Andrew's Song

This short story contains spoilers for my novel, "Across the Distance." Facing the death of his dreams, Andrew plays one last song.

Andrew’s Song

 

Slender fingers, quivering on old strings, coaxing a sweet, familiar melody.  Andrew’s song. Eyes closed, mind far away, fluttering to the beloved home where tiny fingers pressed on fragile strings guided by scarred, rough hands with a gentle touch.  Before the water and toil took the second pair away leaving the first to play alone. 

            And the song went on to this day.  His fingers had been cold before when they played in the snow to earn a few coins. It had served to make them more nimble when they were warm again and being trained for career playing for the elite. And yet �" through that �"they were back to being cold. 

            What irony. The churning waters which had forced the song to stop at school, now lay still as glass but still seem bent on destroying the music. His eyes stay closed, refusing to show their fear. His song continues. Will continue until his very breath forces their silence. For his song is all that he has left. He plays for courage. He plays for strength. He plays to calm. He opened his eyes to gaze at the stars. The same stars that can be seen at home. The same moon that shows its light into Clara’s window.

            Clara. Who sleeps in blissful ignorance. Is she dreaming of him? And perhaps the moon drapes its light across her face and caresses her ring. His promise. His broken promise. And yet he stays in denial letting his promise play out. Where he knocks on the door. Where they are reunited. Where they are married. Where he takes care of her. Where he rescues her. When the glaring truth accuse that such fantasies are futile when he cannot even rescue himself. He will face the truth when he has to. Until then he will pretend that the cold is from a long walk home. And that the tipping of the floor is really the last hill to climb before he reaches the house. He will not think of anything else. He will only play. Always play. It is his passion, his prayer, and his final plea. His plea which is answered by the screams. And suddenly, the hill home becomes too hard to climb. And the dream is gone. He stumbles, one hand cleaning to his violin, the other grasping for the railing to clutch, as his bow slides down the ship’s angle, following the path where the last lifeboat had been released.

            He tightens his grip as his feet slip out from under him, fear surfacing in a crushing wave, as he catches sight of the black water looming below. The stern of the ship continues to rise as though it is a giant hand raising them in sacrifice to the gods. He loses his grip-stumbles-rolls. His violin cracks as the ship does, plummeting back toward the sea. The wood cracks as he tumbles on top of his prize. Strings break, a twang being their final melody. One snaps across his face leaving a stinging line. He slams up against a railing, now acting as a floor And gasps a terrified breath - for  though he’s brave enough to hand off his tie to life to a young immigrant child - he is, after all, only a man. And he rides the ship down, clutching the neck of his broken violin. And then the cold plunge-so cold that it feels as though flames lick up on either side-not only burning like fire but crushing like a rock. The water caves his chest, stealing his breath as though a giant finger has risen out of the sea and touched it, willing it not to move.

The beloved instrument bobs away, as its master fights to keep his head above water. He cannot swim. Never could. Never wanted to. But he clings tightly to a deck chair, willing himself to stay afloat as his white jacket becomes logged with icy water. The burning settles on top of his skin like thousands of needles or something that is  scratching it, while the cold settles deep in his muscles like an iron grip, crushing them. His face and arms that are out of the water burn as though they have been scalded by water. He thinks of Clara. He thinks of his widowed mother. He thinks of five brothers and sisters. All depending on him. All he wanted to do, was to give them what they need. To take care of them since his father could not. And her father would not. What would they do without him? He panics, thrashes, and begins to sob as his muscles shake uncontrollably from the icy pain.

Clara. He can’t even say her name. He’s chattering too hard. Their song floats through his head, a small comfort in the storm. And still the moon glints from above. And the stars twinkle as if they have a wonderful secret. He expects his body to grow numb, but it does not. A light in the distance. He thinks it’s a ship. But it an illusion. The northern lights. Something to tell Clara about. He lets himself slip back into his dream. And as the darkness closes in, he sees her face, picks up his violin and music goes on. And suddenly, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because Clara is already there.