The Bard's Song

07 Jun 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner

Artist depiction of ennui.

Inside No It’s Not Urine tavern, Devon sat at the end of the bar tuning his lute. He had hoped to get some new strings earlier in the day so he could really go for it with the heavy stuff, but he needed money first. He had spent his last few slips getting a crushed velvet, feathered cap. It was a smart move, as most of the patrons cared far more about how he looked over anything that came out of his mouth, but it still hurt his pride.

Devon wore his pride as a badge of honor. After all, he had trained under the wise and astute Roland the Bard. A whole hour. It was more training than half the bards he knew. Devon had studied all three chords, and learned the secret of how luthiers added extra frets just to be showy. He nailed a few extra in himself for added mystique. Roland also showed him how to wear multiple rings on each finger to make each movement seem flashier as he played. Devon knew he would be the voice of his generation with one simple genre mashup. No one had ever thought of combining tavern songs with personal beliefs and ethos. No one had ever thought to learn something from a tune. He would be the first. The best.

Of course, he had to get past his stage fright first. He had so many great ideas swirling around in his head, but to be stymied by something so base frustrated him to no end. Any time he thought about performing, his mouth would fill with sand, his stomach would sink, and his knees would lock like a tavern wench who’s been told she should smile more. Yet here he was, waiting for his turn at the stage of the open bullhorn.

He watched as his lessers were called before him. They had all been buddy buddy with the owner, he was sure of it. If Devon could get up there once, he’d show them. He’d show them all. So what if he had only been playing lute for a few weeks? It was his destiny.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as the next performer stepped off the stage. The plump bar owner waddled out, red cheeked and pleased as a clam. He belched into the bullhorn and the crowd cheered. Devon frowned. He just needed his moment.

“Thank ye all for comin’ tonight! Next up we have…,” the owner said as he reached into a dirty rag of a cap and pulled out a slip of paper. Devon was surprised he could even read. “Alright folks, put your hands together for our next act, The Amazing Randi!”

Devon sank back onto his stool. He hated magicians. They were such poseurs, incapable of capturing the artistry he held in his fingertips and the wisdom etched with his tongue. Randi did not look so amazing as he walked onto the stage. He was dressed plainly with a black tunic over dark blue trousers. He wore his hair like those who suffered from lice. He crept up to the bullhorn and tapped it.

“Is this thing on?” He asked in a dry, even tone.

A few people chuckled. Devon glowered at the back of their heads. Of course the bullhorn was on the stage. What else could he possibly mean? The Amazing Randi continued.

“Welcome one and all. Tonight, I will show you some real magic, unsullied by the use of mana, and…”

It was to be another snoozefest then. Devon yawned loudly, but no one paid him any attention.

“And perhaps you will learn something about our place in the world along the way!”

A couple of patrons clapped politely. Devon sat upright, hearing only the blood as it rushed to his ears. Maybe he misheard. The Amazing Randi pulled out two iron rings, holding one in each hand as he waved them over his head. He brought them together, demonstrating that the two were solid and continuous.

“You see, the people of Crimson Rock are as strong as this iron ring in my right hand. And yet the Elves, or the ring in my left, are also strong and fiercely independent. The two may cross over one another, but each retains their own identity. That is, until…”

Randi slapped the two rings together, creating a spark and small flash of smoke. When it cleared, the two rings were now intertwined and inseparable from one another.

“The two combine into something representative of both of us. Something stronger? Perhaps. Something more beautiful? Time will tell.”

Several audience members clapped as soon as the smoke and light were gone, ignoring everything he said after. However, Devon heard the words and his ears burned in rage. Randi had combined cheap magic with the weighty truth. It was something disgusting and mediocre. Worst of all, it meant that this performance, if you could call it that, would draw an obvious comparison to his own. He could not allow this to happen. He would not allow it.

He quickly went through his options, of which he only saw two. If he booed, it would give the charlatan what he deserves, but it would also prime the audience to look unfavorably towards his own performance. If he cheered, he would be supporting this thieving copycat, but a small lie might bring the audience to his side when his turn arrived.

Fighting his own natural instincts, he clapped. Loudly. Devon watched as a few audience members took up the call. They were so easily manipulated. Randi continued, putting away the rings and pulling out a small rucksack and a large pitcher of the tavern’s signature drink, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Piss.

The cheap tricks continued, as subtle as a brick through a church window. The piss pitcher and the bag? An allegory for how we willingly fill ourselves with junk only to be empty nonetheless. Then there was a rubber spoon to show the duality of our rigid lifestyles against the permeable nature of man. Devon clapped for both, even cheering a little, and the crowd continued to join in as though it was their own decision. Then Randi finished with the old exploding pigeon as a metaphor for overcoming childhood trauma routine. Devon felt sick as he cheered, but he knew it would be worth it. Success always came at a price. It had worked for Randi in any case. As he walked off, the entire audience was a cacophony of whistles and cheers. Randi hardly looked phased, as though this would have been the outcome without Devon’s concerted efforts.

The owner returned, and another round of applause went up to celebrate The Amazing Randi. Devon clasped his hands together, and though he was not religious in nature, he prayed to whatever god to give some breathing room between Randi and himself.

“A newcomer! Ev’ryone give a warm welcome to an ‘Acolyte of the Bard’, Devon!”

Maybe there were no gods. Devon pushed his thoughts away. This was his time and as Roland had taught him, the show must be done. He picked up his lute, ignoring the grains of sand on his tongue. His feet plodded along with each step. Someone had replaced the blood in them with stone. Yet before he knew it, Devon stood on the stage. The crowd clapped. They still had the exuberance Randi had bestowed on them. No, what Devon had given them. Now it was time to use it for his own ends.

He strummed a chord, and though he could not feel his fingers, the muscle memory had taken over and the lute took care of the rest. Before he knew it, the muse had possessed him and Devon was given a first row seat to a performance of such transcendental beauty that he began to cry as he sang. He weaved words of how our differences are really what make us unique and it went something like this:

I have brown hair. He has red hair. She has blonde hair. But why should we care?

I have brown eyes. He has blue eyes. She has green eyes. We wear the same disguise.

It was as though he had become the Bard himself. So lost in his own reflection, it took Devon a minute to notice the audience was reacting. He could scarcely believe it. They had embraced him. He stepped out of himself once more, leaving the legwork to his inner muse so he could bask in the devotion of his newfound fans.

Only instead of cheering and crying, they were laughing. Laughing? At his masterstroke combination of music and philosophy? How could this be? He scanned the room, looking for an anchor in the ocean of shame he had so willingly dove into headfirst. Instead of finding solace, he found the source. The Amazing Randi, clapping and spewing his hideous laughter. Devon felt betrayed. He had gone out on a limb to help this hopeless, disgusting magician, and this was how he was to be repaid?

The music continued as Devon felt the rage grow inside until finally something snapped. It was one of the strings of his lute. Then a few others snapped in quick succession from the sudden change in tension. The crowd stopped, a silence falling over the small room. Then at once a wave of jest and japes crashed over the stage, blowing back Devon’s elation and leaving only hatred. Hatred for this conjurer of cheap tricks who would ruin his time in the spotlight.

Randi was sipping from the house brew when Devon leapt off the stage. Devon’s ringed hands seized his throat.

“I’ll kill you!” He screamed.

The guards of No It’s Not Urine, who had been playing bloody knuckles up to this point, broke up the commotion and after an unfair assessment of the situation, threw Devon out into the street. A short moment later, his lute flew out as well, landing in the mud and snapping the neck into two distinct pieces. Both parts were then run over by a passing carriage. A toothless beggar across the street laughed at Devon’s misfortune. Bruised and penniless, Devon sidled up to the curb in front of the building and laid his hat down in front of him. This would be his vocation now. A beggar. But perhaps one day, he would be able to share his worldview from the streets themselves like the philosophers of old. A passing nobleman smiled at him and tossed a scrap of soiled cloth into his hat. It stained the lining before Devon could pull it out.

THE END