Chapter Text
If I had to pick a musical form to describe my ideal life, I would choose the rhapsody.
As another way to say “fantasia”, the rhapsody is naturally a piece that is steeped in romance. Its song must convey the adoration it’s inspired by, and - if played correctly - should inspire those who hear it to find their heart’s truest desire. It is a form of love, a way of showing the world how much you care for what you cherish most. Your lover, your family, your collection of vintage baseball cards; if you care enough for it, you can write a rhapsody for it.
Then again, writing music can be a difficult thing to do. There are so many things to keep track of. Will this harmony sound good with the melody, or should I add more variation to it? Should I write this piece in a simple 3/4 time, a compound 9/8 time, or a mixed ⅝ & ⅜ time? Does this measure have too many notes, or are my eyes playing tricks on me? By the time you’ve written the first page, you’re exhausted and practically seeing things!
The same thing can be said about life. It’s a difficult piece to write, even when you have friends and family to help guide you. It can be full of happy moments, like caprices and scherzos, or sad moments, such as nocturnes and requiems. It can be as carefree as an impromptu or as complicated as an arabesque. All it takes is hard work, dedication, and inspiration.
Of course, that’s an idealized view. In truth, life is much harder and much more confusing. With music, you write down a few notes and then play it. With life, you’re improvising the entire way through. Sometimes things don’t go your way, and other times it seems like the world is looking out for you.
For me, life changed from an etude to a symphony in the span of a day. I went from playing the cello and living with my aunt to… well, fighting demons and playing with magic on a daily basis. In another world.
I know it sounds crazy, but trust me, I’m telling the truth. I lived through this mess, every single second of it, and I know how it seems. Just let me start from the beginning, and you’ll understand.
My last full day on Earth started out like a normal Saturday; a leisurely bicycle ride into town to pick up my mail. Normally I’d pick up the mail after work, but I was expecting a package that should have arrived the day before. Hopefully it would be there today.
The sun was just beginning to rise when I left my tiny cabin and biked down the road into town. The morning air was thick with the smell of morning dew and fresh pine sap, reminding me of pancakes drowning in syrup. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I needed to find breakfast. I picked up a little speed as I topped a hill, and smiled when the town came into view.
As a small town built out in the dark forests of South Dakota, Spruce Creek was never exactly the most popular place to vacation. It was named for the abundance of blue spruce pine trees that bordered the town and the nearby lake, along with the thin trickle of a stream that flowed through town in the summer. It was common to see a few boats far out on the lake during fishing season, but they never got any closer. I had the inkling that they were just locals who lived in the cabins along the southern shore. Spruce Creek was on the northern shore, buried in pines and slowly being consumed by nature. Everything was covered in vines and weeds, and wildflowers lined the dirt road that served as Main Street.
As I sped down the thin dirt road, I briefly glanced at the buildings as I passed them. The town itself was made up of about five stores and a two story building that served as a government building. One store was a gas station that doubled as a grocery, complete with two do-it-yourself gas pumps and chip aisle that left much to be desired. There was only ever one person on duty, and they usually spent their shift standing outside, spitting chew into a dirty cup. I tended to avoid that place unless I needed a snack.
The second building was a small, family-run hardware store that carried anything that could be transported in the back of a small truck. From barely-used tractor engines to spools of colored wire, the place was made for a MacGyver of any rank.
At one time, the third and fourth buildings had been a cobbler and a real estate office. Now, they were closed down and boarded up, their old owners having long since given up on them. Businesses had a tendency to fail once they got far enough from the big cities, and the ones in Spruce Creek were no exceptions.
The fifth building was the post office, and probably the most visited building in a ten mile radius. Every day - except for Sunday, of course - the citizens of Spruce Creek would hike from their cabins to get their mail. Should a mailman willingly drive through the wilderness to deliver the mail to each cabin, they would quickly find out that none of the houses had mailboxes. The people prefered to walk to their mail rather than drive, and I quietly thanked them every day for that. Without the exhaust that puffed constantly from trucks and cars, the air in my town was clean and clear. Every time I took a breath, I felt invigorated. Even after six years of living there, I never got tired of the constant fresh air.
Pulling up in front of the post office, I squeezed my bike’s brakes and skidded to a stop, dirt and rocks shifting under my wheels as I slowed. I didn’t bother chaining my bike to anything. There was nothing to chain it to, and there was almost no chance of someone coming up and stealing it. I left it leaning against the side of the building and walked up the front steps.
The bell above the door jangled cheerfully when I entered, alerting the staff to my arrival. Or at least it would have, had there been a person standing behind the counter. As far as I could tell, no one was around. And yet, there was my package, sitting on the counter with a smaller package resting on top of it. I walked up to the counter, my beat-up sneakers squeaking with every step, and studied the small parcel. It was a small envelope, bulging slightly in the middle. The address was written on, and the handwriting was squarish and precise.
To: Ellen Hammond
32 Lakeside Lane NE
Spruce Creek, SD
There was no return address, but the item was meant for my aunt. I tucked it into my sweater’s pocket and looked back at my own package, a large manilla envelope about an inch thick with a weathered printed label slapped on.
To: Margaret Ayer
28 Lakeside Lane NE
Spruce Creek, SD
The return address in the upper left corner of the envelope was smudged, but still legible. It was from a sheet music company based out in California. They had everything from classical pieces to modern songs, organized by date written and then alphabetical order. I didn’t have much of an internet connection, but I spent most of my time on their website, perusing their archives and ordering sheets in bunches that often totaled above $50. If they were having a sale, I was usually doomed to spend even more. Living in the boonies didn’t give me much to do aside from garden, hike, and play the cello.
My love for music had bloomed at the early age of four, and I remember my parents at the time being relieved. As a third - and probably unexpected - child in a rich family, I was kept out of sight and out of mind by nannies and maids as my parents worked full-time jobs and my brothers went to private school. I’d been alone with the strange women for hours at a time, and had started listening to them sing while they cleaned and did laundry. Their languages confused me, but that hadn’t stopped me from singing along.
When several of them had told my parents that I had a gift for music, they had hired tutor after tutor to find out what I was good at. I could sing decently, but couldn’t play a piano for shit. I’d liked the tuba, but that wasn’t considered an elegant instrument. However, my talent for string instruments had been obvious. My father hadn’t wasted any time in finding me a tutor for each one, starting with the violin and viola.
By the time I’d turned ten, I could play the violin, viola, and cello with the ease of a professional. I had so much potential that my teachers had pushed me to start writing my own music. I had loved the idea of writing my own symphonies, but my parents had insisted that writing music would never go anywhere. I had reluctantly given it up in favor of honing my skills to a fine edge. As a result, I’d been given the chance to attend a prestigious music college abroad once I’d graduated from high school. Not that I’d had the chance to attend.
Sometimes I wondered what would’ve happened if life had been kinder to me. Would I have liked college? Would I have made friends? Would my career have taken off after graduation?
Thinking about roads untraveled left me feeling glum, so I scribbled a thank you to the post office attendant and hurried from the building. The sun was still rising; it couldn’t have been past 8 o’clock. I still had time to get to Aunt Ellen’s before she finished breakfast.
I stuffed the package of sheet music, along with Aunt Ellen’s small parcel, into my backpack and hopped onto my bike. A cloud of dirt kicked up under the wheels as I sped down the gravel road, hair whipping in the wind.
As far as looks went, it was obvious that I liked being outside. My skin was tan and heavily freckled from years spent out in the sun, and my brown hair fell in loose waves halfway down my back. My eyes were a soft gray-blue, like a front of stormclouds in the distance. Aunt Ellen had once told me that with my high brows and long lashes, I had a face that was made for “playing all of the boys like fiddles”. When I’d told her I had no intention of ever talking to a boy again, she’d just hummed and gone back to her gardening.
Soon my aunt’s familiar home appeared up ahead, just beyond a copse of towering pine trees. If you glanced at it, the place would look abandoned or uncared for. Moss covered one side of the one-story log cabin, and a rickety fence smothered in ivy surrounded the other side.
However, beyond the fence was a large garden, full to bursting with edible plants and herbs. It was the only thing on the outside that suggested someone lived there. Aunt Ellen was an expert at living off the land, and she made sure to stock plenty of things for the winter. If she couldn’t grow something, she’d barter with neighboring farms or go into towns with a farmer’s market. She knew how to hunt as well, though I’d never seen her do it. I’d just show up for dinner once in a while to see her skinning a deer in her shed, blood and gore spattered all over her apron. The first time I’d seen her do that, I’d fainted.
I rounded a particularly sharp bend in the dirt road, skidding within an inch of the road’s edge. Beyond it was a five foot drop that ended in a patch of blueberries. Though it was tempting to climb down and pick some, I decided against it. I wasn’t in the mood to climb, get muddy, and stain my hands purple just for a snack. Not when breakfast was waiting for me.
I parked my bike against the fence and adjusted my backpack’s straps. The parcel addressed to my aunt jangled quietly inside its wrapping, reminding me of its presence. What had Aunt Ellen bought? A ring? A necklace? A coil of wire? I was so curious that I wanted to rip open the package right there on her doorstep. However, I knew my aunt wouldn’t be happy with that, so I swallowed my curiosity, and knocked on the door instead.
When the door opened, Aunt Ellen stood in the doorway, her expression changing from a scowl to a knowing smile in an instant. Her wrinkled face was framed by strands of silver gray hair escaping the bun at the back of her neck. She wore a loose white shirt and a pair of denim jeans, both worn thin after many years of use.
“Hello, Maggie dear. A little late this morning, aren’t we?”
I offered my aunt a sheepish smile. “Just a little. I had to stop by the post office and pick up something.”
Ellen arched an eyebrow before turning and heading deeper into the house. I stepped inside and closed the door, ditching my shoes before following her. The smell of cooking meat and fresh bread filled my nose, drawing me to the kitchen like a character from one of those old cartoons. I stayed in the safety of the doorway as my aunt bustled over the stove, flipping strip after strip of bacon while a pan of egg-coated bread fried away next to her. Grease popped around her hands, but she never once flinched. She never flinched at anything.
Even after six years of living with her, Ellen Hammond was still a mystery to me. She looked fairly old and frail from a distance, but up close you could see she was still young at heart. Her brown eyes still held a spark of mischief, and she was spry as hell. She could wield a woodcutter’s ax without breaking a sweat, despite being somewhere in her mid-seventies. Technically, she was my great aunt on my father’s side of the family; the widow of an estranged uncle or something.
The best part about visiting Aunt Ellen was her stories. She always had a tale to tell when I visited, and they seemed to walk the razor’s edge between truth and lie. She’d told me stories about when she’d been a spy in World War 2, a nurse in Vietnam, and even the object of a prince’s affection. Were any of her stories true? I had no idea. That didn’t stop me from enjoying them.
“Anything interesting in that package you received, dear?”
Her sudden question startled me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to see her staring at me expectantly. I quickly dropped my bag and dug through it until I found the battered manila envelope. With a quick rip to one end, I drew out the thick bundle of sheet music and began leafing through them. Most of them were cello solos, and their difficulty ranged dramatically.
“Just sheet music, as usual. New stuff, old stuff. Do you want to look through them? There’s some stuff from The Beatles in here. Didn’t you say you met them once?”
Ellen scoffed as she started plating up the food. “Yes, once or twice. What songs do you have?”
I flicked through the papers once more, scanning the titles. “Blackbird, Across the Universe, Hey Prudence, and I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
She shook her head, chuckling quietly. “You and your strange fascination with romance. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”
The smile on my face faltered. “I’m not fascinated with it. I just...like the music, is all,” I mumbled. I could feel a cold chill climbing my spine, despite the warmth of the kitchen. Memories I’d pushed away long ago came bubbling to the surface in waves. I could hear the sound of a china cup shattering on the floor of my father’s study. I could see the freshly-brewed espresso seeping into an expensive tapestry rug. My mother's pearl rosary wound tightly around her lithe fingers and pressed to her thin lips, its string a moment away from snapping. My father's face red from rage and shame as he shouted at me. My brothers’ expressions blank and emotionless as they drove me away from the only home I'd known.
“Maggie? Come back to me, dearie.”
I looked up sharply to see Ellen standing on front of me, her hands resting gently on my own. She carefully pulled me to my feet and took the sheet music from my grip, placing it on the counter behind her before pressing her palms to my cheeks. She felt oddly warm, but it was comforting. I found myself sniffling and leaning into her touch, as if keeping her close would chase the cold and the memories away. She was safety. She was home.
“There you are,” she said with a smile. “No more of that today, yes? Let’s have breakfast, then you can help me in the garden. I think we could both use a little relaxing, hm?”
I sniffled again and nodded, rubbing at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. Doing a little weeding for her always made me feel better.
From breakfast until sunset, I crawled through my aunt’s garden, pulling every manner of weed I could find. When I had a basket full of dead and dying weeds, she would direct me to the small garbage can nearby, where she kept food for her rabbit hutch. When she wasn’t looking, I’d sneak around to the shed and stick a few green leaves through the chicken wire cage, offering the tiny creatures a little treat. They always accepted an offering.
By the time the sun began to dip below the treeline, I was exhausted but happy. I felt as though I’d just finished a marathon. My limbs felt heavy, but my mind was at peace. I would sleep well that night.
With our work finished, Aunt Ellen was more than willing to make me a little food before I headed out. She tucked a bag of freshly-picked fruits and vegetables into my backpack, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and sent me on my way with a fond goodnight.
I knew the way back to my cabin by heart, and the ride home passed in a blur of green trees and sunset sky. I barely registered hopping off my bike and bringing it inside, or even taking off my ratty sneakers on the mat inside. I did, however, notice when my backpack jangled unusually as I dropped it on my couch.
After a moment of digging, I found the source of the noise: Aunt Ellen’s parcel. I screeched a curse, suddenly feeling a headache appearing on the horizon. How could I have forgotten to give my aunt her package? How dumb was I? I’d picked things up for her so many times before today. What if this was something important? What if she needed it?
A moment later, I let out a loud sigh and set the tiny envelope on top of my backpack. There was no point in freaking out about it now. It was almost dark, and trying to bike through a pitch-black forest was never a good idea. I would just have to wait until tomorrow to give it to her.
Fifteen minutes later the house was locked up, the fresh food was tucked away in the fridge, and I was ready for bed. The temptation to watch a movie on my laptop was great, but I decided against it; I would’ve just fallen asleep a few minutes into one. I left my computer on my desk and burrowed under my blankets, sleep already pulling me away from the waking world.
Tomorrow, I would give Aunt Ellen her package. Then I would finally get to play some of my new music. But first, sleep.