 THE VALOR OF CAPENVERA BY POWELL ANDERSON READING BY gregg marguerite THE VALOR OF CAPENVERA BY POWELL ANDERSON Let little capen go, they shouted, maybe he can sing the trolls to sleep. The wind came from the north with sleet on its back, raw shuttering gusts whipped the sea till the ship lurched and men felt driven spin-drift stinging their faces. Beyond the rail there was winter night, a moving blackness where the waves rushed and clamored straining into the great dark men sensed only the bitter salt of sea-scud, the nettle of sleet and the lash of the wind. Capen lost his footing as the ship heaved beneath him. His hands were yanked from the icy rail and he went stumbling to the deck. The bilge-water was new coldness on his drenched clothes. He struggled back to his feet, leaning on a rower's bench and wishing miserably that his quaking stomach had more to lose. But he had already chucked his share of stockfish and hard tech to the laughter of Severic's men when the gale started. Numb fingers groped anxiously for the harp on his back. It still seemed intact in its leather case. He didn't care about the sodden wadmal breeks and tunic that hung around his skin. The sooner they rotted off him, the better. The thought of the silks and linens of kroy was a sigh in him. Why had he come to Norrin? A gigantic form, vague in the whistling dark, loomed beside him and gave him a steadying hand. He could barely hear the blonde giant's bull tones. Ha! Easy there, lad. Me thinks the seahorse road is too rough for your feet. Gull, said Capon, his slim body huddled on the bench too miserable to care. The sleek pattern against his shoulders and the spray congealed in his red hair. Torbic of Norrin squinted into the night. It made his leathery face a mesh of wrinkles. A bitter feast, Yolner, we hold, he said. It was a madness of the kings that we would guest with his brother across the water. Now the other ships are blown from us and the fire is drenched out and we lie alone in the wolf's throat. Wind piped shrill in the rigging. Capon could just see the longboat's single mast wriggling against the sky. The ice on the shrouds made it a pale pyramid. Ice everywhere, thick on the rails and benches, sheathing the dragon head and the carving sternpost, the ship rolling and staggering under the great march of waves. Men bailing and bailing in the half frozen bilge to keep her afloat and too much wind for sail or oars. Yes, a cold feast. But then, Severic has been strange since the troll took his daughter three years ago, went on Torbic. He shivered in a way the winter had not caused. Never does he smile and his once opened hand grasps tight about the silver and his men have poor reward and no thanks. Yes, strange. His small frost-blue eyes shifted to Capon Vera and the unspoken thought ran on beneath them. Strange. Even that he likes you the wandering bard from the south. Strange that he will have you in his hall when you cannot sing as his men would like. Capon did not care to defend himself. He had drifted up toward the northern barbarians with the idea that they would well reward a minstrel who could offer them something more than their own crude chance. It had been a mistake. They didn't care for rondels or sestinas. They yawned at the thought of roses white and red under the moon of Carod, a moon less fair than my lady's eyes. Nor did a man of kroy have the size and strength to compel their respect. Capon's light blade flickered swiftly enough so that no one cared to fight him, but he lacked the power of sheer bulk. Severak alone had enjoyed hearing him sing, but he was niggardly and his brawling thurp was an endless boredom to a man used to the courts of southern princes. If he had but the manhood to leave. But he had delayed because of a lusty peasant wench and a hope that Severak's coffers would open wider, and now he was dragged along over the wolf's throat to a midwinter feast which would have to be celebrated on the sea. At we but fire, Torbek thrust his hands inside his cloak, trying to warm them a little. The ship rolled till she was almost on her beam ends. Torbek braced himself with practiced feet, but Capon went into the bilge again. He sprawled there for a while, his bruised body refusing movement. A weary sailor with a bucket glared at him through dripping hair. His shout was dim under the hoot and scurril of wind. If ye like it so well down here, then help us bail! "'Tis not my turn yet," groaned Capon, and got slowly up. The wave which had nearly swamped them had put out the ship's fire and drenched the wood beyond hope of lighting a new one. It was cold fish and sea-sodden hard-tack till they saw land again, if they ever did. As Capon raised himself on the leeward side, he thought he saw something gleam far out across the wreathful night—a wavering red spark. He brushed a stiffened hand across his eyes, wondering if the madness of wind and water had struck through into his own skull. August of Sleet hid it again, but—he fumbled his way aft between the benches. Huddled figures cursed him wearily as he stepped on them. The ship shook herself, rolled along the edge of a boiling black trough, and slid down into it. For an instant the white teeth of Comers grinned above her rail, and Capon waited for the end to all things. Then she mounted them again somehow and wallowed toward another valley. King Severak had the steering oar and was trying to hold the longboat into the wind. He had stood there since sundown, huge and untiring legs braced and the buckling wood cradled in his arms. More than human he seemed there under the icicle loom of the sternpost, his gray hair and beard rigid with ice. Beneath the horned helmet the strong moody face turned right and left, peering into the darkness. Capon felt smaller than usual when he approached the steersmen. He leaned close to the king, shouting against the blast of winter. My lord, did I not see a firelight? I—I spied at an hour ago, grunted the king, been trying to steer us a little closer to it. Capon nodded, too sick and weary to feel reproved. What is it? Some island there are many in this stretch of water now shut up. Capon crouched down under the rail and waited. The lonely red gleam seemed nearer when he looked again. Severak's tones were lifting in a roar that hammered through the gale from end to end of the ship. Hither, come hither to me, all men not working. Slowly they groped to him, great shadowy forms in wool and leather bulking over Capon like storm gods. Severak nodded toward the flickering glow. One of the islands, somebody must be living there. I cannot bring the ship closer for fear of surf, but one of ye should be able to take the boat thither and fetch us fire and dry wood. Who will go? They peered over side, and the uneasy movement that ran among them came from more than the roll in pitch of the deck underfoot. Biorna the bold spoke at last. It was hardly to be heard in the noisy dark. I never knew of men living hereabouts. It must be a lair of trolls. I. So. I. They'd but eat the men we sent. Out oars, let's away from here, though it cost our lives. The frightened mumble was low under the jeering wind. Severak's face drew into a snarl. Are ye men or pulling babes? Hack your way through them if they be trolls, but bring me fire. Even a she-troll is stronger than fifty men, my king, cried Torbek. Well ye know that, when the monster woman broke through our guards three years ago and bore off Hildegund. Enough! It was a scream in Severak's throat. I'll have your craven heads for this, all of ye, if ye gang not to the isle. They looked at each other, the big men of Norrin, and their shoulders hunched bare like. It was Biorna who spoke it for them. No, that ye will not. We are free house-carls who will fight for a leader but not for a madman. Capon drew back against the rail, trying to make himself small. All gods turned their faces from ye. It was more than weariness and despair which glared in Severak's eyes. There was something of death in them. I'll go myself, then. No, my king, that we will not find ourselves in. I am the king, and we are your house-carls sworn to defend ye, even from yourself. Ye shall not go. The ship rolled again, so violently that they were all thrown to starboard. Capon landed on Torbek, who reached up to shove him aside, and then closed one huge fist on his tunic. Here's our man. Hi, yelled Capon. Torbek called him roughly back to his feet. Ye cannot row or bail your fair share, he growled, nor do ye know the rigging or any skill of the sailor. To his time ye made yourself useful. I, I, let little Capon go. May happy can sing the trolls to sleep. The laughter was hard and barking, edged with fear, and they all hemmed him in. My lord, bleated the minstrel, I am your guest. Severak laughed unpleasantly, half crazily. Sing them a song, he howled. Make a fine run, whatever ye call it, to the troll-wife's beauty, and bring us some fire, little man. Bring us a flame less hot than the love in your breast for your lady. Teeth grinned through matted beards. Someone hauled on the rope from which the ship's small boat trailed, dragging it close. Go ye scut! A horny hand sent Capon stumbling to the rail. He cried out once again, an axe lifted above his head. Someone handed him his own slim sword, and for a wild moment he thought of fighting. Useless. Too many of them. He buckled on the sword and spat at the men. The wind tossed it back in his face, and they raved with laughter. Over the side. The boat rose to meet him. He landed in a heap on the drenched planks, and looked up into the shadowy faces of the Northmen. There was a sob in his throat as he found the seat and took out the oars. An awkward pull sent him spinning from the ship, and then the night had swallowed it, and he was alone. Numbly he bent to the task. Unless he wanted to drown, there was no place to go but the island. He was too weary and ill to be much afraid, and such fear as he had was all of the sea. It could rise over him, gulp him down. The gray horses would gallop over him, and the long weeds would wrap him when he rolled dead against some scurry. The soft veils of Corone and the roses in Croy's Gardens seemed like a distant dream. There was only the roar and boom of the Northern Sea, hiss of sleet and spin drift, crazed scream of wind. He was alone as man had ever been, and he would go down to the sharks alone. The boat wallowed but rode the waves better than the long ship. He grew duly aware that the storm was pushing him toward the island. It was becoming visible, a deeper blackness harsh against the night. He could not row much in the restless water. He shipped the oars and waited for the gale to capsize him and fill his mouth with sea. And when it gurgled in his throat, what would his last thought be? Should he dwell on the lovely image of Yidris and C.L.'s? She of the long bright hair and the singing voice. But then there had been the tomboy laughter of Dark Faulkney. He could not neglect her. And there were memories of Alvona in her castle by the lake, and Suran of the Hundred Rings, and Beauty as Vardry, and Hawk Proudlona, and—no. He could not do justice to any of them in the little time that remained. What a pity it was. No. Wait, that unforgettable night in Nain, the beauty which had whispered in his ear and drawn him close. The hair which had fallen like a silk intent about his cheeks—uh, that had been the summit of his life. He would go down into darkness with her name on his lips, but—hell! What had her name been, now? Cappenvera, minstrel of Croy, clung to the bench and sighed. The great hollow voice of Cerf lifted about him. Waves sheeted across the gunwale, and the boat danced in madness. Cappen groaned, huddling into the circle of his own arms and shaking with cold. Swiftly, now, the end of all sunlight and laughter, the dark and lonely road which all men must tread. Oh, Illwara of Seer! Adria in thulles! Could I but kiss you once more? Stones grated under the keel. It was a shock like a sword going through him. Cappen looked unbelievably up. The boat had drifted to land. He was alive. It was like the sun in his breast. Weariness fell from him, and he leaped over side, not feeling the chill of the shadows. With a grunt he heaved the boat up on the narrow strand and nodded the painter to a fang-like jut of reef. Then he looked about him. The island was small, utterly bare, a savage loom of rock rising out of the sea that growled at its feet and streamed off its shoulders. He had come into a little cliff-walled bay, somewhat sheltered from the wind. He was here. For a moment he stood running through all he had learned about the trolls which infested these Northlands. Hideous and soulless dwellers underground they knew not old age. A sword could hew them asunder, but before it reached their deep-seated life their unhuman strength had plucked a man apart. Then they ate him. Small wonder the Northmen feared them. Cappen threw back his head and laughed. He had once done a service for a mighty wizard in the south, and his reward hung about his neck. A small silver amulet. The wizard had told him that no supernatural being could harm anyone who carried a piece of silver. The Northmen said that a troll was powerless against a man who was not afraid. But, of course, only to see one was to feel the heart turn to ice. They did not know the value of silver. It seemed odd that they shouldn't, but they did not. Because Cappen Varic did, he had no reason to be afraid. Therefore he was doubly safe, and it was but a matter of talking the troll into giving him some fire if indeed there was a troll here and not some harmless fisherman. He whistled gaily, rung some of the water from his cloak and ruddy hair, and started along the beach. In the sleety gloom he could just see a hewn-out path winding up one of the cliffs and he set his feet on it. At the top of the path the wind ripped his whistling from his lips. He hunched his back against it and walked faster, swearing as he stumbled on hidden rocks. The ice-sheathed ground was slippery underfoot and the cold bit like a knife. Rounding a crag he saw redness glow in the face of a steep bluff, a cave mouth, a fire within. He hastened his steps, hungering for warmth until he stood in the entrance. Who comes? It was a horse base cry that rang and boomed between walls of rock. There was ice and horror in it. For a moment Capen's heart stumbled, then he remembered the amulet and strode boldly inside. Good evening, mother, he said cheerily. The cave widened out into a stony hugeness that gaped with tunnels leading further underground. The rough soot-blackened walls were hung with plundered silks and cloth of gold gone ragged with age and damp. The floor was strewn with stinking rushes and gnawed bones were heaped in disorder. Capen saw the skulls of men among them. In the center of the room a great fire leaped and blazed throwing billows of heat against him. Some of its smoke went up a hole in the roof. The rest stung his eyes to watering and he sneezed. The troll-wife crouched on the floor, snarling at him. She was quite the most hideous thing Capen had ever seen. Nearly as tall as he, she was twice as broad and thick, and the knotted arms hung down past bowed knees till their clawed fingers brushed the ground. Her head was beast-like, almost split in half by the tusked mouth. The eyes, wells of darkness, the nose, and eel long. Her hairless skin was green and cold, moving on her bones. A tattered shift covered some of her monstrousness, but she was still a nightmare. Her laughter roared out, hungry and hollow as the surf around the island. Slowly she shuffled closer. So my dinner comes walking in to greet me. Ho, ho, ho, welcome, sweet flesh, welcome good marrow-filled bones. Come in and be warmed. Why, thank you, good mother. Capen shucked his cloak and grinning at her through the smoke. He felt his clothes steaming already. I love you, too. Over her shoulder he suddenly saw the girl. She was huddled in a corner, wrapped in fear, but the eyes that watched him were as blue as the skies over Carone. The ragged dress did not hide the gentle curves of her body, nor did the tear-streaked grime spoil the lilt of her face. Why, tis springtime in here, cried Capen, and Primavera herself is strewing flowers of love. What are you talking about, crazy man? rumbled the troll-wife. She turned to the girl, heaped the fire hill to Gund and set up the roasting spit. Tonight I feast. Truly I see heaven in female form before me, said Capen. The troll scratched her misshapen head. You must surely be from far away, Moonstruck man, she said. I, from Goldencroy, am I wandered, drawn over delirious seas and empty wildlands by the fame of loveliness waiting here, and now that I have seen you, my life is full. Capen was looking at the girl as he spoke, but he hoped the troll might take it as aimed her way. It will be fuller, grinned the monster, stuffed with hot coals while yet you live. She glanced back at the girl. What, are you not working yet, you lazy tub of lards, set up the spit, I said. The girl shuddered back against a heap of wood. No, she whispered, I cannot, not for a man. Can and will, my girl, said the troll, picking up a bone to throw at her. The girl shrieked a little. No, no, sweet mother, I would not be so un-calant as to have beauty toil for me. Capen plucked at the troll's filthy dress. It is not meat, in two senses. I only came to beg a little fire, yet I will bear away a greater fire within my heart. Fire in your guts, you mean. No man ever left me save as pickled bones. Capen thought he heard a worried note in the animal growl. Shall we have music for the feast? he asked mildly. He unslunged the case of his harp and took it out. The trollwife waved her fists in the air and danced with rage. Are you mad? I tell you you are going to be eaten. The minstrel plucked a string on his harp. This wet air has played the devil with her tone, he murmured sadly. The trollwife roared wordlessly and lunged at him. Hildegon covered her eyes. Capen tuned his harp. A foot from his throat the claws stopped. Pray, do not excite yourself, mother, said the bard. I carry silver, you know. What is that to me if you think you have a charm which will turn me? Know that there is none. I have no fear of your metal. Capen threw back his head and sang. A lovely lady, full off lies, the light that lies within her eyes, and lies and lies in no surprise. All her unkindness can devise two troubled hearts that seek the prize, which is, herself, our angel lies. It was like thunder drowning him out. The trollwife turned and went on all fours and poked up the fire with her nose. Capen stepped softly around her and touched the girl. She looked up with a little whimper. You are Sever-X only daughter, are you not? He whispered. I—she bowed her head, a strengthless despair weighing it down. The troll stole me away three winters ago. It has tickled her to have a princess for a slave, but soon I will roast on her spit, even as ye brave man. Ridiculous! So fair a lady is meant for another kind of— Um, never mind, as she treated you very ill. She beats me now and again, and I have been so lonely. Not here at all save the trollwife and I. The small work roughened hands clutched desperately at his waist, and she buried her face against his breast. Can ye save us? She gasped. I fear tis for not ye ventured your life bravest of men. I fear we'll soon both spot her on the coals. Capon said nothing. If she wanted to think he had come especially to rescue her, he would not be so ungallon to tell her otherwise. The trollwife's mouth gashed in a grin as she walked through the fire to him. There is a price, she said. If you cannot tell me three things about myself which are true beyond disproving—not courage, nor amulet, nor the gods themselves—may avail to keep that red head on your shoulders. Capon clapped a hand to his sword. Why, gladly, he said. This was a rule of magic he had learned long ago, that three truths were the needful armor to make any guardian charm work. Imprimus. Yours is the ugliest nose I ever saw poking up a fire. Secundus. I was never in a house I cared less to guest at. Tertius. Ever among trolls you are little liked, being one of the worst. Hildegon moaned with terror as the monsters swelled in rage, but there was no movement. Only the leaping flames and the eddying smoke stirred. Capon's voice rang out coldly. Now the king lies on the sea, frozen and wet, and I am come to fetch a brand for his fire. And I had best also see his daughter home. The troll shook her head, suddenly chuckling. No. The brand you may have, just to get you out of this cave, foulness. But the woman is my thrall until a man sleeps with her, here, for a night. And if he does, I may have him to break my fast in the morning. Capon yawned mightily. Thank you, mother. Your offer of a bed is most welcome to these tired bones, and I accept, gratefully. You will die tomorrow, she raved. The ground shook under the huge weight of her as she stamped. Because of these three truths, I must let you go to-night, but tomorrow I may do what I will. Forget not my little friend, mother, said Capon, and touched the cord of the amulet. I tell you, silver has no use against me! Capon sprawled on the floor and rippled fingers across his harp. A lovely lady, full off lies. The troll-wife turned from him in rage. Hildegon ladled up some broth, saying nothing, and Capon ate it with pleasure. Though it could have used more seasoning. After that he indicted a sonnet to the princess who regarded him wide-eyed. The troll came back from a tunnel after he finished and said curtly, This way. Capon took the girl's hand and followed her into a pitchy, reeking dark. She plucked an aris aside to show a room which surprised him by being hung with tapestries, lit with candles, and furnished with a fine broad feather bed. Sleep here tonight if you dare, she growled, and tomorrow I shall eat you, and you, worthless, lazy sheet-rash, will have the hide flayed off your back. She barked a laugh and left them. Hildegon fell weeping on the mattress. Capon let her cry herself out while he undressed and got between the blankets. Drawing his sword he laid it carefully in the middle of the bed. The girl looked at him through jumbled, fair locks. How can ye dare, she whispered. One breath of fear the moment's doubt, and the troll is free to rend ye. Exactly, Capignon. Doubtless she hopes that fear will come to me lying wakeful in the night, wherefore it is but a question of going gently to sleep. Oh, Severic, Torbeck, Bjornah, could you but see how I am resting now. But the three truths ye gave her, how knew ye? Oh, those. Well, ye see, sweet lady, Primus and Secundus were my own thoughts, and who is to disprove them? Tertius was also clear, since ye said there had been no company here in three years, yet there are many trolls in these lands. Ergo even they cannot stomach our gentle hostess. Capon watched her through heavily-litted eyes. She flushed deeply, blew out the candles, and he heard her slip off her garment and get in with him. There was a long silence. Then, are ye not? Yes, fair one, he muttered through his drowsiness. Are ye not? Well, I am here, and ye are here, and— Fear not, he said, I laid my sword between us, sleep in peace. I would be glad ye have come to deliver. No, fair lady, no man of gentle breeding could so abuse his power. Good night. He leaned over, brushing his lips gently across hers, and laid down again. Ye are—I never thought a man could be so noble, she whispered, as his soul spun into sleep he chuckled. Those unresting days and nights on the sea had not left him fit for that kind of exercise. But, of course, if she wanted to think he was being magnanimous, it could be useful later. He woke with a start and looked into the sputtering glare of a torch. Its light wove across the crags and gullies of the trollwife's face and shimmered wetly off the great tusks in her mouth. Good morning, mother, said Capon politely. Hildegon thrust back a scream. Come and be eaten, said the trollwife. No, thank you, said Capon regretfully, but firmly. It would be ill for my health. No, I will trouble you for a firebrand, and then the princess and I will be off. If you think that stupid bit of silver will protect you, think again, she snapped. Your three sentences were all that saved you last night. Now I hunger. Silver, said Capon didactically, is a certain shield against all black magics. So the wizard told me, and he was such a nice white bearded old man, I am sure even his attendant devils never lied. Now, please depart, mother, for modesty forbids me to dress before your eyes. The hideous face thrust close to his. He smiled dreamily and tweaked her nose. Hard. She howled and flung the torch at him. Capon caught it and stuffed it into her mouth. She choked and ran from the room. A new sport, troll-baiting, said the bard gaily into the sudden darkness. Come, shall we not venture out? The girl trembled too much to move. He comforted her, absurd-mindedly, and dressed in the dark, swearing at the clumsy leggings. When he left, Hildegun put on her clothes and hurried after him. The troll-wife squatted by the fire and glared at them as they went by. Capon hefted his sword and looked at her. I do not love you, he said mildly and hewed out. She backed away, shrieking as he slashed at her. In the end, she crouched at the mouth of a tunnel, raging futile. Capon pricked her with his blade. It's not worth my time to follow you underground, he said, but if you ever trouble men again, I will hear of it and come and feed you to my dogs, a peace at a time. A very small peace. Do you understand? She snarled at him. An extremely small peace, said Capon amiably. Have you heard me? Something broke in her. Yes, she whimpered. He let her go and she scuttled from him like a rat. He remembered the firewood and took an armful. On the way he thoughtfully picked up a few jeweled rings which he didn't think she would be needing and stuck them in his pouch. Then he led the girl outside. The wind had laid itself, a clear frosty morning glittering on the sea and the longship was a distant silver against white-capped blueness. The minstrel groaned. What a distance to row! Oh, well. They were at sea before Hildegon spoke. All was in the eyes that watched him. No man could be so brave, she murmured. Are ye a god? Not quite, said Capon. No, most beautiful one, modesty grips my tongue. T'was bet that I had the silver and was therefore proof against her sorcery. But the silver was no help, she cried. Capon's oar caught a crab. What? he yelled. No, no. Why, she told ye so her own self. I thought she lied. I know the silver guards against. But she used no magic. Trolls have but their own strength. Capon sagged in his seat. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then only his lack of fear had armored him and if he had known the truth that would not have lasted a minute. He laughed shakily, another score for his doubts about the overall value of truth. The longships oars bit water and approached him, indignant voices asking why he had been so long on his errand faded when his passenger was seen. And Severac the King wept as he took his daughter back into his arms. The hard brown face was still blurred with tears when he looked at the minstrel, but the return of his old self was there, too. What ye have done, Capon Vera of Croy, is what no other man in the world could have done. I, I, the rough northern voices held adoration as the warriors crowded around the slim red-haired figure. Ye shall have her whom ye saved to wife, said Severac, and when I die ye shall rule all Norrin. Capon swayed and clutched the rail. Three nights later he slipped away from their shore camp and turned his face southward. End of The Valor of Capon Vera, by Powell Anderson The murmur of the trees sounded loud in the village church where the people sat waiting for the service to begin. The windows were open. It was a very warm Sunday for May. The church was already filled with this soft sylvan music, the tender harmony of the leaves and the south wind, and the sweet, desultory whistles of birds when the choir arose and began to sing. In the center of the row of women singers stood Alma Way. All the people stared at her and turned their ears critically. She was the new leading soprano. Candice Whitcomb, the old one, who had sung in the choir for forty years had lately been given her dismissal. The audience considered that her voice had grown too cracked and uncertain on the upper notes. There had been much complaint and after long deliberation the church officers had made known their decision as mildly as possible to the old singer. She had sung for the last time this Sunday before and Alma Way had been engaged to take her place. With the exception of the organist the leading soprano was the only paid musician in the large choir. The salary was very modest, still the village people considered it large for a young woman. Alma was from the adjoining village of East Derby. She had quite a local reputation as a singer. Now she fixed her large solemn blue eyes, her long delicate face which had been pretty turned paler. The blue flowers on her bonnet trembled. Her little thin gloved hands clutching the singing book shook perceptibly, but she sang out bravely. That most formidable mountain height of the world, self distrust and timidity arose before her, but her nerves were braced for its assent. In the midst of the hymn she had a solo, her voice rang out piercingly sweet. The people nodded admiringly at each other, but suddenly there was a stir. All the faces turned toward the windows on the south side of the church. Above the din of the wind and the birds, above Alma Way's sweetly straining tones, arose another female voice, singing another hymn to another tune. It's her, the women whispered to each other. They were half aghast, half smiling. Candace Whitcomb's cottage stood close to the south side of the church. She was playing on her parlor organ and singing to drown out the voice of her rival. Alma caught her breath. She almost stopped. The hymn book waved like a fan, then she went on, but the long husky drone of the parlor organ and the shrill clamor of the other voice seemed louder than anything else. When the hymn was finished, Alma sat down. She felt faint. The woman next to her slipped a peppermint into her hand. It ain't worth minding, she whispered vigorously. Alma tried to smile. Down in the audience a young man was watching her with a kind of fierce pity. In the last hymn Alma had another solo. Again the parlor organ droned above the carefully delicate accompaniment of the church organ, and again Candace Whitcomb's voice clamored forth in another tune. After the benediction the other singers pressed around Alma. She did not say much in return for their expressions of indignation and sympathy. She wiped her eyes furtively once or twice and tried to smile. William Emmons, the choir leader, elderly, stout and smooth-faced, stood over her and raised his voice. He was the old musical dignitary of the village, the leader of the choral club and the singing schools. A most outrageous proceeding, he said. People had coupled his name with Candace Whitcomb's. The old bachelor tenor and old maiden soprano had been want to walk together to her home next door after the Saturday night rehearsals, and they had sung duets to the parlor organ. People had watched sharply her old face on which the blushes of youth sat pitifully when William Emmons entered the singing seats. They wondered if he would ever ask her to marry him. And now he said further to Alma way that Candace Whitcomb's voice had failed utterly of late, that she sang shockingly and ought to have had sense enough to know it. When Alma went down into the audience room in the midst of the chattering singers who seemed to have descended like birds from song flights to chirps, the minister approached her. He had been waiting to speak to her. He was a steady-faced, fleshy old man who had preached from that one pulpit over forty years. He told Alma, in his slow way, how much he regretted the annoyance to which she had been subjected, and intimated that he would endeavor to prevent a recurrence of it. Miss Whitcomb must be reasoned with, said he. He had a slight hesitation of speech, not an impediment. It was as if his thoughts did not slide readily into his words, although both were present. He walked down the aisle with Alma, and bad her good morning when he saw Wilson Ford waiting for her in the doorway. Everybody knew that Wilson Ford and Alma were lovers. They had been for the last ten years. Alma colored softly and made a little imperceptible motion with her head. Her silk dress and the lace on her mantle fluttered, but she did not speak. Neither did Wilson, although they had not met before that day. They did not look at each other's faces. They seemed to see each other without that, and they walked along side by side. They reached the gate before Candace Whitcomb's little house. Wilson looked past the front yard, full of pink and white spikes on flowering bushes at the lace-curtained windows. A thin white profile, stiffly inclined, apparently over a book, was visible at one of them. Wilson gave his head a shake. He was a stout man, with features so strong that they overcame his flesh. I'm going up home with you, Alma, said he, and then I'm just coming back to give Aunt Candace one blowing up. Oh, don't, Wilson. Yes, I shall. If you want to stand this kind of a thing, you may. I shan't. There's no need of your talking to her. Mr. Pollard's going to. Did he say he was? Yes, I think he's going in before the afternoon meeting from what he said. Well, there's one thing about it. If she does that thing again this afternoon, I'll go in there and break that old organ up into kindling wood. Wilson said his mouth hard and shook his head again. Alma gave little side glances up at him. Her tone was deprecatory, but her face was full of soft smiles. I suppose she does feel dreadfully about it, said she. I can't help feeling kind of guilty taking her place. I don't see how you're to blame. It's outrageous her acting so. The choir gave her a photograph album last week, didn't they? Yes, they went there last Thursday night and gave her an album and a surprise party. She ought to behave herself. Well, she's sung there so long, I suppose it must be dreadful hard for her to give it up. Other people going home from church were very near Wilson and Alma. She spoke softly that they might not hear. He did not lower his voice in the least. Presently Alma stopped before a gate. What are you stopping here for? asked Wilson. Many Lansing wanted me to come and stay with her this noon. You're going home with me. I'm afraid I'll put your mother out. Put mother out? I told her you were coming this morning. She's got all ready for you. Come along, don't stand here. He did not tell Alma of the pugnacious spirit with which his mother had received the announcement of her coming and how she had stayed at home to prepare the dinner and make a parade of her hard work and her injury. Wilson's mother was the reason why he did not marry Alma. He would not take his wife home to live with her and was unable to support separate establishments. Alma was willing enough to be married and put up with Wilson's mother, but she did not complain of his decision. Her delicate blonde features grew sharper and her blue eyes more hollow. She had had a certain fine prettiness, but now she was losing it and beginning to look old, and there was a prim, angular, old maiden carriage about her narrow shoulders. Wilson never noticed it and never thought of Alma as not possessed of eternal youth or capable of losing or regretting it. Come along, Alma, said he, and she followed meekly after him down the street. Soon after they passed Candace Whitcomb's house, the minister went up the front walk and rang the bell. The pale profile at the window had never stirred as he opened the gate and came up the walk. However, the door was promptly opened in response to his ring. Good morning, Miss Whitcomb, said the minister. Good morning. Candace gave a sweeping toss of her head as she spoke. There was a fierce upward curl to her thin nostrils and her lips as if she scented an adversary. Her black eyes had two tiny cold sparks of fury in them, like in enraged birds. She did not ask the minister to enter, but he stepped lumberingly into the entry, and she retreated rather than led the way into her little parlor. He settled into the great rocking chair and wiped his face. Candace sat down again in her old place by the window. She was a tall woman, but very slender and full of pliable motions, like a blade of grass. It's a very pleasant day, said the minister. Candace made no reply. She sat still with her head drooping. The wind stirred the looped lace curtains. A tall rose tree outside the window waved. Soft shadows floated through the room. Candace's parlor organ stood in front of an open window that faced the church. On the corner was a pitcher with a bunch of white lilacs. The whole room was scented with them. Presently the minister looked over at them and sniffed pleasantly. You have some beautiful lilacs there. Candace did not speak. Every line of her slender figure looked flexible, but it was a flexibility more resistant than rigor. The minister looked at her. He filled up the great rocking chair. His arms and his shiny black coat sleeves rested squarely and comfortably upon the haircloth arms of the chair. Well, Miss Whitcomb, I suppose I may as well come to the point. There was a little matter I wish to speak to you about. I don't suppose you were—at least I can't suppose you were—aware of it, but this morning, during the singing by the choir, you played and sung a little too loud. That is with the windows open. It disturbed us a little. I hope you won't feel hurt, my dear Miss Candace, but I knew you would rather I speak of it, for I knew you would be more disturbed than anybody else at the idea of such a thing. Candace did not raise her eyes. She looked as if his words might sway her through the window. I ain't disturbed at it, said she. I did it on purpose. I meant to. The minister looked at her. You needn't look at me. I know just what I'm about. I sung the way I did on purpose, and I'm going to do it again, and I'd like to see you stop me. I guess I've got a right to set down to my own organ and sing a Psalm tune on a Sabbath day if I want to, and there ain't no amount of talking and palaveron are going to stop me. See there! Candace swung aside her skirts a little. Look at that! The minister looked. Candace's feet were resting on a large red-plush photograph album. Makes a nice footstool, don't it? said she. The minister looked at the album, then at her. There was a slowly gathering alarm in his face. He began to think she was losing her reason. Candace had her eyes full upon him now, and her head up. She laughed, and her laugh was almost a snarl. Yes, I thought it would make a beautiful footstool, said she. I've been wanting one for some time. Her tone was full of vicious irony. Why, miss? began the minister, but she interrupted him. I know what you're going to say, Mr. Pollard, and now I'm going to have my say. I'm going to speak. I want to know what you think of folks that pretend to be Christians treating anybody the way they've treated me. Here I've sung in those singing seats forty years. I ain't never missed a Sunday, except when I've been sick, and I've gone and sung a good many times when I'd better been in bed. And now I'm turned out without a word of warning. My voice is just as good as ever twas. There can't anybody say it ain't. It wasn't ever quite so high-pitched as that waygirls, maybe, but she flats the whole darn time. My voice is as good and high today as it was twenty years ago, and if it wasn't, I'd like to know where the Christianity comes in. I'd like to know if it wouldn't be more to the credit of folks in a church to keep an old singer and an old minister if they didn't sing and hold forth quite so smart as they used to rather than turn them off and hurt their feelings. I guess it would be full as much to the glory of God. Suppose the singing and the preaching wasn't quite so good. What difference would it make? Salvation don't hang on anybody's hitting a high note that I ever heard of. Folks are getting as high steppin' and fussy in a meeting house as they are in a tavern nowadays. Suppose they should turn you off, Mr. Pollard. Come and give you a photograph album and tell you to clear out. How'd you like it? I ain't findin' any fault with your preaching. It was always good enough to suit me, but it don't stand to reason folks will be as took up with your sermons as when you was a young man. You can't expect it. Suppose they should turn you out in your old age and call in some young Bob Squirt. How'd you feel? There's William Emmons, too. He's three years older than I am, if he does lead the choir and run all the singing in town. If my voice is giddin' out, it stands to reason his has. It ain't, though. William Emmons sings just as well as he ever did. Why don't they turn him out the way they have me and give him a photograph album? I don't know, but it would be a good idea to send everybody as soon as they get a little old and gone by and young folks begin to push onto some desert island and give them each a photograph album. Then they can sit down and look at pictures the rest of their days. Maybe government'll take it up. There they come here last week Thursday, all the choir, just about eight o'clock in the evening and pretended they'd come to give me a nice little surprise. Surprise! Brought cake and oranges and was just as nice as they could be and I was real tickled. I never had a surprise party before in my life. Jenny Carr she played and they wanted me to sing alone and I never suspected a thing. I've been mad ever since to think what a fool I was and how they must have laughed in their sleeves. When they'd gone I found this photograph album on the table all done up as nice as you please and directed to Miss Candace Whitcomb from her many friends and I opened it and there was a letter inside giving me notice to quit. If they'd gone about it any decent way told me right out honest that they'd got tired of me and wanted all my way to sing instead of me I wouldn't mind it so much. I should have been hurt enough for I'd felt as if some that had pretended to be my friends wouldn't but it wouldn't have been as bad as this. They said in the letter that they'd always set great value on my services and it wasn't from any lack of appreciation that they turned me off but they thought the duty was getting a little too arduous for me. I hadn't complained if they'd turned me right out fair and square showed me the door and said here you get out but to go and spill molasses as it were all over the threshold trying to make me think it's all nice and sweet. I'd send that photograph album back quick so I could pack it but I didn't know who started it so I've used it for a footstool it's all it's good for according to my way of thinking and I ain't been particular to get the dust off my shoes before I used it neither. Mr. Pollard the minister sat staring. He did not look at Candice his eyes were fastened upon a point straight ahead. He had a look of helpless solidity like a block of granite. This country minister with his steady even temperament treading with heavy precision his one track for over 40 years having nothing new in his life except the new sameness of the seasons and desiring nothing new was incapable of understanding a woman like this who had lived as quietly as he and all the time held within herself the elements of revolution he could not account for such violence such extremes except in a loss of reason he had a conviction that Candice was getting beyond herself he himself was not a typical New Englander the national elements of character were not pronounced in him he was aghast and bewildered at this outbreak which was tropical and more than tropical for a new england nature has a floodgate and the power which it releases is an accumulation Candice Whitcomb had been a quiet woman so delicately resolute that the quality had been scarcely noticed in her and her ambition had been unsuspected now the resolution and the ambition appeared raging over her whole self she began to talk again I've made up my mind that I'm going to sing Sundays the way I did this morning and I don't care what folks say said she I've made up my mind that I'm going to take matters into my own hands I'm going to let folks see that I ain't trod down quite flat that there's a little rise left in me I ain't going to give up beat yet a while and I'd like to see anybody stop me if I ain't got a right to play a psalm tune on my organ and sing I'd like to know if you don't like it you can move the meeting house Candice had had an inborn reverence for clergyman she had always treated Mr. Pollard with the utmost deference indeed her manner toward all men had been marked by a certain delicate stiffness and dignity now she was talking to the old minister with the homely freedom with which she might have addressed a female gossip over the back fence he could not say much in return he did not feel competent to make headway against any such tide of passion all he could do was to let it beat against him he made a few expostulations which increased Candice's vehemence he expressed his regret over the whole affair and suggested that they should kneel and ask the guidance of the lord in the matter that she might be led to see it all in a different light Candice refused flatly I don't see any use praying about it said she I don't think the lords got much to do with it anyhow it was almost time for the afternoon service when the minister left he had missed his comfortable noontide rest through this encounter with his revolutionary parishioner after the minister had gone Candice sat by the window and waited the bell rang and she watched the people file past when her nephew Wilson Ford with Alma appeared she grunted to herself she's thin as a rail said she guess there won't be much left of her by the time Wilson gets her little soft spoken nip and thing she wouldn't make him no kind of a wife anyway guess it's just as well when the bell had stopped tolling and all the people entered the church Candice went over to her organ and seated herself she arranged a singing book before her and sat still waiting her thin colorless neck and temples were full of beating pulses her black eyes were bright and eager she leaned stiffly over toward the music rack to hear better when the church organ sounded out she straightened herself her long skinny fingers pressed her own organ keys with nervous energy she worked the pedals with all her strength all her slender body was in motion when the first notes of Alma's solo began Candice sang she had really possessed a fine voice and it was wonderful how little she had lost it straining her throat with jealous fury her notes were still for the main part true her voice filled the whole room she sang with wonderful fire and expression that at least mild little Alma way could never emulate she was full of steadfastness and unquestioning constancy but there were in her no smoldering fires of ambition and resolution music was not to her what it had been to her older rival to this obscure woman kept relentlessly by circumstances in a narrow track singing in the village choir had been as much as Italy was to Napoleon and now on her island of exile she was still showing fight after the church service was done Candice left the organ and went over to her old chair by the window her knees felt weak and shook under her she sat down and leaned back her head there were red spots on her cheeks pretty soon she heard a quick slammer for gate and an impetuous tread on the gravel walk she looked up and there was her nephew Wilson Ford hurrying up to the door she cringed a little then she settled herself more firmly in her chair Wilson came into the room with a rush he left the door open and the wind slammed it too after him on Candice where are you he called out in a loud voice she made no reply he looked around fiercely and his eyes seemed to pounce upon her look here on Candice said he are you crazy Candice said nothing on Candice she did not seem to see him if you don't answer me said Wilson I'll just go over there and pitch that old organ out of the window Wilson Ford said Candice in a voice that was almost a scream well what say what have you got to say for yourself acting the way you have I'll tell you what is on Candice I won't stand it I'd like to see you help yourself I will help myself I'll pitch that old organ out of the window and then I'll board up the window on that side of your house then we'll see it ain't your house and it won't never be who said it was my house you're my aunt and I've got a little look out for the credit of the family on Candice what are you doing this way for it don't make no odds what I'm doing so for I ain't bound to give my reasons to a young fella like you if you do act so mighty toppen but I'll tell you one thing Wilson Ford after the way you've spoke today you shan't never have one cent of my money and you can't never marry that way girl if you don't have it you can't never take her home to live with your mother and this house would have been mighty nice and convenient for you someday now you won't get it I'm gonna make another will I'd made one if you did but know it now you won't get a cent of my money you know your mother neither and I ain't going to live a dreadful while longer neither now I wish you'd go home I want to lay down I'm about sick Wilson could not get another word from his aunt his indignation had not in the least cooled her threat of disinheriting him did not cow him at all he had too much rough independence and indeed his aunt Candice's house had always been too much of an air castle for him to contemplate seriously Wilson with his burly frame and his headlong common sense could have little to do with air castles had he been hard enough to build them over graves still he had not admitted that he could never marry Alma all his hopes were based upon a rise in his own fortunes not by some sudden convulsion but by his own long and steady labor sometime he thought he should have saved enough for the two homes he went out of his aunt's house still storming she arose after the door had shut behind him and got out into the kitchen she thought that she would start a fire and make a cup of tea she had not eaten anything all day she put some kindling wood into the stove and touched a match to it then she went back to the sitting room and settled down again into the chair by the window the fire in the kitchen stove roared and the light wood was soon burned out she thought no more about it she had not put on the tea kettle her head ached and once in a while she shivered she sat at the window while the afternoon waned and the dusk came on at seven o'clock the meeting bell rang again and the people flocked by this time she did not stir she had shut her parlor organ she did not need to out sing her rival this evening there was only congregational singing at the sunday night prayer meeting she sat still until it was nearly time for meeting to be done her head ached harder and harder and she shivered more finally she arose guess i'll go to bed she muttered she went about the house bent over and shaking to lock the doors she stood a minute in the back door looking over the fields to the woods there was a red light over there the woods are on fire said kandace she watched with a dull interest the flames roll up withering and destroying the tender green spring foliage the air was full of smoke although the fire was half a mile away kandace locked the door and went in the trees with their delicate garlands of new leaves with the new nests of songbirds might fall she was in the roar of an intenser fire the growths of all her springs and the delicate wantedness of her whole life were going down in it kandace went to bed in her little room off the parlor but she could not sleep she lay awake all night in the morning she crawled to the door and hailed a little boy who was passing she bad him go for the doctor as quickly as he could then to mrs. Ford's and ask her to come over she held on to the door while she was talking the boy stood staring wonderingly at her the spring wind fanned her face she had drawn on a dress skirt and put her shawl over her shoulders and her gray hair was blowing over her red cheeks she shut the door and went back to her bed she never arose from it again the doctor and mrs. Ford came and looked after her and she lived a week nobody but herself thought until the very last that she would die the doctor called her illness merely a light run of fever she had her senses fully but kandace gave up at the first it's my last sickness she said to mrs. Ford that morning when she first entered and mrs. Ford had laughed at the notion but the sick woman held to it she did not seem to suffer much physical pain she only grew weaker and weaker but she was distressed mentally she did not talk much but her eyes followed everybody with an agonized expression on wednesday william emmons came to inquire for her kandace heard him out in the parlor she tried to raise herself on one elbow that she might listen better to his voice william emmons come in to ask how you was mrs. Ford said after he was gone i heard him replied kandace presently she spoke again nancy said she where's that photograph album on the table replied her sister hesitatingly maybe you'd better brush it up a little well sunday morning kandace wished that the minister should be asked to come in at the noon intermission she had refused to see him before he came and prayed with her and she asked his forgiveness for the way she had spoken the sunday before i had not to spoke so said she i was dreadful wrought up perhaps it was your sickness coming on said the minister soothingly kandace shook her head no it wasn't i hope the lord will forgive me after the minister had gone kandace still appeared unhappy her pitiful eyes followed her sister everywhere with the mechanical persistency of a portrait what is it you want kandace mrs. Ford said at last she had nursed her sister faithfully but once in a while her impatience showed itself nancy what say i wish you'd go out when meeting's done and head off alma and wilson and ask him to come in i feel as if i'd like to hear her sing mrs. Ford stared well said she the meeting was now in session the windows were all open for it was another warm sunday kandace lay listening to the music when it began and a look of peace came over her face her sister had smoothed her hair back and put on a clean cap the white curtain in the bedroom window waved in the wind like a white sail kandace almost felt as if she were better but the thought of death seemed easy mrs. Ford at the parlor window watched for the meeting to be out when the people appeared she ran down the walk and waited for alma and wilson when they came she told him what kandace wanted and they all went in together here's alma and wilson kandace said mrs. Ford leading them to the bedroom door kandace smiled come in she said feebly and alma and wilson entered and stood beside the bed kandace continued to look at them the smile straining her lips wilson what is it on kandace i ain't altered that wil you and alma can come here and live when i'm gone your mother won't mind living alone alma can have all my things don't don kandace tears were running over wilson's cheeks and alma's delicate face was all of a quiver i thought maybe alma'd be willing to sing for me said kandace what do you want me to sing alma asked in a trembling voice jesus lover of my soul alma standing there beside wilson began to sing at first she could hardly control her voice then she sang sweetly and clearly kandace lay and listened her face had a holy and radiant expression when alma stopped singing it did not disappear but she looked up and spoke and it was like a secondary glimpse of the old shape of a forest tree through the smoke and flame of the transfiguring fire the instant before it falls you've flatted a little on soul said kandace end of a village singer by mary e wilkins read by nick number