Archive of Our Own ^beta

February, present.

Erith Corax died quietly on a Sunday morning. His affairs were sorted out in less than a day. There wasn’t much to pack. They stored his body in a refrigeration unit and cleaned out his room in the same hour. A new patient, seven years old, moved in on Sunday night.

Avril Columba collected the package on Monday morning. It was quite light. He asked when he could come collect the ashes. They told him he would have to wait. They didn’t tell him how long.

Enil Columba helped him with the paperwork. His sister was competent. Her hands were steady. His kept shaking. He signed a death certificate and a few authorization forms. Enil had told him what they were for, but he wasn’t listening. There was a fly buzzing around the room.

Syren Corax gave him a violin. The scroll was chipped. He gave her her brother’s belongings. She said she didn’t need them. She gave them back.

Avril Columba returned to 2421 Blue Harbor Lane on Tuesday afternoon. The sun was setting. He went up to the door. The doorknob felt unfamiliar. He hadn’t come home for some time. It was more of a house now.

He closed the door behind himself. It took a few tries before the lights turned on. The circuits needed fixing again. He hung his coat and hat on the coat rack. He left his shoes beside a pair of yellowed sneakers and went into the living room. He didn’t feel like wearing slippers.

He sat down on the couch and began to unpack. Apart from the violin, there was a set of clothes, shoes, house keys, a necklace and the DNR bracelet. He left his own house keys next to Erith’s on the coffee table. The violin went onto the table as well. The shoes went into the shoe rack. He took the clothes, the necklace, the bracelet and stood up. He went over to the bedroom. The door was shut. He knocked, then remembered that he didn’t need to. He went in.

The bed was made. Enil had been here. He made a note to thank her and sat down on the bed. He shouldn’t. He hadn’t washed in days. He glanced up. There was no one there to scold him. He looked down again.

He had twined the necklace around his fingers. He unwound the chain and regarded the necklace for a while. The pendant was a wire bent into a treble clef. It was warm to the touch. He opened the top drawer of his bedside table and placed the necklace inside. He slid the drawer shut.

The DNR bracelet was made of purple plastic, well-worn. Avril gripped it. The plastic bit into his palm. Then he pulled open the bottom drawer and put the bracelet there, next to a small velvet box. The velvet had faded from blue to blue-gray. It felt gritty when he touched it. It had sat there for five years.

He took out the box and shut the drawer. He had no use for the box anymore. Enil might want it. If she didn’t, he could always put it back into the drawer.

He stood up, taking Erith’s clothes. The hospital had cleaned it. It smelled like bleach and hand sanitizer. He opened the closet and hung the shirt up. He folded the trousers and placed them on top of his own. He closed the closet. He opened it again. Taking one of his own shirts, he draped it over Erith’s. He hoped it might chase away the hospital smell.

He closed the closet again and went back to the living room.

He took out the violin. The strings were out of tune. He tightened the pegs, tightened the bow. He bowed the open strings and tuned them. A442. He remembered that. The strings soon slid out of tune again. He tuned them again. The strings settled two hours later. The sky was dark outside.

It had been six years since Erith last played.

The violin had no shoulder rest. Avril didn’t want to use his. He cinched the violin between his shoulder and chin. Everything felt stiff. He tried scales and arpeggios. He couldn’t shift past fifth position. Double stops were a disaster. He made octaves sound like diminished fifths.

Yet it had only been three months since he last played.

He was losing his music.

His hands were shaking again.

There was a knock on the door. The door opened and Enil came in. She was holding a food jar and a thermos.

“You hungry?” Enil asked. She toed off her shoes. She didn’t wear slippers either. She went into the dining room and came out without the food. She sat down on the couch beside Avril. She pried the violin out of his hand and placed it in its case. The bow followed suit.

“You have to eat something,” she said. Avril nodded and followed her into the dining room. “I scrambled some eggs, made some soup.”

“Thank you.”

He ate the food. He couldn’t taste it. Once the containers were empty, he helped Enil wash them clean.

“How’s the violin coming along?” Enil inquired as they dried their hands.

“It’s been a while,” he replied.

“Take some time off. I’ll handle your contracts. Go somewhere, anywhere. Don’t stay in this hole.”

Avril reached for the violin. The strings hummed. They were still in tune.

“I’ll head for the Alps,” he heard himself say.

Enil blinked. It wasn’t the expected reply. He could see that.

Too soon.

“Sure,” was all she said. “When are you leaving?”

“Once he comes back.”

“Call me if you need any help.”

Avril plucked the E-string. Its timbre was bright, almost shrill.

“I will.”

Enil stayed for a few more hours. Avril thanked her for taking care of his apartment. She said it was the least she could do. He gave her the velvet box. She refused. He told her he had no use for it anymore. She looked at him. She accepted. Her eyes were red.

She left at half past ten.

Avril showered and went to bed. He lay down on the left side of the bed and pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders.

The blankets were too cold.

***

“Mister Avril Columba?”

“Yes?”

“You may pick up Mister Erith Corax’s ashes.”

***

“Stay safe, Av.”

“…”

***

The old dirt trail was gone. There was a paved walkway in its place. At least the pebbles were real. Vogelheim town was still there. Most of the chalets had been rebuilt. Electric lights flared when night fell. Avril turned up the collar of his coat. Nights were cold here. That hadn’t changed.

There was a light snow falling. Avril wished he had his hat. It was hanging from the coat rack in his apartment. He hadn’t traveled abroad for some years. He was beginning to forget.

He looked for a wooden sign bearing the words “Zum Reisenden”. He found a neon plaque instead. It said “Traveler’s Inn”. He stopped. He looked for an oak, stunted, with a gnarled trunk. He found a stump. It was rotting. He returned to the inn and went in.

Quite a few tourists were sitting around, drinking and dining. Avril took a seat at a table in a corner. Someone called his name. He turned around. It was Sophia. Her hair was cropped short and graying. There were wrinkles on her face. Her eyes had dimmed. She sat down opposite him.

“Hello, Sophia.”

“Herr Columba! You barge in here without a word and ignore the old lady. How are you? It’s been five, ten years since I last saw you.”

Her accent was as thick as ever. Avril realized he had missed her voice.

“Four years.”

“Still playing?”

Avril patted the violin case under the table.

“It’s been a while.”

Sophia grinned. For a brief moment, her eyes glowed once more.

“Marie! Two beers!” she called, gesturing as she spoke.

A girl bustled over. She placed the beers on the table. She hurried away. Another customer was calling.

Avril took a sip. The taste was sweeter than he remembered. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“How’s Erith?” Sophia asked.

“Gone.”

Avril looked down. The golden beer was swirling. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It tightened. Then it was gone.

“I’m sorry. He was a good kid. Played for us whenever he came to visit.”

Avril nodded. He couldn’t speak. Sophia stood up.

“Marie‘s calling. Poor girl can’t speak English and I can’t speak French. You need a room for the night?”

He nodded again. He wondered where Alfred was. The old barkeeper could speak every language on the globe.

“I think your usual room’s empty. Come find me when you’re done.”

A chair scraped loudly against the floor. He glanced up. Sophia was gone. He searched for the barkeeper. He found a boy of twenty or so. The boy looked lost. Behind the boy hung a large photograph. It was a picture of Sophia and Alfred dancing a reel, arms linked. It was a little faded.

Avril finished his drink, picked up his luggage and went to find Sophia. He wasn’t hungry. Sophia handed him a key. She smiled. He couldn’t smile back. He hugged her instead.

“You’re heading to the village, yes?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I can’t go with you. I’m sorry. The kids need me.”

She waved at Marie and the young barkeeper. Avril wanted to ask where Alfred was. He didn’t. He already knew.

“It’s alright. I can find my way.”

“Herr Columba?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask why you came back?”

“I wanted to take him home.”

He turned to leave.

“Nacht, Avril.”

“Goodnight, Sophia.”

***

The paved path petered out and the dirt trail resurfaced. It was overgrown with yellow weeds. The trees were thick. Avril kept losing sight of the path. It worried him. He wanted to arrive at the village before sundown.

At noon he rested. The forest stretched out, endless. A few squirrels hopped around. None approached him. He finished a slice of bread and went on.

The path seemed far longer than the one in his memory. But then again, he had never walked it alone before.

His coat tore on a bramble. Those seemed to be everywhere.

The trees thinned gradually. Avril pushed past a withered bush. The forest had ended. Before him lay a meadow. The meadow was white. There were no footprints marring it.

He walked onto the snow carefully. It held firm. There was only a dusting of it covering the earth. Avril quickened his pace. He stopped. He looked back. His prints were dirty brown.

He went on.

The first cottage appeared soon enough. Its roof had caved in. Avril took a closer look. The door was missing too. He went in. There was a shelf on the wall. It was decaying. There was an empty picture frame on it.

Avril left the house. A bird passed overhead, crowing. It disappeared into the forest.

Snow was falling again.

He went from one house to the next. They were all deserted. He wondered if he had come too late. The sun had gone down. It was dark.

Something padded up to him. It nuzzled his leg. It was an old, emaciated dog.

“Hanz?”

The dog barked. Avril knelt down. Hanz buried its face in his palm.

“You’re still here.”

Hanz barked again.

Avril heard footsteps. He stood up. A hunched figure was coming towards him. It was limping. It held a cane in one hand. In the other it held a lamp. Avril recognized the figure. He knew it well.

The figure came up to him and set down the lamp.

“Evening, Mister Johann,” Avril said.

Johann tapped his ear.

Good evening, Mr. Johann, Avril signed.

The old man smiled. He jerked his head and limped away.

Avril followed him. Hanz followed them both.

Johann led him to the village’s gathering hall. The windows were shuttered. They went in. The round table in the center of the hall was still there. Avril counted eight chairs. The table he remembered had forty-six.

Johann lit the fireplace. He took a chair and sat down. Avril sat beside him. Hanz curled up on the rug before the fireplace. The fire was warm.

I haven’t seen you around for a long time, Johann signed.

I was busy. I’m sorry.

Johann took a good look at Avril. He took a good look at Avril’s luggage as well. He pointed at the violin case. Avril set it down in his own lap.

Is Erith still around? Johann asked

Avril shook his head.

Johann unzipped the case. He didn’t reply. He took out the violin and examined the scroll.

This is Erith’s, he remarked.

Avril nodded.

Is it yours now?

I don’t know.

May I?

Of course.

Johann took out the bow and tightened it.

Tune it for me? Johann asked.

Avril accepted the violin and tuned the strings. The cold weather had strung them too tight. He handed it back to Johann. The old man tried a few notes. Then he began to play. The intonation was perfect. The notes died quickly in the hollow chamber.

I remember this, Avril signed.

Johann smiled and played on.

***

June, 16 years ago.

“But I want to go to the South Pole!” Avril cried.

“And I want to go to Mars. Guess we don’t always get what we want,” Enil drawled, pinching her little brother’s cheek.

The entire village was gathered in the hall, sharing drinks and chattering amongst themselves. Avril’s parents were discoursing with a bearded man holding a violin. The trio were laughing like anything.

“And anyway, the Alps are way better than Antarctica,” said Enil.

“How?”

“First of all, they don’t speak penguin, they speak English. Miraculously. And second of all, apparently, there’s an abundance of music here.” Enil waved a magnanimous hand at the room in general.

Avril blinked. “Abundance?”

“It means ‘a lot of’, idiot.”

Avril glared at her. His sister was going through a phase of sorts. She was obsessed with long words and even more obsessed with rubbing her knowledge in Avril’s face.

“I thought you didn’t like music?” Avril retorted.

“I don’t. I like food. Johann is a magnificent cook.”

“Johann?”

“How do you not know him?” Enil exclaimed, incredulous. “He’s like, you know, the boss of the town.”

“Is he here?”

“Of course! Who do you think dad and mom are talking to?”

“I don’t know. Some old guy, I suppose.”

“That’s Johann. Remember him. He’s the man you seek out when you wake up ravenous in the middle of the night.”

Avril frowned. “Doesn’t he sleep?”

“He’s always awake when I see him.”

“Wait, you’ve been sneaking out at night?” Avril asked, backtracking.

“Gonna rat me out?” Enil glared down at him.

“What do you take me for?” Avril hissed. “Bring me along next time.”

Just then, a flash of black hurtled out of the sky and crash-landed on top of Enil. Someone had dropped down from the roof. Avril yelped and clung to the table behind him. The assailant raised her head, and Avril found himself staring at the messiest face he had ever seen, streaked with dirt, black hair sticking up at all the wrong angles. It was grinning.

“Get off of me, Syren!” Enil yelled, shoving at the mud-caked girl.

Syren complied and sauntered over to where Avril was standing. He tensed as she aimed one grimy finger at his nose. Belatedly, he realized she was a head taller than him. It was terrifying.

“Someone’s being brave,” she said. “Sneaking out at night, that’s big kid stuff. How old are you?”

Avril straightened up. “I’m eight.”

Syren’s grin grew wider. “I’m seven, shorty.”

“Hey!”

Enil laughed. She was turning ten that summer. “Sy, where’s that adorable brother of yours?”

“Sawing away at his fiddle. It’s boring.” Syren closed her eyes and made a snoring sound.

“You don’t like music?” Avril asked.

“Nope,” Syren grimaced.

“Great minds think alike,” Enil seconded. “Now, I’m hungry.”

“Let’s go,” said Syren.

They disappeared before Avril could stop them.

He heaved himself onto the table and waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but experience told him something always happened if one waited for long enough. Sure enough, his father came over after a handful of minutes, his mother and the old man named Johann trailing behind.

“Hey dad,” Avril said with a small wave.

His father ruffled his hair. “Gotta ask you something, son.”

“What is it?”

“You want to play tonight?”

Avril’s face scrunched up. “I already played for Sophia and Alfred last week. Do I have to?”

“No,” his mother replied. “But let me know if you change your mind. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, after all.”

“I’ll think about it,” Avril muttered.

“Okay.” His father mussed up his hair again and left.

Avril heard his stomach grumble. He wondered where Enil was.

Time trickled past, and by the time dinner was served, Avril was already contemplating whether swallowing the round table would be a good idea. He sat down beside his parents. Enil and Syren were nowhere to be found.

His mother didn’t seem too worried. “I’m sure she’s fine,” she said when he told her about Enil’s absence.

Dinner was a blur of warmth and flavors. Every dish was tinted gold by the roaring fireplace and scattered candles. Avril devoured everything he could ladle into his bowl and plate. Enil wasn’t lying when she said the food was good.

“Don’t swallow like that, you’ll choke,” his mother remarked, amused.

Avril made a noise of assent around a mouthful of potatoes.

Enil and Syren slunk back into the hall halfway through dinner. They were sniggering.

“What’s wrong?” Avril asked.

“Nothing,” they replied, then sniggered some more.

Avril glanced at his mother. She raised an eyebrow and did nothing about it.

By and by the pots and plates were emptied. The children helped with the clean-up. Chairs were rearranged, tables wiped, utensils washed and dried. Enil and Syren had run off again.

“What comes next?” Avril inquired, tugging at his mother’s sleeve.

Her smile grew mysterious. “You’ll see.”

The room fell silent. Johann leapt onto the table with an agility incongruous with his age. “We have four guests among us tonight!” he said, his rich voice carrying across the entire hall. He spoke without an accent. “A round of applause for our new friends!”

Cheers rose and fell. Avril’s parents stood up and bowed. He mirrored his parents’ actions. Enil dropped down from the rafters, did a cartwheel, crashed into Syren who had came out of nowhere, then raised her arms like a victorious Olympic champion.

The hall echoed with laughter.

Avril rolled his eyes. “Show-off,” he whispered as Enil took her place beside him.

“You’re just jealous,” she replied loftily.

Johann raised a hand and the room fell back into silence. “Now, to give our guests the warmest welcome, we have a few surprises prepared. Theo, Arnold, if you will!”

Two young boys jumped onto the table to a wave of deafening applause. One held a violin with a very stout neck and the wrong number of strings. The other was armed with a horn Avril couldn’t recognize.

They began to play, and the rest of the room began to dance.

By the time the act ended, Avril had realized two things. Firstly, he had no idea how to dance. Secondly, he hated these villagers’ music with his entire body and soul. There was no sense to the way they strung notes together, creating a cacophony out of glissandos and tuneless honking. He couldn’t find the smallest scraping of beauty in the whole disaster he had just borne witness to.

He squeezed through the crowd and found his mother. Her face was flushed with exertion. Her hand was clasped in Avril’s father’s. They had doubtlessly been dancing.

“Mom, I want to play tonight,” he whispered.

“Sure. I’ll get you your violin. Connor, go tell Johann, will you?”

His father went off in search of the old man. Avril followed his mother to the back of the room where they had put their smaller bags. Their bulkier luggage had already been sent to their lodgings by a few warm-hearted villagers.

“Here, careful now,” his mother said, handing him his instrument. “What do you want to play?”

Avril held his head high. He was almost staring at the roof. “It’s a surprise.”

His mother laughed and planted a loud kiss on his head. “Surprise us then, my little prodigy.”

With that, she led him back into the crowd.

The following acts failed to alter Avril’s perception of Alpine music. He regarded them with equal contempt, though he seemed to be alone in his disdain. Enil tried to drag him into a jig during the fourth act. He waved her off and clung to his violin as if it were a lifeline.

When a lady playing an accordion, a harmonica, a drum set and what looked to be an old broom at the same time bowed and hopped off the table, a deathly silence stole across the room. Every eye was fixed on Johann as he prepared to announce the next act. The anticipation was tangible. Avril wanted to ask what he should be expecting, but no one said a word, so he didn’t dare speak either.

Johann’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And who do we await now, if not the child of the mountains, the genius, the miracle? I give you, Erith Corax!”

And the crowd simply exploded.

Amidst the apocalyptic chaos, a small child took to the stage, his melody ringing clear, drowning out the noise. Avril watched, begrudgingly enticed by the child’s art. Erith played carelessly, almost frivolously. He held no fearful respect for the instrument in his hands. He played it, played with it, as if it were part of himself, nothing more than a loose molar or an innocent scab. The tune he made had the same vagrant dissonance as the acts before, yet beneath his hands, the haphazard notes became music.

Avril felt a potent dislike burgeoning in his chest. He wanted to rush onto the stage and do something. Anything.

“You’re up next, sweetheart,” his mother murmured. Avril nodded tensely.

He sensed an urge to prove himself. It confused him. He gripped the neck of his violin tighter, though he reminded himself not to squeeze the strings.

At last, Erith ended the piece with a screaming chord. The hall burst with applause and Erith vanished from sight. Johann stepped onto the table again. He was beaming.

“That’s Erith for you. Now, for our last performance tonight, one of our guests has kindly offered to play for us. Let us welcome Avril Columba!”

Avril clambered onto the table and bowed neatly. His mind skimmed through his repertoire, but it was an act of habit. He already knew what he was going to play.

His bow struck the D-string. Flawless syncopation. The melody of Paganini’s infamous Caprice flowed forth at quasi presto, a smooth stream of honed notes. He could hear a metronome ticking away in his ears, keeping him in line, ensuring perfection.

The crowd was awed. He smiled inwardly. He had come out on top of something. He just didn’t know what.

Then the crowd parted abruptly, and the child from before came back. They stood facing each other, then, slowly, began to circle.

As Avril progressed into the third variation of the caprice, Erith chimed in, plucking at his violin as if it were a guitar. He held the bow between his teeth. He was grinning. Avril ignored him. He was only there to make noise.

Yet by the time Avril had gotten to the fifth variation, Erith had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t there to meddle. He was weaving his own impromptu variations into Avril’s, matching him note for note, chord for chord. He played with the strange style Avril had come to associate with the Alps: wild and ragged.

The melodies slotted together into a perfect harmony.

Avril felt weak. The feeling of victory that had spiked through him earlier was gone. He wanted to flee.

He plowed through the finale without his usual finesse, smudging a few arpeggios and fumbling around the double stops. As soon as the echoes of the last chord faded away, he bowed curtly and squeezed into the crowd.

Nobody stopped him as he left the hall.

It was warm outdoors. He found a tree stump and plopped down, a mess of unidentifiable feelings gnawing at his head. He placed the bow in his lap and tried to hold the violin like a guitar. The mere motion felt like sacrilege. He slotted the violin beneath his chin again. His shoulder rest was coming loose.

“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice said.

“Go away.”

“We should play together again.”

“No.”

Footsteps.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

He heard a huff, then Erith began to play. This time it was a meandering, lethargic tune. It reminded Avril of spring water and newly thawed rivers.

He picked up his bow. He wasn’t the kind to let a challenge slip away.

The moon waxed and waned. Beneath its silver glow, the intermingling music of two children flowed towards the light of dawn.

***

February, present.

The chord was struck. Johann laid down the violin in his lap.

That was the first thing I heard you play, he signed.

You remembered.

Of course. You two were hard to forget.

Avril stared into the fire. It sputtered behind the grate. He was tired.

Can I spend the night here?

I have a spare room at my place, Johann replied.

Thank you.

Don’t mention it.

***

Avril bade Johann goodbye at the break of dawn. The snow hadn’t let up. Johann tugged a hat onto his head. Avril tried to refuse. Johann pretended to be blind.

Avril passed through the silent village. The houses thinned out. He couldn’t see the road beneath the snow, but he knew it was there. He had walked it many times. The sun came up as he walked. He couldn’t see it. The clouds were thick with snow. The road sloped up and wound through a spattering of trees. It ended before at the foot of a giant sweet chestnut. The chestnut stood beside a cottage. The cottage was crooked. It was built that way.

The door hung open, tethered by a single hinge. Avril went in.

He tripped on a rug. It was matted and wrinkled. Avril was reminded of the hides of boreal animals when they rotted. The rug covered the entire floor. Egg crates lined the walls and floor. A large table stood against a wall. Pieces of recording equipment were piled onto it. The computer monitor had a cracked screen.

Avril turned around. Some chairs were littered around the room, as well as a few music stands. A mic stood in the center of the room. There was a ring of coat racks in one corner. Decaying cloth hung from the racks.

The air smelled old.

Avril set the violin case down on a table. There was a scuff mark on the table. Avril touched it. His hand flinched away. He took out the violin. He bowed it. He didn’t know what he was playing.

He simply played on.

***

June, 11 years ago.

“Have I ever told you you’re crazy?” Avril panted, setting down one of the gigantic solar panels.

“Often,” Enil replied. She held a clipboard and was tapping a pencil against her head. Hanz, the puppy they had adopted as a son of sorts, chased its tail around her feet.

“Where did you even get these things?”

“I have my methods,” she said cryptically.

“Methods being two loaded parents in the music industry who can’t say no when she begs,” Syren chimed in with a derisive snort.

“I didn’t beg!” Enil’s face flushed red.

“Yeah you didn’t. Must’ve been a doppelgänger.”

“I hate you,” Enil mumbled. Avril was trying hard not to collapse into the grass and laugh his head off.

“I know.” Syren grinned and kissed Enil on the cheek.

Enil turned a delicate shade of crimson.

“It’s a friend thing,” Enil squeaked, though no one asked. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, we have a studio to set up.”

Confused, Avril followed Enil to the cottage, Hanz snipping at his heels. The cottage was slightly lopsided. They had miscalculated the amount of logs they needed when they built it the year before. Avril had tried to convince the rest of his friends to axe another tree, but Enil had already started hammering at the roof by the time he finished speaking his request.

There was a sapling before the cottage. No one knew what species it was, but it was a sturdy young thing. The children took it as a sign of good luck. When they first found it a couple of years ago, it barely reached Avril’s chest. Now it was taller than Enil.

Enil shouldered the stubborn cottage door open, grumbling about incompetent friends. They had miscalculated the size of the doorframe too when they sawed the logs. It was a sliver too small and made the door groan miserably. The door swung shut in Hanz’s face and Avril heard a sad whine. He tried not to feel too bad about it. Hanz did tear up the rug last time they let him in.

“Okay,” Enil said once they were indoors. “We’ve got the rug, check, the computers, check, the mic, check, the rack…”

“Where did you get the rack?”

“Shut up, Av. The rack, check. Okay. I’ll need you to soundproof the room later. There are egg trays in our luggage.”

“I know, I had to eat eggs for five months,” Avril deadpanned.

“They’re good for you. I’m off, bye baby bro.” Enil disappeared down the road. Hanz poked his head out of a bush and trailed away after her. Avril sighed and went off in search of the egg trays.

Erith soon came over to help Avril with the soundproofing. After the insides of the cottage were satisfactorily taped over with egg trays, they went to help their sisters with the generator. The crew of four managed to set up the generator before evening. By the time night rolled in, their cottage was a brightly lit bauble nestled within the mountain range. It was filled with noise.

“Let’s have a try!” Enil screeched, rubbing her hands together.

“No way, I’m starving!” Avril wailed.

“Then you go have dinner and I’ll record Erith first.”

“You’re so mean. I hate you.”

“Go on!”

Avril reluctantly picked up his violin. “I thought you didn’t like music,” he muttered.

His sister shrugged. “People change.”

Syren slung an easy arm around Enil and nearly dragged her out of her chair.

“Okay,” Enil went on, her fingers hovering above the computer. “On count of three. One…”

“Wait, what am I supposed to play?” Avril asked.

“Anything! Two…”

“What does that even mean?”

“Three, go!”

Avril’s fingers fumbled out the first thing on his mind, which turned out to be a discordant mishmash of Mozart and Bach. Erith joined in after watching him suffer for a few bars, easing Avril’s wayward melody onto a straighter path. They settled into an improvised duet. Avril felt himself smile.

He didn’t know what he was playing, but it didn’t really matter.

Erith’s melody faded out first, letting Avril draw the piece to a close. He gave one final flourish and ended his performance with an abrupt suspended chord. As he set down his violin, he caught Erith staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

“That was a very strange way to end a major tune,” Erith said as he came over to put down his violin too. Syren and Enil were huddled head to head on the other side of the room, muttering about the soundtrack.

“Look who’s talking,” Avril scoffed.

“Are you calling me strange?”

“You’re beyond strange.”

“I don’t mind.” Erith smiled widely. “We can be strange together.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Your loss.”

The amps came to life with a blast of chords. Avril winced. He knew he had messed up the beginning, but he didn’t realize it was this bad. As Erith’s violin melded with his, however, the rambling tune settled and became proper music. The four of them listened quietly. The recording gradually rolled to a stop.

No one spoke. What they had just witnessed was magic beyond words.

Then, slowly, Enil began to clap.

***

July, 8 years ago.

“Again!”

“It won’t work, ‘Nil. The acoustics are terrible,” Avril groaned. His shoulders were stiff from a long day of recording.

Enil bit her lip as she removed her headphones. She sighed. “We have to try. Maybe if you stand in that corner…”

“We already did that yesterday,” Erith said.

“Removed the harmonic?” Syren suggested.

“Sounds awful. I tried,” said Avril. “I’m not big on compromises like that.”

Syren nodded. She looked thoughtful. “I have an idea,” she said slowly. “Can I borrow Erith for a while?”

“Sure,” said Enil with a tired shrug. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere.

Syren grabbed her brother by the arm and pelted out of the cottage. She came back a quarter of an hour later, pushing one of Johann’s carts. It was loaded with coat racks.

“What on earth are you going to do with those?” Enil asked, confused.

“Just an idea,” replied Syren.

They unloaded the coat racks into the cottage. Syren dragged out several large picnic blankets and shook them out.

“Help me put the racks around a corner,” Syren explained. “I’ll drape the blankets over them.”

“A makeshift isolation booth?” Enil looked awed. “Might actually work.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” said Syren.

The booth was set up in no time at all. Enil shoved Avril in and suspended their mic from one of the racks.

“Give it a try, Av,” she said.

Avril played a string of artificial harmonics. “How is it?” he asked loudly.

There was a gasp, then the sound of fake sobbing. Hands dragged him out of the booth and into a crushing hug.

“We did it!” Enil cried. “Syren’s a genius.”

She let Avril go and leapt at Syren, tackling the latter to the ground. They were all laughing like there was no tomorrow, exhausted but delirious with the joy of success. The moon had long since passed its zenith and was already heading down.

“Let’s try it again, from the top,” Enil panted, heaving herself to her feet. “Erith, Avril, into the booth you go.”

“Okay,” said Avril.

Erith did not reply.

Avril turned around. Erith was leaning against the table. His right hand was clutching his left. His face was pale, even in the warm light.

There was a thud, then a crash.

Erith had dropped his violin.

“Bad cramp,” he muttered. “Sorry, I don’t think I can—“

Avril shoved his own instrument into Enil’s hands and rushed over. He gave Erith’s violin to Syren. Its scroll was chipped where it had collided with the table. The table hadn’t escaped unscathed either. There was a pale mark running down its edge.

But at that moment, Avril couldn’t care less about either the table or the wounded violin. His hands found Erith’s and pried them apart, letting his friend grip him instead.

“That bad?” he asked softly.

Erith nodded.

The cramp did ease up in the end, but they didn’t record anything else that night. Enil silently wrapped up the soundtrack, devoid of artificial harmonics.

“Let’s go home,” she said, standing up to turn off the electricity. Syren wordlessly packed up the violins.

Avril followed the two girls out the cottage. He felt oddly drained.

Erith didn’t let go of his hand.

***

February, present.

The last harmonic rang through the cottage. Avril let it settle before setting down the violin. He felt for the chip in the scroll. It pricked his finger. He zipped the violin back into its case, picked up his luggage and went out.

He tried the light switch next to the door. It didn’t work.

He was surprised to find the sky dark. He had played without stopping for a whole day. His shoulders ached, but he wasn’t tired. Nor was he satisfied.

He sat down beneath the chestnut tree. It towered above him now. He ate another slice of bread and drank some water. Swallowing was hard. He had inhaled too much dust.

He took out the violin again. There was a melody he had to play. Half of a melody.

***

July, 6 years ago.

Enil was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, snipping away imperfections and micro-tuning their newest track.

“We’ll have our first CD once I finish this!” she chattered excitedly. She had already asked her father to contact a few friends in the industry. “We’re all geniuses. Especially me.”

“I beg to differ,” Syren responded haughtily, earning her a pinch on the cheek.

“Okay, here, and here! Should be good to go. Where’s Erith?” Enil spun her chair around. She had taken to doing that ever since they had managed to cart a swivel chair up to the cottage.

“He went out. I’ll call him,” Avril said.

The door swung open and he stepped outside, shielding his eyes against the sun.

“Erith? You there?”

Silence. Avril frowned, a little concerned. Erith wasn’t the sort who enjoyed worrying others on purpose.

“Erith?”

He walked on, keeping an eye out for any Erith-shaped shadows in case the latter had fallen asleep. He saw one such shadow curled up beneath the nameless tree they had successfully identified as a chestnut. He hastened over.

It was Erith indeed, and he had his eyes closed. His violin and bow lay beside him in the grass.

Avril nudged him gently. “Wake up, Enil’s wrapped up our tracks.”

Erith didn’t move.

“Erith? Are you alright?”

Erith inhaled slowly, yet his whole body shook.

“Go away,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been screaming. Or crying.

“No.” Avril sat down beside him. “Not unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

Erith cracked his eyes open. They were swollen and still filled with tears. He flipped around and sat up, facing Avril. His left arm dragged behind him, marked with streaks of white and red. Some were seeping blood.

Avril couldn’t breathe. Erith leaned his head against Avril’s chest. Erith breathed in again, trembling.

“Avril?”

“I’m here.”

“I don’t think I can play anymore.”

Avril wrapped his arms around Erith’s shuddering shoulders. “Nonsense,” he whispered. “Play together with me.”

“How?” Erith asked quietly.

“Here, take this.” He handed the bow to Erith. “I work the fingerboard, you make it sing.”

He slid the violin beneath his chin. It fitted comfortably, even without a shoulder rest. Erith shuffled over to his right side and placed the bow on the strings. Despite the tears, there was a subdued amusement flickering within his eyes.

“Ready?” Erith inquired.

“Ready when you are.”

Erith tore into the strings with short, powerful strokes which soon changed into flying spiccato. Notes flew wildly every which way. It was all Avril could do to keep up. Erith played presto, he played prestissimo, he sped up until Avril’s arm felt numb.

Yet not for a single beat did either lag behind. They matched each other perfectly, note for note, bow for bow.

All of a sudden, Avril released the strings, and Erith tipped the bow, producing a sonorous, open G that echoed through the mountains.

“See?” Avril said. “You can still play.”

Erith smiled and rested his head on Avril’s shoulder.

***

February, present.

The open string was hoarse. Avril’s hand sent the bow skittering. It was shaking again. He set down the bow and leant against the tree trunk. The violin rested upon his shoulder.

He stayed that way for a long time.

The sun rose. He packed the violin. He went on.

***

August, 5 years ago.

The five of them were wandering aimlessly around the mountains, basking in the last days of summer. Avril had his violin on his back. His shirt pocket was heavier than usual. He had stuffed a small surprise inside.

They had shut down the recording studio, though none of them had the heart to dismantle the equipment. Enil, for one, kept mentioning it.

“Our first CD was a huge hit,” she said. “Voices of the Alps. We are all geniuses.”

“I’ll hit you if you say ‘Especially me’,” Syren warned.

“Especially me,” said Enil.

Syren kept her word. Enil fled her blows, screaming. Hanz barked eagerly and gave chase, vanishing into the undergrowth.

“They never do grow up, do they?” Erith chuckled, shaking his head. He walked slowly, having to rely on a cane. “Thanks to her marketing, we’re getting some tourist traffic these days.”

“Sounds good,” Avril said.

“Some of us are venturing out too. They want to see the world.”

“Ah, to be young and fearless,” Avril declared in a boisterous voice.

“Shut up,” Erith said. “You’re young yet.”

They heard a yell from up ahead, followed by a resounding crash.

Avril extended a hand. “Best catch up before they kill each other.”

Erith took it. “Lead the way.”

By the time they found Enil and Syren, the two girls had tumbled into a ditch. Both were covered in mud and were panting heavily. Hanz running in circles around them, yapping.

Erith huffed. “Some fight you’ve got going on there.”

Enil released Syren’s neck and scrambled away. She did help Syren climb out of the ditch, however.

“I won,” said Enil proudly.

Syren grabbed her by the collar and tugged her onwards.

Avril sighed.

Following the trail, they scaled a small mountain. It was shaped like a frustum and cloaked in vibrant green. The view from the top was excellent as well. The mountain range spread out around, over and beneath them. They could see their small village nearby and Vogelheim in the distance. Both were veiled by a faint shading of mist.

Syren conjured up a blanket and they sat down. Enil had brought sandwiches.

“These are delicious,” Enil proclaimed from around a mouthful of sandwich. “Johann hasn’t lost his touch.”

“He hasn’t aged a day in all these years,” said Avril.

“Maybe he’s a wizard,” Syren suggested.

“That makes sense,” Erith agreed, laughing.

They chewed for a while in silence. Then, Enil clapped her hands. “Right, Av, I’m thirsting for a bit of Carnegie Hall.”

“Like what?”

“Bach, Bruch, anything. You used to complain about too much folk and not enough classical, remember?”

Avril shrugged as he opened his violin case. “People change.”

“Talk less, play more. Come on!” Enil urged.

Avril twisted a peg to lower his E-string by a semitone. Enil’s face lit up with anticipation.

“How about this?”

And there, in broad daylight, on a mountain amidst the Alps, Avril made the skeletons Saint-Saëns created dance. Notes clacked and clicked, punctuated by the Hanz’s barking. After a few repetitions he let his fingers fly. His friends got to their feet, ready to dance along with the skeletons. Together they waltzed, swung, twirled, reveling in reel and rout, then they tap-danced around the mountaintop and began to waltz again.

They danced until they collapsed into a graceless pile, still wheezing laughter out of their heaving lungs. There were tears in Enil’s eyes. She had never looked happier.

“You are one fine Death, that is one fine fiddle, and that is one fine hellhound,” she said, cuffing Avril’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Avril said, shoving himself upright so he could bow.

“Alright. I gotta go. I promised Johann I’d help him with dinner tonight.” Enil stood up, pulling Syren to her feet as well. Erith remained where he was, sitting with his legs crossed. All that wild dancing had taken quite a toll on his bad leg.

“Go ahead. I’ll be back in time for your cooking,” Avril said.

They waved goodbye. Enil disappeared down the mountainside, Syren in tow, Hanz frolicking after them. They left Avril alone with Erith.

The sun was setting.

Avril rubbed his neck. His mind was a blank. All the words he had prepared had fled.

“Uh,” he began eloquently.

Erith’s smile was torn between amused and bemused.

Avril inhaled deeply. “So I was thinking the other day, we’ve known each other for quite a long time and I still don’t know when your birthday is and I haven’t ever gotten you anything—“

“Avril.”

“Uh, yes?”

“You’re rambling, Avril.”

“Am I? Oh, so, uh, I didn’t know what to give you so I made this. It’s not really, you know, much.”

He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. A treble clef swung from silver links, wrought from a single wire.

He handed it to Erith. The treble clef shone gold in the sunset. Erith’s fingers brushed against his. They were warm to the touch.

“Avril?” There was audible mirth tinting Erith’s voice. “You’re burning up.”

“Oh! Uh, I’m alright, can you, you know…”

“Put this on with one hand? No, of course not. How thoughtless of you,” Erith complained. “Come help me.”

“Okay, don’t move.” Avril sidled over and knelt down behind Erith, who passed him the necklace. Avril brushed aside Erith’s dark hair and fixed the clasp. “All done. It should be easy to take off with one hand.”

“Still, I can’t let that oversight slide, can I?” Erith said thoughtfully as he rounded on Avril. “Do me a favor and I’ll forgive you.”

“Sure, what, well, what can I do for you?”

Erith gestured at the violin.

“Play for me.”

“My pleasure. How about Méditation? It’s by Massenet.”

Erith shrugged. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“He’s… great.”

“Huh.”

Avril felt himself flush and hurriedly picked up his violin. His rabbiting heart slowed as note after note flowed out, though his vibrato was still more of an unwilling tremor than an embellishment.

He played slowly, reservedly, keeping the meditation at a gentle mezzopiano. He did not let it rise and thrash like Thaïs did. As he played, he thought of Alpine summers and their tender heat. He thought of oaks and chestnuts. He thought of the studio, the coat racks, and wondered if dust was beginning to collect. He thought of Enil, of Syren.

Then his eyes fell on Erith. Erith, the dark-haired, bright-eyed, wild-hearted child. Erith, whom Avril’s thoughts failed to encompass. He could not think of Erith, he could only see him, see him standing bathed in the sun’s glow. Erith was a world unto himself, too boundless for the abstract constructs of a mere human’s mind to hold.

All Avril could do was store fragments of this child of music in his mind. They were but the sparks of a raging bonfire, yet Avril felt content. He was content to have brushed shoulders with this incomprehensible entity, found himself lacking, turned around and pursued it. He was content to have attained a fraction of its mastery, whether in art or in life.

He was content to have had Erith walk through his world.

The Méditation had ended. Erith stood before him.

“Embrace me,” Erith said.

And Avril fell into the arms of music.

***

February, present.

The wind was frigid on the mountaintop. Everything was covered with snow. Avril pulled his coat tighter. He dared not expose the violin to this cold. It was all too quiet. He wondered where the birds had gone.

He took out a wooden box. It was Enil’s handiwork. She would not let him take Erith on this voyage in a plastic bag. The box was intricate, but it was small. Avril couldn’t understand how someone who filled valleys could fit inside it.

He opened the box.

***

August, 4 years ago.

Avril’s lungs were burning. His eyes were blurred. His legs were aching. He still wasn’t fast enough.

Erith was draped across his shoulders. Both of Erith’s arms were limp. He was so light, yet he was a leaden weight on Avril’s back.

Avril ran on past the village and into the forest.

He saw Enil ahead. She was leading a team of paramedics.

They laid Erith onto a stretcher. He was unconscious.

“He, he slipped and fell. I couldn’t catch him, I, uh, there were rocks below. I think his head and legs are fractured,” Avril explained as best as he could. His ears were pounding. He could barely hear himself speak.

The paramedics nodded and rushed Erith away.

***

September, 4 years ago.

“Mister Columba?”

“Yes?”

“Mister Erith Columba has stage three ALS. It involves—“

“I know.”

***

January, 3 years ago.

“Are you sure you want to come with me?”

“Of course. I want to see the world and hear its music too.”

“New York is far away. I, uh, I might not be able to take you back here.”

“It’s alright. I’ll go.”

***

June, 3 years ago.

“Hello? Avril?”

“It’s me. What’s wrong?”

“He can’t speak anymore. His lungs are failing too. They got an eye tracker and a respirator for him. He’s asleep now.”

“I’m coming. Thanks for telling me, ‘Nil.”

“Av?”

“I’m here.”

“He—he told me to tell you he knows.”

***

June, 1 year ago.

“Hey, Eri.”

Hello, Avril.

“Enil uploaded our soundtracks onto the internet.”

And?

“A million hits in one week.”

Sounds like a dream.

***

December, 3 months ago.

Avril?

“I’m here. What’s the matter, are you—“

I’m alright. Do me a favor?

“Anything.”

Play for me.

***

February, present.

The box collapsed in his hand. It couldn’t hold Erith, though Enil’s handiwork was flawless. Avril set the board yet holding the ashes in the snow. The wind rose and took the ashes away. There was a flurry of gray amidst white snowflakes. Then Erith was gone.

Avril did not leave. He clasped Erith’s violin case to his chest. He tried to keep it warm.

***

April, present.

The call came unexpectedly. Enil picked up without glancing at the caller ID. She was busy washing Avril’s bedsheets. They were gathering dust.

“Hey,” she said.

“It’s me, Avril.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She had been holding it for two months now.

“Haven’t heard from you in a long time, what’s up?”

“I might need a ride.”

Enil sighed loudly. “I thought you’d decided to stay there.”

“I have a violin to take care of.”

She hung up and ran her wet hands through her hair. She dialed another number.

“Syren?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re back.”