Inspired by listening to The
Chieftains on a family holiday – the original idea was my father’s.
The Harp
-1-
I was in Ireland a few years ago on holiday, seeing the sights and
enjoying the beer, when I met with a rather strange occurrence. I was at a
county fair, or bazaar of sorts, admiring the knotworks that adorned hand-made
tables, spoons, and scarves of all kinds, when I heard music coming from a
stall about fifty metres ahead of me. My interest piqued, I walked towards it,
and as I drew nearer I saw a wizened old Irishman sitting on a stool in the
middle of the stall, playing a sprightly melody on an ancient lap-harp. The
musician was quite a picture, with the only sign of hair on his pate two tufty
shocks of white, one sprouting from just above each ear.
A
small crowd had gathered around him to enjoy the music, but he appeared not to
notice them. His bright blue eyes were closed in happy concentration, and his
fingers flew about on the harp strings as if belonging to a much younger body.
Smiling, I stood at the back of the crowd, tapping my foot to the beat of the
music, and when he came to the end of the last refrain, I clapped as loudly as
the rest of the listeners. The old man sighed contentedly and set his harp on
the ground, indicating his concert finished. Most of his audience left, no
doubt intrigued by other stalls and other masters of craft, but I stepped up to
the musician, who was now drinking from a small tin flask he had picked up from
the ground next to his stool.
“That was fine playing,” I said admiringly by way of greeting. The blue
eyes flashed quizzically toward me, then the gnarled hands that had moved so
quickly moments before waved my compliment off.
“Ach, I’ve played better,” the Irishman said, but I saw his quick smile
and knew he had appreciated the comment. He hospitably indicated another stool,
this one sitting next to the harp case, and I took my seat with a nod of
thanks.
“You should be kinder to yourself,” I admonished amicably. “That was the
finest playing I’ve heard in two weeks’ worth of concerts. How long have you
played?”
He
pursed his lips, recalling his memories from the dark corners to which they had
strayed.
“Oh,
nigh on sixty years, I suppose,” he said finally, screwing the top back onto
his flask and setting it down in its former place.
“Sixty
years!”
I
could not imagine living that long, nor playing that wonderfully, but then I
was only twenty-four myself, fresh from the university and just starting to
enjoy my place in the world. I told the man as much and he roared with
laughter, those blue eyes twinkling merrily away and those tufts of hair
swaying softly in the light breeze.
“You
young folk! I swear ye’ll be the death of me yet,” he chortled, slapping his
thigh with vigour. He sighed again, still smiling, then seemed to reach a
decision. Picking up his old harp, he handed it to me and indicated that I
should play. I was taken aback, as you might guess, having no past musical
experience other than the occasional caroling party at Christmastide, but he
waved away all protestations and insisted that I play.
“It’ll
do ye a world o’ good,” he said, then briefly instructed me on how to place my
hands on the strings. I began to pluck the strings, hesitantly at first, then
with more confidence as I heard, if not music, at least sounds coming from the
beautiful antique. I drew a finger softly from the lowest string to the
highest, reveling in the way the sound seemed to grow and expand to fill the
entire tent. I turned to my new-found friend to ask him how old the harp was –
it seemed quite ancient, and was weatherbeaten and nicked in more than one
place, almost as though it had seen battle – but as I looked up from the harp,
I discovered to my shock that the old man had gone, and the tent with him!
I
was sitting in the middle of a great hall, one that reminded me of the ruins at
Tara that I had seen that week on a tour, but these were no ruins. The stones
gleamed, as if recently polished, and rich tapestries hung over the windows,
casting colorfully muted light on the tables that bordered the room.
Speechless, I gaped at the beautiful sight; my mind whirled as it tried to make
sense of this change in venue, but my attention was sharply pulled back to the
– present? Wherever I was, when ever
I was, it was surely not the place I had been moments before.
As
I said, my attention was pulled sharply back to the hall when the ornately
carved doors at the far end of the room were thrust open from the outside, and
a throng of people streamed in. Setting the harp quickly on the floor, I stood,
nervously shifting from foot to foot as I tried to think of what to say to
these people to explain my unexpected presence at their party. A small group of
the people approached the stage where I sat – a section of the floor that rose
three or four centimetres from the rest. Chattering animatedly, they didn’t
notice my presence until one of them, a young girl with long dark hair, glanced
up and tugged the sleeve of the older man with her. He in turn looked up at me,
and I was surprised to see not confusion at my arrival, but comprehension and
relief!
“Ah,
ye must be the new entertainer!” he said in satisfaction. “Yeh can begin
playin’ after everyone arrives.”
Not
heeding my stammered protestations, the man and his companions resumed their
conversations and wandered off to a table near the stage, where they sat. At a
loss as to what to do, I sat heavily, looking at the harp again, and started.
Lo and behold, that battered old harp I had played what seemed like hours before
but could be only minutes had transformed! The scratches and gouges were gone
from the sides, the enamel glowed with an inner light, and the whole thing
shined like a different instrument. However, as I looked closer, the designs on
the sides and the large round silver inset of a Celtic knot at the top were the
same as what I had seen back at the fair – cleaner and brighter, certainly, but
the same.
It
was as if the only thing that had come back in time as it had been in the
present was myself, and as I looked closer at my clothes it became apparent
that not even I had fully escaped transformation. My comfortable patent leather
shoes had turned to sturdy leather boots, my trousers to plain cotton, and my
plaid sporting jacket to a rough tweed. I silently thanked whatever deity was
orchestrating this turn of events that I hadn’t ended up in a kilt.
This
reverie was broken, however, when I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned around to
meet the sombre brown eyes of the young girl who had noticed me earlier.
“Hallo
there,” I said kindly. “My name’s James.”
“I’m
Sophie,” she replied seriously. “I’m eight years old and I’ll be nine soon.”
“Well,
Sophie, I wish you many happy returns in advance,” I said, thinking how she
reminded me of my niece Victoria, who made sure everyone knew that she was
seven-and-three-quarters years old and would be eight exactly come the winter.
My
new companion wrinkled her nose slightly.
“Don’t
want to be nine,” she said matter-of-factly. “Me da’s sister died when she was
nine, of the ague.”
“Well
I’m sure you won’t,” I reassured her. She looked skeptically at me, but seemed
happy to abandon this rather morbid topic.
“C’n
you really play that?” she said, pointing at the harp. I was taken aback at
this, and felt stuck for a reply, seeing as how I couldn’t play it at all.
But
Sophie seemed not to care for she stuck her little hands on her hips and
demanded, “Show me.”
About
to protest, I noticed a tall, burly gentleman standing just behind Sophie. He
was a formidable-looking character, made even more so by the thin circlet of
gold spanning his forehead. He nodded at me.
“You
may as well start playing now, good sir, most of the folk have arrived,” he
said, before patting Sophie on the head and walking away.
I
noticed that my jaw had dropped open at the sound of the man’s voice – if ever
a bear happened to speak, I thought, it’s voice would sound neither as deep nor
as wildly powerful as this man’s.
“Is
he . . . who is he?” I asked Sophie, still staring after the giant.
She
shrugged.
“Me
da. He’s our Chieftain.” she said matter-of-factly, then returned to her quest
for music.
“Show
me how to play!” she said again. I paled. Now it sunk into my head that as the
performer, I would be expected to play music for these people. I did not play
the harp, nor did I know even how to begin. However, a ray of hope struck me as
I remembered that all I had done when I had first picked up the instrument was
draw a finger across the strings.
I
repeated this process, my eyes tight shut as if I expected there to be a flash
of light, and I was heartened when I heard silence after the notes. But when I
opened my eyes, I saw that I was still in the great hall, and that the silence
was made by my audience looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to begin.
This
was not how I had planned my holiday.
-2-
Completely
at a loss as to how to tell these people that I had no intention of playing for
them, I opened and closed my mouth a few times, like a fish out of water. Out
of the corner of my eye, I saw the immense Chieftain fidget on his stool, his
brow beginning to furrow, and I began to be not a little afraid.
Just
at this moment, little Sophie came to my rescue. She tugged on my sleeve,
beckoning me down to her level.
“They
want you to play something for them,” she said in a stage whisper, clearly
heard throughout the Hall. A ripple of laughter washed across the room. I saw
with relief that the Chieftain’s manner had relaxed at Sophie’s comment, as had
that of the entire room.
“Thank
you, Sophie,” I replied in the same tone of voice, sparking another titter from
our audience.
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