Wolf Notes and Other Musical Mishaps

by Lari Don

“Would you? I know it’s annoying that I keep shifting and letting it fall off…”

  “Of course I’ll do it again. Who are you going to be for the rest of tonight? A girl or a wolf?”

  Sylvie sniffed the air. “A wolf.”

  “Then change into a wolf now,” instructed Helen. “I’ll bandage your leg rather than your arm.”

  She took her equipment out of the rucksack, as Sylvie’s flickering greys shifted at the edge of her vision.

  Helen remembered a promise she’d made to phone her mum if she was ever treating an animal on her own again. She sighed. There was no mobile phone reception here, and her mum didn’t have any experience with fabled beasts anyway. But it was yet another broken promise.

  She examined Sylvie’s wound, Lavender hovering close with a circle of light balls. Helen had unpacked a razor, in case she needed to shave a patch of wolf hair, but when she parted the fur and looked closely at the wound, it was clean. Unfortunately, it was also still open, not drawing together or scabbing at all.

  “Do you and your pack usually shapeshift when you’re injured?” she asked the sharp wolf face. “How do cuts heal if your constant shifting means the wound keeps reopening?”

  Sylvie yipped gently and Lavender nodded her head. “Normally, she would stay in the wounded form for at least two days to let healing begin, but in these dangerous times it’s more important to be adaptable than to heal the pain in her arm.”

  Sylvie lifted her muzzle and howled very softly. Lavender shook her head disapprovingly. “She says she will suffer gladly, if her sacrifice will save the forest.”

  “Nonsense,” tutted Helen. “An infection in your arm won’t send the Faery Queen home. You need to decide now, Sylvie, would you rather be a wolf or a girl for the next day or so?”

  Sylvie grunted a question, which Lavender repeated. “What would be more use in our quest for the flag?”

  “I’m glad you agree it’s our quest! If we need someone girl-shaped, we have me. If we need someone wolf-shaped, only you will do. So I’ll bandage this wolf leg, but you must stay a wolf for the next day at least.”

  She beckoned to Lavender, stood up and whispered to the fairy, “Are you safe with her as a wolf?”

  There was a bark of laughter from the sharpeared wolf below. Lavender smiled. “Wolf people don’t eat fairies!” She landed on Sylvie’s head. “Sylvie says there’s not enough meat on me, so I’m quite safe. Much safer than with great clumping humans obsessed with tooth fairies and wishes.”

  So Helen knelt down to treat the wolf leg. First she cleaned it, then peered at the labels on various tubes and bottles in the glittering light. Dropping the anaesthetic and arnica creams back into the rucksack, she opened the antiseptic cream. “I’m sure it’s not infected, but I’ll put this on just in case.” Then she placed a soft pad over the wound, wrapped a bandage just above the knobbly knee joint and taped it tidily together. “Run off for a minute then come back and we’ll see how secure it is.”

  She watched as the wolf stretched away into the shadows at a smooth sprint, hardly limping at all. The perfect hunter. After only a few breaths, Sylvie sliced back into the circle of light from the other direction. The neat bandage gleamed white in the fairy light. So did the wolf’s grinning teeth. Helen didn’t need anyone to translate the soft growl of thanks.

  She guessed that Sylvie had insisted on walking with her because she was hoping for a new bandage, so she said, “I’ll be fine walking home from here. I’ll see you both at the beech tree tomorrow.”

  With a very light hand, she stroked the soft fur between Sylvie’s ears. The wolf sat still and allowed the touch. Helen grinned. Then she said a brief goodbye to Lavender and walked back towards the lodge.

  The path was very dark, with no stars, no dragon fire, no fairy light balls to brighten her way. She was wondering if there was a torch in the Murray Wing kitchen, when suddenly she felt a prickle on her neck.

  She whirled round. There was nothing there.

  She whirled the other way. Wolf eyes, green and sharp and bright, blinked out of sight.

  Helen smiled. Sylvie was making sure she got home safely.

  She walked on towards the lodge, but as she reached the grey stone building, she thought, surely Sylvie’s eyes are gold, not green. And her eyes aren’t that big.

  Had that been a different wolf? A bigger wolf?

  Helen turned and faced the forest. She didn’t see anything in the darkness. So she kept on walking, towards her bed, towards as many torches as she could find. Perhaps she shouldn’t go out alone in the dark again.

  Chapter 10

  Helen jerked awake when her alarm blared at 6 am.

  Why had she set it so early? What did she need to do at this time in the morning? She couldn’t hunt for torches or make sandwiches yet.

  Then she saw her violin case on the chair. Of course. She’d set her alarm early so she could rehearse. She hadn’t done nearly enough practising since she arrived here to be sure of winning the solo spot.

  She picked up her fiddle case and went out to the barn, where she could play as loudly as she liked without disturbing anyone.

  The sky was bright. The sun had been up for a couple of hours already. Helen yawned. Why didn’t adventures allow more time for sleep?

  She closed the big doors behind her.

  The new glass roof let in the early sunlight, so Helen could see oddly-shaped heaps scattered about the barn.

  The barn was being renovated too, but it wasn’t being turned into accommodation. It was becoming a Visitor Centre: The Dorry Shee Experience.

  There were piles of dusty rubble, old floorboards, coils of wire and animal feed sacks full of half-bricks at the back of the barn. By the door, protected by polythene sheets, were display boards with pictures of clan tartans, burning crofts and standing stones. Helen saw one display board headed “Local Legends” with cartoon kelpies and selkies, and a portrait of a faery queen dressed in simple green. Helen stepped closer, to see if the faery’s face was familiar, then gasped.

  Behind the display boards was a collection of stuffed animals. She could see a wolf, a bear, a boar and an eagle, all staring up at her from under plastic covers.

  She backed away to the middle of the barn, laid her fiddle case on a toolbox, and opened it. The varnished wood of her fiddle was shinier and more beautiful than any of Lee’s green silks or red velvets.

  She undid the Velcro straps that held it safe in its case. She reached out for the fiddle, but stopped.

  Her stomach lurched at the thought of touching her violin.

  If she never touched her violin again, no one would want to steal her away, no one would follow her in the night. If she never played her violin again, she wouldn’t be a prize for faeries, nor a threat to wolves.

  All this danger and fear was being caused by her music.

  She heard a crow call outside. The world was waking up. She hadn’t much time. If she wanted to play her best, then she had to grasp the violin now.

  She stroked the satin varnish. It felt familiar and safe.

  She lifted out her violin and stood up. Her stomach settled. She was just hungry. She needed her breakfast.

  But first she needed to rehearse.

  As soon as she began the introduction to Professor Greenhill’s dance, she knew this was the right thing to do. Music was meant to be played. And any audience was worth playing for, especially an audience so keen it would cheat and steal to hear your music.

  Helen played and played, imagining the Faery Queen’s dress swirling wildly in the shadows of the barn.

  After a hurried breakfast, a loud and chaotic class on rhythm with a visiting drummer from Cornwall, and a quiet thoughtful lunch, Helen had a free hour before the first full rehearsal.

  So she hunted for a torch in the Murray Wing kitchen. She didn’t find one, but she did make a quick batch of crust-less jam sandwiches. Then she went to the old lodge and gently removed a map of the Inner Hebrides, including Skye
, from the corridor wall. She took a moment to search through the cardboard boxes for something she had glimpsed yesterday. But she still hadn’t found a torch.

  Rather than searching the rest of the lodge, she went to the cottage, to ask James’s mum if she could borrow one.

  As Mrs McGregor got a torch out of her toolbox, Helen smiled at the boy, who was sitting still on the couch, looking unconvincing and stiff in a pair of jeans and a tartan shirt. He smiled gloriously back, but didn’t move. Emma bounced off the couch and hugged her new friend. “Will you play with me? James isn’t playing today.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a rehearsal, but I’ll play with you later, Emma. And I’m sure James will play with you very soon too!”

  After thanking Mrs McGregor for the loan of a small silver torch, Helen ran back towards the lodge, carrying the map, some papers, the fiddle case, the sandwiches and the torch, hoping to dump everything but the fiddle in her room before rehearsal. But Professor Greenhill was standing outside the barn, chatting to Dr Lermontov, right in Helen’s way.

  “What a rush, Helen. And in the wrong direction.” The Professor held out a hand to stop her. “And carrying so many things!”

  Helen tried to hide the torch in her pocket, as it seemed the most suspicious of all her baggage, but the Professor bumped her arm accidentally and everything fell to the ground.

  Dr Lermontov helped Helen pick up the sandwiches and the map. “Were you planning a midnight feast? Or a day trip to the islands? Or some other distraction from your music?”

  Professor Greenhill laughed, “I hope you are finding distractions, my dear girl.”

  Dr Lermontov frowned.

  “A bit of distraction is a good thing for an artist,” the Professor explained. “It doesn’t do to concentrate on just one thing, does it, Helen?”

  Helen was about to ask what that meant, when suddenly there was a gust of cold wind. The Professor pulled her scarf over her head and ran to the lodge, tottering on her pointy green shoes. Dr Lermontov dragged Helen and her collection of quest equipment straight to the rehearsal.

  The only building on the estate big enough for a full rehearsal was the barn. Some students made faces at the dusty floor and Tommy had to be dissuaded from using the boar’s back as a drum, but perhaps Dr Lermontov had been right yesterday. Perhaps it really didn’t matter where they performed, because in that barn the twenty students played together so perfectly that it sounded to Helen like they’d played together all their lives.

  They were soaring to the end of the last movement when the Professor bounced in, applauding and telling them they were the greatest young musicians she’d ever heard.

  She went into a huddle with Dr Lermontov, then they called out two cellists. One was Alice, from Helen’s wing, the other was Stewart, a large boy from Galloway. They were both asked to play part of the last movement. Alice was clearly nervous and, at the slowest part of the andante section, her bow quivered on the D string and the cello let out a short screeching howl. Alice recovered and kept on playing, but the shock of the howl echoed round the barn.

  Juliet caught Helen’s eye and mouthed, “Wolf note?” Helen grimaced and nodded.

  It didn’t take a very long huddle for Professor Greenhill to announce that Stewart would play a solo on midsummer night.

  Helen was suddenly worried. She hadn’t realized Professor Greenhill would consult Dr Lermontov about soloists. But why wouldn’t she? He was her deputy. Helen was kicking herself for not behaving better in the Russian’s lesson yesterday. Why had she been thinking about faery mounds, rather than concentrating on her music?

  Dr Lermontov thought she was strange, for goodness sake. He would never want her as a soloist.

  She held her breath as he said, “Now we will hear a few of our violinists.

  “Zoe Quarrier, step to the front.”

  Helen bit her lip.

  “Calum McIvor, you too.”

  Helen went cold with disappointment and anger. They weren’t even going to consider her! Then she heard:

  “And Helen Strang-ah.

  “Let’s hear you all. Play the violin solo from the second movement.”

  Helen nodded. At least she was getting to audition. She stood nervously as the older players got ready, wondering if their extra years of experience would help them perform better.

  Zoe began to play.

  Helen knew her rival was a good violinist, but now she heard how great Zoe could be on her own. Freed from the compromises of playing with others, Zoe got amazing speed and volume out of her bow. But at the end of the section, when the music became subtler and dreamier, Zoe simply slowed and quietened, without finding any depth. Helen relaxed a little. The great Zoe was only noise and passion, not understanding.

  Then Calum played. He hit each note with perfection, but also played each note with exactly the same weight as the one before and the one after. Soon, though the music was wonderful, his playing sounded dull and mechanical.

  Then it was Helen’s turn.

  She was sure if she played at her best, she could play better than either Zoe or Calum, but her fingers and shoulders were stiff with tension. Helen took her time. She rolled her shoulders, shook out her hands one at a time and balanced carefully on her feet.

  Then she rested her fiddle on her shoulder, held her bow gently in her right hand, and breathed in time to the music she could already hear in her head.

  She played to the Professor who had created this music, to the musicians in the past who had inspired it, to the audiences in the future who would lose their hearts to it. She played with light and dark, with love and fear, with notes dancing around her hands.

  She played brilliantly. She allowed herself one small smile as she lowered her bow at the end.

  The Professor and the Doctor went into a long huddle in the far corner of the barn, with lots of muttering and head shaking.

  Then the Professor smiled kindly at all three nervous violinists. “You were all so wonderful we can’t decide just now. You are each capable of being our soloist, so just keep practising and we’ll let you know before midsummer night.”

  Zoe burst out, “That’s not fair! You can’t keep us waiting!”

  Helen was afraid to nod, but she agreed with Zoe.

  Dr Lermontov laughed uncomfortably. “It’s all part of learning to be great musicians, I’m afraid. Not just disappointment, like those behind you who didn’t even get the chance, but also uncertainty, like the three of you will suffer until the Professor makes up her mind.”

  So, thought Helen, he’s already made up his mind who was best. Not me, probably, because I don’t concentrate on theory. Helen shrugged. There was no point trying to read adults’ minds. It was harder than trying to outwit faeries.

  Professor Greenhill patted Zoe on the shoulder. “What a great problem for me to have! So many wonderful fiddlers!” She gave all three possible soloists a small neat smile, then wafted out of the barn on her shiny green heels.

  Zoe turned to Helen and hissed, “I said the solo spot was mine. How dare you play so well!”

  Helen grinned. “That wasn’t me playing well. That was me playing like my little sister, to give you a chance!”

  Zoe glared at her. Helen stepped quickly into the safety of the rest of the students, several of whom whispered that she had played the other two out of the barn and it was a disgrace she hadn’t been chosen.

  Dr Lermontov tapped his dusty toes sharply on the barn floor to get everyone’s attention. “It’s nearly teatime, so I’m afraid the woodwind and percussion players will have to wait until tomorrow for their solo competitions. Why don’t you all go and clean your instruments before eating.”

  Then he bent down to clean his own shoes with a spotty red hankie. Helen thought the Professor must have found a swept bit of floor in the far corner, leaving her deputy standing in the rubble, because the Professor’s shoes had been pristine as she teetered out of the barn.

  Helen ate a pleasant te
a in a very unpleasant atmosphere. Zoe wanted everyone to agree it was unfair she hadn’t been chosen as the soloist. The students at their table tried to soothe her by agreeing it was stressful not to know, but they wouldn’t comment on who should have been chosen.

  Zoe wouldn’t take a hint. “They’re not going to choose a snotty little kid! She only played half decently because she copied everything I did. They probably didn’t pick me straight away because they were worried she would throw a toddler tantrum.”

  Juliet finally said, “Shut up, Zoe. Helen might be a snotty-nosed kid, but she’s handling the strain of top level playing much better than you are.”

  Zoe shoved her chair back and stomped out of the dining room. Now everyone at the table stared at Helen.

  Juliet said, “Sorry. I don’t mean you’re a snottynosed kid. I just mean … for someone so young …”

  Catriona, the piper who slept in the fifth bed in Murray Wing, said, “After pudding, do you want to watch a DVD with us, in one of the boys’ wings?”

  Helen looked round at the faces smiling at her. She didn’t know if they wanted to be her friends because she was a good fiddler, because she wasn’t Zoe, or because they actually liked her. Whatever their reason, she couldn’t stay any longer.

  “Sorry. I’d love to, but I need to get some fresh air.”

  Catriona shrugged. “Fair enough.” The teenagers started to chat among themselves.

  Helen left the dining room through the door into Murray Wing. As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard sobbing from along the corridor. From Zoe’s room. Helen sighed and opened her own bedroom door.

  She packed everything she’d found today into her pockets and the rucksack, and walked back down the stairs. She wasn’t sneaking away, because the others knew she was going for a walk, but a green rucksack with a white cross on it might be hard to explain, so she headed for the side door, rather than the door leading into the old lodge.

  First she wrote on the clipboard: Out for a walk, in big dark letters, then in pale small handwriting under it: Early night again. With any luck by the time the teachers checked at bedtime, they would assume she had come back in and gone to bed.