A Harper’s Burial

The building stank of firewood and old beer. Thick oaken tables, precision cut into odd geometries, were scattered loosely about the room. No chair in the place matched any other chair. Some had three legs. Others had four. One had five. There were stools of various heights and widths. There were armrests that scooped, armrests that drooped, and many armrests that did not exist. It all seemed to be one carpenter’s work, an artisan who never repeated themselves.

The people held their breath. They were all intent on the song of the harp, played by a blind old man dressed in clothes so brightly colored and clashing it was somewhat painful to look at him. Sitting next to him, on a bench that looked like no other bench in the place, was a woman that seemed to be close to his age, swathed in loose brown clothing. She started to sing.

And the people they buried her

Buried her deep

And the people they buried her

For forever to keep

The harp sounded a last note and the crowd exhaled with joy. There was applause for a full minute.