‘Level 3, 47?’ Jay suggested.
‘Perhaps. A student, are you? I thought you had the look of one. Boating skills as well.’
Jay made a face. ‘And you, sir?’
‘My uncle, now long dead, was a student. He used to quote things at us all the time, and some stuck in my memory. He didn’t become a Storyteller, though. We’ve never had one in our family, as far as I know. Now you, beautiful Lady Rosalind, are you also a student?’
‘A sort of student,’ she said. ‘It’s complicated.’
Fortunately, she was pressed no further on the subject, although she was quite pleased with herself. By concentrating hard she had managed to make out enough of what the couple had said, and had ventured a reply, which had been understood. They seemed, she thought, to be talking a sort of English after all. It was very simple, though, almost the way an infant might speak.
The older couple settled back in their cushions with a look of contentment on their faces. Rosie noticed that the old man slyly took hold of his wife’s chubby hand and gave it a squeeze. With the other, she brought out rolls and chicken and strange-looking sausages.
Their boat was moored to a gaily coloured pole topped with a lantern that spread its light on the ripples of the lake. Beyond the shore, stretching into the distance, were rolling uplands, covered in fields and woodland, still just visible in the rapidly fading light. Twenty or thirty other boats were moored around them, each lit by lanterns, and the murmur of voices, subdued by the beauty of the scenery, echoed across the water. Although night was falling, the air was still warm and even the water, as Rosie pulled her hand through it, was pleasant to the touch.
She lay back and looked up at the stars, which were beginning to shine more brilliantly than she had ever seen them before. She recognised some. She didn’t know much about the stars, but she knew enough to realise that, wherever she was, the stars were the same. She listened carefully, but there was no sound, no background rumbling of traffic. Only the noise of the water against the side of the boat, the distant sound of crickets on the banks, the occasional screech from some passing bird.
‘Here they come,’ Jay said, disturbing her peace. ‘Here comes Aliena. Just look at her!’
A heavy boat was being driven purposefully through the water. In it were six people, four rowing, two sitting idly, one at each end. The man at the front leapt out onto the pontoon when the boat nudged alongside and tied it up. Then the rowers followed, and, last of all, the small figure in the back walked delicately forwards and was handed up onto the floating stage. Another boat, unlit, rowed by a single hunched figure followed, then rowed off to rest in isolation away from the audience.
She was dressed in a robe of deep red, which was all the more striking for being lit only by dim candlelight, and stood straight and still, facing the boats and ignoring the men behind her as they took their places, picked up their instruments and began to tune them.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Beltan said with a tone of awe.
‘Oh, she is,’ Jay said with too much appreciation in his voice for Rosie’s taste.
‘You wait till she sings,’ his wife added. ‘From all I’ve heard, at any rate.’
The sound of tuning died away, and, after a moment’s silence, Aliena held up one hand and began to sing.
It was the strangest singing Rosie had ever heard in her life, and it took some time to get used to it. It wasn’t a song, exactly, nor an opera; indeed, she couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it went on for a very long time. Sometimes it was recognisably tuneful, but this never lasted long. It wasn’t like the sort of song Rosie knew, where the tune would be repeated three or four times. Rather it was sung once and then the singer changed it, bit by bit, so it slowly disappeared or turned into another tune altogether. There were parts which were like chanting, others almost speaking, but always there was some brief fragment of a melody, so short Rosie’s mind could only just notice it before it was snatched away again. Sometimes the musicians would echo what she was singing, other times they would seem to be playing something entirely different.
Above all, there was the voice of the diminutive but commanding figure standing before them, gently responding with her body to the sounds she was making. It was like liquid gold, rich, amber, resonant. Rosie thought of the songs which Professor Lytten had played her, the sort of singing where the music isn’t so important, a voice which can make anything sound beautiful. This Aliena, although she must surely be very young, had a voice like that. When this was joined to the hypnotic music, Rosie — along with everyone else in the audience — soon fell into a sort of trance.
Even the words were strange. No be my baby, let alone rocking around the clock. This instead was a most peculiar story about people coming to some place and making a fire and having a dinner. That was about it, really, but the singing put emphasis on certain parts — the taste of the first food produced a lovely (if brief) tune. When everyone went to sleep afterwards there was another, which Rosie was sure she had heard before.
Then it came to an end. The musicians faded out, leaving the girl to sing alone for the last couple of minutes, until her voice also disappeared into the sounds of the water and wind, leaving nothing behind her except what even Rosie was beginning to think of as the real world. There was no applause; the people in the boats showed their appreciation by beating their hands firmly against their breasts. Aliena responded by clasping her hands together and looking down for as long as the noise continued. One by one, the punts occupied by the audience were untied and they began to drift back towards the shore, trailing the yellow torchlight behind them. Jay noticed the single boatman also rowing off, in a different direction. He saw Aliena glance at him, then toss her head in anger.
‘Well, young students, have you ever heard the like before?’
It was Renata who spoke as Jay punted slowly back to the shore. Her husband was incapable of speech. The tears had run down his face for most of the performance, and he was still dabbing a handkerchief against his eyes and snuffling occasionally.
‘She was wonderful,’ Jay agreed enthusiastically. Too much so, in Rosie’s opinion.
‘You must tell her, then. I’m told she gets offended if people fail to compliment her. She does deserve all the compliments we might proffer.’
For this was the true applause. The singer had taken up her position at the very end of the jetty, and one by one the audience got out of the boats, approached her, bowed and spoke a few words. It was, Rosie realised, going to be another of those terribly formal moments where what was said was prescribed down to the last breath.
‘Jay,’ she whispered urgently. ‘What should I say?’
He looked panicked. ‘I don’t know. I know what a man must say to a female singer. I know what a woman must say to a male singer. When one or the other is older or younger. But I don’t know the words for a woman to a woman when they are the same age and both under the age of maturity. Renata?’
She also looked apologetic. ‘It is most unusual for a girl of your age to go to such performances. And even more unusual for a girl of her age to sing at them. I’d just say the usual, if I were you, my dear.’
That didn’t help, of course, and now it was too late. The punt was alongside and Beltan had recovered himself enough to get out and hand up his wife, then Rosie. Jay followed and they were then in the queue to give greetings to their singer.
Although hardly older than Rosie was herself, she looked terribly mature and grown up. Her stance was almost imperious, her expression frigid and cold; only her short stature diminished the effect. She received the enthusiastic thanks and congratulations like an empress, nodding only and scarcely looking at the person addressing her. Beltan and Renata got the same treatment, and so did Jay, who was evidently star struck, almost trembling with excitement.