by Erik Amundsen

The Fid­dler came lop­ing out of the for­est and squared off against the Harp­er over the body on the shore. The two men moved left and right, pick­ing up their feet and putting them down like vul­tures, like crabs.

"Move along," said the Harp­er. "I was here first."

"No you weren't," said the Fid­dler. "I was watch­ing from the for­est for most of an hour. You just hap­pened to sidle up as the miller's stu­pid daugh­ter was leaving."

"Lucky me, my rival is a cow­ard, afraid of a tiny black head­ed girl, too stu­pid to know a corpse from a swan."

"That's what she was going on about?" The Fid­dler asked.

The two men broke off glar­ing at one anoth­er to look down at the dead girl between them, spread out on the bank with clothes sopped against her and water still run­ning in rivulets from the seams. 

Human beings do not look like this girl in death, not ones the riv­er took, who tum­bled down past the sleep­ing cat­fish like so much dirty laun­dry. Her skin was moon col­ored white, with­out a trace of blue, just a mortician's brush of pink around the cheek­bones. Her neck was long, the rest of her sleek, as though she were made for swim­ming or drown­ing; a body meant to move through water. 

Nei­ther of them was going to say so, not after the Harp­er cast his scorn upon the notion, but she did look about as much like a swan as she did a corpse. A swan that had long hair to match the col­or of the gold ring on her mid­dle fin­ger. There was no swelling, no rot, no smell but for an odor only detectable to a cer­tain class of sharp-nosed minstrel. 

An even dozen of those were like­ly con­verg­ing on the spot as the first two spoke.

"So, about you leav­ing," said the Fiddler.

"About your delu­sions," said the Harp­er. "You can take that ring with you when you leave. Even if it's brass, it'll prob­a­bly dou­ble your take for the month."

"What do you take me for, a piper?"

"King Midas has the ears of an ass."

The Fid­dler roared, tucked in his tal­ent­ed hands and leaped over the body. The two men kicked and shoved and threw elbows until they ran out of breath. The Harp­er had a black eye, the Fid­dler a split lip and a cut on his fore­head. Nei­ther of them could call the space between their knees and ankles shins so much as bat­tle­fields. They stood fac­ing one anoth­er, pant­i­ng, and unfold­ed their hands from their armpits. Just upstream, the mill-wheel creaked a rev­o­lu­tion or two while they caught their breath.

“We keep this up and the bank will be swarm­ing with real pipers," said the Fid­dler. “While I’d pay good mon­ey to see you try that Apol­lon­ian bull­shit on them, I intend to be off with my prize before they flut­ter in to roost. What about you?”

"What were you going to make of her?" asked the Harper.

"A fid­dle with a voice that will melt a heart of stone," said the Fiddler.

"Tak­ing the same cir­cuit twice, then?”

“How’s your eye?”

“You know it's only ever going to play one song," said the Harp­er. “That might be one more than you can play, but it’s bound to get old, even for you.”

"What were you going to do with her?"

"Make a harp that can play alone."

"Your hon­esty is refreshing,” said the Fid­dler. “I can see where the abil­i­ty to play itself would be an advan­tage for you. In love as well as music, I suspect."

"Fun­ny. It's going to solve the mys­tery of who mur­dered her."

"Like, per­haps, her fuck­ing old­er sister?” the Fid­dler said. “There, solved that one for you and saved you the trou­ble. Walk upstream for a day or so, look for a funer­al and a smil­ing girl attached to the side of a griev­ing boy.”

The water sloshed over the wheel. The min­strels' shins ached. They looked back at the body.

"So what parts do you need?" asked the Fiddler.

"Hair."

"Not all of it?"

"No, just enough to make harp strings. You?"

"Thir­ty strands."

"Hard­ly notice. There's enough here for a dozen more of us."

"Let's hope there aren't a dozen more. I need her fin­gers for pegs."

"So do I."

"I only need four; you can use her toes, no one's going to be able to tell the difference."

“I’m going to be able to tell the difference.”

“While we’re at it, let’s dis­cuss the res­o­nant qual­i­ties of human bone. I’m sure the pipers will find that fas­ci­nat­ing to lis­ten to while they’re scratch­ing at each oth­er­s’ eyes for her femurs.”

"Fine, I'm tak­ing her breastbone."

"Not a chance."

"Lis­ten, I need the shape, you just need some­thing flat. No one's going to know the dif­fer­ence if you have her breast­bone or her scapulae."

"How is a breast­bone remote­ly harp shaped?"

"How is it fid­dle shaped?"

"Point. Actu­al­ly, I do need the ring to make the strings for the fiddle."

The two men lift­ed up their voic­es then, and the girl's flesh fell away from her bones in a fine pow­der, like the first spring pollen on a late fall­en bed of spring snow. They hun­kered down togeth­er, side by side and got to work, fus­ing bone to bone, draw­ing them, soft­en­ing them to ivory clay, let­ting them hard­en. Their shad­ows changed angle while they worked.

When they were fin­ished, the miller's daugh­ter came around the mill­house and stove in the both of their skulls with a ham­mer. She trad­ed the bills and coins in their pock­ets for stones, col­lect­ed the instru­ments they had made and kicked their bod­ies into the river. 

She looked down at the bones of her lit­tle sis­ter, there, what was left of them on the bank and con­sid­ered kick­ing those in as well. Instead, she sang the minstrel's song back­wards and the pow­dered flesh reformed on the body. 

Her sis­ter was lighter, this time around. The miller's daugh­ter dragged her sis­ter back to the millpond. 

"Look!" she called. "There swims a swan!" And she pulled the corpse from the water as the woods behind her crawled with pipers.

---

Erik Amund­sen lives in cen­tral Con­necti­cut. He is always Chaot­ic Evil.

Filed under: Jabberwocky 9