“You do, do you?”
I stare at him for a moment, and in all honesty I’m starting to feel that this young man might be able to take care of himself. Last night, I assumed that he was a weak little thing, the product of his father’s madness. Now, however, it would appear that he’s fairly unfazed by the journey that awaits him.
Slowly, I look down at the guitar.
“You won’t need that,” I tell him. “It’s just wood. Maybe you could burn it at night for wood, but otherwise it’s just unnecessary weight.”
He pauses, before holding the guitar up. He places a finger against one of the strings, and then he plucks it gently. A sound, of sorts, emerges.
“That’s not music,” I explain. “It’s a sound, but I’m afraid all the music is still gone.”
He hesitates, and then he plucks a different string. Again, this produces a sound, although it’s a long way from actual music.
“Very good,” I say, “but—”
He plucks another string, and then another, and this time I can’t help but notice that the sound is at least slightly melodic. I open my mouth to tell him that he’s still on a hiding to nothing, only for him to then pluck a couple of other strings. Looking at his face, I see an expression of intense concentration, and a moment later he repeats everything he just played.
“I have to go now,” he says finally. “I need to time the causeway properly. Thank you for playing, and I’m sorry for what happened. Goodbye.”
With that, he turns and walks away, and I can hear him still gingerly plucking at the strings even after he’s disappeared around the corner.
I tell myself, of course, that the boy wasn’t actually playing music. At the same time, there was something primitive but impressive about the sound he was producing, and I listen until finally he’s too far away for me to hear another note.
Suddenly feeling a strange warmth in my right hand, I look down and see that there’s a slight redness in the palm. Is it possible that my otherworldly friend gave me a little gift to bring back to this world? Something that might not replace what was taken, but that might nevertheless provide a spark? If that is the case, then I hope very much that he didn’t get himself into too much trouble.
Perhaps he is also responsible for my curious lack of pain.
Sighing, I lean back against the rock and try to whistle, but I can’t manage to produce a sound. I suppose I half-expected that one day music would come flooding back into the world one day, yet now it’s clear that this won’t happen at all. Perhaps, however, children like Joshua Glass Jr. might still be able to produce something of their own, even if it’s clear that this will take them a very long time indeed. They will have no help from the likes of me, as I wait to die on this remote, abandoned beach. They will have no theories to learn, no past performances to study, no colleges and academies to attend.
They will have to discover music all over again, right from the very start.
Epilogue
Several decades ago
“Okay, man, are you ready?”
As soon as I hear those words, I freeze. I knew this moment was coming, of course, and up until about an hour ago I was really looking forward to playing my first gig. Once I arrived at the club, however, I began to feel a slowly tightening knot of fear in my chest, and now – with show-time having arrived – I feel as if I can barely move at all.
“Hey, Harrisford,” the manager continues, “there’s a crowd out there waiting for you. Let’s hurry things up.”
I mutter something about needing a few seconds, and then I take a long, deep drag on my cigarette. I’ve smoked three of these things over the past half hour alone, which must be some kind of personal record. My guitar is on the table, waiting for me to head out there and entertain the club’s customers, but my hands are trembling and I’m starting to think that I might have to pull out.
“Not again,” the manager says with a sigh, before coming over and picking the guitar up. He takes the cigarette from my fingers and stubs it out against the table, and then he thrusts the guitar into my hands. As he does so, I see my own frightened reflection in the man’s Ray-Ban sunglasses.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, “I—”
“This is why I don’t usually book newcomers,” he says angrily, “but I’ve heard good things about you, Harrisford. Now it’s time to forget your nerves and just go out there and play.”
“But—”
“Or I’ll personally kick your butt and make sure you never play another show again. Is that what you want?”
I open my mouth to tell him that, actually, that sounds rather good now. At the last moment, however, I realize that I’ve been building up to this moment for my entire life. I’m twenty years old, and if I don’t play a gig now, I never will. I’ll have to get some dull job in an office, or I’ll end up sweeping the streets. The point is, I can’t have a career as a musician if I’m too scared to actually play in front of people.
“Right,” I say, turning and carrying the guitar toward the door that leads through to the back of the stage. “Yes. Absolutely. Here we go.”
“Is that it?” the manager asks. “Is that your rock n’roll attitude?”
I turn to him, and again I see myself in his glasses. I look so utterly ridiculous. This is never going to work.
“Well,” I say after a moment, “I mean…”
My voice trails off.
“This is the worst case I’ve ever seen,” he mutters as he comes over and grabs my shoulder, spinning me around and then shoving me up the steps that lead to the door. “There’s stage-fright and then there’s outright cowardice. I don’t care how you feel, just get out there and play your set for half an hour. If you hate it, you never have to do it again. But if you don’t try, you’re just a chicken.”
“I suppose so,” I reply, and then the manager pushes the door open and I see the empty stage.
The crowd is roaring, as if they’re baying for blood. For a moment, I imagine myself being booed off the stage, pelted with rotten fruit. It’s one thing to try to be brave, but I really don’t think that I have what it takes. I hesitate, trying to find the strength as I stare at the bright lights, and then finally I realize that this isn’t for me. Maybe I’m a coward, or a chicken, but that’s fine. I might enjoy playing the guitar at home, in private, but I’m no performer.
I turn to tell the manager that I’m ducking out.
“Take these,” he says suddenly, removing his sunglasses and forcing them onto my face. “Yeah, that’s a good look for you. They cover the fear. Now move!”
With that, he turns me around again and shoves me onto the stage. I stumble slightly, and before I can stop myself I end up halfway toward the microphone. Hearing a sudden roar, I turn and find that I’m right in front of the crowd. I stare at them for a moment, and then I turn to see the manager slamming the door shut, and then I look at the crowd again. For a few seconds, all I can see is a sea of excited, happy faces, and then I see that there’s a mirrored wall at the far end of the club. I look at my own reflection, and I have to admit that with these sunglasses I actually don’t look too out of place.
Well, maybe this will be my one and only performance, but I should at least give it a go.
“Good evening,” I say as I step up to the microphone, “Senors and Senoritas. My name is Derek Harrisford, and this is my first song.”
I take a deep breath, and I start playing.
BOOKS BY AMY CROSS
1. Dark Season: The Complete First Series (2011)
2. Werewolves of Soho (Lupine Howl book 1) (2012)