Voice

     The king loved music. So much so that he gathered the most brilliant musicians from across the kingdom to serenade him day and night. To our despair, my sister had the misfortune of  having the most beautiful voice our town has ever known.
     Of course, it wasn't a misfortune at first. Neighbors and transients alike showered her with praise. She would beam whenever someone requested that she become the center of a wedding, or delight important travelers in the tavern (always accompanied by myself, of course). Soon, visitors to our small town came expecting to hear her, went out of their way on their journeys to come and hear her. By the age where she should have been refining her homemaking skills and thinking of marriage, she was so busy with requests to sing that she could hardly entertain just one of the many suitors that came knocking on our door.
     I never minded escorting her to so many events; hearing her sing never grew dull to me. Her voice was crystalline and soothing, but never more so than in the confines of our modest home, for that was where her voice sounded the sweetest. After a long day of working, I would lie on the hearth as the sun set through our window, watching the light from the fire dance on my skin as I listened to song after song, ones that our grandmother had once taught her when she first recognized her granddaughter's gift. Often those old melodies would bring my mother to tears while she sewed in her rocker. Often they would lull me to sleep.
     The summons was unexpected, barely two knocks at our door before the cottage began to rock at the seams from the flamboyant procession that invaded our home, carried on the blasts of trumpets. A man in a brilliant yellow suit and high collar demanded the presence of my sister. We were so stunned that he had to repeat himself before my mother came to her senses and told me to fetch her.
     She had been tilling in her garden, and entered the house like a timid bird, face flushed as she tried to hide her dirt-stained hands behind her soiled apron-skirt. The envoy announced from a parchment carrying the king's seal that my sister was being summoned to perform.She was to leave immediately and her stay would be indefinite. There was no need to pack.
     Before the words were out of the man's mouth, the soldiers that flanked his sides began to hustle my wide-eyed sister out the door. My mother and I started for her, but the burly men held us back. The envoy flippantly informed us that she would be sent to visit as soon as possible.
     Just as quickly as the procession had come, it was gone, and a sensation like the emptiness following a storm descended on our heads. My mother cried. Neighbors came and offered their condolences, assuring my mother that her daughter would lead a grand life now, with fame and happiness that exceeded their imaginations. It surprised me how many of them shed tears of their own. It was as if my sister had died.
     Yes, she sang for the king. She sang for him endlessly, entertaining at grand banquets by day, serenading him at night. The king gave her few breaks, few hours to sleep, few minutes to rest her voice. She was gone for three months.
     Her return was not nearly so splendid. Neighbors from up the street came pounding at our door, telling us that a royal carriage was on its way. My mother scrambled to sort the house, and I ran out to the square to greet my sister.
     The carriage was royally humble in comparison to the one that had taken her. No soldiers attended it, and thus it was unable to press through the fascinated crowd that gathered around and clogged the streets. Finally, the driver gave up and pulled the two horses to a stop. A much younger, less splendid messenger stepped out and entreated the crowd to make room.
     Neighbors pushed me forward until I found this handsome, plain man staring down at me with a skeptical curiosity. The elegance in his simplicity made him all the more intimidating.
     "That's-that's my sister," I stammered. Through the window in the carriage, I could see the back of her head gazing in the other direction.
     The envoy rose his eyebrows, then stepped aside and opened the carriage door, "Collect her, then." He called her name as he pulled a sealed letter from the folds of his sleeve.
     My sister stepped onto the street, and I knew something was wrong. She saw me right away and ran straight into my arms. Her tears dampened my shoulder. As we embraced, the man read the letter stating that my sister had fulfilled her usefulness to the king, and that her services were no longer required. Without so much as a farewell, he stepped back into the carriage, and the driver began the tedious task of turning around.
     Everyone pressed in on us, shouting their questions at us and finally giving room for the messenger to get away. I nudged my sister to acknowledge them, but she shook her head against my shoulder and continued to hide her face. I could feel her shoulders begin to heave, though I couldn't hear her sobs over the crowd. Finally, I took her around the shoulders and pushed our way back to our home.
     Our mother ran to us and pulled my sister to her bosom as we hurried through the door. "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw my sister's tears. "What happened? Speak to me, dear." My mother pulled away to look at her.
     After more weeping and our mother's anxious coaxing, my sister finally opened her mouth. She let out a strangled noise, then broke into a fit of coughing unlike anything I had ever heard, her hands clasped over her mouth. After several terrifying moments, the fit subsided. My mother and I let out a gasp as she pulled her palms away from her mouth. Ruby drops of blood spattered her hands, her lips, her chin. She continued to cry.
     The king had forced her to sing until her voice had died. She had been made presentable in his service, of course--her hair was still neat and groomed when she returned to us, and her skin was like polished porcelain, with faint stains of rouge still on her lips and cheeks. But no one had taken proper care of her. Over the next several days, we realized just how dire the situation was. She became bedridden from fatigue, unable to eat or drink. My mother could only give her little spoonfuls of broth or tea that dissolved in her mouth. My sister slept and cried and filled up so many cloths with blood form her pained coughing.
     Her return was a strange mixture of birth and death. Neighbors once again visited our home, bringing food and gifts and condolences and quiet questions about whether she'd ever be able to speak again. We didn't know.
     Slowly, my sister began to recover. The coughing fits grew less frequent, and she was able to swallow soft foods and get out of bed for short periods of time. Still, her voice did not return, and the pain remained. Often she became frustrated to tears when she failed to communicate through desperate pointing and hand gestures. At night my mother would try to soothe her with her own voice. It only gave my sister more nightmares.
     It didn't take long for the town to learn that the little mute girl clinging to her brother's sleeve could not be comforted.