Afeallan

"Chapter" Eight

Silence.

 

Not silence. The absence of sound. No applause, as would be customary. No discernable breathing. Byldan wiped away her tears, laughing noiselessly, or gasping for air, or crying. Rýnelic was unsure. She went to Rýnelic, who stood slant, holding his instrument by the neck at his side propped irreverently against his heel. She clung to Rýnelic as a runner who had exerted everything. He held her one-armed, still, as if looking out at the sea, holding onto his instrument. “Where did you get that?”she asked noiselessly.

 

“I kept it here on hand, from a long time ago.”

 

Léas assumed the stage and looked around, as if he was a culprit and speech would crucify him. Rýnelic nodded in approval and exited with Byldan, and lit his pipe, dizzy. He knew he would address the crowd soon. Léas began to speak. What followed, as far as Rýnelic heard, was a series of noises, indiscernible, with few pauses. Then silence. The crowd cheered. Léas motioned for Rýnelic to join him on the stage. Rýnelic was caught off guard. He dropped his pipe and went to meet Léas, who was waiting in front of the push. As he made his way to the stage, he went out of his way to pass by the bar—which was more or less deserted, save Ánlic—and held up three fingers. He walked as she poured, strategically placing each drink along the bar so that he could pick them up as he walked. He thanked her at their last junction and took his place beside Léas. He had not prepared anything to say. He felt, in essence, that an address was arbitrary. Unnecessary. Léas noted his reluctance. Léas spoke for him:

 

“You can see that what motivates us is neither self-conceit or self-interest, but a united, burning desire to rebuild what was once ours. We are at a grave crossroads. If we do not do something tonight we will be found dead by dawn.”

 

Rýnelic was stunned by what he heard from the man that stood beside him. He had undoubtedly not expected something of that ardor. When Léas was done, Rýnelic felt that some action should be taken. He felt helpless. He felt the true weight of words—nothing. Spinning. They were staring at him, the people, waiting for music. Waiting for more than he could give them. Something like song. He reached into his bag and retrieved his coin purse. He threw the shimmering circles of metal out to the crowd in a bold gesture. The percussion of it falling, clinking, unifying. He regretted the action as soon as the coins last touched his fingertips, sliding away. People scurried to the front, shoving and pushing and scrambling to pick up. Those who already stood at the front had already gathered what was thrown. Rýnelic, helpless as to what to do, walked away. Byldan ran after him. Léas stayed behind to try to control the crowd before it rioted, yelling inaudible order-suggestions. Rýnelic’s instrument was left behind, and destroyed.

 

“What were you thinking?” Byldan yelled after him once they were both outside. Rýnelic turned around with ferocity.

 

“I don’t know! What was I supposed to do? I had to do something. They were looking for answers.” Rýnelic was out of breath.

 

“Léas spoke for you,” Byldan said, almost accusing. “He did fine.”

 

“But they weren’t looking to Léas,” Rýnelic protested. He motioned back to the Tavern in a grand gesture with his hand. “They were looking at me!” He sighed and lowered his shoulders, internally sobbing.

 

“You can’t be so impulsive. Not if you want to accomplish that which you want to accomplish.” She put an arm around him for support. “We learn as we go. You’ll get more comfortable. Plan, next time.”