The Maestro

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  A moment passed. Burl drank some coffee. A whitethroated sparrow sang. Somewhere across the lake a loon called.

  “It was my fault,” said Burl. “I should have been more careful with the garbage.”

  “No,” said the Maestro. “You are not to blame. In truth, I’m completely out of my element. A boy-of-the-woods like you must think me a complete nincompoop living here like this. And you’d be right, I am a shrewd businessman, Burl. A canny Scot by birth and inclination. I do not throw money away, though I have a great deal of it. This cabin— this rustic temple—is my folly. Do you know what a folly is? It’s a building meant to satisfy an elaborate fantasy. It is, in short, the work of a fool. I am no more equipped to live here than that beast out there would be equipped to live in Toronto. He, at least, would be able to find himself some dinner. I would starve in a minute if it weren’t for my monthly airlift. And I have a man come up by train every other week to hook up the next drum of diesel fuel and generally do for me whatever needs to be done.”

  Burl shifted uneasily in his seat. “Why don’t you go back to Toronto? Are you are in trouble there?”

  The Maestro smiled at him, and it was perhaps the sweetest smile Burl had seen yet. There hadn’t been all that many.

  “I am only in whatever trouble I cook up for myself,” he said. “And, as you have experienced, I am not much of a cook.”

  “Supper was great,” said Burl.

  “Nonsense. Let’s call a scrambled egg a scrambled egg. Besides, I wasn’t really talking about that kind of cooking.”

  The Maestro picked up the sheet of music he had been working on. “This is my crack at immortality,” he said.

  Burl crossed the room to look at the music. “Song of Victory” was scrawled in capitals across the top. “Is this the oratorio?”

  “Part of it.”

  It looked to Burl like a bunch of dots and lines flying all over the page. “Couldn’t you do this in Toronto?”

  The Maestro took the sheet of music from him. “I left Toronto to escape the Shadow. The Shadow is phone calls and luncheon meetings and people still wanting me to come out of retirement and perform in Santiago or teach in New York or lecture in Moscow or just show up at a party and look like a composer. The Shadow is disturbance. It is the beast that keeps me away from writing this. And it’s far more persistent than our visitor tonight.”

  He replaced the sheets of music on one of the piles on his desk. He neatened the sides.

  “You’ll need some new rocks,” said Burl.

  The Maestro chuckled. “I’ve got enough up here,” he said, tapping himself on the skull. He looked past Burl out at the gathering dawn. His eyes squinted.

  “A man on a train told me about this lake,” he said, leaning forward in his chair now, the fires in his eyes relit. “He heard about it from an archaeologist. This spot was on a native portage route. This very beach was a campsite ten thousand years ago. Think of it. They have found arrowheads and flint tools right here.

  “The man on the train was a prospector. He had staked a mining claim here, but he didn’t really expect to find anything. Not gold or silver or anything more precious than he could see with his naked eye. He just fell in love with the natural beauty of the place. When he told me it was on the CPR train route, just a good healthy half-hour walk in— Mile 29, he called it—well, I knew I had to see it. But when I actually came here, I knew what I needed more than health, more even than the quiet, was the solitude. I was sure that only in utter isolation would I be able to see what St. John saw, though I dare say this is a far cry from his hot little Greek Island.”

  The Maestro dug out a book from the litter before him. It was the Bible.

  “Do you know your Bible?”

  Burl shook his head.

  “The Book of Revelation. Wild stuff,” said the Maestro enthusiastically. “Last book in the New Testament. As if anything could follow it. It’s written by someone named John, who may or may not be John the Apostle—there are far too many Johns in the Bible. He was exiled for being a Christian to a small island called Patmos. I love that name. I’m thinking of calling the opening movement ‘Patmospheres.’ Do you get it?”

  Burl wasn’t sure. The Maestro frowned.

  “Anyway, back to the exiled John. Are you a Christian, Burl?”

  “My grandmother is.”

  “How clever of her. It’s quite a juggling act. All those truths you have to hold onto at once. I’m not sure I’m up to it, but it makes for a fabulous story.”

  “A revelation,” said Burl. “Is that like when you see into the future?”

  “Yes, prophecy. The Greek word is apocalypse. John’s apocalypse is a fabulous dream about the end of the world. Armageddon, the battlefield where the kings of the lower world are gathered together by the beast and the dragon and the antichrist—I use a lot of trombones for them—to do battle on Christ. So there’s this war in heaven, and a lament after the fall of Babylon and then a Song of Victory as all the good guys get to go to the New Jerusalem in heaven. It’s got everything.”

  Burl went to the piano and played the progression of chords he had learned. “And this is in it?”

  The Maestro looked over the top of his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. He seemed almost to have forgotten teaching the boy the chords.

  “Amazing,” he said. “What a marvellous teacher you must have. That’s the quiet in heaven just after the lamb breaks the seventh seal. In the Bible the silence lasts half an hour. I’m tempted to make the audience sit through a half hour of silence, but I’ll allow myself to be talked out of that.” He started to hum. Stopped, his lips pursed.

  “This is to be my Handel’s Messiah. There will be massed choirs, an orchestra so large there won’t be a single good fiddle player out of work in all of Canada, and me at the organ pulling out all the stops. What do you think?”

  “It sounds awesome.”

  “Yes, precisely. Awesome. Except for one thing, Burl. I’ve got to finish writing it first.”

  An involuntary muscle spasm made its way down the Maestro’s right cheek. His eyes filled with a kind of sorrow that seemed to leap across the space between the man and the boy.

  “I didn’t know,” said Burl.

  “Know what?”

  “How important it was. Being alone here. I’ve wrecked it.” “Wrecked it? I’ll say you wrecked it. You saved my useless life.”

  “But you’re not useless! You’re going to write this acopolit, acropol—this oratorio. And then you’ll be even more famous.”

  The Maestro leaned so far forward that his chin rested on the table. “Yes,” he said. “And then the next child who stumbles out of the woods into my life will be sure to know of the immortal Nathaniel Orlando Gow.”

  Burl felt foolish. “I don’t know hardly anything.”

  The Maestro straightened up in his chair. “You scared off that hairy thing, and for that I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Any fool can scare off a bear,” said Burl. “You just make a lot of noise. But you make music. That’s a lot harder.”

  The Maestro was not listening. “Tonight’s episode convinces me I must get back to civilization.”

  “What about the oratorio?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that. I have almost a full first sketch. The only thing that needs a lot of work is the Seven Trumpets bit, which is when all the pestilence and plagues and fires happen. You’ve heard of the four horsemen of the apocalypse? No, of course you haven’t. You are a wild child raised in the woods by wolves. What do you know of anything.”

  He sounded vexed, disappointed. As if he thought he had been talking to someone who understood what he was saying.

  Burl finished off the dregs of his coffee. He swivelled in his chair to look out the window. A light mist rose like cold fire from the folds and creases of the forest. In the bay, a merganser paddled by with a brood of ducklings. Twelve, thirteen—too many to be all her own. Sometimes a pike or a snapping turtle got a mothe
r.

  The Maestro sighed deeply, closed his eyes. “I’m so very tired.” He got up from his desk, crawled across his mattress and searched through the medicine bag. “Tired of the whole thing.” He popped something else into his mouth.

  He heaved himself to his feet, yawned and stretched. He stood at the window next to where Burl sat stoop-shouldered, looking out at the mists burning off the water. As he watched, the sun appeared above the eastern rim of the trees, a white ghost of a thing.

  “I don’t know how you found me,” said the Maestro, “but I think I’m almost glad you did.”

  Burl swallowed hard. “I’ll clean up that mess outside,” he said.

  “Good for you.”

  The Maestro’s voice was already distant, pulling away. He pulled a string and released an opaque black curtain that covered half the window. From the other side he released a second curtain that blocked out the lake from view. Then he proceeded to the other two windows, until the room was reduced to the mean little glow of the electric light he had turned on at his desk when his candles had burned out.

  “I hate to see the sun rise,” he said.

  10

  The Ogre

  IT WAS GOOD TO GET OUTSIDE. THE AIR WAS cool, and a wind from the east was already picking up, making the aspens tremble, ruffling the mirror surface of the bay and blowing the mist away.

  Burl quickly went about cleaning up after the bear. The path to the shed was littered with garbage. The shed door had been clawed open; the inside was a mess. He emptied it completely and discovered a hammer head with a broken section of handle still in it. He could use it to make a plate to strengthen the door. Then, when there was time, he could carve a new handle.

  If he were to stay, there were many chores that needed attention. Something would have to be done about the garbage. Burnable things would have to be burned; cans would have to be washed clean of scent and squashed flat. Leftovers would have to be taken to some distant spot, preferably an island—he had seen islands from the clifftop —but, in any case, a long way from the cabin.

  Burl stopped working long enough to imagine hauling his old canoe up here somehow. It was under wrap and in need of repair in the shed out back of his father’s house. It seemed impossible he could ever get back there. And yet this beautiful lake was at Mile 29—that’s what the Maestro had said. Pharaoh was at Mile 10. The CPR track went pretty well due north out of Pharaoh and then curved west. North by northwest had led him across the base of a triangle joining these two places. Not such a distance and yet so far away, it seemed.

  The chill air made him shiver, and he got back to work. He was pleased that there would be something for him to do for as long as he was here.

  When the shed was ship-shape, Burl searched through the used paint tins until he found one with some creosote in it. He had noticed that the posts under the deck were coated in the thick black coal tar. With a crusty old paintbrush he smeared the largest piece of plywood he could find. Then he placed it just inside the door with the garbage bags behind it. When the bear came sniffing for treats, he would get a nose full of creosote instead. It might keep him from exploring any farther.

  Satisfied with the job he had done, Burl locked the shed. There had been a padlock all along. It was sitting on a shelf, the key still in it. Burl pocketed the key. The shed would be his responsibility.

  The door seemed quite sturdy. Maybe later with his refurbished hammer he would fix the bear’s damage to the cabin door with some scrap wood and nails. He found himself thinking of the natives who had made tools on this beach ten thousand years earlier.

  He combed the beach. The sun had burned a hole in the mist. It would be a good clear day. Out on the bay he saw something swimming towards the shore. A mink, with a fish in its mouth. The mink saw Burl, too, and, dropping its breakfast in the shallows, it snaked over the rocky shore and slipped quietly into the bush. Burl splashed through the water to the dead fish. It was a sucker, a chunky one with its head already gone.

  Burl suddenly remembered his twice-stolen lure. It was back in the cabin. And there was bailer wire in the shed. He could catch a fish. Make the Maestro a real meal and make himself indispensable while he was at it. He raced back to the cabin, entering it very quietly.

  The genius twitched but did not awaken. When Burl had his Brazen Wiggler, he grabbed himself some cheese and a heel of bread. He took a pocketful of plums as well, and a can of soda. The Maestros borrowed pants had deep pockets.

  He got the bailer wire from the shed and then followed the beach out towards the beaver lodge. The lodge would be near deep water. Maybe there would be a perch hole there, maybe some bass.

  But before he reached the dam he came to a spot where a creek emptied into the bay. There was a tumble of rocks, boulders the size of small cars standing sentry at the creek head. A big fish would like the water there, deep and clear. The rocks made a cool hiding spot for a fish to wait for what shuffled down the creek. A juicy crayfish, maybe; an even juicier bullfrog.

  Burl found his way to the top of a boulder and sat cross-legged, preparing his gear. The sun on his back filled him with warmth. He had found a hand-sized piece of wood into which he cut notches at either end with his pocket knife. He tied the bailer wire onto the wood and wound it on the way you wind a kite string onto its spool. Then he tied on the Brazen Wiggler.

  There were blueberry bushes growing up behind him. He snacked on the few berries he could find so late in the season. Then, looking up for another mouthful, he saw a fat black caterpillar with a red stripe down its back. Carefully he pulled it away from the bush. He looked at it in his hand. It was a lot prettier than a worm. He hooked it onto his lure. What fish could resist such a meal?

  Burl lowered his line into the water and settled down to wait. His father had said that the time you spent fishing was free, didn’t count in the reckoning of your lifespan. If you totaled up the hours you spent with a baited line in the water, you could just add those hours onto the end of your life and spin it out a bit longer. At first Burl thought his father had made this up. Then he saw the same idea woodburned on a sign in the Woolworth’s. Still, the waiting was good with a cheese sandwich filling up your belly and the sun beginning to cook the shivers out of you. Burl got a little sleepy. The morning wore on.

  The fish hammered the bait like thunder. Pow! The hand line almost jumped from his grasp. He grabbed onto it hard and with both hands began to spool in his line.

  The fish leaped from the water. A big bass, blondeskinned from swimming in such a sandy reach. It jumped again. Burl was sure he would lose it, but the lure was in deep. If he could just hold on. If he’d had his rod he would have given the fish some slack, let it run, wear itself out, but he couldn’t do that. It jumped a third time, vomiting up a frog.

  Burl scrambled down the rock to a ledge nearer the water. While he was making his way down, the bass swam deep and under a submerged log. At the last second, Burl saw the ploy and pulled the fish away from the log. Then he tugged and tugged and muscled it in. Reaching down, he grabbed the fish by its lower jaw, his thumb in its mouth.

  It was big and strong, wet dynamite. He wasted no time getting it to the safety of the shore, up in the rough grass, fearing that with one powerful leap such a creature might make good its escape even now.

  He tied three strands of bailer wire through its mouth until he was sure it was secure. Then he waded out into the bay and let the fish back down into its watery home. He must keep it alive, fresh until he filleted it. It swam beside him like an angry dog on a leash. He didn’t walk fast, didn’t want to drown his catch.

  As he approached the cabin, the Maestro stepped out onto the deck in his coats, though by now the sun was high.

  He watched Burl approach, but the boy held in his excitement and waited until he was at the deck before he spoke.

  “Got something for your breakfast,” he said. He hauled his trophy out of the drink. It flapped in his grasp, gasping for breath. He stared at it hi
mself, admiring the muscled beauty of the creature glinting in the sun.

  The Maestro looked away. He was looking out over the water, his hair—what there was of it—riffled by the breeze off the lake. Burl glanced quickly to see what in the world could possibly be more appealing than this miracle of flesh.

  There was nothing. Only the lake, mistless now, clear.

  “Yes, well,” said the Maestro without looking at him. “I guess that’s about the last straw.”

  Burl waded ashore. He stood at the bottom of the steps, breathing hard.

  “This setting is far too distracting to work in,” said the Maestro. No good morning. No congratulatory smile. He seemed to be having trouble getting his breath. “What was I thinking,” he mumbled. “What on earth was I thinking.” He leaned against the railing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I was.”

  “It’s a smallmouth bass,” said Burl. “I caught it with some bailer twine I found in the shed.” He thought maybe an explanation might help the Maestro to see the wonder of it. But he only stared at the fish and then, with eyes that frosted over, he scrutinized Burl.

  “I’m almost entirely a vegetarian,” he said. “A fact you obviously had not noticed. I have a great affinity for animals.”

  “This is a fish,” said Burl.

  The Maestro’s grip on the railing tightened. “It is something that is—was—alive.”

  Burl felt his insides cave in. His arm ached from holding up his prize. He lowered it to the sandy ground. Hung his head. The Maestro spoke again—quiet, distant.

  “There is a basic problem here, Burl Crow. You seem to thrive on excitement. I’m quite dizzy with it.”

  He made his way down the steps, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Burl watched him go, wavering like a drunk man down the beach. In his socks. His holey socks.

  There were twenty-five kinds of pills in the medicine bag. Burl took them container by container and emptied them into the lake. He worked in a blind rage. His skin was greasy with heat. His hands shook, his whole body shook.