Bojo stood on the edge of Lake Nere, looking over the cold, dark expanse of water toward the misty grey shore on the other side. He sighed, knowing how much he would miss it. Then he turned north and began walking the rocky path to Mistress Bhoudice’s house.

For a year he’d been here in Mathias, home of the great Bardic College. The College had stood for unknown centuries; its founders, the Neres, claimed to have occupied this peninsula since the beginning of time. Bojo saw no reason to disbelieve them.

Bojo was not a student at the College; his one attempt at musical endeavor had been a raucous failure. He had worked as a groundskeeper in order to raise enough money to travel to the great University in the northern city of Das Rhiadne. He was to leave the next morning. Before he went, though, he wanted to say goodbye to Mistress Bhoudice.

She was the Mistress of the Bandora School, and one of the most respected members of the College, but no one would have guessed it by looking at her home. Standing at her front door, Bojo was once again amazed at just how shabby it looked. The outside walls were built of ancient, nearly petrified peat, and covered in most places by a scrawny, struggling breed of ivy. The door was ancient as well, alternately water-swollen and baked dry over countless years. The whole thing looked as if it might be slowly sinking into the heather and rock surrounding it.

He tapped on the door with his staff, and heard her call, “Come in.”

If the exterior of her house was seedy, the interior was nothing short of sumptuous. Tapestries covered the walls in a sea of history, and carpets were piled two and three deep on the floor. There was little furniture, but it was all exquisitely crafted and very beautiful. Scattered throughout the room were an incredible variety of musical instruments, from a dainty, elegant flute of paper-thin gold to the crude and primitive bandora she’d brought with her when she’d first come to the College, over forty years before.

Bhoudice was standing over her kettle, stirring something that smelled very good with a long wooden spoon. Though well over fifty years old -- antediluvian, by Bojo’s standards -- she was still an arresting figure, possessed of an imperious, smoldering beauty. She had never been exactly pretty, but she was striking nonetheless. The only thing incongruous about her appearance was her hands. Forty years of playing the bandora had made her hands knottily muscular, almost gnarled, like those of a very old man.

“Come in,” she said when Bojo entered. “You’re letting the cold in. Here, give me your cloak.” She abandoned her stirring to walk over and take his ferasho. “I’ll never understand why you keep this ragged old thing,” she said. “It’s hideous.”

Bojo shrugged. “It’s all I have left of home.”

“Your village in the desert, you mean?”

“Yes.” He’d told her a great deal about Stone Lake over the last year. “My mother made it for me. Before she died.”

“Well, its going to be a half-cloak soon, if you keep growing. It barely fits you now.” She walked back over to her kettle, adding, “Make yourself comfortable. You’ve been here before. You know where you can sit.”

Bojo had spent many evenings here, sipping tea and listening to Bhoudice play and sing the tales of her people. Though only a groundskeeper’s assistant, he had always been welcome here, where most students feared to tread. He was trying to commit the place to memory when Bhoudice set a steaming bowl in front of him. “Sit and eat.” Ravenous, he obeyed.

As always, she appeared amused at the amount of salt he put into his food. “I still can’t believe you can eat it like that.”

He smiled and swallowed a huge spoonful of stew. His people were native to the Rut Arak, the Great Salt Desert, and had adapted to salt levels that would sicken anyone else. “I can’t help it, Mistress. I just like salt, I guess.”

“Now you can forget that ‘Mistress’ business. Tomorrow you’re going to Das Rhiadne, and by the time I see you again you’ll be at least my equal. Tonight I’m just Bhoudice.” He smiled again, and the rest of the meal passed in silence.

“So you’ll be riding out with Fergaol in the morning?” Bhoudice had settled into her favorite chair near the fire.

“Yes,” replied Bojo, sipping his salted tea.

“Well, you two should be good company,” she said with a sardonic smile. “He can’t sing a lick either.”

“At least he knows how to play a bandora right.” He laughed as she threw a pillow at him. “Will you give me a song tonight? If your old fingers aren’t too tired?”

“And what song would you have this old woman sing, little boy?” She had already picked her bandora up from its customary resting place beside her chair.

He thought for a moment. He had heard hundreds of songs from her; he felt as if he knew her people, her land and her gods as well as she did herself. There was only one tale she had never told.

“I’d like to hear the Song of Bhoudice.”

He looked at her. Her shoulders were suddenly tense and her eyes stared deeply into the fire. “There is no such song,” she said.

“The tale, then. Lleawegh said that every man has a tale, because it’s written on his heart.”

“Lleawegh is a minstrel. He says things like that. My tale is over fifty years long, though.”

“Just the important parts, then.”

She laughed and set the bandora gently on the floor. “Every part is important, Bojo, whether it seems so or not. Who is to say what may come of the smallest action?” Her eyes seemed to slowly unfocus. “I’ll tell about my coming to the College, then. And about Fiann mo Shuirr.” And she told:

I was born Bhoudice ma Cleodhe on the island of Amyryl, in the village of An-Feochane. My family was poor by the standards of the College, as all families there were, but we had all we needed. My father was a fisherman, like most, but when the fishing was bad he would raid the mainland with the other men of the village. When I was eleven, I had been accepted to the College as a piper.

One day soon after, he returned from a raid grinning from ear to ear. My mother and sisters and I -- he had seven daughters, and no sons -- rushed upon him, to see what great spoil had made him so proud. We were surprised when he opened his bundle to reveal only a few loaves of bread, a handful of coins, and a beaten old bandora.

We all knew what it was, of course. Hadn’t we seen enough of them in the hands of the bards and minstrels who had passed through An-Feochane over the years? We all knew what it was, and knew that it was a man’s instrument.

A bandora is a bass cittern -- I know you know already, but you wanted to hear the tale, and I’m telling it my way -- about four feet long and made of heavy ash. The strings are twice as thick as those of a cittern, and it takes great strength to play. We’d never heard of a woman playing one; never even considered the possibility, since only a man could handle those thick strings. We wondered why my father had brought it home at all. We were especially surprised when he handed it to me. I nearly dropped it, from a combination of shock and the sheer weight of the thing.

“Careful, girl!” he said, taking it back from me and laying it on the table. “You can’t take that to the College if you break it now!”

My father wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but he loved us all and always did what he thought was best, so I was immediately sorry when I burst out laughing. His face seemed to drop, as if he were going to cry.

“But … it’s a bandora. It would take a year’s catch to buy one.”

I was nearly crying then, from seeing my father so upset. “I love it, Papa,” I told him, climbing into his lap, “but it’s as big as I am!”

He smiled then and hugged me. “Then you’ll just have to grow into it, little leaf.”

That’s what he called me -- his little leaf, for the green smock I always wore. I have it now, packed away. But that doesn’t matter.

I wasn’t to come to Mathias for another four months, so I continued my lessons with old Daffyde, An-Feochane’s bard. He was ancient and wrinkled and always smelled like pipe tobacco. He was a citternist and a piper, and I remember how much I envied the speed of his fingers. I always wanted to be that fast. I really don’t believe I ever was, and I’m certainly not today, but I learned a long time ago that technique was better than speed anyway.

I really didn’t want to carry that huge old bandora to Daffyde’s, but I knew my father would be watching. Not wanting to break his heart again, I half-dragged the thing to my lesson the next day. My pipes were in my smock, because I knew Daffyde would never make me try to play the old bandora.

To my dismay, Daffyde was delighted to see it. He knew how to play, of course, though not as well as his cittern. He tuned the bandora and began plucking the strings. I asked him why he didn’t strum it like the cittern.

“You can, of course, child, but most people don’t. For one thing, it’s just too hard to hold down several strings, unless you’ve got hands of iron, and chords don’t work out as well anyway. The individual notes stand out too clearly. No, the pandora” -- that’s how he pronounced it, with a p -- “the pandora’s made to support the other instruments. Remember how I told you the drums are the feet of the song, the cittern’s the hands, and the pipes and the fiddle are the voice? Well, the pandora’s the backbone.”

Tuned correctly, and in his hands, the crude old thing sounded wonderful. Even then, I loved the deep thrumming tones of the bandora. I still do, and he was right. The bandora is the backbone of the song, even if most people never realize it.

Anyway, I asked if I could try it. I tried all morning to play the thing, never once getting a satisfactory note out of it. That night I couldn’t move my fingers, and the next day my mother tried to keep me from going to Daffyde’s house. I raised such a commotion that my father came in from the garden thinking one of us was being killed. When he found out what was going on, he turned to my mother and told her that I would be going to Daffyde’s as often as I wanted, and that she would not try to stop me. “Sakes, woman,” he told her, “if we’re to have a bard in the family, we’ve got to let her be a bard. She’ll stop playing when she’s had enough.” He was wrong, though, because eventually Daffyde himself sent me home with orders not to play for a week so that my hands could uncramp. I cried every day that week.

All I remember of those four months was the playing; eventually I was able to play for hours without too much pain. By the time I got on my father’s boat for the trip to the mainland, my hands seemed twice as large as they had been.

From Feramagh on the coast it was four days by cart-train to Mathias, and I played most of the way. There were three other students in the train with me, two pipe-playing girls and a boy with a cittern. All of them looked at me as if I were some kind of freak. I got very used to that look over the years. I didn’t care then, either. I just kept playing.

At the College itself, I created something of a sensation. An obviously poor, uneducated girl, just beginning her passage into womanhood, carrying an instrument that until that time was reserved for men … my first year was interesting, to say the least.

I tried to avoid most of the attention by spending most of my time in my School, but of all the College that was the one place I stood out most. That hall -- the same one we use now -- hadn’t had a woman in it in probably hundreds of years, save to clean. I had thought myself a good bandorist when I left An-Feochan, but a few days of lessons here taught me the error of my thinking. The journeymen who did most of the actual teaching were almost equally divided between those who doted on me and those who despised me. Of the two, I much preferred the latter. I had no problem with being despicable, but “cute” was a title I had never aspired to. It was much easier to prove myself to the despisers; all I had to do was outplay them, although it took many years to convince them all. The others were impossible; they treated every small thing I did right as a miracle, or like a baby’s first steps. It was degrading.

Eventually, the journeymen became masters or went on their way, as most of us seem to do when the time comes. I was beginning to be recognized for my talents, instead of for my breasts. Oh, don’t blush. You’re old enough to hear an adult joking every now and then. Anyway, in my fifth year I won the Ivy -- the highest honor a student could earn -- and was named a journeyman. Everything was going perfectly. The next few years were uneventful. Teaching, practicing, composing, practicing some more. I would work for weeks on a melody or counterpoint that I thought totally original, only to play it and have one of the Old Men -- the retired masters and Grand Masters -- smile and say , “Aye, I firs’ ‘eard somethin’ like that back about fifty year ago, from ol’ Tomac mo Carulliach. ‘E was from off Cai Coradh way , though. Funny you should know it.”

Whatever mild frustrations arose, though, I was living what seemed to me a perfect life. I stayed in contact with my family, though less and less over the years. The last time I went to Amyryl was nineteen years ago, for my mother’s funeral.

I’ll skip over the next twenty years; a lot happened, but not much of it has to do with the story. I told you that every part was important, and it is, but not every part is important to every tale. You understand? Good. You’re a bright boy, Bojo. You learned our language in, what, two months? A very bright boy.

In that twenty years, I became a master -- it took almost ten years after that to get them to call me “mistress” -- and eventually became the head of the Bandora School. That caused quite a stir, of course, but no one could deny that I was the best one for the job. I’m not trying to brag; it’s just the truth. I am proud of being only the third woman to head a school, though.

It was when I was thirty-two that Damh mo Madoch came to the College. He was a tall, gangly redheaded boy of about seventeen, from the Madoch Islands south of the mainland. I’d always heard that the Madochs were all a little crazy, but he seemed harmless enough. He was a good bandorist and citternist, though not spectacular. Oh, go ahead and laugh. You’re thinking I’m going to say, “Not spectacular like me.” Well, I’m an old woman. I can be vain if I want to. I’m supposed to be vain. Now get up and get me some more tea, young ‘un.

There, thank you. Now, Damh was a handsome lad, no question, and could have had almost any of the silly young girls studying at the time, but for some reason he fixated on me. I was in no way interested in him -- yes, I have a healthy interest in men, just not students -- and thought he’d eventually grow out of it. He might have, too, if someone else hadn’t arrived here at about the same time. That one was Fiann mo Shuirr.

Ah, Fiann mo Shuirr...I won’t tell you too much, but to say that he was absolutely the finest example of a man I’ve ever known. Some people could excel him in one way or another, but no one could match his sheer breadth. He was everything a man should be: handsome, tall, muscular, gentle when he could be but savage when he had to be. He was the greatest musician any of us had ever known. There was nothing he couldn’t play. And his voice … he had a rich, full baritone, though that hardly describes it. When he sang, I heard the voice of my people, clear, strong, and pure. It seemed that all of Kyr Nere sang through him. The gods had truly blessed Fiann, and then had given him the voice of one of their own. I was in awe of him, and fell in love immediately.

Damh, of course, hated him. He would have hated anyone who caught my eye, but the fact that the object of my affections was also -- well, was just what he was -- that hurt Damh more than anything. I think it drove him a little crazy, or maybe just pulled his Madoch nature out a bit farther.

For all I felt for Fiann, though, I couldn’t bring myself to approach him. We talked, of course, on professional matters, especially after he became Grand Master. He did it in three years -- I can’t tell you how amazing that is. Three years after he walked into town, completely unknown, he became the head of the College. It was, and is, incredible. You’ve seen his menhir in front of the Great Hall, haven’t you? It’s the biggest one there.

The one dark spot in all of this was the fact that he apparently was in love with someone else, a talentless little … wait, perhaps I’m being a bit hard. This isn’t an easy story, Bojo … her name was Enith. She was a former student, a flutist and singer who had left after a couple of years and become a healer. She was a good healer, too; she patched me up more than a few times. But she was a rival, or so I thought. In fact, there was no rivalry, because Fiann only had eyes for her.

For a little over a year, things continued like that. Damh loved me, I loved Fiann, and Fiann and Enith loved each other. The announced their wedding plans three days before Semhaigh, in the fall. I was heartbroken, but twenty years at the College will make anyone strong.

That was the longest winter of my life. I still pined -- that’s the only word for it, I’m sorry to say -- and Damh still tried to win my affections in his misguided way. Fiann still filled the role of Grand Master, but everyone could tell that his mind was elsewhere. His music never suffered, though. It only got better. Scarcely a week went by without a new composition. He was completely enthralled by Enith, and of all men he was probably the only one with enough talent to truly express his love.

In the early spring, Fiann put out a notice for a faculty concert. This wasn’t unusual; we all constantly practiced and composed, and concerts were the usual way to test our new ideas. The easiest way to tell if something is really working is to get a large group of musicians together and let them hear it. They’re usually honest with you afterwards. Brutally so.

What was unusual about this concert was that Enith would also be performing. As far as any of us knew, she hadn’t played or sang since she’d left the College several years before. We were intrigued, but prepared for disappointment. Love does strange things to people, and most of us thought that Fiann’s emotions had finally overcome his musical sense.

Somehow, the notion of the two of them on stage together seemed to finally convince me of the futility of my longing for Fiann. I handled myself like a true Nere woman, though; I hid my emotions until I got home, and then tried to drink myself into a stupor.

I was succeeding when Damh came knocking on the door. Even drunk, I knew it was a bad idea, but I let him in anyway. We talked a little, drank a lot, and … well, one thing led to another. There’s very little I’m ashamed of in my life, Bojo, but that was...never mind. I know you know what I’m talking about. Like I said, you’re a bright boy.

I don’t remember everything that happened that night, but I do remember that I told Damh exactly how I felt about Fiann, and especially what I thought of Enith. The next thing I remember was waking up alone sometime the next afternoon, listening to someone apparently trying to bang down my door.

It was the constable, bringing bad news, of course. Fiann and Enith had been found … well, they had been attacked. Enith had several bad cuts, but was out of danger. Fiann, though, was … his throat had been cut. He was dead.

No, I’m alright, it’s just … I’m alright. There, see? I’m fine. It was a long time ago. Damh had confessed everything, except where he had been earlier that night. The knife he had used was mine, though, taken from its place above the fire. It was the silver-handled dagger there, with a long, leaf-shaped blade. A grateful clan-chief had given it to me the year before for helping to “civilize” his son. The constable returned it to me, thinking that it had been stolen. For all I knew, it had. Everyone knew of the boy’s obsession with me, so it was assumed that he had taken it from the house when I wasn’t home. Since I couldn’t remember what had happened, anyway, I simply thanked him and closed the door. I was still in shock from hearing the words.

“Master Fiann’s dead, Mistress.”

No, I told you, I’m alright, damn it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Here, let me get you some more tea. And salt, of course.

There you go. I’m sorry. I’ll finish the story.

Enith still lives here, in a cottage on the lake south of town. We’re friends of a sort, now. I couldn’t hate her after what happened. Damh was hung and his body thrown on the Isle Craughbi, out there on the lake, for the crows to eat. I didn’t exactly feel responsible, but I didn’t feel any better for that. Even if I hadn’t told him to do it, he’d believed I had. The crows nearly drove me mad the first few days.

Fiann was buried and his menhir erected before I even realized it was happening. For a long time... even now, I have to admit, I sometimes expect to hear his voice or see him on the steps of the Great Hall, laughing with the students. He had a beautiful laugh, Bojo, and he always seemed so young, even then. But that was over twenty years ago.

I stayed in my little house and drank and screamed until they threatened to take my school away from me. Then, because I had to, I went back out and resumed my life. It was horrible for a very long time; I felt like a ghoul, just feeding on Fiann’s memory to sustain myself. Eventually, I just retreated back into my music, like I had when I was a scared, lonely girl just off of the boat from An-Feochane. It made me a good Mistress, but mostly it kept me from remembering Fiann as much.

Like I said, though, that was twenty years ago.

“So that’s it,” she said, draining her cup.

Bojo looked at her and smiled. He knew very well that there was more -- there would always be more than she would tell -- but he decided not to press the subject. Besides, it was getting very late; he would be leaving with Fergaol in just a few hours. “Thank you, Mistress.” He rose to put his cup away.

“Was it what you wanted to hear?”

He thought a bit and shook his head. “No, but only because I didn’t know what I wanted to hear. It was the truth, though, right?”

“It was. You’ll make a fine scholar, Bojo.”

“And one day you’ll make a fine bandorist, Bhoudice.”

She grinned and rose, chasing him across the room. “That’s the knife?” he asked her, looking up as they reached the fireplace.

“Aye, it is.” Bhoudice reached out her long, gnarled hands and lifted the knife from its place on the mantle. “Here,” she said, handing it to him hilt-first. “Take it. Let it remind you how strange love is.”

He took it gratefully. “Thank you again, Mistress. I don’t have a gift for–“

”And you don’t need one for me. You’d better go now; the moon’s dim tonight, so you’ll have to walk carefully.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wrapped his ferasho around himself and looked at her. “I’ll write you when I get to the University.”

Smiling through sudden tears, she threw her arms around him and laughed. “Go ahead,” she said pulling away and kissing him lightly on the forehead. “I can’t read anyway.”

A hundred yards from her cottage, he turned an looked back. She waved once more, then shut the thick, warped old door. He watched the lamplight go out in her window before pulling out the knife and looking at it. In the faint moonlight, it seemed to glow.

He shivered; the night was cold to a boy from the scorching desert. He walked on, toward the town and the College. By this time tomorrow, he’d be on his way to Das Rhiadne.

Love, he had decided, was indeed strange.