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(Instruments of Piece, #3)
Grear’s arrow whizzed past trees, clipping a branch and ricocheting off a stone wall, before spearing the belly of its target. The bag of a bagpipe. With a slow, steady hiss the air in the bag began to leak, right below Blair's heart.
He gritted his teeth as he clenched his meaty fist around the arrow and pulled it out. Sputtering, he brought the arrow to his nose to take a closer look, then stormed off into the woods to find its owner.
"That's the fourth time this week" he grumbled. He swung his head from side to side, growing angrier with each step. "Who did this? Come out!"
Two eyes peeked out from behind a tree.
Blair halted. "Well, then. Show your face and explain yourself."
The head behind the tree disappeared. Taking a deep breath, Grear straightened her shoulders and stepped to the left. She held her bow in her hand and wore a scowl on her face.
"What do you think you're—” The air left Blair's cheeks, leaving them deflated, just like the bag. His lips pressed together. He squinted, looking his attacker up and down. "Why, you're just a mite of a girl."
Grear's lower lip jutted forward, her eyes focused on the arrow.
"I imagine you'd like this back," said Blair. He twirled the arrow with his fingers. "But first, tell me, what is your war with my instrument? You ruined my afternoon practice. Again."
"It sounded horrible," said Grear, eyeing the arrow. "You leave long breaks between your notes—they’re loud and shrill...and pitchy and..." Looking Blair squarely in the eyes, she said, "You could use a lot more practice."
The arrow stopped twirling and stood dead still. "You don't like my music?"
Grear clasped her hands over her ears and spewed forth a raspberry.
Blair had half a mind to snap her arrow in half. Instead, he tucked it underneath his arm and pulled from his satchel a needle strung with heavy brown thread. While he mended the puncture wound inflicted by Grear, he counted the scars that the bag had accumulated. This operation sealed the fourth.
Satisfied with the fix, Blair set the needle aside and held out Grear's arrow. "It would help with my practicing if you saved your arrows for the squirrels and mice." Frowning, he left the arrow in her hand and went on his way.
***
That night Grear had a miserable time falling asleep. She tossed and turned, as if trying to rest comfortably on a straw tick stuffed with needles and pins. When she finally passed out, her dreams pressed in on her—dreams of Blair. She saw the hurt on his face when she'd insulted his playing, and the scars on the bag that she had caused. Both were squashed and deflated, insufferable and sad.
Grear woke up the next morning, guilty and sore, fully knowing what she must do. For that, she needed the plaid from her bed, a needle and thread, and a knife. Once she gathered each of the necessary items, Grear laid out the plaid—her favorite tartan blanket—across a low tree stump. She smoothed out the fabric of woven wool, the weathered threads of which were dyed green, wine, and gold. With steady strokes of the knife, she cut off a deep corner of the plaid and shaped it to the right size. Then, with stitches as small and stiff as her own small, stiff self, she sewed the plaid so it formed a cover that matched the dimensions of Blair's bagpipe bag.
She held a hand to her ear and listened. Off in the distance, she heard a whine, then a screech, followed by a torrent of buzzing that hiccupped wildly out of tune. It was time. Grear slipped the plaid over her shoulder along with her bag of arrows. With bow in hand, she ran to her hiding place and waited.
When she couldn't take it any longer, she steadied her bow, pulled back the string and let an arrow fly. This time the arrow stuck in a tree, mere inches away from Blair's head.
"What is the meaning of this?" Blair stumbled backward, red-faced. His eyes grew wide as he studied the arrow; from it, hung a tartan cover. Warily, he pulled the arrow from the tree and stretched the cover across his bagpipe bag. "What is the meaning of this?" he said again, this time in a whisper.
Grinning, Grear stepped out of her hiding place and drew nearer. "It's a well plaid. Put it over your bagpipe bag and it will make it well."
"Did you make this? For me?"
She nodded.
Blair covered the bag with the plaid, admiring its colors and perfect fit. "Thank you," he said, mystified. "But why?"
Grear smiled, pleased by how the plaid covered the bag's scars, knowing she would sleep better that night. "Go on," she said. "Try it."
The cover gave Blair a better grip on the bag, the leather of which had become slippery and worn from years of being passed down from hand to hand.
"I will," he said. "And I promise to practice with it every single day."