Singing for Supper

The children insisted on washing up after dinner. Bettina hummed as she sorted forks and knives, a lullaby her father sang to her. Ifan complimented her on her voice. This made the twins remember that Mr. Evans, their Welsh tutor, had always been singing. He had said the Welsh were great lovers of music, and all the great bards who had ever lived had been his countrymen. Of course, Mr. Evans had insisted that Mozart had a Welsh great-grandmother, but since he winked whenever he said it, the twins were disposed to believe him otherwise.

So they sang while they worked, sang ‘Ash Grove’ and ‘Greensleeves’, sang all the songs Mr. Evans taught them. Ifan and the hands clapped and praised them, and Gwen smiled for the first time since they’d come. She stood by the tall box she’d been moving all day. She had pushed it next to the hot water barrel at sunset, and covered it with several blankets. While the girls sang, she moved her hand slowly over the blankets, in time with the music.

Claire sang ‘Caro Mio Ben’, and Adolphus finished with his obscene Italian lullaby. Gerhardt offered his comic rendition of ‘Doktor Eisenbart’, but the others decided it would break the tranquil mood. After all, Adolphus’ lullaby sounded sweet, and was sure to soothe anyone who knew no Italian.

“Sing it tomorrow night,” Claire said. “Since we don’t have a boat anymore, I suppose we’ll stay as long as they let us.”

“We could go on foot,” he suggested.

“And get eaten by vines.” Annabelle yawned. Claire and Adolphus were helping the farmers lay out sleeping mats of woven reed.

“What do you think is in that box she keeps fussing with?” Gerhardt asked, but Annabelle had been in the field most of the day, and had no opinion on the matter.

“Hey you chaps-” Adolphus interrupted himself with a prodigious yawn. “I’ve been trying to find out what this place is called. Ifan keeps giving me the name for his farm, or p’raps it’s this valley, but when I push for something bigger it doesn’t make sense.”

“What does he call it?” Claire asked.

“Sounds like Uttee.”

“That means land,” Mirabelle said, “the land”.

“That’s what I thought,” Adolphus said. “I think we should name it, because we discovered it. We should pick a really good, impressive name. One that will look good on maps.”

“It’s already called Y Tir,” Annabelle said. “If that’s what the natives call it, then that’s what it’s called.”

Adolphus frowned. “That’s not how it worked for Amerigo Vespucci.”

“Go to bed, Adolphus,” Claire said.

He lay down on his mat, muttering. “Hedwiggia sounds silly. Adolphusland? Adolphia?”

Annabelle groaned. “Gerhardt, you’re closest. Sit on his head.”

“If you must,” Claire grumped, “then at least pick something logical. I suspect we’re somewhere in the Pacific.”

“Pacifica?”

“Smack in between Hawai’i and Africa.”

“Antafrica,” Mirabelle said.

“What?”

She yawned. “It’s like the opposite, like the Arctic and AntArctica. And Africa is very sunny and here is never sunny. Antafrica.”

“Hmmm…” Adolphus, though he dearly wanted to name it himself, had to admit that would look pretty good on a map. He rolled over to tell his sister so, but she was already asleep. He soon followed.

It rained in the night. Adolphus pulled his blanket over his head and slept through it, no doubt due to his exertions in the fields. Gerhardt awoke, spluttering. His first groggy thought was to raise an alarm, of the ‘hey you chaps are all getting wet’ variety, but he sat up and looked around him instead. His siblings stirred and huddled under their blankets, but Gwen and Ifan had thrown their blankets off. He thought about this until his hair became unpleasantly damp. Then he tucked Bettina, who was next to him, under her blanket, and ducked under his own. His covers did an admirable job of protecting him from the wet, but nevertheless his thoughts kept him awake for some time. This was a strange place they had come to, and there was something about it he needed to figure out.