The Bard

At noon, we pause to eat our day meal in the basin of an oddly-shaped hollow. The rock formations rise around us in hemispherical lines, forming an amphitheatre of sorts. And indeed, as we marvel at their strange shapes, a tune clashes through the canyon. Down in the hollow’s centre, a woman sings gaily to the strum of a lute.

But even as we listen, we hear that the singing is pitchless, the lute poorly tuned. As the bard’s caprine yodelling finally drives our fingers into our ears, she brings her song to a close — bows. Then she points to us.

“You there! In the back row! Pray tell — and only the truth, now — what think you of my song? Is it ready to be brought before the king’s banquet?” The bard’s song was undeniably awful. But have we the spirit to tell her so?