Brave Story - Miyuki Miyabe [267]
“It’s thanks to the sword, really,” Wataru said. “I just…I still can’t believe I killed Father Diamon.”
“He only got what he deserved. And if he’d been able to kill you, you know he would have. Then you wouldn’t have been able to save anyone—least of all yourself.”
Wataru knew it was true, but the guilt lingered in the corner of his mind. Lying there, looking up at the simple wooden rafters, listening to the wind rustling through the thatched roof, smelling the stew warming on the stove and freshly baked bread, it seemed like it all had been a bad dream. But, every time he stirred in his sleep or woke from a nap, he felt like he was back in the Cathedral, witnessing it all happen again. He saw the Cistina statue slowly toppling, crushing Father Diamon. Blood streamed from the wound on his forehead. He was screaming.
Whenever Wataru cried out in the middle of a dream, whether it was day or night, Meena would be there at his bedside. Sometimes he would look at her, and think that her profile looked much like his mother’s. Similar, but not the same. Maybe her face belonged to someone else—perhaps a girl Wataru might meet in the future. Whoever she was, she was gentle and kind, and Wataru wanted to meet her very much.
When he was at last able to get up and walk around, albeit still wrapped in bandages, Toni Fanlon emerged from his hut. In his hand he grasped a tiny, shining red flute.
“It is done,” he said, exhausted. He had gone for three days with no sleep or rest, and barely a drink of water.
Wataru picked up the flute. Though the scale was gone, its ruby-like brilliance lived on in the new form. The long, slender masterpiece looked less like a flute and more like the beak of a bird yet unknown to man. Wataru found himself wondering what sort of sound it made.
“This spot should do nicely.”
The village master of Taclou led Wataru and the others to a clearing in the forest a short distance from town. The grass was soft, sprinkled with small white flowers. In the village’s more prosperous days, the clearing had been used for festivals and town gatherings.
“Dragons are a large sort, I’m sure, but he should have plenty of room here. Footing’s good too.”
Wataru took a deep breath and looked up. Not a single cloud marred the blue sky above him. A gentle wind blew through the clearing.
“What are you waiting for? Give it a blow, Wataru.”
Meena and Kee Keema held their breath. The town master and a curious group of villagers stood nearby. For most of them, it would be their first time seeing a dragon. Even though they were old, their faces shone like kids at a birthday party.
“Right.”
Wataru found himself getting nervous. Gripping the flute firmly between his fingers so that he wouldn’t drop it, he brought it to his lips. The crimson flute was slightly warm to his touch as he blew softly into the mouthpiece.
Sound came flowing out of the flute in a rich flood. It was as though a translucent veil had been wrapped around them, making everything seem at once sharper and yet more unreal. The forest leaves, dull just a moment before, became a radiant green, and the tiny white flowers in the grass beneath their feet sparkled.
The wyrmflute wasn’t changing its tone with Wataru’s breath. Rather, it felt like it was touching his very soul. It sang its own song and called out to the farthest reaches of the sky. The sound rode the wind, rising above the clouds, soaking in the light of the sun, and whispering sweetly to everything upon the ground as it rose, higher and higher.
“It’s beautiful,” Meena whispered, looking up at the sky. It was almost as if she could see the waves of sound rolling through the heavens. Wataru saw it too. It was like a pure wind of terrific energy, cutting across the clear sky of Vision, circling around the clearing in which they stood.
The illusion remained briefly, even after Wataru took his lips from the flute. The instrument glimmered once—a bright crimson light between Wataru’s fingers—before falling into a satisfied silence.