Gwilan was a harpist in demand.

She was young; her hands were iron and her touch was silk; she could play all night and the next day too. She traveled from valley to valley, from town to town, stopping here and staying there and moving on again with other musicians on their wanderings. They walked, or a wagon was sent for them, or they got a lift on a farmer’s cart.

However they went, Gwilan carried her harp in its silk and leather case on her back or in her hands. When she rode she rode with he harp and when she walked she walked with the harp and when she slept, no, she didn’t sleep with the harp, but it was there where she could reach out and touch it. She was not jealous of it, and would change instruments with another harper gladly; it was a great pleasure to her when at last they gave her back her own, saying with sober envy, “I never played so fine an instrument.”

She kept it clean, the mountings polished, and strung it with the harp strings made by old Uliad, which cost as much apiece as a whole set of common harp strings.

In the heat of summer she carried it in the shade of her body, in the bitter winder it shared her cloak. In a fire lit hall she did not sit with it very near the fire, nor yet too far away, for changes of heat and cold would change the voice of it, and perhaps harm the frame.

She did not look after herself with half the care. Indeed she saw no need to. She knew there were other harpers, and would be other harpers; most not as good, some better. But the harp was the best. There had not been and there would not be a better. Delight and service were due and fitting to it. She was not its owner but its player. It was her music, her joy, her life, the noble instrument.

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Question to ponder: Is there a possession that is the center of your world?

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Next time: “From Town to Town”