The Magic Lute

written during a "Myths and Legends" class in 9th grade, mostly to impress the teacher. I'm still quite proud of it.

 

Once upon a time in a small yet prosperous village, there lived a young minstrel by the name of Tristan. He was a lad of romantic, fanciful temperment who lived so enthralled of all things lovely that most thought him to be a fool, and would have paid him no mind had it not been for his lute. For the glory to all of Tristan’s life lay in this magic lute, an instrument made from thin sheets of ivory and with strings spun from strands of the purest gold. It was said to be able to provoke feelings of such profound emotion that he had played it in the halls of kings and queens, in many far parts of the land. He and his lute held worldwide notoriety and stature, but still Tristan resided in the small village in which he was born. So, naturally, it is in this village that the tale I am about to impart to you plays out, like a song itself, in a sweet tragic reel unto death and the inevitable silence.

There came a time not very long after Tristan turned nineteen when the governor this little village decided to marry off his daughter Elizabeth, for she was of age and already widely-admired by the men of the town. Tristan was no exception to this collective, and had long been secretly in love with the girl. Her subtle charms and thin lips that unfurled like whispering moth’s wings had long captivated and held his most secret fancy. He had been reluctant in meeting her, however, for the governor’s family was that of the highest esteem in the all the village. With his status as a singing, lute-playing fool, it seemed he had no choice but to remain in a state of terrified awe before her.

To determine who would win over his daughter, the governor set a contest – whosoever brings the loveliest gift by the next morning may have her hand in marriage. As soon as Tristan heard of this, he hurried home and began to search his house from top to bottom for something he could offer. His eye first lighted upon his mother’s tea-kettle, for though it was old and worn, it shone with a dull copper glow that warmed his heart with memories of childhood. He took it from the countertop and brought it straight over to the governor’s house. The governor took one look at this meager gift, and began to laugh mightily, declaring to the passer-by, “Look, see what this fool has brought! To win the hand of my daughter with a rusty old tea-kettle! Oh, ho! I should be insulted! Be gone, silly stranger, until ye can bring me something of worth!”

Sick unto death with deepest shame, Tristan returned sullenly home. He searched his house a second time over, and at long last procured another small treasure – a pair of soft knit woolen slippers that were his sustenance every winter since. He brought these back to the governor with great reluctance a few minutes later. As you could imagine, the scene between the two men more or less played itself as before, and the minstrel was driven away by the governor’s taunting cries. When he arrived home this third time, he remained standing on the threshold of his house, his arms hung at his sides. It seemed that there was nothing he could give to this most worthy of all his desires, and he was left almost without hope. Then, suddenly, he had a terrible yet instantly gratifying thought. He took his lute up off its shelf, and without hesitation began to cut off each golden string until they all lay in a heap at his feet. How sad, it seems, that those strings that had sung so many a song for love, were to be silenced forever in the name of it as well. Still quite overcome with feelings for Elizabeth, and therefore not thinking upon the deplorable thing he had just done, Tristan gathered the strings into his pocket like kindling, and watched the sky burn slowly into black as he sat waiting in the window.

When he arrived the next morning and presented the strings of gold, the governor was at first dumbstruck, and then very pleased. He took Tristan by the arm, led him into the street and announced, “A finer offering I could not dream! Strands of pure gold from the legendary lute that hath sung a song to many a royal ear, and forever they are mine! My daughter shall be wed this very afternoon, to Tristan the noble and worthy fool.” And so they were, that very afternoon. Tristan felt completely happy – thrilled with both his bride’s hand in his, and her father’s words of praise that still echoed in his ears. It was not until later that evening, lying in bed next to his serene smiling bride that he realized the gravity of what he had done. Looking at his beloved lute, so stark and dismembered upon the shelf, he was so torn open so that he could not think of anything else from then on for weeks afterward - not even his love. He tried to be contented with his bride, and to smile at her each time their gaze lit upon each other, but Tristan wandered throughout the days, despondent and empty. He found that he wanted more and more all the time to rid himself of this love that had come to replace the music in his heart.      

One day, being distraught in this way, he set off down the road, holding every intention to continue walking until he could no more. Before he got far along, though, he saw Elizabeth, hurrying towards him from a field on the other side. Her thick sweep of auburn hair was tossing from side to side on her shoulders and her lips were pulled back in a smile as welcoming as an embrace. His soul thrilled with love for her, but this was quickly tainted with a wild, ravenous hate. To think that she, and she alone, was for what he had sacrificed all his life’s work and joy – how lacking in retrospect she seemed! What a poor substitute for the very music of his soul! So while she lay softly in his arms, sighing out words of mindless devotion, he was seized with such a dread desire for his past life that he could absolutely stand her presence no more. He took a knife from his pocket and with a cry, plunged it deep into her brain. He then carried her off the road to a clearing, and, laying her down on the forest floor, slowly began to cut her heart out from her chest. He unraveled the still-tremor-ing strings from around it, coiled them about his fingers and strode home, his own heart aching terribly as if it too had been severed from his body. As the girl lay still in the grass, her hair swept like reeds beneath her paled cheek, and he spared her not a single backward glance. His mouth was set with firm resolve, determined to take back what was once his own.

Not one of the people in that village could recall what had become of the beautiful governor’s daughter, for Tristan would not tell a soul. He went on to live for many more years, playing his lute as he did, which brought him wider audiences of admirers by the day. Now, though, the fame of his magic lute was not brought about by its immaculate design, but for the music that was wrought from it. Never did those who heard it know such feelings of sorrow, which lifted their hearts to their throats as the notes shimmered on the living air around them. For from what the sounds of the minstrel’s heart sang upon were the very dead, thrumming heartstrings of Elizabeth, forever to remain his one and only love.

The End.