With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the fifth of those tasks.

ike so many times since returning to Fin’s hut, Gwri found his thoughts drifting away from his task, towards the Land of What If. What if Kayne and Turi succeeded in taking the throne of Lisdarrow? What if Aife needed him? What if he should have warned Leitergort? What if, in capitulating to vengeance, he had proved himself unworthy to be its tool?

He knew Fin would tell him that what ifs didn’t matter, in particular any dealing Lisdarrow. As far as he was concerned, they had used Gwri both as shield and as sacrifice, casting him aside to be a toy to Donella’s whims when they no longer had need of him. And when Gwri said the betrayal belonged to Brigitte, not to Aife, Fin dismissed the protests, saying she had not stopped it from happening.

But Fin did not seem to like people very much, which probably explained why he lived as a hermit. Unlike Gwri, despite all that had happened. In fact he was shackled to this geis because of his ties to people. And it was why, when he grew bored with his task, he decided to seek out the smith in the forge.

As he stood, a grimace came to Gwri’s pretty features when he felt his skirts temporarily bind his legs. What he had brought with him from Mullinglas was no longer his, lost to his betrayers in Leitergort. Now all he owned were the prizes from his journeys, the comb he had used to return his hair to its former glory, Ann’s harp needed for his next task, and the clothing of the late queen of the beast-men. However, that dress belonged in a castle, not in the wilderness or the smith’s hut. Finally Fin agreed to Gwri’s complaints and dug a musty smelling, faded blue dress out of a chest. After some work with soap and water, Gwri found it to be an acceptable replacement, though attempts to find out to whom it once belonged were met with silence from the smith.

While tinkering with something at his work bench, Fin sensed Gwri`s arrival and asked, “How goes the song choice?”

“There are so many choices, how do I choose?”

“Sad songs, I’m guessing, if you’re to make it cry. And the Dagda knows there are enough of those.”

“I suppose, but...bah, never mind for now. What do you work upon?”

“You remember the sky stone?”

Gwri rolled his eyes at the smith’s back, then said, “Of course and the mark its retrieval left upon me. Have you made something from it?”

“Several somethings, actually. Though what purpose they will serve, I do not know.”

Curious, Gwri joined Fin at the bench. Besides implements meant for crafting sat three items, which made him turn to the smith in disbelief. “Baubles? You used the stone to make baubles?”

Fin frowned his own confusion at what lay before him, pausing before he answered, “I, I guess. But I don’t know why. Once I extracted the metal from the stone, I thought to make a dagger blade, though barely enough metal existed for that. But that is my last memory until your return. Only when I arrived this morning did I truly see what I had wrought. It makes no sense.”

The smith’s confusion, mixed with more than slight anger, finally convinced Gwri that Fin was as much a pawn as he, though apparently not one so ill used. Either that or Fin was the finest of actors, but Gwri could not believe that, for he needed some things to be real.

“Doubtless the doing of your patron.”

“Who? Oh, the Goban Saor. I tell you, I don’t like it none.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Fin said, looking at Gwri, his gaze flickering over the changeling before him.

“Let me see what he made?”

One could not fault the Goban Saor’s craftsmanship. Two of the pieces were mirrors of each other, these drew both his eyes and hands. Despite apparent delicateness, the butterfly, lacquered in jeweled reds, golds, and greens, weighed solidly in his hand and had three metal prongs, the middle being longer than the others and slightly curved until it finished in a sharp point.

“I’m guessing they’re for your hair.” Fin said.

“Yes, but why?”

“Probably because that spike looks rather dangerous, but it can be disguised as a comb in your hair.”

Gripping the butterfly like a punch dagger, Gwri felt the points of the wings fig into his palm and said, “Not particularly comfortable, but better than nothing. Well let’s see how it looks.”

No longer worried that his hair appeared feminine, Gwri had let it hang lose after he had washed and combed the greasy mess. Now he used the two ornaments to secure it so that none of it fell into his eyes.

“Pretty.” Fin said. “But the way you now look, if you replaced the butterflies with a cow patty, it would probably still look pretty.”

Deciding to ignore that comment, Gwri`s attention turned to the third item. A sheet of goldish coloured metal had been pounded into a thin strip the width of his fingers, then it had been halved and shaped into two sides of a torc. Hinged together in the back, the front of each had half a butterfly, which would form a whole when closed, a black tipped pin that hung from a tiny chain fastening it shut. Testing it, he felt amused by how the top of the pin mimicked a butterfly’s head, yet he looked at the rest of the torc with distrust.

Fin said, “I don’t think it will fit.”

“It’s not me it needs to fit, Fin. It’s the me who the Goban Saor wishes me for whom it was made.”

With these words, Gwri lifted the torc and ensuring that none of his hair became caught, clamped the two parts around his neck, until they slotted together. He then lifted the pin into place and dropped it into place.

“How does it fit?”

“I do not even notice it.” Seeing Fin’s eyes grow wide at his answer, Gwri could only say. “Oh, I hate him so much.”

However, the melodious lilt in which he now spoke ensured that all the rough edges in such a statement were smoothed away.

t took time before Gwri grew comfortable with his new voice, but just as had everything else, it too soon became natural. Sometimes he wondered at that, did his mind change along with his body? He thought not, but how would he know? Maybe he could not allow himself to care? Or maybe he had fallen off his horse, landed on his head, and was now trapped in a mind fever. In many ways, that made more sense than his climbing a mountain upon a magical path, while wearing a faded blue dress, in order to perform before a dragon.

Madness.

Though he had learned, while practicing, that his new voice leant itself to song in a manner his old could not duplicate. Joy sounded more joyful and sadness sounded more sad, Gwri had even detected a tear on Fin’s cheek during one session. Of course, if a dragon did exist, he doubted it would care about his voice.

If anything, it would be disappointed that its victim was not the man who had set sail upon the Sgá th from Ann’s farm, for who remained would barely provide a meal. A thought that amused him more than it should. Would it not be the cruelest of jokes to undergo this physical transformation, only to stare down the maw of a dragon in his final moments. It would serve the Goban Saor right. And Gwri, himself, would no longer have any worries.

Such thoughts grew less amusing as he climbed the mountain, particularly when he detected the odor of death and decay wafting out of a gaping cave entrance. For a moment he wished for weapons greater than those in his hair, but those would only anger the dragon. And that would assuredly lead to a dead Gwri.

Instead, all he had was the harp case hugged to breast while he fearfully stared into the dark hole. Try as he might, he could not force himself to go forward, so he turned. But he found no way back, just a precipitous drop. Again he was forced onwards, leaving him to wonder how many heroic songs were about those who could not turn back?

Hand outstretched to touch a wall, Gwri made his way forward, the light from behind guiding his steps. Just when it disappeared, about to cast him into darkness, he spotted a glimmer in the distance. As it turned into sunlight, so did the stench grow stronger. It caused him to stay his steps.

“Come, small one, I sense your presence.” A loud voice said, one that almost made him clap hands to ears. “It is rare that one of your kind comes to visit and I would know why.”

Sighing, Gwri took the last few steps into the light. He wanted to look towards the sun, shining through a jagged hole at the top of the cavern, but his eyes could only see the beast curled in a heap at the centre of the large open space. Huge, with a jagged back reaching almost twice as Gwri`s own head. Gloriously dangerous, white scales on its belly slowly darkening to sparkling midnight blacks and blues as they climbed its side, while its reptilian head, large fangs glistening almost as brightly as its green eyes, rested upon its front, sword length claws. It stared at him, unblinking, reminding him of a feral cat, brimming with confidence and sunning itself until it worked up the energy to once more kill.

The dragon said, “I never knew a human to burst free of its cocoon like the butterflies with which you adorn yourself.”

“You know? How?”

“I see, I smell, I feel, I understand. It is how I know that you are not one of those fools who seek to slay me, to take what is mine. But it does not tell me why you are here, where there is nothing good to be found for your kind.”

Fumbling at the knots, which tied his harp case shut, Gwri finally extracted the instrument. With it held trembling before him, almost as if it could shield him from the beast, he said, “I hope to play for you.”

“Play for me? Why would you think I would be interested?”

“I don’t know, but I am forced to do so. By the Goban Saor.”

“Ahh, I know of him. Truly the King of Foolishness, I doubt not he would set someone to such a task, to offer me as an obstacle to overcome. But do you know the songs of my kind? The songs of the highest skies, deepest oceans, and burning mountains?”

“No.” Gwri answered, quietly.

“Of course not. You will only know those of your kind. Songs of war and songs of love and songs of hate and songs of sorrow. Songs wallowing in the pettiness of humanity. And you expect me to want to listen?”

“Would you?”

“No bluster? No demands? No anger? You may as well offer your throat to me. But where is my amusement in that? You don’t even have weapons other than the ornaments in your hair, would you blunt their points against my scales?”

“No.”

“Yet you offer yourself to me, reeking of bland fear, without anger or hope to provide needed spice. How disappointing.”

With this statement the dragon closed its eyes, as if to sleep. Surprised at such dismissal, Gwri gaped in confusion. What was he to do? The only that came to mind was to begin playing, but hardly had he brought finger to string when the dragon, without opening its eyes, commanded.

“Silence. Listen.”

Initially he could hear nothing over the roar of his blood pulsing throughout his body. Almost he questioned, but then he heard something, somewhere beyond the beast. Possibly chimes, but never had the wind played with such skill. Unaware, he took a step forward and then another, each bringing the sound closer, allowing him to recognize it to be a harp that played the intricate, unrecognizable melody. Again and again the same notes repeated, capturing his mind and transporting him away from the dragon’s den.

“Will you play as perfectly?”

Startled, Gwri awoke from his trance and found himself mere steps away from the dragon. Frozen in place, he took a moment to remember what had been asked. He truthfully answered, “Sadly no.”

“Why would I accept anything less than perfection?”

“I could offer variety.” Gwri said, “Does your harpist play anything else?”

“Finally a pinch of pride. Variety does have its draw, particularly for the young, before they learn what makes them happy, content. I am not young.”

“Umm...”

“Maybe in time I will listen, but for now I would sleep. And you would be wise not to disturb me.”

Again the beast’s eyes closed, leaving Gwri to wonder if he dared to play his harp. In the end, he did not give in to temptation and quietly placed it back in its case. Instead a new emotion had taken hold, curiosity. Who was the harp player? How long had he been here? Why did he continually play the same melody over and over?

Carefully, quietly, he stepped backwards, not wanting to wake the sleeping dragon. Near where he first entered, Gwri stepped sideways into the shadows where the cavern’s roof had not fallen. Almost immediately he felt his eye drawn to a glitter, which examination proved to be the broken off tip of a sword’s blade. That proved only the first such piece of metal, for as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw sundered armour, twisted weapons, and tarnished bracers and brooches, all having proven useless to their owners whose broken bones they often still adorned. The fools who had sought, and ultimately failed, to slay the midnight beast.

Slowly Gwri forced his eyes away from expected doom, to continue around the outskirts of the cavern, carefully avoiding the scattered debris so he did not make a noise. Throughout it all, the music continued to play, only its increasing volume telling him he moved closer. Then he spotted the outline of a great harp, almost as tall as he, standing before a stool. Yet he did not see the matching outline of a harpist. Momentarily confused, he soon realized the harp had no harpist. But how?

The answer, unsurprisingly, was magic, but not been cast upon the ornately carved harp. Instead, the magic resided in two slender arms, their graceful fingers plucking at the strings. Arms not attached to any torso and which proved to be hollowed as if they were long gloves. Absentmindedly, he reached fingers out towards the strings, but jerked them away when the dragon spoke.

“Brave or foolhardy, you would be, to pluck a string without my leave. Which are you, pretty Butterfly?”

Recumbent, the beast had been frightening, but now that it stood upon four massive legs it was awe-inspiring. Gwri found his mouth dry as he answered, “Foolishness, Lord Dragon. That, not bravery, guides my steps.”

“Does wisdom approach? And do I care? Maybe, but probably not, for dinner is paramount in my thoughts. Quake not, Butterfly, it is not yet your time.”

With this assurance, the mighty beast leapt into the air and with a flap of its wings burst through the ceiling’s gap into the sky. Childlike wonder caused Gwri to dash forward, looking upwards to watch it quickly disappear from view. Almost immediately his thought turned to escape and he rushed out through the tunnel, even while expecting it would lead nowhere. Soon this proved to be true and he returned first to the cave, where he found himself back at the harp. Again he reached out to a string, yet while the disembodied hands plucked out their masterpiece, he found it to be unyielding to his efforts.

It was obvious what he needed to do, had been from the moment he first studied the harp, surely another of his tormentor’s creations. Gwri sat upon the stool and arranged his skirts for comfort, then reached forth, his hand and arms penetrating the into the long, leather gloves meeting no resistance until his hands felt firmly encased.

No sooner had his fingers slid home then they danced from string, no longer his to control. Disturbed, he pulled back, happy to discover that they slid free of the gloves as easily as they had entered.

Bringing a delicate hand to his face, he felt no surprise how it now looked, how it would seem as if the gloves had been made for him. But changes no longer mattered, only his quest and he doubted not that the harp played a role in his success. If only he could learn to control it. Again he reached forth and lost control of his limbs. This time he did not panic, but allowed himself to caught within the melody, learning the feel of a harp more complicated than any he had ever played. And while his hands moved to someone else’s rhythm, Gwri attempted to convince them to play something else.

Yet every time he tried to impose his will, he failed, until he doubted whether he had ever had the ability to play on his own. Seeking proof, he switched to his own harp, playing a simple tune, repeating it while attempting to embed its notes within his fingers. Again he reached into the gloves.

It worked.

His fingers were not immediately pulled into the harp’s melody and for a moment silence reigned, before he heard his song play. Yet though his desire brought it into being, his hands were once more just along for the ride, no different than if he were stuck in oarless currach as it raced down a speeding river. In ways it increased his appreciation of the magic, for the harp played with a verve and cleanliness that he knew he could not create himself. Curiously he tried to switch back to the prior song and found change as easy as thought, but only those two songs. Thus began a time of switching between the two harps, while he sought to teach the great harp the songs he had planned to play for the dragon. Yet barely had he begun before a shadow blocked the sun, the dragon swooping through the opening to thump down upon the cavern’s floor. Ripping his arms free of the glove’s embrace, Gwri experienced a moment of horrified realization that the harp played a song different from that which had filled the space before the dragon left.

“Variety?” The dragon asked, as it cocked it’s head to listen. “I do not know that I like it.”

At this announcement, the beast lowered his head, snaking it underneath the overhang to peer balefully at Gwri. He in turn froze in place, the sight of fresh blood stains on its snout driving aside the overwhelming stench of death.

“I...I can change it back.”

“Can you? How clever a Butterfly.”

Gwri’s fear made his mind go blank, the dragon’s melody seeming to disappear from his mind. Fortunately, when his fingers slid home into the gloves, they proved to have a memory greater than his own. When the dragon mumbled its satisfaction, he slumped in relief. Though no closer to having achieved his goal, at least he lived. A state which did not change during the following days and with each day he believed he grew him closer to achieving his goal. For whenever the dragon left, he took the opportunity to teach the harp new songs.

And in time the relationship between dragon and human changed. Gwri lost much of his fear at becoming a meal, but he learned the dragon saw him as little more than its pet. For when not sleeping or out hunting food, it liked to talk, mostly about dragons and men, the nobility of the first and the foolishness of the second. It displayed an ego and pettiness as massive as its form. Almost he wished to be free of its arrogance more than he had wanted to be free of the beast-men’s cruelty. Yet in his mind he did not yet feel confident in his ability with the harp and accepted the need to lay the necessary groundwork for his future performance. No longer attempting to hide what he did while the dragon was away. Instead, he did not immediately stop when the dragon returned. Longer and longer he pushed the boundary, until one day he completed an entire song. On the next day, he added words, his voice and harp smoothly melding together. Waiting for a complaint that did not come, Gwri decided to continue.

At that song’s end, he played another. A simple song, the type that would be played while everybody gathered for the evening, unimportant except for setting a mood. Like songs followed, while he watched the dragon who in turn watched him, showing no reaction. In time he performed songs with more weight, including his grandmother’s Raid of Begagha, before singing the Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, then the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and finally The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir.

But while those songs of sorrow could bring tears to the hardest hearted warrior, they had no impact on the dragon. It just watched. When Gwri stopped, exhausted by the chance he had taken and its failure, it said, “Foolishness.”

Then it lowered its head to rest upon wicked claws and slept, leaving Gwri to despair. And for a time he gave up, not even touching the harp when the dragon left on a hunt. All his careful planning, days spent choosing the saddest songs he knew, was for not. He had misjudged. For nothing he had learned, since arriving in its lair, pointed to the dragon being moved by human suffering, which it considered beneath him. Upon realizing this, Gwri knew he needed a new approach.

Now he thought not of the songs taught by his grandmother, instead he remembered those he had learned as a child from other children or since from men away from the company of their women. Songs of humour, often crude, but always cutting towards their subjects. Songs with only the simplest of tunes.

So, when next the dragon returned, Gwri felt ready to attempt another performance. This time he only sang of the uncouth or humourous. Almost immediately he noticed that the dragon’s eyes did not show the expected droop, which led to slumber. During the fifth song, the dragon snorted in laughter at the doings of a druid who had fallen in love with a willow. Then the tale of two suitors, who whiled competing for the hand of the same woman found their attempts at wooing bypassed her and caught the other, actually made it laugh. But it was a story of a king, who through grandiose plans ended up as ruler of nothing more than a midden, which pushed it over the edge.

As Gwri sang the many verses in the Luck of King Vaughn the Small, each more foolish than the last, he watched the beast convulse in unsuppressed laughter. He looked into its twinkling eyes, watching for tears of laughter to form, while hoping his voice would last until they did. Finally a drop formed on the edge of each eye and oozed its way down a long snout. As it did, a new worry grew within the singer’s mind. How could he to collect those tears?

Abandoning hope, as he saw first one then the other splash to the ground, he once more stopped.

“Ahh, Butterfly, are you done?”

“Sorry, Lord Dragon, my voice was about to break.”

“Just as well, variety kept me from my nap, I would rather it not keep me from my next meal.”

When it took off to seek that meal, Gwri hurried forward to where it had lay and scrambled about on his knees, until he saw the sun sparkle upon the ground. There he spotted a circle where a tear had fallen, but when he reached out a finger to touch, he did not feel moisture, instead something stuck to his finger. Held close to his face, he saw a tiny perfectly formed circle of green glass. So clear and delicate he worried that it would break. Thus, he took his water pouch, filled from a spring trickling through the cave, and after a long drink, dropped the tear inside with the hope it would not dissolve. Now he searched for the second tear, finding it only a pace away from the first. Soon it joined its twin inside the pouch.

There was no time to waste. Gathering his gear, Gwri trotted to and through the tunnel, where he found the trail returned. He did not even think as he set foot upon it and allowed it to take him wherever it may.

While he walked, he thought he heard a faint shout from the dragon. Almost he though it shouted, “Butterfly.” But he probably heard wrong, just as he probably was wrong to think it sounded lonely.

Notes: The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, the Death of the Children of Tuireann, and The Tragic Story of the Children of Lir are known as the Three Sorrows of Storytelling. Links to them are as follows: