The Harpist

In a dusty hostel in the low end of the machinist quarter, I worked as a server. My father worked in one of the smelters, and each night he would stumble in with his other workers and collapse into a table for hours, and spend their wage on drink and meat. Mother had already passed, and no one else was at home, so it seemed right to be near him and make sure he ate before he stumbled home again to sleep and ready himself for the next shift. When he died, there wasn't much reason for me to stay, but it felt like I couldn't be closer to my father anywhere else, and the men who knew him would check in on me from time to time, so I stayed on.

A few years from his passing, a man around fathers age strode in, and spoke directly to the owner. They disappeared into the small crawl space behind the bar that we called the office, and stayed there for only a little while. Soon after, the mysterious figure walked to a raised platform by the dining area, exposed a harp from under his gherkin, and begun to play. Each pluck had its own effect, and you could feel the torches getting brighter and warmer, then dull and cool, seemingly by his instruction. The Harpist, as I came to know him, became a regular face at the hostel, mingling with workers and patrons, then disappearing for weeks at a time. Each time he returned, it was unannounced, and his only tell was that on my way to my shift, I could hear his work on the wind, forcing my feet to carry me swiftly so i could feel his presence.

I spoke to him as often as I could, and quickly adopted him like a pseudo father, a replacement for the man I'd lost. He was from Prognos ‘motherland’ as he called it - he refuted and scorned when i called it the ‘fatherland’. He spoke little of his tasks, and i reasoned that he was an agent of prognos in some way. This made some patrons guarded of him at first, but each doubter he won over with a late night chat and a few steins. Over time, no one could be more pleased to see his peaked hat & leathers hanging off a hook, or his brushy mustache smiling back at you.

After a few months, there came a day of strange rain and fog. Billious fumes rose from the vents on the machinists, and labour was forced to a stop for the day. With work canceled, and the streets too toxic to breathe for long, the hostel was packed with labourers, torn between the stresses of missed pay, and the blessings of time off. Late morning, the front door swung open with force, and the harpist, cloaked and clad in his usual roaming attire, wandered in to his stage. He said nothing to those who greeted him, and he started playing through his repertoire. Today of all days, the notes on occasion seemed strained and forced, as his ballads of distant lands and seas played through the midday and into the afternoon.

Sensing he was troubled, I asked if he could use a hand, but he refused. ‘my mind is simply elsewhere today; I come here and play for you all, and try to liven things up a bit. You've heard many of the sonnets and ballads, but there's one I've kept from you all. Today, of all days, I cannot keep it from my mind’.

“Well then play for us please!” I begged. “If it soothes your mind it will certainly soothe all of ours! Surely we need to hear this don't we you lot?” I shouted to the patrons, who cheered and demanded, banging steins as if they were gavels.

He sighed. “The words are dreadful but gentle. I'm no beacon - although I spose’ we won't be seeing one of them any time soon. Very well”. As if compelled by duty - not to Prognos, but to something else - he straightened his chest and steadied his harp, playing for us a tune of such sweetness and light, all of us stopped in awe. The whole city might as well have been silent, as he played the best that we had ever heard from him.

‘She was not one, they were not few

Born not of man, They grew, they grew’

To nurture the young, bring peace to the old

To heal and restore, never to scold’

Totally unlike what he had played before, the old harpist played and sang of beautiful things. His lyrics returned constantly to a group of ‘queens’, and though I had never heard of them, nor could I tell if they were real, he weaved a tale of benevolence and beauty, like he was describing deity's, not royalty. As I sat and listened, I sorely wished I could meet them one day. He weaved a long and beautiful history, so captivating I'd almost missed them - three uniformed men whom entered and sat with their backs turned to the harpist soon after he had begun his opus. The harpist made no obvious tell that he had noticed, but by coincidence, his lyrics suddenly turned bleak and fearful;

‘Spectre of harm, raising to doubt

Demonstrable violence to old and to new

Dissent gave to war, peace was asunder,

Screams and wails drowned in the thunder’

He shifted in his stool and slowly raised his head. He stared daggers into their uniforms - as if he knew them poorly - and with his jaw tightened, the final words strained and crept out his lips;

‘No chants, no prayers, no truthful decree

Innocence Anguished, Innocence Banished

Foul to the air and foul to the sea,

The river ran backwards, the day our queens vanished’

The old harpist stood, letting his harp swing off his belt. The uniforms stood in tandem, and started towards the door leading out the back of the hostel. The harpist followed after them, stoic and terse, but stopped shy of the door. He turned back to look at the patrons and steadied those rising from their seats - he did not want to be followed. He stared at me in particular before the four of them disappeared into the alley. There was fury in his eyes, and I could feel the same loss that I did the days after father passed creeping in from the corners of the room.

Then, just like the queens from his song, he vanished into the evening air, and hasn't been seen since. Some say they saw him across town, or that he was carted off in a funeral wagon. Some - myself included - had heard the scuffle of four sets of fists and knees, but did not witness him return. Months have gone by since, and I couldn't stand to work there anymore, with each night feeling like a vigil, each soul of the machinist quarter awake at night, waiting for their harpist, and fearing the worst.