“‘I don’t see no waterfall,’ he says. ‘How do I get to you?’
“‘Follow my music,’ she says. ‘The way will not be easy. But listen for my voice, and you shall have me.’
“So the prince sets off, but before long, a group of men attack—chain him up and throw him in the river. As he starts sinking, he remembers the harp. He hears her sweet voice again, and suddenly, the chains fall away.”
Cay and Peety scoot in closer, but West’s face is unreadable as firelight dances around it.
“On he travels. Next thing that happens, black birds swoop on him, pecking his skin and lifting him to the sky with their sharp claws. As they’s about to drop him onto some rocks, again, he remembers to listen for the music.” She pauses and holds her index finger up.
“When he hears it, the birds begin to fall away, one by one. Then there it rises: a great waterfall surrounded by golden rock, higher on one side than on the other, like a harp, with water pouring like strings. He lands on top, and the view is wide and handsome.”
Cay’s brow wrinkles and he glances at his cousin. West, not noticing, folds his legs and puts his elbows on his knees.
“There, he sees her, a harp clear as glass, like she’s cut from water, and she’s in the arms of a hooded monk. The prince never wanted anything so bad in his life. ‘I’m here for the harp,’ he says. But the monk ignores him.” Andy pauses, letting the ghostly whoo of the wind take over for a moment. “So he repeats himself. Still, the monk acts like he don’t hear. Angry now, the prince tries to pull the harp out of the monk’s hands, but that monk won’t let go. They wrestle for it, and finally the prince smashes a rock over the monk’s head.
“Harp falls into the water. The prince is reaching for it when he feels something wet on the side of his head.” Andy touches her temple. “Blood. He looks down at the monk, whose hood falls away . . . ” She leans toward us, hands held out like she’s going to cast a spell.
“And?” urges Cay.
Andy sits back. “And he sees his own face.”
“He’s the monk?” Cay exclaims. “I didn’t see that com—”
“Shh!” West cuts him off.
With the image of the monk’s staring face in my head, the wind sounds even eerier, raising the hair on my arms.
Andy goes on. “The prince dives after the harp, but it’s too late. The harp goes a-tumbling down the waterfall, and the prince with it.” Her eyes study us, but only the wind speaks. “Hear that howling? That’s the sound of the wind passing through the broken harp and blowing the prince’s blood to the moon.” She leans back on her hands and squints at the sky.
“What’s it all mean?” Cay asks.
“What do you think it means?” asks Andy.
Cay rubs his whiskers. “Never trust a monk?”
“Don’t take stuff that don’t belong to you,” ventures Peety.
“That’s not it, you dummies,” says West. “He forgot to listen to the harp. The music was all around him at the end, but he got too greedy.”
“What do you think, Chinito?” asks Peety, using the word for “China boy.”
Everyone looks at me. “Well,” I say, still mulling over the story, which reminds me of Icarus, whose wings melted off when he flew too close to the sun. “It’s a parable of caution. The story represents man’s struggle with others, nature, and ultimately himself, which is the hardest one of all. The prince didn’t understand he was fighting himself until it was too late.”
No one’s looking at me anymore. West crosses his arms. I’m close enough to see the gooseflesh on his skin.
? ? ?
One by one, the boys start to nod off. I wait until I hear them breathing deeply, then scoot closer to Andy. “Was that a story from your ancestors?”
“Nah. I made it up.”
“It’s a good one.”
She smiles. “Tommy, my little brother, needed stories to help him get to the end of the day. Isaac and I took turns telling ’em.”
“You followed classic Greek story structure. I’m impressed.”
“Best stories are the ones everyone can see themselves in. But you explained that meaning real well.”
I thank Father for that, and also Pépère, my Sorbonneeducated grandfather, who passed everything he knew to his adopted son, who in turn taught me. Such an education was typically saved for males from reputable families, but Father didn’t care. Studying was one of the ways to improve one’s station in life, along with doing good deeds. He schooled me in music, philosophy, history, language, and, of course, literature.
“You done real well today,” Andy says softly, halfway to dreamland already.
My stomach turns in loops as I once again worry about the journey ahead. “The Little Blue’s only a day away,” I whisper. “Maybe I should’ve bargained for farther.”
“We’ll think of something.” She sighs.