The Elf-King's Tune
Another two-year-old story, set in a country I was using for a story at that point. I think I wrote this more to play with dialect than for plot (the plot is the plot of many a folktale, after all).
In my search for proof of the existence of the fairy kind, I traveled deep into the Mirren Hills in the northwest of this our fair kingdom, Veldlin. In one of the tiny, near-independent villages so peculiar to hill country, a hamlet by the name of Rores, I stumbled across a marvelous windfall. The brother to the man who kept a roadside inn had actually had first-hand experiences with the Little People. The innkeeper told me he expected his brother for a visit the very next day, and if I bided there until then, I was assured a very good story. As expected, the brother came, and he did indeed unfold a marvelous tale. I transcribed the tale as he spoke it, and here is the whole of it.
- Roland, Lord Bastan
It were nigh on two years ago, midsummer and hot as a forge if I recall aright, when the whole thing started. It'd been Mathis's wedding to that charmer over yonder that day, an' after I'd played a few tunes on my fiddle I drank a bit more of my brother's brew'n I ought. Stumblin' home, I began to see little lights dancin' about just before me. It didn't surprise me, bein' as I was more'n a little tipsy, and I followed 'em. Well, I figured I was pixy-led, but as I didn't know where I was nor could remember how to stop 'em, I just kept on following. Mathis over there, he always says I'm dumb as a rock and twice as stubborn, and he's right sometimes. Only a fool'd just let hisself be pixy-led, but I did and pretty soon all the little lights stopped. A short little cove dressed all in green stepped into the light, and in one hand I can see he's carryin' a little fiddle. "Robbie," he says to me, "you're a fiddler, and we've lead you here to learn you some proper fiddlin'." And the little fellow started right in playin', and before I could think I'd my fiddle in hand and was playin' along easy as if I'd known the tune for years. Around us, the little folk set their lamps down and I could see 'em jiggin' around merry as you please. The playin' went on till my arm an' my fingers an' my back were one solid ache, yet I played on and on. The music caught me up, and it grieved me sore to think o' stoppin'. I must've passed out at some point, as I woke up next morn in the center of a circle o' mushrooms, a fairy ring, a sure sign the Fair Folk'd been dancin' there. I stood up, to get my bearin's, like, and I saw I was in the fields behind Old Rand's place. Old Rand lives east o' the inn, about the same distance from it as the family home in the opposite direction. This had me stumped, I'd been certain of stepping out in the right direction yestereve, even if I was tipsy. I finally figured the Little People'd led me farther'n I'd thought.
'Twas a long walk home, and by the time I'd reached Rores green I'd realized just what'd happened to me. I'd heard of it--the Fair Folk teach a fiddler to play, and of a sudden the bloke knows the Elf-king's tune. I could feel that knowin', somewhere in the back o' my mind, and I knew I'd have to be careful. The Elf-king's tune's known by many a good fiddler, but if ever it's played it spells trouble. I knew it caused young an' old to dance, and that it could only be stopped if someone cut the strings. So you know, I figured, I'll never play it; easy enough. Not so easy as I thought, turns out.
About a year later, I found myself at an inn down the road a ways. I'd been in Hann sellin' Ma's woolens, the ones she makes special for the autumn fair there. Anyhow, as I said, I'd sold the woolens and got a goodly profit at that, and I says to myself, Why not stop here? A hour later, or mayhap it were two, in comes this fiddler, thinks real well of himself; I can see that the moment he walks in the door. He starts in braggin' about the job he'd earned at the fair, to play in some lord's hall. Well, me, I think he's lyin'; for one thing he's wavin' the darn fiddle around as he speaks, and no fiddler with a lick o' sense'll do that, not when there's the possibility o' breakin' it. Now I ain't that drunk, but I am riled up so I start shoutin' insults at the fellow.
He responds by layin' a challenge: whoever can play so's the most people start dancin' is the best player in the room. Now my blood's up, and I agree right off. So the numskull pulls his fiddle out and soon he's got a good rollockin' reel going'. He ain't as bad as I thought he was, an' I'm worried. The song he played is well-known hereabouts, an' the moment people hear the first line, they're on their feet an' dancin'. I run through the songs I knew, wonderin' which one's most likely to beat that'n. An' all the while a snatch o' song is distractin' me, a snatch o' the song I ain't supposed to play. I decide on "Maid o' the Rocks," a good fast jig an' a real toe-tapper. At the closin' notes o' the reel, I stand an' make ready to play. But the moment I touch bow to string, my hand takes on a life of its own. I hear the notes o' the very song I'd decided against ever playin' a year back: the Elf-king's tune.
The smug smile drops off my opposite's face as his feet begin to move without his permission. I can see shock an' bewilderment on people's faces as they start dancin'. Pretty soon, all an' sundry are jiggin' fit to wear through the floor. The furniture starts to twitch, and then one chair an' another began to perform that accursed jig. Silverware an' crockery an' mugs fall to the floor willy-nilly and hopskip about, clinkin' and clackin' as they collide with one another. An' all through this my hand keeps on sawin' at my fiddle, keepin' the tune goin'. Try as I might, I can't persuade my hand to stop, or even to slow. The people around me are startin' to realize just what's happenin', recallin' those bugbear tales about the Elf-king's tune. I'm near sobbin' with fear as I play, and finally some bright fellow grabs one o' the knives, which wriggles in his hand, still tryin' to dance. As he dances, the fellow gets hisself next to me and with a single chop, he cuts through all my strings.
Everyone suddenly stands still, chests heavin' as they try to catch their breath. Everythin' settles back to the floor, and it's a terrible mess, with broken crockery and such scattered across the floor and chairs and tables shoved up against one another. The fellow with the knife, who I recognize as the innkeeper now, starts towards me, his face red. "Get out o' my inn," says he, "and don't you ever come back!" I can see a good deal o' people looking at me with fear in their eyes, and I know people get mad when they're scared, so I don't argue. So I head home, broken fiddle in hand. But you know what? I got the fiddle fixed an' I ain't never had the urge to play the Elf-king's tune again, so maybe some good came of it.