ADSILTIA

By Marcos Araujo

There was a dead look to the king. Sacks formed beneath his eyes, his cheeks sagging, his belly resting on his lap. He reeked so horribly, one would prefer to dunk their head into a rotten pumpkin, filled with rotten milk and week-old eggs. Even the slaves themselves, without the luxury of a bath, would helplessly hold their breath when they came near him. Calisto had no choice but to get used to it, as the king would keep her tied to his throne with a coarse rope that circled her neck. She would dine with the mice on the spoils that fell to the king’s side. Every so often, the king would tug her rope and whistle her onto his lap. She wore scarcely any garments. A filthy cloth to hide her intimate parts. Then, the king would ask her to sing. That was why he chose her, after all. Her rib cage was clear through her skin, her lips tattered, and her throat drier than the cold-stone floor. Regardless, she would lift her voice to not disappoint her master.

A hoarse croak emerged from her. A pitiful, tuneless caw that gave the king no satisfaction. Black tears began to streak down her cheeks as she craned her neck at his ear, yearning to deliver her song. Violently, he thrust her to the ground. “Off me you useless slave! One who once had a voice as proud as a falcon’s, now is left with the squeaks of a bat. Guards! Throw her out! I have no use for her anymore.”

Calisto groaned and moaned unintelligibly for the king to forgive her. In a moment, the guards seized her by the legs and dragged her towards the hall doors. She sobbed desperately while tossing and turning in a futile attempt to free herself. Soon, her echoes faded into silence. She would not return. The king reposed on one elbow and drummed his fingers on the arm-rest. A sigh, then a groan. “Ortho…” he called without effort. “Ortho!” he repeated louder.

From behind his throne emerged a pale man with bulging black eyes and a twitchy nose, long and crude. “Yes, your highness? You’ve called for me, master? What pleasure it is to hear you say my name, brother! –Ow!” a slap on the cheek.

“Don’t ever call me that again, you hear me!”

“Yes, your highness. Forgive me, master…”

“Quiet. Ortho,” he slurred. “Ortho, I need you to find me another girl. Calisto lost her worth. Go down the dell to Hallstatt and find for me the most lovely, plump woman you can find; not another bony woman like Calisto was…”

“Calisto was meaty, she was. I remember that. Not as of late, but she had meat once.”

“Then find me another woman who is meaty like she was, and with a voice more resonant than the avalanches that roll down Tøïrnách Mountain.”

“Such a request will take me time, master. It will be hard to procure such a unique and special creature out of all the slaves…”

“Then don’t look among the slaves. For me, anyone should be honored to become one with my halls, to live at my side all life long.”

“You mean, seek among the common-folks too?”

“Any freeman would gladly give their freedom for me, wouldn’t you think, Ortho?”

“Right away, then. I will find you the finest girl that’s ever risen to Coromon!”

* * *

Glistening leaves rustled with the spring-wind that swayed the branches high. Tweeting and whistling entwined into a chorus that sang over a shush that fell from the mountain side and pushed through every bush and branch. Lying in a grove, Adsiltia, acorn eyes and hair of corn, gazed up at a canary with a golden voice, as gold as its feathers. Adsiltia attuned her voice to the bird's, and with each lyric, tried to replicate the canary’s enchanting pitch. She even believed it was her own mimicry that attracted the canary onto the lowest branch. A thousand clouds passed as she harmonized with her canary friend, whom she had once called Flaegan: a boy’s name; that of a prince, she thought, locked in the figure of a regal bird with an ethereal voice.

“Flaegan, thank you for practicing with me. Any day now, my father will notice how good my song’s become, and let me sing to him like my mother did. Until then, we’ll just have to keep it between us.” 

Morn became noon became eve, and the two remained in perfect synchrony, until—

“Adsiltia!” a desperate cry. “Adsiltia, come out! I can’t find you!”

She sat up in haste. It was her father, Floyd, but that only put her less at ease.

“What could worry him? What do you think, Flaegan?”

The grove succumbed to the shadow of the mountain, and soon the glimmering green blackened into blue. Once the singing stopped, no heartwarming sound emerged from the forest; only the ominous hush descending from the steep cliff. A gluttonous wind swallowed the valley.

Then, a piercing screech tore the silence. A jolt of electricity froze the girl in fear. Flaegan’s feathers ruffled.

A crimson-eyed owl suddenly lunged its claws at the canary. They snapped shut, but pierced only air. The canary fell on top of Adsiltia's chest, and fluttered frantically, unaware of the owl’s location.

The girl cradled Flaegan, then rose to her feet. She panted wearily as her head turned every which way, seeking the owl. Then, perched on a branch, white as snow but with ferocious eyes aflame, she spotted the owl lifting its wings again in preparation to dive.

It shot towards Adsiltia. But then, a glistening blade whizzed in front of her and cut the owl down. The huntress plopped to the ground in two pieces.

The girl’s eyes were shut, and held Flaegan firmly against her heart. She heard footsteps about the owl’s corpse, then felt herself be lifted and carried away.

"Singing again, Adsiltia?" asked her father. His carpenter ax cleared their path. "Why won't you listen to me? I never want to repeat the stories, Adsiltia, of the girls taken for their voice. But you leave me little choice. You won't learn. What can I do for you to learn?"

“Just let me sing to you, and then you won’t hear me sing ever again!”

“No, I won’t let you! I will never let you!” 

They arrived at the shack that Adsiltia and her father had moved into after they left Brythonia, borrowed from owners lost to time. 

He set her down on a wheelless wagon.

She was pouting, red faced with tears rolling down her cheeks.

He watched with a torn expression. Then he let out a long sigh. He took her into his arms and let her stanch her tears on his shoulder. He caressed her head. “I’m sorry, Addie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I believe you can sing beautifully. You are your mother’s daughter. But I’m so scared. Scared I’ll lose you too.”

“Why?” she sniffled. “Did the evil king take her?” 

“No, the mountain did. But in a way, the king is part of the mountain, and the mountain is hungry. Always hungry.”

She sniffled again.

“That is why I’m asking you to end it, please. Keep quiet so no one will ever break us apart, understand?”

“Alright.”

He kissed her on the cheek, then sat her back down.

"Now, keep your eyes closed for me." He knelt down, and with a soggy rag, he began to cleanse the blood from the owl that had sprayed onto her skin and clothing. When he did all he could, he lifted through her arms the yellow tunic she had on, and set it next to her. 

"I'll see what I can do about these. Now, go inside and boil some water. We're having stew again tonight." With his left hand, he picked up the carcass by its feet.

Owl stew.

* * *

Regardless of her father’s warnings, Adsiltia kept singing into her age of maturity, and the peril of her being found only increased as her father’s cart-making skills became renowned throughout Hallstatt. To keep his customers, Floyd would soon have to centralize his workshop somewhere less secluded. 

The chief of Hallstatt came to him one late winter, clad in bear fur, and adorned with silver beads that hung from his head and beard. He gave Floyd an offer of a much finer home and a sophisticated workshop, containing the finest tools of the trade. The workshop, however, was located near the commercial district, and his new stead would sit by the wall of the mountain, where it would be impossible for Adsiltia to sing without being heard. 

Before agreeing to the chief, who awaited his answer with the company of mead, Floyd made the request of having one entire log of oak, five pounds of linen, two pounds of velvet, and six pounds of elk skin delivered to his new workshop, before he arrived on the first of spring. With it he would construct a soundproof room so that his daughter could continue her passion. But he didn’t tell the chief this. 

The chief, filled with spirits, in turn requested that he and his daughter join him for Yule, and reside in his hall for ten days before spring. Floyd felt wary, but a greater honor he had never received. They shook forearms. The chief kissed the maiden’s hand, then set off; followed days after by his esteemed guests who had never seen the flourishing city of Hallstatt in person.

* * *

Laughter resounded in the oaken hall, adorned with stuffed beasts that ruled the cold dells between the dispersion of glorious emperors and the reconquest of the northern tribes. Above chief Irvin’s head was a maroon-furred bear, with its mouth as widely held as the chief’s himself, who trumped the room with his own guffaw that emerged from the unimaginably profound hollows of his chest.

“Not like any Yule celebration you’ve had before, right Floyd?” boomed the chief into his ear. 

“No. It’s always just me and Adsiltia. I haven’t seen such a multitude of people since I was a boy.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever mingled with such a multitude at any point, with how quiet you are!” Bread crumbs sprinkled the chief’s robe as he chomped into a loaf.

“It’s the rumor, my liege," Floyd said softly. "This is the reason I was hesitant to accept your invitation. Why we've never come to Hallstatt in person." He leaned in to whisper: “The one about the king seeking a girl who can sing.”

The chief paused. The voices in the room dissipated with his, though uncertain why. Then he burst into an outrageous laugh that threatened to erupt the roof off the hall. A round of laughter ensued; thunder compared to the previous, rattling every beam of the longhouse.

Chief Irvin smacked Floyd on the back. “You’ve been afraid of a myth all this time?” He wheezed; his face turning red. “The king is not interested in any single maiden with a golden voice! He’s already got a multitude of slaves in his castle to give him all the joy he could desire. Do not be afraid of anyone looking to kidnap your daughter. In fact, it saddens me to imagine you’ve been hiding her talents all these years due to some wife’s tale. It would be my greatest pleasure to hear your daughter sing for my guests. It’s Yule! Yule in the house of Irvin Ramsson! The best time and place for expression, and the liberation of worry!”

Adsiltia, a copper wire glistening in her braided hair, had been watching the conversation unfold. She sat to the right of the chief’s son, the earl Gwrin, who in turn sat to the right of the chief himself. She conversed with the earl freely; only withholding her passion for song from their discussion. But having overheard the news, she couldn’t keep herself from telling the earl about it.

“I would also love to hear you sing,” he said. “I’ll sing with you, if you like.”

Her heart fluttered with excitement. She began to clear her throat and puff her chest like Flaegan taught her. She still, however, needed to take one last look into her father’s eyes. He looked at her in turn. The wrinkles on his face seemed to have dissipated with relief, but still the dark of his pupils signaled for caution. She deflated. 

The chair to her left scraped the floor. Her gaze fell on Gwrin ascending; his golden mane bobbing as he rose to his feet. They locked eyes. He stretched his hand towards her; wrapped in a yellow glove. A helpless smile on both their lips. She placed her hand in his. It felt as soft as feathers. She giggled as he lifted her onto her feet.

Clapping and cheering resounded through the hall. “Sing!” they shouted. “The future chief and his bride to be!” some yelled in jest.

“What shall we sing?” she asked shyly.

“A harmony. Just you and me.”

The earl began to raise his voice. Like a heavenly trumpet, he lifted the hall. All the men fell silent, all young maidens sighed with desire. His song made them think of a longship approaching from the vast silver sea, sailing steadily upstream until it finally landed on home’s warm beach.

Adsiltia took a moment to join in. Years of warnings had tempered her into always being cautious. Then Gwrin looked at her, emitting a smile dedicated only to her, whilst maintaining his perfect chord. She filled her chest with air, then halted, glimpsing at Floyd one last time. He himself took a deep breath. All leaned forward in anticipation. Floyd smiled at her, then nodded. That was enough.

What followed was a perfect harmony. The etherealness of her voice made the hall vanish entirely, and caused every guest to float in their place. It was as if the earth was far beneath them, and they could watch as the earl’s longship was made able to fly, over familiar shores, beyond the white peaks, and up towards heaven; where love and dance and song rejoiced over Earth’s creation.

Floyd couldn’t help but weep at the splendor of his daughter. Never had she let himself hear her. She was more than her mother’s daughter; so much more. And finally, she was free at last to show it, and all who heard her fell in love at once.

Blissfully, he turned his view to the chief, whose mouth was agape with marvel. Then, he saw his jaw contrue a mute whisper: “She’s the one.”

The synchrony was broken when Gwrin stopped to stare at the unlit back of the longhouse, opposite to where they sat.

Adsiltia slowly peered over her shoulder, red faced. “Father…” she began to cry. “I just wanted you to hear me sing.”

All at once, joy was undone forever, for when he followed the gaze of the young earl, Floyd saw across the room, stepping out from the shadows of a pillar, a pale man with bulging eyes and a long, crooked nose, who smirked as he gazed at Adsiltia.

* * *

It took one finger, nine chipped nails, one purple hand and all of the days of Yule for Floyd to finish the room. It was stunning to behold,  a statement of mastery over his craft. A cozy, brilliantly colored chamber with soft velvet walls of scarlet, evergreen, and royal blue. The fabric had been adhered to a layer of linen and elk skin, tightly pressed against a wall of black oak that was then raised against the exterior wall of stone. Here he would mourn each night and morning, isolating himself from the echo of his daughter’s voice, carried over Tøïrnách Mountain by a gluttonous wind from Coromon.