HELLO MY DEARS, this is something I haven't added to the fairypoems. Well, fairypoems are supposed to contain fairytales and poems but I haven't gotten the fairytales part in so...since I'm destressing, here you go! The first poem.There will be like an influx of fairytales because I'm adding from last year's batch so...enjoy. This was for a friend in my school(: who loves music.
When music calls, the mountains will come:
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a girl named Tate. She was pretty, with black hair that hung down to her shoulders in twists and twirls, and brown eyes the colour of warm chocolate. She had a laugh that was infectious, and a sense of humour that brought smiles to everyone around her. She lieved in a ramshackle town miules away from tehe captical of the Kingdom, and it being so distanced and excluded, the town was often raided by bandits looking for a cheap way to make a living. Because of its inaccessibility, the Kingdom could not send soldiers to help in time, and so, the bandits would strike often, in the dead of the night.
Nevertheless, the people refused to leace the town in search of a safer place. You see, what was so remarkable about this remarkably ordinary town was that every seventh day of the week, the people would gather to dance and sing stories in the centre of the town, where the high mountains that loomed over their town could be seen. Women as old as the trees would sing old tales that streched back to the beginning of time when trees and hills were created, and the men would chant of old tribe battles that no one remembered. They would sing until the moon rose high in the skill and reflected its watery beams onto the snow that covered their town everyday, and light up the high mountains that protected them.
Tate loved these gatherings. She loved the feeling of being close to her people, being squeashed together in order to share the heat that seemed so smalll in the middle of the night. She loved to watch the reflections of the flames in the eyes of hte people who told stories as old as the high mountains itself, and though she was no singer, but a music maker herself, she loved to sit at the middle of the group, playing her music that accompanied the sweet voice of the singers. She loved being in the embrace of the mountains that towered over the town like a silver shield, with tops so white with snow until they blended in with the sky.
Tate loved a tale that was favoured by the elders, a tale that was definitely told on the seventh day of the week to remind the people to be brave and courageous. It told of aeons ago, the night when the streets were deserted and bare, and mothers huddled their children close to their bossoms to keep them warm and safe. It spoke of the night when a large group of bandits entered the town, planning to loot the town of all its precious possessions that was so scarce. The men of the town saw, and they knew that they had to protect their wives and children. They had no strength, no tools, no weapons for they were townsmen and weak from the bitter days of nothingness. But there was one thing they could do, and that was to make music. And so, the men grabbed anything they could find and hummed a tune so eerie and heart piercing that the bandits felt helpless and powerless. They looked up in desperationh to see the high mountains so tall, and that the hymn of the townsmen made the mountains cry and bend over. And then, the bandits were gone.
It was a tale that drove determination and faith into the core of the people, to give then hope for their persistence of living in the town that was driven to near extinction. No matter how many times they were attacked, the people of the town would stay strong and sing of the tale wen the mountains cried and kept the bandits from them.
Alas, the winter days grew hard, and the bandits appeared more frequently. People began to lose hope, and they no longer held gatherings on the seventh day of the week. The fire that kept them strong inside died within them, and their days grew bleak. Tate watched in despair as the town she loved and adored started to crumble, bit by bit.
One night, she went to the centre of the town, the place when all townsmen gathered once to sing of hymns, and found her childhood friend, Asher, lying on his back and gazing at the stars. She looked up to see the tiny dots that peppered the sky, like glow worms that hung on midnight lace, shining with their own light despite being alone.
"Our town used to be like that." Asher said. "But not anymore."
Tate nodded, feeling her heart sink with desolation and grief. What had happened to her beloved town?
Suddenly, a bandit group of four and sixty sprung upon them, and grabbed Tate, clapping her hands behind her back while another pinned Asher to the ground.
"Pretty girl..."A tall hooded figure said, and Tate screamed at the horror of his voice.
The townsmen heard her, and they made no move to help her. No, their eyes were dead with numb terror, and their spirite diminished from the terrible days of their past, present and future. They had no life left in them, and nothing could ever bring them back again.
Tate couldn't stand the gried and fear that spread from them into her. Were they so heartless as to just stand there and sacrifice two children? She saw Asher unconcious on the ground, and bleeding from a wound to his back, made by the dirty knife of the bandits, and felt the music within her. She had to do something. She had to do everything to save their lives, to bring back the music to this parched town.
"You don't want to hurt us," She said, her voice trembling.
"Why not, pretty girl?" The hood of her bandit slippedoff and she saw a scarred face with yellow eyes like a mountain cat, and teeth that stank of tobacco. "You don't scare me."
The bandits behind her laughed in glee, their anticipation of looting sizzling in the cold air.
"Surely you have heard of how the high mountains swallowed the badnits that tried to raid our town." He voice carried far into the depths of the town.
She felt hope stir sleepily, as if unwilling to get up. She saw windows creak slightly open, as if the people were trying to see.
"That is nothing but a myth." He spat into the snow. "Your tales of witchcraft and lore don't frighten me, young wrench." He snarled.
"It is true." Asher gasped, his voice cracked and dry. "When music calls, the mountains were come."
The bandit holding him punched him with his boot, making Tate scream in protest.
Her scream echoed far and wide, and the townsmen heard this. They heard her scream, for it reminded them of the tale-the tale of the mountians and the music. They grabbed their pitchforks and thumped the ground, chanting words that came to their minds. Of this, Tate sang with them, humming the tune she used to play on the seventh day of the week.
The bandits heard this, and they laughed, as there was nothing that could stop them. Not this feeble girl that they were holding hostage. Not this useless boy that was barely alive. Not the music that the men were making. They threw Tate down beside Asher and laughed. Music cannot stop us, they thought.
Tate reached out and cradl;ed Asher in her arms. She heard the men chant, and the music sing, and it filled her with warmth that had vanished months ago.
"When music called, the mountains had come." Asher whispered brokenly.
Tate nodded, her eyes swimming with tears.
"When music calls, the mountains will come."
The townsmen advanced forwards, hatred and courage in their eyes. These bandits had no place here. Not anymore. They thumped their pitchforks harder, and their chant grew louder. Tate could hear the low voices that provided the rhythm, the high sopranos that echoed from the women, singing from their windows, and the lonesome cries of the babies. She knew that what she was hearing was what was heard centuries ago, when the mountains came.
Then, the ground shook, and the bandits looked up to see the high mountains loom over them. Suddenly, the ground split and the snow fell from the high mountains, covering everything. The town people stopped singing as their watched the mountains come alive.
Tate watched, her eyes shining. The mountains had come. She looked down to see Richard asleep, no blood left after being healed by the mountains. She stroked her head and looked up and the high mountains.
"You came." She whispered.
When music calls, the mountains will come.