Rose's Piano

     Or maybe it was already dead. Did it really matter, whether it was dead or dying? Its death would come, imminent and inevitable like a dark storm cloud on the horizon. It was like a wagon’s wheel slowly turning, getting slower and slower as it trudged deeper into the mud. Eventually it would stop, but for a long time it would press on, the spokes slowly turning, until they stopped forever.

     It was hard not to be this way with Meridell right in front of it, like a dark cloud, blotting out Brightvale completely. Meridell was huge, well-known, and sunny, the gaudy castle strewn with its garish yellow streamers, trumpet fanfares playing every day, the shouts of people as they urged on the Turdles or coaxed the Turmaculus. And there was Illusen’s Glade, its owner’s magic keeping Meridell’s crops forever plump and nourishing, the long line of people and pets waiting for Illusen’s quests stretching out over Meridell’s fields.

     Not to mention Meridell’s many heroic wars fought with Darigan Citadel, who suspiciously lost every time. No one could even count Jeran’s thousands upon thousands of fans, who crowded the castle every day, waving their autograph books and pens excitedly.

      Brightvale Castle, on the other hand, was old and crumbling, a few ragged green flags hanging listlessly from the dusty towers. Dark moss and fungi had crept into the many cracks in the castle’s marble walls, forcing them open even wider and leaving the interior susceptible to sudden drafts and raindrops. The moat was dried out, it was nothing but a craggy ravine now, filled with petpetpets and jagged rocks. The crops were doing badly without an earth faerie to help them; and the rain rarely fell. When it did fall, it filled the roads with so much mud that no one would be able to go outside for a week.

      Inside the castle, it was perhaps the worst of all. Dust and mildew filled every corner, and a Bartamus hung from every rafter, waiting to fly into the face of anyone who walked underneath them. Most of the rooms were empty, filled with dust and forgotten wishes. Everywhere there hung an aura of hopelessness and decay, and a thick cloud of silence filled every room.

      There were only five people on the castle staff. Everyone else had either left or lost themselves in the rambling mazes of hallways, dungeons, and towers. There was a scullery boy, a cook, a gardener, and two maids. Even a hundred maids wouldn’t have been enough to dust the entire castle, and the two maids currently working were rather slow. Hardly a day passed when they spent all of their energy cleaning one room, only to find it filled with dust again as they came back to it. The former king had apparently been rather fond of secret passageways and hidden trapdoors, which certainly didn’t make work any easier. What might look like the kitchen might really be a forgotten attic filled with trapdoors to lead you down to the darkest dungeon cell.

      One of these maids was a yellow Xweetok, only thirteen years old. Or maybe she was twelve, or fourteen, or eleven, or fifteen; no one could really tell, much less bother to find out. No one knew her name, either, she was simply “the maid” or “the Xweetok” or just simply “hey, you”. No one knew where she came from, but it seemed as if she had always been there, the yellow maid, walking pointlessly from one room to another to clean something that would be covered with dust again in a few days, to care for a castle that no one cared about.

      It hadn’t always been this way. Before Meridell’s wars, before the crops started growing bad, before Brightvale became nothing but a forgotten ghost town, the place where Skarl’s big brother lived. But mostly, it had been before Rose left.

      Rose. The queen of Brightvale, the mother of Hagan’s daughter. No one was melancholy when she was around, a smile on her big Skeith face, her great red arms always wide open in welcome. When she left, it seemed as if a part of Hagan died, too, and he retreated to his library, to lose himself amongst the piles of books. His daughter, the princess, a cheerful little yellow Skeith, spent more and more time alone in the garden, sleeping in a bed of tulips and daisies and looking up at the sky, a tear resting on her cheek, catching the sun and turning to gold.

      Today, the Xweetok was dusting the throne room. It was unused now, the great golden throne had been moved into a storage room somewhere. But the Xweetok still cared for the magnificent room, fully decked out in green and gold streamers, the sloped ceiling covered with paintings of Hagan, Rose, and the princess, and the sunny fields of Brightvale, round, red fruits gleaming in the sun. The maid carefully mopped the floor, going over every inch until she could practically see her face reflected in the marble. She dusted the shelves and washed the beautiful stained-glass windows, hardly breathing at the sight of all this wonder. But she always saved the best for the last.

      She passed her feather duster over the piano in awe, a small cloud of dust being thrown up into the air, hanging there, frozen in place, the sunlight streaming in through the open windows, catching the dust. Then, suddenly, the dust began to fall, drifting toward the ground at a Turdle’s pace.

      It was a grand piano, sleek and black, with elegant wooden keys. The pedals were pure gold, so went the rumors, and the strings were made from silver. This piano was not just any piano, but Rose’s piano, the pride and joy of the queen’s life. How many times had the maid watched Rose open the piano, stroke the ebony and ivory keys, and lovingly play a tune on them? The music had wafted its way through the castle corridors, streaming out through the open windows, brightening the lives of the peasants laboring in the field below. If only Rose were still here, she could play the piano, play a strengthening tune for the people of Brightvale, and the town would resume its age of glory. Brightvale would live again; the wheel would churn through the mud, the spokes circling faster and faster; a ray of sunlight coming to free Brightvale from it dark place in Meridell’s shadow.

      “Maid! Come here!” The familiar call of the cook blared into the room, startling the Xweetok so that she dropped the feather duster. Sighing, she picked it up and trudged back toward the kitchen. Rose wasn’t here; she would never come back. She would forever rest in the hill where she was buried, surrounded by sighs and wilting flowers. Brightvale would fade away, forgotten. Meridell would take the land and perhaps expand Meri Acres Farm, or give it to Illusen, as a show of thanks for her help and magic. There was nothing that anyone could do (except maybe start a war with Darigan Citadel, but no one wanted glory for Brightvale that much) about it, not Hagan or the princess, and certainly not a lowly maid.

      The cook wanted the maid to take Hagan a few sandwiches and a glass of lemonade for lunch. She obeyed, heading straight for the library, where Hagan would be reading. The king no longer slept in the elegant master bedroom, in fact, he hadn’t left the library since... well, Rose’s departure.

      Books. Nothing but stacks of books, scrolls, and papers. On the floor, the table, the chairs, and the bookcases. Some stacks touched the ceiling, wobbling dangerously as if even one tiny push would send them toppling to the ground. The maid wandered around the books for a while before finally finding Hagan, his nose buried deep into a copy of “105 Lava Cake Recipes”, his eyes half-closed. She carefully slid the plate onto a small pile of books by Hagan. He looked asleep; she didn’t want to disturb him.

      “Rose?” His eyelids fluttered open, he looked at her, his eyes dull. The maid shook her head. “I’m-not Rose.” How could she tell him who she was, if even she didn’t know the answer to that?

      “You look like her,” murmured the Skeith, sinking back against a bookshelf and stroking the cover of his book. The maid was confused. How did she look like a red Skeith?

      “You don’t look like her. But you LOOK like her,” muttered Hagan. The Xweetok was even more confused, and left the room quickly, leaving the king to his rest.

      “Rose!” he called. “Play for me. Please. Play your music, let the piano sing again. Let our country live again.” The maid sighed, her heart filled with pity, sadness, and hopelessness. “I’m not Rose,” she called again, before slipping out the door.

      Who was she?

      The maid. The Xweetok. Citizen of Brightvale. But those weren’t names. What was a name, exactly? It was more than a label. It was who you were. Who was she, then? As she the maid? The yellow Xweetok? No, those were not names.

      The princess had a name, Princess Anneka. Hagan had a name. Rose had a name. The cook had a name. She was called Cook. Everyone called her that, and she called herself that. She was happy. Cook, that was her, that was what she really was. Maid. Was that what the Xweetok really was?

      Play for me, Hagan had said. Play your music. The maid didn’t know the first thing about playing anything, not a whistle or a grass harp, much less a grand piano. And surely the king must know that Rose’s still hands would never dance across the keys again. So why was he asking Rose to play? Who is he asking, the queen, or me? Who is Rose? Was she Rose? She, the maid?

      She put down the feather duster and went back to the piano. She sat down on the bench, a rickety wooden thing, painted black like the rest of the piano. She put her hands down on the keyboard, and sat there, not knowing quite what to do.

      And suddenly, she played a note.

      It was an E. Two notes from middle C, clear and sharp as a drop of rain. Like a Beekadoodle’s voice, like the morning sun, like the trees and the hills and a snowflake and a Faerie’s wing. But it was one thing more, something small and yet so strong that was made up of all of those things. Hope. She played it again. Hope. Hope. Hope.

      And then, in moving to play it again, her fingers stumbled. She played a D. Hope, again, but in a different form. Delighted, she moved her hand up an octave and played a B.

      Outside, the Princess Anneka in her bed of tears and roses heard it. She heard the hope, wafting into the air like a Faerie through the open window. She sat up, and she felt it in her heart. Hope.

      The rest of Brightvale heard it too. They all paused in their work, their ears pricked for that sound that was coming in through the castle window. They felt it too, felt the hope returning. Hope for the crops, hope for Brightvale, hope for Hagan and Anneka. The piano’s song was like a strong hand coming in to push the wheel, push it out of the mud. The spokes began turning, faster and faster. A ray of sunlight burst through the clouds, piercing through the shadow cast over the valley by Meridell.

      The maid played a tune, her hands guided by some invisible force to the keys. She pressed her feet on the pedals, guiding the notes through rests, staccatos, and repeats. She heard a small voice in the door. She turned her head, and saw Hagan, his eyes bright, his hands clasped together patiently as he listened to the song. He only said one word, and one word was enough. A word that the Xweetok knew was a name, more than a label. And she knew whose name it was. It was hers.

      “Rose.”

The End