Troubadour

 

Troubadour

 

He could smell it,

Troubadour that he was,

Feather in his hat,

Harp at his back.

He sensed an ill,

A tribulation,

A wrongness that had settled,

And the village distant was imperiled dire.

 

He was only a troubadour,

A traveler and a singer,

A player and a tramp,

His continued existence

Relying solely on goodwill earned

From the tales he could tell,

The song that he knew,

And the instruments of his trade.

 

In the village ahead he knew,

He would sing again.

 

The ravage had not lain long on the hamlet,

Nor had its grotesqueries found all as yet,

But it was swift-moving,

And indiscriminate.

The lone figure approaching

Would be warned off by sign,

If he could read,

By arrow if he could not.

 

The troubadour hardly glanced at the posting:

Too like others he had seen,

Too often that were writ.

The first arrow passed close,

The next would require a keen aim,

If it were not meant to damage.

The shaft nicked his cloak,

Passed the hat,

But touched the feather not.

Another patch would be required.

He rode steady forth.

 

The guard thought many things:

The stranger was either unlearned,

Uncaring,

Or unbrained,

Though all three could be found under one hat.

He came on,

As if no warning were given,

No missile shot,

No stench rising from bodies corrupted.

 

He carried with him harp,

Mandolin,

Flute, and a small horn,

Each had its music,

Each had its part,

Each a purpose in its time.

This place would respond best to harp he thought,

So unwrapped the leather shielding it,

Then sat in the shadow of the fountain in town center,

On this hot day

That smelled of need.

 

Few there were nearby when that first chord sounded,

A harmony that did not ring out so much as ripple,

Unyielding somehow,

Permeate and demanding of attention,

A call and a herald,

A summoning.

 

From sickbeds they came,

Or soiled cot,

Or bench too long occupied,

Or straw mat floor lain.

They came fevered and reeking,

Sore in body,

And lost in hot nightmare,

Yet they came.

The summons had called,

They must answer,

Not knowing why,

Nor firm enough to ask.

 

They surrounded the fountain,

Swaying if they stood,

Rocking if seated,

Though many could do no more

Than lay panting from the exertion of walking.

When the last of them arrived,

Regaling this troubadour with glazed eye,

And little understanding,

He began to sing.

 

None could say later what words were voiced,

What chorale was sung,

Just that comfort came immediate,

A bracing,

A relief and a renewing.

So did the troubadour weave his tapestries:

Each different to every listener,

Each somehow the same.

None could recall the words,

But the memory could be found at need,

A roborant in song to refresh once more,

If only briefly.

 

Then did the sun rise that dawn,

And they found themselves healed.

And it seemed to them

They had borne a winter nightmare,

But were now carried afresh,

Through renewing springtide in dreamtime,

To awaken now in full summer and hale.

 

But of the troubadour

There was no sign,

No feather-hatted traveler at the fountain,

No mule he may have ridden.

Then did the townsfolk gaze in amaze,

And shaking their heads,

Returned to their homes,

Throwing wide window and door,

For cleansing air,

And to feel forgotten sun.

But still they turned now and again,

And viewed the fountain if they could,

And wondered if what they thought they remembered

Had happened at all.

 

But the square could give no answer,

The fountain only spake its tinkling song,

And none saw the feather

Carried on the breeze,

Dancing on the roadway toward the sun.

It rode the wind,

And left this village

As if it had a purpose,

And was hurrying to an unspoken task,

Not late,

But hurrying none the less…

 

Cliff Lake 2/25/2026

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2026