Hey Diddle Diddle

Hey diddle diddle The Cat and the fiddle The Cow jumped over the moon The little Dog laughed to see such a sport And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.

The single horse hair bow slid over the taut strings, creating an eerie sort of lull. The chirping crickets and croaking frogs quieted to listen to the sound, as the fiddle played on, a lone figure standing at the top of the sloping roof. The music mixed with the roaring river bordering the edge of the fenced in field and the occasional owl hoot.

Peaks of orange light broke through the dark blue night skies as the sun slowly rose. A blue jay called out, as the fiddle’s melody began to quicken with short smooth notes.

Felis watched the dark disappear from his spot on the roof, the fiddle butt pressed against his throat, his chin resting on the instrument. His long, groomed, blond hair, poking out from underneath his dark gray cap, turned to gold in the early rays, his pale green eyes shining.

The bow stopped gliding, hovering over the fiddle, as the man listened. Birds picked up their own songs, the chaotic and untimed tweets blending together to form harmony.

Felis hated it. Straightening his back and rolling his shoulders to loosening the stiffened muscles, he breathed out slowly before beginning the fiddle again. He swayed with the momentum, hearing now only his own music, the birds falling silent, in awe of the sad swirling notes that shamed their own natural orchestra.

Felis finished his piece, pulling the fiddle down and bowing low, the river rumbling loud but that being the only sound.

“I win again, you filthy rats with wings,” he purred, his pale eyes narrowing, placing the fiddle under his left arm. Careful not to slip on the loose roof shingles, he made his way over to the edge, and with one hand holding both the fiddle and bow, climbed quickly down the wooden ladder leaning against the house. 

The stiff bristled brush scrubbed at the dusty floor, cutting through lairs of grime. The woman kneeled on the ground, shifting back and forth with the brush, her white apron coated with dark dirt stains. Her black hair was spotted with white, her increasing age sagging her cheeks and wrinkling around her eyes.

She sighed and leaned back, her hands resting on her lap. She could hear Felis running his fiddle on the roof, as also yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the sunrise before that. He had been competing with the birds since the older couple had moved to the small cottage.

Ceva rubbed her aching hands, her skin cold, and slowly stood up, using the table as a crutch. Her knees cracked and she stumbled forward, arthritis lacing in her joints.

The music had stopped, allowing the astonished birds began their calling again. Felis appeared in the doorway, fiddle under his arm and a large smile cutting across his leathery face.

“Good morning, Ceva,” his voice rolled out, sounding like the instrument he played on the rooftop. She smiled at him, a golden tooth glinting.

“Beautiful song this morning, dear,” she replied, tilting her head back. He took three large strides over to her and placed a dry kiss on her baggy cheek. He moved to stand beside her, wrapping one strong arm around her wide waist and guiding her over to the old rocking chair, red paint chipping and falling off in flakes, squeaking when she leaned back.

She watched with round, lucid eyes as Felis made his way around the room, to the fireplace to start a flame, to the stove to place on the boiling water, to the counter to pick up Ceva’s basket of yarn and needles, to the woman patiently waiting, rocking back and forth, back to the fire to add a log. He kept himself busy, age not hindering his movements like his wife’s. 

The small room above the kitchen was silent, the fiddle playing had stopped above it for some time now, and only the sound of little pattering feet broke the quietness. 

Cochleari laid on her bed, a mattress resting on the wooden floor, covered in her thin wool blanket, wide awake. When her father had woken up to play his fiddle, she had already awoken. Listening to the battle between nature and her father, she tried drifting off to sleep in the cool morning air to no avail.

The girl’s blond hair laid out against the white pillow, the same color as the string at the tip of an ear of corn. 

She did not see her father playing on the roof each morning as a competition between him and the birds. He was claiming his land, his house, his family, warning anyone who comes near not to touch what is his.

Cochleari’s thoughts drifted to the boy in town, the glass maker’s son, with light brown hair and dark eyes, shyly smiling at her when she walked past the expensive shop, the heat radiating out from the fires.

Felis had pushed her forward, catching the small eye contact made, promptly sending the boy a glare, before striding off.

She sighed before sitting up and slipping on small slippers that had lost their fluffiness from wear. Standing up, she could hear her parents in the kitchen. Cochleari slipped a strand of hair behind her ear and walked out of her barren room.

When she entered the kitchen, Felis already had the meager breakfasts on the counter, three plates and the fourth on her mother’s lap.

“Good morning,” she yawned, picking up her plate, the warm plate almost burning her freezing fingers. She sat down at the small table next to her mother. Her father’s fiddle laid on his seat, waiting.

“Good morning, dear,” Ceva smiled at the girl, rubbing her hands together. The girl’s eyes flicked away from the instrument to her mother.

“Where’s Father?” she asked, picking at the flat English muffin. Ceva raised a shaking hand, pointing towards the door outside.

“Getting water from Luna,” she replied, dropping her arm back to her lap. The girl nodded, scooting back in the wooden chair and standing up. She grasped the fiddle around the long neck, pulling it to her.

“I’ll put his fiddle away,” she stated, starting towards the stairs again. Ceva nodded, the corners of her lips pulling down.

Cochleari slowly made her way up the steps, her mind reeling, her feet dragging. The accursed fiddle’s wood was cold to the touch, the strings digging into her palm. She smiled as her foot caught the uneven seventh step, her balance broken. She fell forward, holding the fiddle to her chest. Her knees hit first, before the rest of her body fell down on top of the instrument, crashing against the wood.

Pounding feet came bounding towards her and Cochleari looked behind her, her father’s pale eyes wide with shock greeting her.

Canes woke when he heard the crash. He slipped out of his room at the top of the steps and looked down to see his sister, blubbering apologies, and Felis, the broken fiddle in his hands.

The short boy laughed, loud enough for the whole house to hear. His father looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. But Canes just shrugged, jumping down the steps two at a time.

It amused him, the tension between his father and sister. He and Ceva just sat on the sideline, waiting for one to break. But his mother was very slow to notice while he had seen the way Cochleari glared at the fiddle or the way Felis pushed her past the glass maker’s booth.

The boy entered the kitchen, quickly grabbing his plate, the one with a nickel-sized chip and the dirty golden color covering the edges. Ceva quietly knitted, her hands moving slowly. Her plate sat on the table beside her, completely clean. She looked up at Canes, a small smile on her plumb lips.

“Good morning,” she drawled, pausing in her knitting. The boy sat down at the table, the chair wobbling underneath him. He took a bite of slightly burnt toast.

“Cochleari broke the fiddle,” he stated, swallowing the dry lump of food. The smile fell from his mother’s mouth, replaced by a wince.

“Oh dear,” she replied, glancing at the doorway. Felis appeared, holding the instrument in his arms, almost like a child. The broken neck of it hung to the side, swinging with each step the man took.

“I will be going into town. Do you need anything, Ceva?” he asked, his back stiff and jaw clenched. His eyes flitted over Canes, narrowing slightly.

“No, dear. But I believe Cochleari wants to go,” she replied, each word leaving her mouth like syrup. The man nodded, his movements jerking. His pale eyes again landed on the boy.

“Go get your sister,” he ordered, hissing slightly. Canes bit his lip, hiding the smile that had attempted to creep onto his lips before rushing out of the room to find Cochleari.

Author's Note

Please review and comment with things I should add or fix!
Thanks!