Till Then
© Yune Kyung Lee

I woke, I think, more to escape my dreams than in response to the gentle sunlight that peeked through my curtains and danced on my face. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, as my heart finally slowed to match the steady rhythm of the loom in my mother's room. My pillow was damp with tears.

I saw my father's face more nights than I did not, and he rarely wore the smile he had when he was alive. I couldn't help but think of his last moments, full of pain and the knowledge that he was going to die. I hadn't been there, but Uncle Demion had brought the torn and bloody body, and I had seen it. So had my mother.

The last thought prompted a sigh. If I was haunted with my father's death by night, my mother dealt with it even during day. She went through tasks like eating and dressing mechanically, and spent all her time at the loom, weaving a tapestry of my father. The few words of conversation I could get out of her were always delivered flatly, without emotion. I had hoped that coming to Chihalla would help, but it hadn't. Be honest with yourself, I thought. She's changed, and now you have no idea how to treat her. But surely there's something else I can do...

A wry smile curved my lips. Nothing that I can do here in bed. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, facing the sun-flooded window. A yawn and a stretch, and then I rose and dressed. I forced the dreams back to a shadowed corner of my mind and went to the kitchens. I emerged with a tray balanced on either hand and made my way to my mother's room.

"Breakfast," I called through the door. After a pause, the loom stopped and the door yawned open. "Good morning," I said cheerfully, stepping through.

"Good morning, Liadri." Her voice was very low and very soft. I always felt that if I spoke too loud, it would shatter.

I spent the rest of the meal telling her about what I planned to do while she nodded in the right places, although I knew she barely listened. I had to force my gaze up from the food to her face, delicate and pale from lack of sun. When we were done--or when she would eat no more; most of her food was untouched--I replaced everything on the tray and bade her a good day. She closed the door behind me and I stood there until I heard the loom working again.

But I could hear something else, vaguely familiar...

I set the tray down and went to the window, pushing aside the curtains to open it. The gentle melody was stronger, now, and I could hear some kind of instrument accompanying the strong tenor that was singing. Recognition thrilled through me: these were the notes of a lute, which my mother had played once.

I turned my head and saw the lute in its case, gathering dust in the corner. It hadn't been touched since my father had died.

On impulse, I went there and wiped the case into some semblance of cleanliness. I opened it and my breath caught. One of the strings was broken; the others, when I carefully plucked them one by one, were so out of tune that I winced and silenced them immediately.

I picked it up and carried it outside as I would a wounded bird. The street minstrel was still there, sitting on a short stool, but pausing between songs. A few children and a pair of girls had paused to listen to him. I stepped forward and said diffidently, "Excuse me...?"

He looked up, brows arching in inquiry. "Yes?"

I held the lute out to him. "Is there any way you could tune this and replace the string? I have a few chips..." I noticed the wooden bowl at his feet and how stark it was, graced by only a turcent or two. The others, sensing that he wasn't going to be playing again soon, wandered away. The girls dropped in a steen and left.

He took the lute and my fingers reluctantly uncurled themselves from the neck while I took his instrument and held it. He settled mine across his lap, played a chord, and winced at the dissonance. "It needs it...it looks well-cared for except recently." There was a hint of a question in his voice.

"My mother's," I said, "and hers before. But she hasn't played for a while..." I stopped myself before I started explaining about my father's death. "Can you fix it?"

He nodded, already intent on tuning the strings that remained. Once tuned, their sweetness was startling. Occasionally he reached out to pluck a string on his lute, and then matched it. Finally all five were in harmony.

"Thank you," I said, reaching out, but he laughed.

"You can't play a lute with five strings...hold on a moment." He rummaged through a cloth bag and came up with a string. Quickly and efficiently, he attached it and tuned it. But even then he hung on to the lute. "Is your mother planning to play again?"

The question caught me off guard. I considered and then slowly shook my head. "I don't think so..." Because my father used to sing with her and she would miss his voice. "Perhaps I'll try to learn a song or two. What was the one you were just playing?"

"It's called 'Till Then'," he said, playing the first few measures.

I closed my eyes. If I reached back far enough, I could see my mother's fingers dancing in the same pattern.

"Would you teach me that?" I said.

He laughed again. "One thing at a time! What do you do?"

"I'm a weaver," I said. Although I didn't know if I wanted to become one for life, it was all my mother had taught me.

"Would you set someone to weaving a tapestry the first time they sit down at a loom?" he said, and I shook my head. "It's the same principle. You should learn things like fingering exercises and simple songs before leaping to more complicated pieces."

Switching lutes back, he patiently ran me through how to hold a lute, the notes of each string, and then a brief children's song. It was effortless for him but my fingers stumbled. I stopped, flexed my hands, then tried again. This time I managed it without any mistakes, and I looked up with a smile.

"Congratulations," he said with a grin.

"Thank you," I said gratefully, then realized that I had kept him from working for longer than an hour. "I'm sorry! I'll pay you for the string and the lesson--" I reached into a pocket and found a few forlorn chips. I handed them to him. "I live right here--if you'll wait a minute I'll get you more..." I rose but his voice stopped me.

Somewhat embarrassed, he said, "If you don't mind...I'm more than willing to take food as payment. Normally I wouldn't insist on anything, for you're a pleasure to teach, but I haven't had a decent breakfast for days, and--"

"Of course," I said quickly to hide my shock. Street musicians eked out a living, I knew, but I hadn't known that their lot was this hard. I fetched the tray and all the food it still had. "These are essentially leftovers; I hope you don't mind."

He eyed it hungrily. "It seems like a feast to me," he assured me. "Thank you--" He hesitated. "May I know your name?"

"Liadri," I said clearly.

He repeated it, then offered his own name. "I'm Daen." And at that moment, his stomach chose to introduce itself.

We both laughed. "Enjoy the food," I said. "Honestly, there's this much left everyday. If you're having hard times--" My gaze involuntarily dipped to the bowl. "--feel free to come here and ask for it."

"You're too kind," he said. "In return, I'll teach you until you learn 'Till Then'."

"It's a deal," I said. I couldn't seem to get rid of my smile, then or in the passing days. I introduced him to my mother as another friend of mine; she greeted him but said nothing more, and I felt safe enough in having him breakfast with us every morning. My mother didn't seem to mind--but she didn't mind anything. I insisted, however, on his teaching me outside, where sometimes we would draw a few people to toss a chip into the bowl, and where my mother wouldn't be able to hear.

Eventually Daen asked about her, and this time I told him everything. How she had been so vibrant when we lived in Sieta, until my father left to guard Uncle Demion's goods on a trading trip--he wasn't truly my uncle, but had been such a close family friend that I had always thought of him so, and had suffered as much grief when my father died while killing a pair of bandits who attacked them. And then my mother had become so reticent that we moved to Chihalla, where I had hoped she might become her old self again--

"It didn't work, did he?" he asked, his eyes gentle upon me.

"No." I sighed. "But she used to play this lute...I remember her singing 'Till Then' to it. I'm hoping that if I play it for her, it might help restore her."

"You have the first half down perfectly," he said. "Today you're going to learn the rest."

I bent my head over my lute and set my fingers to the strings determinedly. And the day that I finally finished it, I went to my mother's room and knocked lightly on the door.

"Mother?"

"Liadri..." She opened the door and looked with some surprise at the lute. My heart began to lighten at the reaction. "What is it?"

I swallowed. "Could I come inside?"

She stepped aside and I entered. I willed my fingers not to tremble and then, without preamble, began to play. And then sing.

Good-bye, my love Across the sea I hope that you'll Return to me

Go sail, my love So far away I hope that you'll Come back some day

Sometimes I feel Your touch, it seems In broken thoughts And yearning dreams

I know not how You'll come, nor when But patiently I'll wait till then

And then I'll see Your smile again And hear your voice ...I'll wait till then

I didn't know whether I wanted her to smile or weep...anything except the indifference I faced everyday. I stood there, my fingertips gently stilling the humming strings, when she reached out. Startled, I released it and let her have it.

She ran a hand down the strings one by one, then began to play so softly I could barely hear. Her voice was the slightest whisper as she sang the same song again. When she was done, she looked up at me. "There are two more sets of verses," she said, almost dispassionately. "One is sung by the girl's love, the last by both. Your father--" Her face crumpled and I held her tightly as tears glinted on her lashes. "--Your father used to sing the other part..." The rest of what she said was lost in sobs.

"I remember," I said helplessly. "You would sit in one chair and Father in the other, and I would sit between both of you while you played and sang..."

She nodded against my shoulder, then pulled gently away. "See--" She went over to the loom and I looked at it for the first time. It was a tapestry of the same scene I had described, every detail of my father's face lovingly woven in. Her own face was shadowed by her long hair, which she had cut at word of his death. Perhaps because she remembered him stroking it the day he left, when he held her close. She had not yet come to the part where I was sitting and she looked at me with a smile. "You'll be in it, too. It's not done yet."

Absently, she sat before the loom and began weaving steadily again. She did not look at me as I left. I was quiet outwardly, but within, my heart was skipping and tumbling in joy from the rarity and beauty of that smile she had offered me. Perhaps she would recover after all. Once she had lapsed, she surely would again. And one day, I was sure, she would turn away from that loom and never turn back. Who knew how long it would be until that point? But I smiled to myself. I would wait till then.