By Laurel Hanson

It were Beathan who first laid eyes upon the bones lodged between the rocks along the salt sea, looking like so much driftwood whitened by the sun. Tangled all around with long strands of golden hair, they were, as if bound in a most precious net. It were mournful to see.

But Beathan, he plucked up that bundle and says we must make camp there by the shore. While I built a fire, he untwined those golden tresses and laid out the bones upon the sand.

I wondered how the bright-haired lass had passed from this mortal world. An accident, perhaps? It would be easy to tumble from some rocky outcrop. Yet it might be that she had died by her own hand. A black thought. And then a blacker thought rode in behind it: had she died by the hand of another? I may never know, but that she should have found her final resting place on the cold seashore, forgotten and alone, were a sorrowful thing.

Beathan, though, he studied those bones the way another man studies a milk cow before purchase. It were as though he could see her standing there in a gown embroidered all about with flowers of the field, her hair coiled into gleaming braids around her head.

I saw the question of her death, you see. But Beathan, he saw the answer of her life.

When I woke in the morning, the lad were looking thoughtful. He’d taken the bones of one leg and bent them to rest upon the kneecap. It gave me a fright, looking so like she were at her prayers and just awaiting the other scattered pieces.

But the morning sun were shining in Beathan’s face, his eyes brighter than new pennies. “A harp, Eachdonn,” says he. “I will make a harp from these bones.”

You can imagine that sat uneasy with me, and I asked him why, but he only says, “She must speak.”

I tell you freely, his words made my insides quiver, but Beathan were touched by the fey, oft portentous with his words. He set to whittling those bleached bones while I went off to the nearest village to learn if the villagers might want for a bit of music.

Sadly, it were but a few small houses huddled by the sea. They looked to be clutching each other for dear life, lest the angry storms of winter come take them away. It weren’t the sort of place a pair of harpers would find much custom, but on the hill overlooking the village stood a fine manor. All about it were stout walls, and the courtyard within looked full to bursting with carriages.

“What might be the occasion?” I asked a fisherman mending his nets.

Says he, “The eldest daughter weds tomorrow.”

I smelled coin in this news. Says I, “A fine wedding is it, then?”

“I expect so,” says he. “They waited a full year after the younger one run off, didn’t they?”

I wouldn’t know, not being from these parts, but his words were gladly received. A long-awaited nuptial would be a grand event, with need of musicians long into the night.

Well, I trotted this happy news back to Beathan and found the harp had taken shape. The shin bones served as the column, the thigh bone a soundboard, and her breastbone spanned between them. Beathan must have worked like one possessed. Even as I watched, he turned the holes with his awl, and then he strung that doleful harp with three strands of golden hair.

“So,” says he, “we will play for the wedding.”

I didn’t think the fine lords and ladies would much care to hear such an instrument at their festivities, but when Beathan has an idea in his head, there is no chiseling it out for love nor money, and so we presented ourselves to the manor the next afternoon.

We had to go round back through the kitchens, of course. There were a great pig turning over the flames and a host of pastries and tarts laid out upon a board. It were as close to heaven as I’ll ever come, and I hoped we might be given a taste of it.

But first we were obliged to play. The hall were bright with candlelight, and laughter rang out clear as church bells. A grand wedding party, make no mistake. The bride, all raven hair and finery, were smiling as pretty as her white lace gown and gloves. Her man were a knight, brave of face and form, though a sadness lay buried beneath his eyes that troubled me.

Beathan set down the harp. A single, ethereal note rang out.

The hall fell silent.

Then, may God defend me, those golden strings plucked on their own, soft and low, by no earthly hand.

“The brighter, younger sister drowned,” sings the harp.

Well, I saw the bride’s smile slip just then. The knight, he leaped from his chair with a great clatter, all that bravery wiped away and nothing but sorrow in its place.

Beathan, he strummed fast and fierce. Sings the harp, “In terror sits the black-haired bride.”

Every eye fetched upon the bride whose face had gone a ghostly pale. In those wide, dark eyes, I saw the memory of a golden head tossed upon the wide, dark sea, calling for help that never came. I saw the truth of a jealous heart written there as though upon a page. I heard the truth in the knight’s shout of pain and loss. It were plain to see that he had loved the fair-haired sister above all else.

Once more strummed Beathan, long and lingering.

“Surely now,” sings the harp, “her tears will flow.”

I suppose they would have, too, but the knight’s blade were fast and keen. In moments, the deceiving bride lay upon the floor, and it were her blood, not her tears, that flowed through the rushes and her long, black hair.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laurel Hanson is a writer who grew up traveling around the world until finally settling in Maine. Except for that one time she ran a haunted inn, her career has centered on the art of communication. Her stories have appeared with Havok, Flash Fiction Magazine, Literally Stories, Moonday Magazine, and the latest Read on Run anthology.

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