The lament settles into stillness. MIRYAM wipes her face. Before she can gather herself, a shape moves at the edge of the firelight — SABA ELAN, who has heard the whole thing from the willows and pretended not to. He clears his throat, gruff, awkward with feeling, and lowers himself onto a crate beside the fire with an old man's groan. SABA ELAN. (not looking at her) You sing the Eicha too low. Your mother sang it a fourth up. Carried over the whole courtyard. (beat) You've got her throat, though. Always did. MIRYAM. (a tired, watery smile) Is that a compliment, Abba? After sixty years I still can't tell. SABA ELAN. (grumbling) Take it however you can get it. I'm an old man, I won't say it twice. (he peers at the bundle in her arms, and something in his face cracks open despite himself) ...She sleeping? MIRYAM. Finally. He reaches out one weathered, hesitant finger and the baby's hand closes around it. He goes very still. The gruffness falls away entirely. SABA ELAN. (quietly, to the sleeping infant, almost embarrassed to be caught) Look at that grip. Harpist's hands. (a rough chuckle) Or a thief's. We'll see. (beat; softer) Listen to me, little one. Your old Saba made a vow today. Hung his harp up in that tree with all the others, and swore he'd not play one note for these people. Not for their gold, not for their king, not to save his own skin. (he glances up at the dark willow) That harp comes down on one day. The day we go home. (back to the baby) And on that day — that day — I'm going to take it down, and I'm going to teach you every song they tried to make us forget. (his voice thickens) You hold me to it. You hear? You make sure your Saba keeps his word. MIRYAM. (gently) Abba. She's asleep. SABA ELAN. (withdrawing his finger, gruff again, covering) Good. Then she can't hold it against me if I'm gone before that day comes. (he hauls himself up with a groan, pauses, rests a hand briefly on Miryam's head — a blessing he'd never call one — and shuffles off toward the willows) ...Sing her the sweet one. Not the Eicha. She's too little for the Eicha. MIRYAM watches him go, then looks down at the child, the grief now folded into something she can give away. MIRYAM. (softer, warmer) You heard your Saba. The sweet one. (beat) Let me tell you about a city.
