Hell's Song

The most wondrous song I ever sung was the first step on the path to the hanging block. It had been given to me by a beggar in exchange for a loaf of bread, but I had not expected the beggar to turn out to be the devil. For what else could have given me such a song, a song that was beautiful beyond imagining, a song that struck into the very hearts of the listeners, and stopped them. A song that sang the shrill scream of the reaper’s blade.

The beggar had been waiting for me, although I had not thought so at the time. He called from the alley as I passed, croaking in a voice that could only come from a sick and parched throat. He called for money, but I gave him bread, for it was almost certain that any coins would go toward alcohol and the relief of pain, rather than food and nourishment. So instead, I stepped into the bakery across the street and bought a loaf of wheat bread, and a container of cheap lox to replenish lost protein. And in return, he gave me the song of death.

Of course, he did not call it that. He simply showed a yellowed piece of parchment to me in thanks for the food, with little comment as to the music written upon it.

“I can tell you are a minstrel,” he croaked between mouthfuls of bread and fish, “So take this in thanks for the food. I know not what it is meself, but it’s sure to do you a spot more good than I.” Not recognizing the song, I had taken it and left him stuffing food into his emaciated face.

The song was complicated, with strange lyrics in a language I had never before heard. It took all my skill with my harp to master it, and even stretching my throat to its limit, I could not completely grasp the words. But the song was beautiful, and, strange as the lyrics were to my ear, they blended with the song perfectly, the music taking on a life of its own quite independent of me and my harp. Naturally, I was quite delighted with the find, and even thought to seek out the poor beggar and offer him more food in further thanks, but then dismissed the thought. After all, he had not given the music to me knowing what it was; it was just another piece of paper to him.

I had obtained a commission recently to play for the lord who oversaw the surrounding lands, and knew that the new piece must be worked into the set. I placed it at the end, replacing my usual finale, for this new music was of a much higher level than the simple folk songs and few originals that comprised my repertoire. As no one save me knew which songs would be played on that night, it was a simple matter to add the new song and cancel another of similar length. I did not consider the loss of the other song very great compared to the gain of this wonderful piece.

The lords and ladies who were guests with the lord at the time seemed to enjoy my songs, but passively, as a pet owner likes his fish. A fish may be nice, but one rarely goes out of the way to exclaim and make a fuss over it. It was much the same with my songs; I received polite applause, but nothing more. I could see some of the more restless lords getting impatient as I neared the end of my set, and so moved quickly into my newest song.

The change was instant. Heads snapped around as the assembled stared at my harp and the wondrous chords echoing forth from it. Several of the ladies closed their eyes as they listened to the haunting, beautiful melody, smiling slightly at this unexpected gift. I could see the impatient ones relaxing, and the lord of the manor was moving his head ever so slightly in time to the music.

The piece had nearly ended, however, when everything changed.

Smiles of joy froze suddenly on wooden faces, eyes widened in shock, and the lord leapt to his feet, angry protests at the tip of his tongue. In an instant, the room was transformed into a sea of discontent, and all surged forward, as if to smash my harp to pieces and throw me from the manor. No, it was more than that. The peaceful lords and ladies were beyond simple rage; they were ready for murder. And yet, I could not stop playing, for the song had again taken on its own life, playing me rather than I playing it.

The final chords of the song died away. The scene slowed, and stopped, as each of the assembled nobles crumpled silently to the ground, their faces expressionless, their chests still. Trembling, I lowered the silent harp and stared at the motionless room. Nothing moved for the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then a serving boy peeked in, confused by the sudden lack of conversation and music.

From there, my path was set, all through the trial and conviction. I was not allowed to keep the harp, and made no resistance as it was pulled from my hands. A solitary cell was given to me, and a preacher visited for the final confession and prayers. I sent him away, knowing full well where I would go after death. Nothing could change that now.

So here I now stand, the trapdoor solid beneath my feet, but I know that will not last. The rope is placed around my neck and the noose is cinched a bit to make sure it stays on when I fall. Do I have any last requests? I think not, for what could a doomed man ask for but a quicker death? But my mouth does not obey me, and I ask for my harp, to play one last song before I die. The wish is granted, for, guilty as I obviously am, no one yet knows the true story of what happened in the lord’s manor. The harp is handed to me, and I begin to play, a beautiful, haunting melody that strikes into the hearts of all who hear. The song goes quickly now, and I see the joy change to rage, and the executioner moves his hand toward the lever that controls the trapdoor. But he is too late, as the final strands of music die away and he crumples like all the rest. I hold the harp still for several heartbeats, then carefully remove the noose from my neck.

Indeed, what more could a doomed man ask for but a quicker death? Or perhaps, no death at all. I know where I am going when I die, but that does not mean I am in any hurry to get there. For when I do, I am convinced that I will be alone, with only a single, haunting, horror-filled melody to slowly and surely drive me mad.