Amy Cross - The Music Man

When that happens, I must be as far from this place as possible.

Turning, I hurry down the grassy embankment, while looking ahead and trying to work out exactly how I am to escape from the island. I know that there is a causeway that links the island to the mainland at low tide, but as I reach the bottom of the embankment I look down and see that the tide is not yet sufficiently low. Still, it will take me at least another half hour to get all the way down there, and I tell myself that the gods will perhaps be on my side. I turn and take one last look back up toward the ruins of the monastery, and then I start picking my way along the rocky path.

Suddenly I stop as I see a figure straight ahead, and my heart sinks as I recognize the young boy.

He’s staring straight at me.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I tell him, “but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I have to leave. Please, send my regards to your father and ask him to understand.”

I wait, but the boy does not react at all.

“It’s not that I don’t want to play,” I continue. “I’d give anything to be able to play for you, it’s just that once I’ve played, I can never play again. And I can’t face that.”

He still says nothing, so I start making my way cautiously toward him. If I am to get down to the beach, I shall have to continue on this path, which means passing the child.

After a moment, he turns and looks down toward the rocks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that there’s still no sign of any guards coming after me. Turning back to face the child, I consider trying to step past him, but I worry that he might do or say something that will cause a commotion. I remain frozen for a few seconds in indecision, and then finally – realizing that I cannot simply stand here forever – I take couple of faltering steps forward.

“It’s cold up here,” I say, trying to make a little small-talk. “You should go back up to the house.”

Still, he does not reply.

“Not quite yet,” I add suddenly, worried that if he returns he might give me away. “Wait here a while, even though it’s cold. Cold is good for you, it strengthens your immune system, something like that.”

I hesitate, and then I make my way past him. The path ahead is now clear, so I hurry on ahead, and I believe that I can already see the causeway starting to become clear. Then, suddenly filled with a sense of guilt, I stop and look back at the boy. He appears so mournful, standing there all alone, staring down at the rocks.

“I’m sure you’ll hear music some day,” I tell him, hoping to make him feel a little better. “I’m not the only one who can play. I mean, I can’t be. That would simply be absurd. The fate of all music in this world can’t possibly rest on the shoulders of a washed-up has-been with a broken guitar.”

I smile slightly, hoping that the boy might smile as well, but after a moment he turns to me with the same mournful expression that he’s had since I first saw him. I know that I don’t have time to stop and talk to him, but I can’t quite bring myself to simply hurry away.

“Just have faith, okay?” I continue. “I know that’s difficult, but this can’t last forever and eventually it’ll change. You’ll hear so much music, you’ll be sick of the stuff. Besides, there are some up-sides to the current situation. You never have to hear lift music, for one thing. Plus, I can think of half a dozen so-called musical artists whose work I’d gladly leave lost in a void forever. The world was by no means perfect, even when we had music.”

I step toward him and hold out a hand.

“Now how about you come a little way back from the edge?” I add. “I hate to admit it, but you’re making me feel very nervous. I think I’m developing vertigo by proxy.”

He hesitates, and then finally he takes my hand and lets me pull him back. As I do so, I can’t help but peer down at the rocks far below, and I wince as see the waves crashing against all those sharp, jagged points.

“That’s better,” I tell the boy, before patting his shoulder. “And now, if you don’t mind, I really do have to—”

Before I can finish, I hear footsteps nearby, and I turn just in time to see several of Glass’s goons running this way. I instinctively turn to run, but then I realize that there’s no point. If I’d been quicker, perhaps I could have hidden and then escaped later. Perhaps. As things are, it would seem that I have missed my chance and am to be hauled back up to the house.

“It’s okay,” one of the men says over his radio, as they come to fetch me. “We’ve got him.”

A new suit has been laid out for me in my room, along with a rather fine new guitar.

I refuse to touch either.

The door is held open for me by two rather nervous-looking goons, and I amble forward with the battered, Frankenstein guitar in my right hand.

“Mr. Harrisford,” Glass says, as he finishes pouring some glasses of wine and then turns to me, “I’m so—”

He hesitates as soon as he sees me, and it’s clear that he’s displeased by the fact that I have not dressed up like the performing monkey that he was expecting.

His son, Joshua Jr., is sitting on a stool at the side of the room, waiting patiently.

“Mr. Harrisford,” Glass continues finally, having evidently reset himself. He even manages a smile. “I’m so glad that you could join us this evening. We’ve been waiting a long time for tonight. Haven’t we, Joshua?”

When the boy fails to answer, he turns to him.

“ Haven’t we, Joshua?” he says again, more firmly this time.

The boy nods and murmurs a faint, inaudible assent. It would seem that he knows better than to contradict his father.

“This is to be a rather special evening,” Glass continues as he brings a glass of wine over and holds it out for me. “Forgive me for leaving that expensive guitar in your room. I fully understand that you would prefer to play on an old friend.” He looks down at the guitar with barely disguised disgust. “It looks very… homely.”

“It does indeed,” I reply, ignoring the wine even though I would dearly love a taste, “but you’re mistaken about one thing. I have not come here to play. The decision is mine to make, and I have made it. I have come instead to bid you farewell. I shall be leaving now. There’s no need to show me to the door, I can find my way alone.”

“I anticipated your response to the new guitar,” he replies, “so I arranged for another to be here.”

He indicates toward the corner, and I turn to see yet another guitar resting neatly on a stand.

“That one, I believe,” he continues, “is from Italy. It would have cost twenty thousand pounds in the old days. It’s probably worthless today, at least in terms of money.”

“I’m sure it’s a fine guitar,” I tell him. “It’s not going to make me change my mind.”

I see a flicker of irritation on his features, and I can’t help but smile. This man is a tyrant, and it pleases me to stand up to him. Besides, what’s he going to do? Shoot me? Then he really does know that he shall never hear music again.

After a moment he turns and walks away, seemingly lost in thought.

“How long do you think you’ve got left, Mr. Harrisford?” he asks finally, stopping with his back to me.

“I could probably play for a few more minutes,” I tell him, “but not for—”

“I don’t mean that.” He turns to me. “I mean, how long do you think you’ve got left to live? You’re an old man and you’re hardly in good shape. In perfect circumstances you might last a few more years, but with the world as it is, you’ve got… I don’t know, a month or two? I mean, look at you. You’re sweating already, and it’s cool in here.”