Stopping at the window of my room, I look out and watch for a moment as water laps at the shore of the nearby beach. We’re so far north now, just a few miles from the Scottish border. The scene is rather beautiful, and I am heartened by the realization that – despite all the travails of mankind – the natural world continues on its way.
“Humans need to hear music,” I remember an old girlfriend saying to me one day, as we rested in bed after a heavy night out. “Nature doesn’t. For humans, music is this separate thing. For the rest of the world, even birds, music is part of their core. We’re so desperately unlucky, really.”
I didn’t know what she meant at the time, and to be honest I think perhaps she was inspired by a few too many tokes on a funny cigarette, but perhaps she was trying to get at some deeper point that she didn’t quite understand. For the first time, I find myself wondering whether it might be better for the world if the human race died off entirely. Then we wouldn’t be around to interfere, and the natural world could get back to the simple pleasure of singing to itself without our constant interruptions.
Then again, deep down, I’m already trying to plan my escape. Sure, Mr. Glass has a lot of guards, but I’m certain I can slip away, and then I’d have to make it to the beach. From there, I think my best bet would be to head north along the coast, so that hopefully I can eventually slip into Scotland. I have no idea what I would find there, but I can only hope that perhaps the Scots are making a better fist of this brave new world malarkey.
Suddenly hearing a bumping noise, I turn just in time to see a young lad – no more than five years old, I’d say – watching me from the open doorway. He has blue eyes, much like the man I must assume is his father.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing a smile. I have never been good with children. “My name is Derek Harrisford. And who might you be?”
The boy stares at me, but he does not reply.
“It seems that I am a guest of your father today,” I explain. “Whether I like it or not.”
I wait, but still he says nothing. After a moment, however, he turns and looks over at the corner of the room, where my guitar rests on the floor.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” I ask. “It’s really two guitars. Both were damaged, but out of their remains I was able to construct something semi-decent. One of the guitars belonged to me, and the other belonged to a girl named Sarah who… Well, I don’t suppose that you need to know that now, she was—”
Suddenly he raises his right hand and gestures for me to follow him, and then he slips out of view.
“Excuse me?” I call out, but I can already hear his footsteps walking away.
I hesitate, wondering whether I should perhaps focus on trying to find a way out of this place, but then I tell myself that perhaps I should go and see what the child wants.
Stepping out into the corridor, I see that he’s heading around the far corner, so I follow. I feel faintly ridiculous, but I suppose that it would behove me to trust a child. He might be the son of Joshua Glass, but I refuse to believe that at such a young age this boy could already have learned to replicate his father’s deceit and cunning.
Reaching the corner, I see the boy turn to check that I’m coming, and then he walks calmly into another room.
I look around, feeling rather as if I’m being drawn into a trap, and then I follow the boy through, and to my surprise I find myself in a large room lined – on either side – with musical instruments on various stands. There are saxophones and trombones and clarinets, and violins and violas, and drums and guitars and lutes and pianos, and scores of other instruments, some of which I don’t even recognize.
“What is this,” I ask, “some kind of museum?”
The boy walks over to one of the stands and carefully takes a black recorder, which he then puts to his lips. He attempts to play it, but of course no music emerges.
“You should be glad that thing doesn’t work,” I tell him. “Trust me, the screeching sound of the recorder is far from pleasant.”
He lowers the recorder for a moment, before setting it back onto the stand and then moving along and picking up a saxophone. He struggles with the heavy instrument, but finally he manages to try blowing into it. Yet again, there is no music.
“Now that is a finer instrument,” I explain. “Not that I was ever very good at playing the saxophone, you understand, but I knew some fine musicians who were masters on the thing.” I pause for a moment, watching the boy’s relentless and rather sad attempt to play. He even presses his fingers against the pads, mimicking the proper method, as if he’s been taught a pantomime version of the art of musicianship. “Perhaps it’s a little big for you,” I suggest. “You should start with something smaller.”
“You misunderstand,” a familiar voice says suddenly, and I turn to see that Mr. Glass is watching us from the doorway.
He steps into the room as the boy continues to blow futilely into the saxophone.
“This is Joshua Jr., my son,” he explains. “On the night the music vanished, Joshua was still in my wife’s belly. So you see, he was born into a world without music. He’s fascinated by the instruments, he spends hours every day pretending to play them. It’s rather tragic, really, for the truth is, he has never heard music. I’ve told him about it, but I don’t think he really understands what it was. Still, I think he has some instinctive understanding that something is wrong. That something is missing from the world.”
Turning, I watch for a moment longer as the child tries again and again to play the saxophone. The scene is, indeed, very tragic, although I must admit that there’s a hint of comedy as well.
“Can you imagine how hard it has been,” he continues, “trying to explain all of this to him? He knows that there exists this precious thing, but he also knows that he doesn’t understand it. It’s impossible to explain music to someone who has never heard it being played. I worry that as he gets older, this sense of loss will drive him insane. Eventually he will have to succeed me, and he’ll need to be strong. Perhaps now, Mr. Harrisford, you’re beginning to understand why I went to such extreme measures in order to bring you here.”
I turn to him, and I swear I can see fear in his eyes.
“My son is the reason,” he says firmly. “Tonight, once you have rested, we shall stage a performance in my purpose-built auditorium. And Mr. Harrisford… I assure you, you will play.”
Thirty-Two
Sitting in silence, I watch as the two uniformed men make their way across the open foyer. They seem to have some kind of routine, and I’ve been studying them for over an hour now. Sure enough, they quickly head into a side-room, and I find myself completely alone.
This is my chance.
I hurry across the foyer, with my guitar in my arms, and I head quickly to the exit. I had been expecting to find the door locked, but to my surprise I find it open, so I slip outside and immediately feel a strong wind blowing against me. I can hear distant waves, too, crashing against the beach far below, and for a moment I look out at the vast wilderness and I realize that I don’t really have much of a plan beyond escaping the home of Joshua Glass.
Still, I suppose I can come up with a plan once I’m on the road. For now, I really have to get moving.
I glance around to make sure that I haven’t been spotted, and then I hurry across the patch of open grass that leads to the path. Looking over my shoulder, I’m surprised to find that I still haven’t been spotted, but a moment later I see a guard coming around from the rear of the building.
I duck down behind some rocks, still clutching my guitar, and then I wait. I can hear voices in the distance, but as far as I can tell my absence has not yet been detected. The wind is really picking up now, causing the grass to rustle loudly, and I suppose that perhaps this extra noise will aid my escape. After a few more seconds, I begin to peer around the side of the rock, and I watch as the guard heads into the main building. All seems calm so far, but I am quite sure that soon an alarm will be raised.