\herosection{A Song About Rain} The kingdoms had been at war longer than Selen had been alive. North against South. Each had its songs. Selen knew them all. He had played the northern songs in northern halls, \\ where men struck their cups against the tables \\ and sang of victories their grandfathers had won. He had played the southern songs beside southern fires, \\ where mothers taught their sons the names of towns \\ that must someday be avenged. He was welcome in both kingdoms. Until each asked him to choose. \medskip The northern general summoned him first. “Write us a song,” he said. \\ “Something the men will remember when they are afraid.” Selen looked at the soldiers outside the tent. Some were hardly old enough to shave. “They already have songs.” “Then write a better one.” Selen declined. The southern commander heard of this and sent for him. “You were right to refuse them,” she said. \\ “Their cause is corrupt. Write for us instead.” Selen declined again. Within a month, he was welcome in neither kingdom. \medskip He went into the hills between them. There were villages there too small to appear on military maps. He did chores for meals and played for beds. Sometimes children gathered. So he taught them songs. Not northern songs. Not southern songs. Songs about rain. About kneading bread. About a fox who stole a magistrate's trousers. Melodies simple enough to hum while carrying water. Impossible to leave behind. Then he moved on. \medskip Years passed. Selen heard his songs in places he had never taught them. A girl sang one while sweeping the steps of an inn. A ferryman whistled another. Once, in a northern market, Selen heard two boys arguing \\ over the proper ending of the fox song. Both were wrong. He kept walking. \medskip Then, one autumn morning, \\ soldiers came through a village where he was staying. They were marching south. One of them was singing. Selen stopped. It was his song about rain. The others joined in. They had changed the words. Now the rain fell on southern graves. Selen stood beside the road \\ until the last soldier disappeared. That evening he took out his instrument.\\ For the first time in many years,\\ he could not play. \medskip Winter came.\\ Then spring. Selen remained in the village. He mended fences.\\ Carried wood.\\ Helped an old woman repair her roof. His instrument stayed wrapped beneath his bed. One afternoon a little girl found it. “Is this yours?” “Yes.” “Do you know any songs?” “I used to.” She considered this. “My mother knows one.” She began to sing. It was the song about rain. The old words. Selen listened. When she reached the second verse, \\ she forgot what came next. He taught her. \medskip Selen died before the war ended. It continued another seventeen years.\\ No song stopped it. No king discovered wisdom.\\ No army laid down its weapons \\ because a minstrel had taught children to sing. The war ended the way such wars often do.\\ Too few sons left.\\ Too little grain.\\ Too many graves. \medskip Years afterward, men from the North and South \\ were repairing a bridge destroyed in the fighting. They worked mostly without speaking. Near midday, one of the northern men began humming. A man across the river looked up. “You've got that wrong.” The humming stopped.\\ The northerner stared at him. Then the southerner sang the next line. Someone laughed.\\ Another joined in. Before long, men on both sides of the river \\ were arguing over the last verse. None of them knew who had written the song.\\ None knew where it had begun. By evening,\\ the bridge reached halfway across. \reflectionshead Do we stop giving when we're not sure what others will make of it?