Aydy’s Fiddle
The Memory Thief
By Edward C. Curnutte
Aydy’s Fiddle – The Memory Thief
Text copyright © 2016 Edward C. Curnutte
All Rights Reserved
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“This world is not a perfect place, but it is filled with love, hope, and endless wonder.”
For Delilah
In 1887, the precocious twelve-year-old daughter of a café manager aspires to be a concert violinist. She inherits her grandfather’s violin and begins to play it with rapid and stunning progress. However, music has the power to draw memories from people and she soon realizes she can see these memories in the people who hear her play.
As she plays over time, her visions become stranger and she learns a disturbing series of family secrets. She must try to make sense of what she sees, reconstruct events from her early childhood, grasp at the barest fragments of memory – and solve a mystery. Is her uncle responsible for the death of her beloved grandfather? She is soon faced with the choice of moving her career forward or finally solving the mysteries contained in the visions.
Through all this, there’s the music – always the music. Such power music has; it wraps itself around you, it transports you. It can only bring about pure magic.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Prologue
Essex County, Canada, 1879
One early morning in May, Joseph Delmott stepped off the carriage at the foot of the tree-lined driveway to the old family homestead. It was a modest farm owned by his father, Delphis, a few miles to the south of Windsor. He thanked the driver and walked along the dusty laneway, the heavy smell of spring hanging in the air. Joseph was pleased his father had seen fit to keep the place up even after his mother passed on. As he approached the house, he could hear violin music coming from the kitchen, as always. He rapped on the door, the music stopped and in a moment the door swung open. His father stood there, a broad grin making his spreading moustache seem even larger.
“Joseph! I was just thinkin’ about you, c’mon in!”
The two men sat in the kitchen. Delphis ran his aged fingers across his moustache. He paused a moment. In his other hand he held a well-worn violin on his lap.
“You know, I’m pleased, yes real pleased you could come back down here and help me finish up. I think we should have it all done today.”
“Well, Papa, I couldn’t very well let you manage the spring planting alone! Have you given any thought to retiring? You could move to Windsor and come to the café and play your fiddle all the time. Everyone would love it – but no one more than our little Alexandra.”
The old man’s eyes lit up.
“Heh heh, well that little protégé of mine is puttin’ her all into that fiddle of hers, I’ll tell ya that!” He placed the violin on his shoulder and adjusted it in the crook of his neck, but then returned it quickly to his lap. “I’ll tell ya this too; that’s always been the plan of mine to retire there, y’know, ever since I opened it a way back in ’54.”
“Same age as the town.”
“Darn straight, boy!” the old man said as he smacked his hand on the table and grinned. “Plus the best darned coffee in Canada! Don’t you ever forget that!”
“You tell me all the time,” said Joseph, winking.
“How’s Helen doing? Does she get anxious when you come down here to help?”
“She’s doing fine, Papa, always busy, I swear she’s a miracle worker. Alex has been a bit fussy lately but Helen seems to be managing. I explained that you really needed the help here and she told me to go, so, here I am.”
“Well remember, son, I can always get myself a farm hand or two to help out. Don’t work your wife to death! Now if your brother would come by and help that’d make things so much easier!”
“I asked, and he said he’s too busy.”
“Well that don’t surprise me none. Pity he can’t tear himself away for a few hours!” Delphis said as he raised the violin back up to his shoulder.
“I suppose. Helen always says, ‘George was here again complaining about this or that business deal and client,’ and so on. I don’t like him going there and telling her all those things.”
Delphis ignored the remark and grinned. He looked at Joseph with crystal clear blue eyes and began playing an old French-Canadian folk song. Joseph listened and watched as his father’s bow danced and twisted across the strings. Those eyes never left him and the smile on his father’s face never dimmed. After several minutes, he stopped and placed the violin back down in his lap, a look of satisfaction on his face.
“I’m very proud of you, son, did you know that? Now, can you take a run in to town? We need some seed for the last five acres. Let’s get you hitched up.”
* * *
Delphis and Joseph hitched up the horse and wagon and soon Joseph was off. Delphis returned to the kitchen and sat down. He took up his violin and played many songs, some slow, some fast. He particularly liked this time when he could play alone and without distraction, having come to prefer the solitude of the farm house to the hustle and bustle of the café. His mind was clear. He could enjoy his music.
He closed his eyes as he played. The peaceful sounds were captivating for him, and with no one to listen for miles around, he played the instrument with energy and vigor.
His thoughts soon drifted away to a warm, breezy night in downtown Windsor. The streets were deserted, except for a man who ran out of a little shop.
An unnatural glow flickered in the window of the shop until it shone with unnatural radiance.
Moments later, an explosion. Windows shattered.
Hungry flames tore through the structure, forming into a column that reached high into the starry sky.
Panic. Bells clanging. The wooden frame of the building, weakened and ravaged from the searing flames, leaned sideways and collapsed onto the neighbouring building in a massive shower of flying sparks and debris. That building, too, was soon set aflame.
“That’ll serve him right!” said the young man from the street corner.
Delphis opened his eyes. He sighed heavily. At that moment, there was a knock. He placed his violin down on the table and walked to the side door. He opened it wide.
“Hello, George,” he said, frowning.
Chapter 1
At the outskirts of Windsor, Ontario, 1887
On a bright day in May, twelve-year-old Robbie Stuart dropped his schoolbooks near the road and raced through the forest woodlot. Ferns whipped his legs as he sped through the dogwood trees and the thorns of wild rose bushes scratched his arms. Shouts and curses grew louder behind him; they were getting closer. If he could only make it another half mile or so, he’d be out of the woodlot and int
o the safety of his farm home, but he was smaller than his pursuers and knew he was reaching the end of his endurance.
From behind, an unfriendly hand clutched his shoulder and clawed at his shirt. Robbie twisted sideways, the hand lost its grip, and he heard the heavy sound of someone tumbling down among breaking twigs. Ahead in the distance he could see the forest opening up. He leaped wildly over fallen logs and sped over lichen-covered ground, shielding his face against the low-hanging branches of the sugar maples. His undoing came from the wild grape vines that spread across the forest floor; they caught his foot and sent him headlong to the ground. He scrambled back to his feet and tried to run again, but his five pursuers surrounded him.
“Rabbit Stew! Rabbit Stew! I’m finally going to get my wish!” yelled the boy with murky green eyes and sandy hair.
“Please, Owen, don’t!” Robbie said, his voice trembling. He looked down. “My mama’s waiting for me at home! Please!”
The boys’ laughter was full of scorn.
“Your mama? Aww, poor little Rabbit.” Owen rolled up his sleeves. “I’ve been looking forward to this all year. What do you think if we sent some rabbit stew home for your mama? Would she like that?”
Robbie blinked and felt tears run down his cheeks, while a spreading warmth covered the front of his trousers and coursed its way down his leg. Cheered on by his friends, Owen made short work of the boy, who now lay bruised and moaning near the path through the woods.
Owen sneered. “Thanks a lot, little Rabbit. Because of you I’m going to be late for my lesson.”
Robbie looked up at Owen, who’d started to walk away, but then turned back for one more kick in the stomach. One by one the boys cleared away and their jeers and sneers were replaced by the sound of a late spring breeze rustling through the boughs of the great oaks arching overhead. Robbie lay there, his flesh stinging and ribs bruised. His ragged breath stirred up the dust on the ground.
He could be reasonably sure the boys had all left, including the bully, Owen. Robbie wanted to lie there until the worst of the pain passed. He must pull himself up in a few minutes or he might stay there in the forest the rest of the day or even all night. As he contemplated his situation, he heard a familiar voice call to him from further along the path. It was a girl’s voice and he was sure he knew who she was.
She hurried toward him and stopped. “Robbie! I was coming to see you – I heard all the noise and – my goodness, get up! We have to get you home now!”
Through a swollen eye, Robbie could only see her feet and ankles. She was wearing black shoes with crisp white socks turned back neatly over top. He could make out only the silhouette of her head, framed by hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. Straining his vision, he could see that she appeared to be wreathed by the towering trees and backlit by splintered sunlight, which lent the girl the aura of an angelic helper. It was exactly what he needed at that moment.
* * *
Having taken a few moments to enjoy his victory, Owen Delmott realized how late it was and hurried back through the woods. He said goodbye to his friends, collected his bicycle and slung his violin case across his back. He felt a chill in his veins as he rode back into the cobbled streets of old Sandwich, knowing full well the professor would be furious if he arrived late again for his music lesson. With renewed energy he pedalled his bicycle as fast as he could.
When Owen arrived at the professor’s home, he dropped his bicycle on the steps and rapped impatiently on the side door. When the maid answered, he rushed past her and down the corridor. He stopped in front of the professor’s study and tried to catch his breath before he tapped on the door. There was no answer. For a few brief seconds Owen thought the professor himself was late and that this burst of anxiety had all been for nothing.
Alas, the great door did open and the greying professor, dressed smartly in his usual business suit and tie, gazed down his nose at the dishevelled young musician. He looked at his pocket watch and huffed, then snapped its lid shut.
“You’re late again, Master Delmott. This makes the tenth time this year. What excuse have you diligently prepared to offer me this time?”
“I’m sorry I’m late, professor,” Owen said. “I got a flat tire on my bicycle so I had to run with it all the way from school.” The lad lowered his head.
“You may enter my study.” The professor’s voice showed his irritation. He ushered Owen in and closed the door. The air was heavy with stale cigar smoke. The professor walked briskly to the leaded glass windows and an excellent view of his manicured grounds. He twisted several handles and each window swung open in turn.
The professor’s study reminded Owen of his father’s law office, the main difference being the austere presence of a black Steinway grand piano in the centre of the room and a fieldstone fireplace located on an outer wall. With its oak panelling, supple leather brass-buttoned chairs and fine appointments, it seemed to perfectly mirror the personality of this stodgy, old, cigar smoking musician.
In preparation for his lesson, Owen set about to open his violin case, as usual.
“Master Delmott, pray tell, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” Professor Hergicksen asked with one greying eyebrow raised.
“I, uh –”
“Master Delmott! For three years now I have tolerated your tardiness, your lies, your lack of respect and your indifference to your musical studies!”
The boy sensed the change in attitude towards him. Gone was the grandfatherly, nurturing professor who had been his mentor, encouraging him to pursue bigger and better ambitions.
“Young man! You of all people should know who I am and show the respect due me!” boomed the professor’s voice. “I have been teaching bright students for many years, and I’m ashamed to admit that at one time I had high hopes for you! Do you even realize how much money your parents have invested into your musical training? Do you understand how important it is for them that you become successful? You’re a bitter disappointment, young Delmott – a disappointment to me but more so a disappointment to them. If you respected me, your future, and all the effort that has gone into your training, you would’ve at least had the courtesy to do whatever was possible to arrive at your lesson on time.”
Strangely enough, Owen felt relieved. After all, the professor was right in many ways. Despite what others said about his talent, he knew deep down he didn’t want to be a musician at all. He could play, yes, but reasoned it was all just a big act. Just then, as expected, the fateful moment arrived.
“Master Delmott,” the professor said after he re-composed himself and took another puff of his cigar. “Please gather your things and depart my study. I should not wish to see you again. Your parents shall forthwith be notified.”
Owen took his violin, still undisturbed in its case, and proceeded to the door. A plan was already hatching in his head as to what he would tell his parents. He retraced his steps down the corridor and emerged outside into the bright spring sunshine.
Taking a deep breath, he took a few last moments to survey the surrounding landscape from the top step of the professor’s porch. He walked past his bicycle, took his violin out of the case and held it on his shoulder in the usual playing position. He paused, thought, and, still holding the violin by the neck, swung it with all his might against one of the pillars of the professor’s home. The violin instantly shattered, making one sickening, final note upon its death. He stomped his foot on the broken pieces of the body, further cracking and breaking the parts left over. In his hand he held the scroll with strings still attached, bouncing and dangling grotesquely. He gathered up the splintered remains and arranged them haphazardly into the case. He smirked, thinking that made two things he had finished off in a single day.
Mounting his bicycle, he set off. The jagged pieces of varnished kindling and coiled strings rattled and shook as he rambled down the cobbled road towards home.
Chapter 2
Owen Delmott lived in a well-to-do neighbourhood in nearby
Windsor. His stately, white-sided two-storey home was surrounded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence through which one could see the manicured lawn, hedges, and the guest house out back.
Having placed his bicycle in the shed, Owen ran up the steps of the rear veranda. When he entered the kitchen, he found his mother tidying up after her weekly meeting with the ladies from her church. She stopped what she was doing when she saw him.
“Owen! Why, why are you home so early? Don’t you have a music lesson now?”
“Mother,” he said, frowning, “I got into a fight after school with that horrible Stuart boy, and oh mother, what am I going to do?” he said, pressing himself into her plump, comforting chest.
“Sit down, my son, and tell me what happened.”
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