Read Online The Seven Songs by T. A. Barron - Free Book Online

looked as if she envied the girl.
    I turned back to Cairpré, scowling myself. “Why does anyone listen to him?”
    “One of his, ah, humorous recitals, as he calls them, can ruin your next three meals. But like every other resident of Caer Neithan, he gets to perform in the village circle each year on the date of his birth.” Cairpré shook his head. “And the rest of us have to listen. Even those like me who don’t live here but are unlucky enough to be here on the wrong day.”
    He waved at the village circle, his voice no longer a whisper. “To think of all the truly memorable performances this same spot has seen! Night Hammer. The Vessel of Illusion. Geraint’s Vow.”
    Swiveling, he gestured toward one of the smaller, older-looking houses. “Pwyll, whose despairing smile itself inspired volumes of poems, wrote her first poem there.” He pointed to a low house with a wooden porch. “Laon the Lame was born there. And let’s not forget Banja. Jussiva the Jubilant. Ziffian. They all called this town home. As have so many other fabled bards.”
    Again I peered at Bumbelwy, whose long arms flailed as he droned on. “The only place he will ever be a jester is in his dreams.”
    Cairpré nodded grimly. “All of us have our private dreams. But few of us cling to dreams so far removed from our true capabilities! In days long past, Bumbelwy might have been saved by one of the Treasures of Fincayra, the magical horn known as the Caller of Dreams. Think of it, Merlin. The Caller, when blown by someone immensely wise, could bring a person’s most cherished dream to life. Even a dream as far-fetched as Bumbelwy’s. That is why it was often called, in story and song, the Horn of Good Tidings.”
    Lines deeper than the scars on my own face appeared on Cairpré’s brow. I knew that he was remembering how Rhita Gawr had perverted the magic of the Caller of Dreams to bring only evil tidings to life. In the case of this very village, he had brought about the most terrifying dream of any poet, bard, or musician: He had silenced completely the voices of all who dwelled here, rendering useless the very instruments of their souls. That was why the Town of Bards had been as quiet as a graveyard when I last came here. Cairpré’s tormented expression told me that, while the curse itself had departed with the collapse of the Shrouded Castle, its memory lived on.
    The bells on Bumbelwy’s hat started jangling again, louder than before. If I had not been holding my staff, I would have covered my ears. Nudging Cairpré, I asked, “Why don’t you try the Caller of Dreams on him yourself?”
    “I couldn’t”
    “Why not?”
    “First of all, my boy, I’m not about to try to take anything—certainly not one of the Treasures—from the Grand Elusa’s cave where they now reside. I’ll leave that to someone much braver. Or stupider. But that isn’t the main reason. The fact is, I am not wise enough to use the Caller.”
    I blinked in surprise. “Not wise enough? Why, the poet Cairpré is known throughout the land as—”
    “As a rhymer, a quoter, an idealistic fool,” he finished. “Have no illusions, I brim with confusions. But at least I am wise enough to know one important thing: how little I really do know.”
    “That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen your library. All those books! You can’t tell me you don’t know anything.”
    “I didn’t say I don’t know anything, my boy. I said I don’t know enough. There’s a difference. And to think that I could command the legendary Caller of Dreams—well, that would be a terrible act of hubris.”
    “Hubris?”
    “From the Greek word hybris, meaning arrogance. Excessive pride in oneself. It’s a flaw that has felled many a great person.” His voice dropped again to a whisper. “Including, I am told, your own grandfather.”
    I stiffened. “You mean . . . Tuatha?”
    “Yes. Tuatha. The most powerful wizard Fincayra has ever known. The only mortal ever allowed to visit