Blackberry Blue

by Jamila Gavin

  At first the notes rose from the strings like trees wailing and whistling in the wind, or birds calling to each other in the forest, and everyone stood spellbound. But then he began to tap his foot, and the music seemed to descend to earth with jiggety-joggety rhythms, and soon other villagers appeared, still sleepy from the night before. But even so, as the boy played, they couldn’t help linking arms, dancing and swinging in circles and squares and hops and skips. Even babies bounced up and down in their mothers’ arms, and everybody smiled, then laughed, then cheered.

  But a few people wanted to drive him away.

  ‘Send him back where he came from,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘But where did he come from?’ asked another. Then they all looked up the mountain behind them and nodded to each other. It loomed high above the village, with its steep sides, and chasms that could swallow you up. Sheer precipices fell thousands of feet, and its peak was never seen, for there was always a barrier of white swirling mist above which no one, in living memory, had ever ventured.

  ‘A magician lives up there,’ they told each other, and warned their children never to climb too high.

  A few brave ones had gone to the very edges of this white void, but never beyond, for how could anyone see the path, or know where the dangerous chasms and crevasses were? Sometimes, far above, they would hear the rumble of tumbling rocks, and the roar of landslides, and say, ‘There’s the magician casting his spells.’

  ‘That’s it!’ laughed someone. ‘The odd boy came down from the mountain!’

  ‘Well, if he did, he should go back; he may be a sorcerer’s child,’ someone warned, and they all laughed a little shakily, for no one was ever sure if the stories were true.

  ‘At any rate, Oddboy doesn’t belong here,’ they agreed, and they pointed him towards the mountain, telling him to go back where he’d come from.

  But Oddboy had sacrificed his voice to be in a land of colour and sound and people again. Although he could say nothing, his violin spoke for him: of how he longed to stay in this pretty village with its honey stone walls, and its orchards of green apples, golden pears and red plums and cherries; and how he delighted in the bubbling river that tumbled down from some unknown mountain source above. His music danced as he thought of all this beauty around him, and people couldn’t help smiling when he seemed able to express all the things they wanted to hear: happiness, thoughtfulness, jollity and, sometimes, heartbreaking sadness. He never wanted to go back to the grey kingdom of the magician. But still they wanted to send him away.

  Then old blind Mr Petamenghi, the village music teacher and fiddler for all events, said, ‘No, no, no! Don’t talk silly nonsense. If he wants to stay, let him stay. We can’t let such a wonderful fiddler go. He can live with me and my grandson, Remus. Never have I heard such magical playing in all my born days. If only . . .’ He paused, then bit his lip and said nothing more.

  But Remus knew that, though he had been brought up to play from the cradle and was expected to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, he would never be as good a violinist as Oddboy. All the stranger had to do was lift his fiddle under his chin and play, and people would begin to tap their feet, or sway dreamily, or break into a dance.

  Oddboy soon earned his keep, for he was always in demand to play at weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, name days, birthdays, anniversaries, fêtes and parties, and he quickly began to feel at home. Every evening after supper, Mr Petamenghi would sit in his chair by the fire and say, ‘Oddboy, play for me,’ and Oddboy would pick up his fiddle and play a tune which seemed full of mysterious longing, but which always expressed all his gratitude.

  ‘What is the name of that melody?’ asked Grandfather Petamenghi. And when Oddboy couldn’t reply, he said, ‘Well, it seems to me to sing of a land of colour and sunshine. Is that where you came from? Is that where your home is? I’ll call your tune “The Song of Home”,’ and he muttered words which somehow came into his head, and which fitted:

  ‘I sing of a land

  Where roses blow,

  And lemons grow,

  And orange trees float in a deep green shade.’

  How it soothed the blind old man, the beautiful sounds bringing him greater joy and peace than he had ever known.

  How galling for Remus, who had to carry on caring for his grandfather, as he had done for years: cooking and cleaning, fetching and carrying, and then practising the violin as much as he could, because it meant so much to Grandfather, who wanted him to be the village fiddler when he himself was too old to carry on.

  Yet, even though he practised and practised, Remus knew he would never be as good as Oddboy. And the more he practised, the more dispirited he became. People used to think he was a good fiddler, and it was he who would have been asked to play for them if Mr Petamenghi wasn’t available. But now they always demanded Oddboy.

  One day, while Remus was dutifully doing his daily practice, Grandfather Petamenghi asked Oddboy to harness the horse and cart and go out into the forest to collect logs for the fire. So Oddboy set off to do the old man’s bidding. As soon as he’d gone, Remus noticed Oddboy’s violin lying on the bed, and he couldn’t help picking it up. It didn’t seem to be made of the same wood as his, and when he peered inside the body of the instrument, he saw it was painted with oranges and lemons entwined in dark green leaves and encircled with roses – just like the words that had come into his grandfather’s head when listening to Oddboy’s melody.

  Remus put the violin to his chin and drew the bow across the strings. Immediately, the most beautiful sound emerged.

  ‘Oddboy? Is that you?’ blind old Mr Petamenghi called out.

  Remus hurriedly picked up his own fiddle and scratched the strings. ‘No, Grandfather! It’s just me, practising,’ he answered.

  ‘Hmm . . . For a moment you sounded as good as Oddboy. You’re improving,’ said his grandfather.

  Yes, thought Remus to himself. If I owned a violin like this, everyone would think I was a wonderful fiddler too.

  The longer Oddboy stayed, the more resentful of him Remus became. It seemed to him that Oddboy was making himself too much at home. Remus began to feel unwanted, and wished that this interloper would go away.

  The weather turned very cold. There was snow in the air and the logs were running low. After a while Mr Petamenghi asked Oddboy to take the horse and cart into the forest to collect more wood. Oddboy went to the stable, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Remus said to his grandfather, ‘I’ll go instead of Oddboy. I know where the best wood is.’

  ‘You’re a good lad,’ murmured Grandfather Petamenghi.

  Oddboy was turning onto the track when Remus ran up and said, ‘When you reach the fallen log, take the path to the left, for there you will find plenty of wood.’ He knew he was sending Oddboy into a dark, tangled part of the forest where the cart could get mired up, and he might easily get lost.

  Expecting Oddboy to be away for a very long time, Remus ran back into the house and, saying not a word, went up to Oddboy’s room. There was the violin lying on his bed. He picked it up, put it to his chin and began to play. Strange, beautiful sounds came from the fiddle.

  Grandfather Petamenghi called from below. ‘Oddboy, come down and play to me in the parlour. I do so love to hear you.’

  So Remus went downstairs and, without saying a word, sat near the window playing Oddboy’s fiddle. Grandfather listened intently to the notes coming from the strings. ‘This is a different sort of music,’ he murmured. ‘Something’s changed. Aren’t you happy with us any more? What are you thinking, Oddboy? Play me “The Song of Home”.’

  But of course it wasn’t Oddboy playing, it was Remus, and he couldn’t play ‘The Song of Home’. The violin wouldn’t let him. Instead it was playing out Remus’s inner thoughts: by now Oddboy must have reached the log in the wood; he must be following the track to the left, he was thinking. The track ran deep into the forest, where it soon led into a dense thicket and, with the snow falling thick
and fast, and the air so cold, Oddboy’s fingers would freeze. That notion pleased Remus a lot. If only – oh, if only Oddboy never came back, the marvellous violin would be his for ever, and his grandfather would praise him. That’s what Remus was thinking, and those were the thoughts that came from his fingers, speaking through the violin.

  His music got faster and faster, and his heart thudded in time to the beat as he thought of the riches he would gain. His grandfather cried out fearfully: ‘Oddboy? Is it really you? Your playing disturbs me. I have never heard dark thoughts in your music before. It seems to me full of plotting and scheming; of hatred, even. Where is my grandson? Is he home yet?’

  Just then, there was the sound of a horse and cart crunching on the hard snow outside. Oddboy was back. The door was flung open, and there he stood, his arms full of logs. He dumped them in the hearth, then turned and gazed a long and piercing gaze at the deceiving grandson.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back so soon, Remus, my boy! Oddboy was playing such disturbing music; it unsettled me.’

  ‘Yes, Grandfather. I’m back with a cart full of logs. I’ll stock up the fire and heat up some stew for supper,’ said Remus, thrusting the fiddle at Oddboy. What did he care if Oddboy stared at him as if he were a traitor? What could he do about it? How do the dumb speak to the blind? He stomped away defiantly.

  Oddboy looked at the blind old man, sprawled in his chair with tears on his cheeks, and began to play ‘The Song of Home’.

  Grandfather Petamenghi relaxed and smiled. ‘That’s better,’ he sighed. ‘Whenever you play that music, I see a beautiful golden land, with groves of orange and lemon trees, and mountains of snow that run down to an azure sea. And I think that must be your home . . . Oddboy . . .’ His voice trailed away. ‘Is that where you come from?’ he murmured, half asleep.

  But now Remus became obsessed with driving Oddboy away. He spread stories in the village that there was something definitely odd about Oddboy. ‘Our milk curdles whenever Oddboy fetches the pail from the cow; our best hen has stopped laying eggs; chairs move across the room all by themselves; and I saw the kitchen table rise up to the ceiling, all four legs off the ground – I swear! And last week, after Oddboy took out the horse and cart, the horse fell sick.’

  Someone murmured, ‘A devil’s child, to be sure.’ Others nodded in agreement.

  ‘Get rid of him, get rid of him,’ they muttered. ‘We always knew there was something odd about him.’

  ‘But he has cast the biggest spell of all over my grandfather,’ said Remus grimly. ‘My grandfather thinks he’s an angel, not a devil. He won’t hear a word said against him. He will never send him away. I think Oddboy has made my grandfather love him more than me.’

  ‘Send him back where he came from,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Yes, send him back, send him back . . .’ The voices rose in agreement.

  ‘But where did he come from?’ asked another. Then they all looked up at the mountain.

  Through the deep winter, no one did anything. The snow was too thick, and everyone just con centrated on keeping warm and finding enough food to eat.

  But one morning, in early spring, some men and boys from the village passed by Mr Petamenghi’s cottage in a horse and cart. They said that many of the stone walls had been damaged during the winter, and they were off to the quarry at the base of the mountain to get some more.

  ‘We need the boys to help,’ they said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Grandfather Petamenghi, and ordered Remus and Oddboy to join the villagers. But very soon into their journey, some of the children began to tease Oddboy.

  ‘You don’t belong here – you’ve brought nothing but bad luck to the village. Did you hear Mrs Borrowday fell and broke her leg? And Mr Heston’s dog became sick and died, and Marjorie Yates . . .’

  They reached the mountain and set to work collecting stones, all the while telling tales of things that had gone wrong.

  ‘The worst thing,’ grumbled Remus, ‘is that he’s turned my grandfather against me. I’m the one who fetches and carries. Don’t I do everything for him now that he’s blind? But do I get any gratitude? No, it’s all Oddboy this, and Oddboy that. He thinks Oddboy can do no wrong. He’s ruining my life. We should take him up the mountain. After all, isn’t that where he came from?’

  ‘Yes! Let’s take him up the mountain,’ hissed another boy. ‘We might be able to lose him. You wouldn’t mind that, would you, Remus?’

  The lads wandered further away from the main group, and herded Oddboy between them onto a winding path that ascended the mountain. Higher and higher they went, laughing and jeering and shoving Oddboy in the back and tripping him up, as if they hoped he might tumble down the hillside. At first they were on a track wide enough for a cart, and they barely noticed how the path dwindled. It became narrower and narrower, till there was barely enough room to put one foot in front of the other, and then they realized the danger they were in. The boys stopped and shuddered at the terrifying chasms that yawned below; one false step, and they could plunge to their deaths.

  Ahead of them was the thick white mist that never cleared from the upper reaches of the mountain; the mist that no one in the village had ever dared to penetrate; where, perhaps, a magician lived. The boys looked at Oddboy, their gaze full of threat. ‘Keep going,’ they said, urging him forward into the mist that they themselves wouldn’t dare to enter. ‘Go home, Oddboy,’ they said, blocking his way down.

  Oddboy stared at Remus; then, raising an arm in sad farewell, he entered the mist and disappeared.

  Remus and his friends stood there for a long time, laughing and joking with each other as if to cover their shame, and thinking that Oddboy might reappear any moment; then they could forget that they had thought of doing anything wrong, and go home as if nothing had happened. But all they could hear was the eerie creaking of a glacier, and the occasional trickle of pebbles.

  Far below, Remus could see his village bathed in glorious evening sun, and his grandfather’s cottage on the edge of the forest. What would he tell him? he wondered. Remus gave one shout – ‘Oddboy! We’re going back now!’ – so that he could honestly say he had tried to find him. There came no answer; only a single shriek from an eagle far above his head.

  Shadows were engulfing the slopes like a vast purple cloak, and the boys knew they must get off the mountain before night. ‘Just leave him,’ they said. ‘It’s not our fault if he falls over a cliff, or is lost in the mist. Good riddance. He’s either in the arms of God or in the lap of the devil.’

  And when Remus remembered Oddboy’s violin lying on the bed back in the cottage, he shivered to think it could be his now. Soon people would want him to be their fiddler, and perhaps it would be like the good old days when it was just him and his grandfather.

  ‘Come on,’ Remus said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You’ve been away a long time,’ cried Mr Petamenghi when Remus came in. ‘I was so worried.’

  ‘It was hard work, Grandfather,’ cried Remus, his voice light and energetic. ‘I’ll build up the fire and get supper going.’

  ‘I hope Oddboy didn’t damage his fingers shifting all those stones,’ sighed the blind old man. ‘Let me feel them.’ He stretched out his hands.

  But Remus said, ‘Oddboy is unharnessing the cart and rubbing down the horse.’ He couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth; his grandfather would be distraught. So, after a while, he opened and shut the door as though Oddboy had come in, and he talked to him as if he were there – ‘Oddboy, ladle out three bowls of soup for us!’ – and he moved around as if there were two of them.

  After supper, Remus clattered the bowls and spoons, behaving as though Oddboy were at the table. Then, as usual, he helped his grandfather into his chair by the fire, and the old man said, ‘Oddboy, play for me.’

  Remus’s footsteps crossed the room, pretending to be Oddboy. He climbed the stairs and went into the bedroom. There was the wonderful violin lying on the bed. He picked it up and
stroked the wood. He took up the bow and tightened the golden hair, then he went downstairs and sat where Oddboy played to the old man each evening.

  Remus felt a quiver of excitement as he raised the bow to the strings. He played a single note. It was as pure as a drop of water. He played another note, followed by another and another, shaping it into a tune. He was full of such joy himself that, suddenly, it was Oddboy’s tune flowing from the violin.

  Grandfather Petamenghi sighed with pleasure, and murmured the words with the music:

  ‘I sing of a land

  Where roses blow . . .’

  Grandfather Petamenghi had just fallen asleep when Remus heard a tapping at the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered without opening it.

  ‘That’s my tune. Give me back my violin.’ There was a sudden rustling and flapping of feathers.

  ‘Never,’ hissed Remus. ‘Go away. I don’t know you.’ And after a while, the tapping stopped.

  The second evening, he again deceived his grandfather, pretending to be himself as well as Oddboy. After supper, when the old man said, ‘Play for me, Oddboy,’ Remus picked up the fiddle and played. ‘What a joy you are to me, Oddboy. Angels couldn’t produce such a sound,’ he murmured as he fell asleep.

  There was a sound of insistent tapping, as if a beak were pecking at the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ whispered Remus.

  ‘Give me back my violin.’

  ‘Never,’ hissed Remus. ‘Go away. You don’t belong here.’

  On the third night, Remus talked once more as if Oddboy were still around. He made enough sounds for two, and set the table for three, scraping chairs and clattering plates. After he had cleared everything away, his grandfather said, ‘Play for me, Oddboy,’ and Remus picked up the fiddle and began to play ‘The Song of Home’. He hadn’t meant to play that tune – he would rather have played something else – but somehow his fingers did whatever they wanted.