Scarlet Bard (unfinished)
Written July 2004.

Camille bent down and removed her prized guitar - her only valuable possession - from the case at her feet. Straightening, she removed a small wad of bills and coins from her pocket and "salted" the case with them. People were more willing to throw money in when they saw money in the case. They automatically assumed that if the musician was talented enough to have "earned" so much, surely they could not go wrong by paying said musician.

Camille put the strap of her guitar on her shoulder before beginning to tune it. _What to play today,_ she wondered. It was still morning, and most of the people walking aruond the subway station at this unholy hour were early risers still half asleep. Only later in the day would the station be full enough for her to exert herself, and only then could she play lively songs. Those kind of songs played now would only attract trouble. _Something slow, light and airy,_ she decided. With that, she launched into a slow rendition of a Chopin's Nocturne in E flat Major, an easily recognizable song, easy on ears in the wee light of morn.

Camille leaned against the pillar - considered a prime spot by the street musicians who frequented the Kipling subway station - and tried to will her passion for music into the song.

An hour later, the subway was buzzing with the movement of people, many of whom were walking by the various street musicians scattered around the subway without even giving a thought to the music they heard. Some tossed in a coin or two, and the occassional bill fell into her case. _Why do people even bother tossing in a couple of pennies?_ she wondered. _Maybe they just want to toss in their two cents worth._

Camille switched to a more light-hearted song. A spanish jig - _She Goes_. She could almost see, overlaid upon the busy subway station before her, various dances twirling to the strum of her guitar. She saw a young man stand in front of her, and the vision was gone.

Camille sighed, almost regretfully, until he threw a five dollar note in her case. She smiled at him as he turned and left.

***

Twelve o'clock came and went. Camille was reluctant to leave her spot in the subway, knowing that someone else would take her spot as soon as she left. She skipped lunch and promised herself a good dinner. There was certainly enough in her case for her to have one.

The lunchtime crowd started, and Camille again tried to concentrate on her music. An arabesque, this time. Even faster and livelier. And this time, she felt something stirring.

Suddenly, her clear view of the station disappeared, and in front of her, she could see dancers at a night time party. Lovers standing below bright lights, dancing and laughing and drinking and generally having a good time. She watched a huge man twirl his lady love and hoist her onto his shoulders. She saw a group of boys - for they were barely men - at a table drinking and admiring the short skirts of the females on the dance floor. She revelled in it - this was her first experience, and played faster and faster. Repeated the song, then segued into a mazurka.

She could see the scene that unfolded, a separate, almost distinct universe. Almost as if it was happening simultaneously while she played.

Then Camille felt the touch of a cold hand on her flesh, and she saw the subway station clearly again. A young woman stood on her right - the one who had touched her - staring at her. The large crowd around Camille was clapping.

Camille stopped, her fingers sliding down the strings of her guitar, feeling foolish. She must have played louder than an entire orchestra in those few minutes. The crowd dispersed slowly - many people throwing money in her case as they walked by - until only she and the young woman remained.

"Why did you touch me?" Camille asked harshly. She missed her dreamlike reverie, and was disappointed about having been so rudely interrupted.

"You were trancing," the woman said, in awe. "If I hadn't brought you out..." Her voice trailed off.

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

Silence.

"When you trance..."

Silence.

"You have to be under control. Otherwise, you might never return."

Silence.

"And you weren't in control."

More silence. And perhaps it wasn't Camille's imagination that people were deliberately avoiding them now.

"Why not?"

Silence. And a slightly puzzled look.

"You're a bard, aren't you?"

This time, Camille looked truly puzzled. She backed away slightly. "Bard?" She managed to utter.

"Yes." The young woman was getting impatient. Then she softened when Camille said nothing and she realized that Camille truly had no clue, and was not bluffing.

"Come with me, and I'll explain." She helped Camille gather up the money in her case - making sure that Camille could she that she was putting every bill and coin into the little purse Camille carried. Street musicians were notoriously careful of pick pockets and watched their money like a hawk. But Camille was too stunned and confused to notice, and automatically returned her guitar into the empty case the way a robot would.

The young woman took Camille's elbow and led her out. She brought Camille to a small tea shop on the square above the station. No greasy fast foods - her system couldn't handle it. She ordered tea - orange flavoured - for them both, and scones - raisin with butter.

Finally, "Who are you?"

"I'm Rose, bardic... not mage." Rose rolled her eyes. Mages were always bitter. "Bards are..." Here she struggled to gather her thoughts. "Exceptionally good musicians who use their music to work magic."

"Magic. Does. Not. Exist." Camille said firmly. If there was magic, why were people still living on the streets, begging for money? If there was magic, shouldn't the world always be at peace? Magic was a thing of fairy tales. The kind of dreams that only children could afford to have.

***

Camille cringed as a plate hit the wall to her right with a deafening crash.