. Nor did it change his sense of isolation. Here, holding forth in his tavern court, he was king of all he surveyed. But always he sensed how alone he was, how he ached for the warmth, understanding and affection of the knights, knaves and princesses in his tales. Even as the crowd would hush, enraptured, by the telling, it was as if he was sitting in his mountaintop eyrie, reciting and practising the telling. He had always had this sense, this separation; he did not submerge it with beer and shallow frivolity. The crowd sensed this, too, in its way.
It was as if, to them, a prince had wandered in among them in some ill-fitting guise to share an ale and determine their mood. Or as if some elf had stepped out of the trees to tell them such stories of ancient days and knowledge that they drew back in surprise at the limited warp and weft of their tawdry lives. But simpler thoughts kept the Bard going too. Not just the copper that bought provisions and lodging, nor the sheer enjoyment of the entertaining, the applause and the cheering. No, whenever he felt too disconnected, too distant from the moment, he would remember: she might be here! And then he would look into the crowd, survey the faces and begin again, beaming broadly. Half the impact of the best stories is that the teller enjoys them.
The Bard spotted a young lass half-hiding behind her mother's skirts, listening. Her hair was a little unkempt and her face a little dirty; she was slim and shy but her face was quite angelic when she smiled at his tales. Looking to her mother for permission, he swept her up beside him and sat her atop an empty tun, like a princess on a parapet. The crowd gave a loud Huzzah! and the girl blushed scarlet. The Bard touched her shoulder reassuringly and then, from a sleeve, plucked a shimmering silk shawl that sparkled like a rainbow in the tavern candlelight. Aaaahhh! exclaimed the crowd.
He wrapped the shawl around her like a sari and, with a dab of iced tea, revealing her face and smile. He was, in his way, showing them how any of them could have discovered such beauty if they had looked. And then he sang to her, and them. For just as a Harper crafts lyrics, a Bard must also feel his words sing.
You are a princess
I am a commoner
Who worships you,
I would do
Anything
If I could just be
A part of you --
You are so beautiful,
Simple, pure elegance
You smile
And my cares
Vanish like the mist
When the morning sun shines
I have no armour
No steed, sword or saddle
I only have my hands
To hold you close to me
And one heart
To love you
For now, evermore.
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