Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 32
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 31 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
The tires of our bikes slid around like soap in the tub. It was a miracle none of us broke our necks. There were more than a few close calls, including one where my brakes seized and I nearly ended up plastered to the front of a passing lorry. Tom’s umbrella lasted all of a minute before turning inside out and going Mary Poppins. Then he was just as wet as the rest of us.
The trip took twice as long as usual, and four times the effort, but we made it. The car park was deserted. No one in their right mind would be out in weather like this. Hot-blooded, stiff-fingered, and weary, we flung our bikes in an angry heap and locked them together on a single chain. Then, glancing furtively over our shoulders, we scuttered off into the woods.
“I was thinking…” I said as the wet boughs of the trees closed in over our heads. “Do you think I could try the song this time?”
Merry’s face was waxy and her hair was plastered to her head. “Fine by me.”
The dark surface of Clyne Woods Pond jumped and spat like boiling oil in the downpour. I was the first to duck through the bushes hiding the stone, their branches heavy with unshed droplets. The way seemed far too obvious now that we’d discovered it, but everything was just as we’d left it, if wet. A fraction of tension left me at first sight of Lightfoot’s knot. Not a dream, then. I cleared my throat while everyone crowded in behind me.
Right.
Unbeknownst to my friends, I’d been practicing. It was clear Lightfoot meant the song on the stone to be a test. One which, thus far, only Merry had passed. All week the question had nagged me. Was I even worthy of getting in the door?
I was no singer. I’d never planned to be one. I’d fallen in love with the tuba after a traveling jazz band performed at school in year three and never looked back. But I wasn’t about to let a complete lack of prior interest stand between me and becoming Lightfoot’s disciple. I could learn. It couldn’t be that hard. Right?
That’s what I’d thought, until I’d tried. Up in my bedroom, thankfully alone. I was flat. Off-key. With all the range of a feral cat. My voice cracked. I’d never given it much thought before then, but the truth was, I was bloody awful. Looking back, that came as a bigger shock than it should have. How could I have predicted that all of my hopes and dreams would come to hinge on my ability to sing?
But singing was a skill. Like anything else, I’d improve with practice. At least I, hoped so. Because if practice wouldn’t help, I was going to have to find another magical vocation.
After a week… the cracking had stopped, and at least I still had an ear for music. But now, here, with everyone watching, there were only two things I knew for sure. The stone wouldn’t lie, and neither would Tom Firth.
“Well?” Tom snapped. “Any day now.”
I blinked rain from my eyes, inhaled deeply, and started in.
I gave it my all. Really. I tried to keep my eyes on the stone as I sang. But I couldn’t help glancing at the others. Merry’s smile slipped around the fifth line. Right before she became fascinated by her feet. I knew long before I reached the end of the song what would happen.
Not even a flicker.
The pattering of raindrops filled the silence. “Maybe if we give it a minute…” my friends’ faces said. Secondhand embarrassment is worse than first.
A hand clapped me wetly on the shoulder. “Looks like you need to stick to the tuba, mate.” Tom was pleased, and not trying to hide it. “No shame in it. Not everyone’s cut out to sing.”
“Hey—I thought that was good!” Merry’s smile was forced. “I didn’t know you could sing that well.” I wished she were a better liar.
“Obviously not well enough,” I muttered.
“But better than expected,” Tom agreed.
“You just need practice,” Merry said. “You’ve got potential. Really. You’ve just got to, y’know… train up a bit.”
“Yeah…” Somehow her sympathy made it worse.
“Don’t worry, Petey.” Tom said. “You’ll still be able to pay the old man a visit. I’ll crack this rock wide open.”
Iain smirked. “This should be good.”
Tom smirked right back, and then he started to sing. It was unbearable. It was detention on a Saturday. It was homework on Christmas. It was a surprise visit from Mam and her boyfriend, whatever the hell his name was. Tom was good. And he knew it.
Iain forgot how to smile pretty quickly. Stuart was grudgingly impressed. As for Merry… it was plain as day what she was feeling. It was pride.
Tom was still mid-song when a blue-green spark started dancing round the bell of the horn. His smile was audible. I felt sick. He stuck the landing, finished with a bit of gratuitous vibrato, and suddenly the rain was splashing against an intricate pattern of otherworldly flame.
“Tom—that was brilliant!” Merry’s eyes shone.
I almost went home then and there. The twelve-year-old inside me wanted to climb into bed and scream into a pillow. Wanted to hit Tom Firth. My fists curled and my teeth ground, but I contained myself. Barely.
“Some of us are just better suited,” Tom shrugged. “No shame in it, like I said. It’s not like I chose to be born with natural talent. Some of us just got dealt better hands.” He held his out. “Shall we?”
Merry glanced at me, suddenly ashamed. “We’ll practice. Don’t worry. You’ll get it. Just give it time.”
Before I could reply, Tom had taken her by the wrist and drawn her hand into the fire. “Ladies first,” he said, and then she was gone. He marveled for a moment. Flexed his empty fingers. They’d had still been wrapped around her arm when she’d disappeared. “See you on the other side.” He winked at us, then he was gone as well.
My stomach was a knot of snakes. I wished I had a hammer. I wanted to smash the stone to pieces. No chance of becoming a bard then, whispered the rational part of my brain. But we weren’t on speaking terms just then.
“I could beat his face in,” Iain mimed punching Tom’s nose out the back of his head.
That earned a snort. “I’ll consider it.”
Part 33 coming 02-23-2025!
Your characters are really coming alive.