by Barbara Becc
Like the stars from the other side the Piper had mentioned, it felt like the music would devour her, except it never did. The eerie, enchanting song hovered over her, like rain that drizzled down from the sky and stopped half an inch from her eager skin. It was a simmering storm refusing to thunder, the suggestion of a devastating tempest that would flood her senses if it roared. The music drew her towards a ledge without granting her the satisfaction of the fall.
It felt exhilarating. It felt dangerous. It felt like home.
Despite the call of the Pied Piper, Sitara didn’t leave her bed that night.
When the melodies finally lulled her to sleep, she dreamed of building impossible houses out of sunlight, maddening bridges out of wind, wild gardens out of shooting stars.
She woke up dazed and exhilarated and terrified, knowing that one day, those visions would refuse to remain tucked into her imagination.
One day, she, too, would follow the Pied Piper.
Border Songs
Claire Patz
Border Songs is a retelling of the ancient Chinese tale of The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. The love story between Zhinü and Niulang is the story of Vega and Altair, and is celebrated every seventh day of the seventh month in the year. The meeting of the two stars in the night sky across the Milky Way has been celebrated in many Asian cultures since the Han dynasty (206 BC- 220 AD) with street festivals and exhibitions. The original myth is a story of two gods in the heavens who love each other so fiercely that they neglect their duties to be together. They are forced to be apart, separated by the Milky Way, and fated to meet only once a year on a bridge made of magpies. It all seemed to fit together to set Border Songs in Chicago in 1892, one year before the Chicago World’s Fair, or the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. I tried my best to keep the narrative accurate to the time period, and to add little touches that speak to the time the characters live in. The Mississippi River seemed to be the perfect Milky Way, and Marshall Field’s and the Union Stock Yards the perfect place for our Weaver Girl and Cowherd to work. I threw in a few mentions of other myths, like the Red String of Fate and the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and added my own magical item, the Violin, and I hope the love shows.
~~~
The notes of his violin screamed through the loud darkness of the Chicago streets. The sound of the resulting song that flew from the strings was harsh, but not unwelcomed. It was beautiful, even in its desperation and impatience. An old man on his way home from the shift change faltered in his steps before he continued on into the dispersing city crowds, shaking his head. A small woman with dark hair and long fingers watched him turn the corner before deftly opening her second floor window and sitting out on the sill to hear better. Her bright face turned towards the moon, and her glittering black eyes silently kept vigil until she could hear the music slowly travelling closer and growing sweeter. Out of the alley trudged the violin player, his whiskers chafing against the crude leather chin rest. Seeing the open window, he stopped beneath it and raised tired eyes to the dark-haired woman. Tonight was different. He was used to a solitary vigil of the dark streets, but here she was. His fingers twitched imperceptibly at the strings.
The song no longer screamed, but neither was it gentle. It swelled and pulled hard at her, threatening to snatch her right from her perch to see her shattered on the brick cobbles below. Her shaking gasp was barely audible, but after a few seconds she somehow found the wordless, answering harmony to the notes engulfing her and regained her head. Her rasping voice sang, fighting back at his song and coaxing the feeling further. The raw sound of them rose and fell, finally settling into something inexperienced but beautiful.
Vega stared blankly at the man below as the violin faded back into the soft notes of a lullabye. She tucked a loose strand of hair back around the knot at the top of her head and, noticing her fingers were shaking in the realization of her recent bravery, she let her hand drop. “A-ah, apologies,” she called, whirling and disappearing into her small dormitory.
Al made a half-formed noise, the bow discordantly lifting from the strings. “Wai-” But she was gone. It was too late to knock on the building’s door; this was the company housing district, after all, and he would be in as much trouble as she would if their superiors knew they were up after curfew. He sighed heavily and put the bow back to the strings. The bow lamented her departure before he turned away down the road, committing the brick house and her dark eyes to memory.
~~~
Before the sun peeked through the high-rises, Vega was up, boiling chopped chicory for her seven charges. She threw the last of the rationed fatback pork into her cast-iron skillet and mixed up another panful of cornbread, putting it on the stove to cook. Pulling a dingy copy of the previous night’s Chicago Evening Post out of her apron pocket, she sat down at the kitchen table to read the newest muckraking. She didn’t care too much for the stories; with these penny papers, she figured you got what you paid for, but it was something to occupy her tumultuous thoughts. The man with the violin always came on clear nights when the moon was bright. He must be one of the Irish, with all of his thick, dark red hair. Why did she insist upon running away last night? Why did she open her mouth? She never had before. He only ever passed by under her window on his journey through the streets. Why did he stop, as if he had planned to? She huffed and snapped the newspaper over. Who was he?
Vega’s thoughts were cut short by the sound of shuffling footfalls making their way down the wooden stairs. Mercy was always the first one awake, the wiry mass of curls atop her head sticking out every which way and her eyes bleary. She padded into the kitchen in her worn slippers and robe, and made a noncommittal noise when Vega greeted her with a gentle “good morning.” Vega smiled, set out a plate, and poured the young woman a cup of chicory. Mercy grunted and gingerly sipped the scalding liquid, focusing on the hot tin mug in her hands and trying to gather the wisps of thought that floated through her tired mind. She vaguely heard Margarette and Cass thundering down the stairs and felt Cass’ strong, purposeful fingers loosening her hair from its plait and attempting to pull a comb through it. “Christ, Mercy,” Cass’ low voice grumbled, ignoring the small gasp and muttered tsk from Margarette, “how does one even grow hair like this? It’s a rat’s nest!”
Mercy made another unintelligible noise and speared a piece of pork, setting it carefully on her plate, making sure to steer the meat clear of the chips in the secondhand china. Margarette sat down in her place beside Mercy and served herself, bowing her head in prayer before using a pocketknife to primly cut the meat in front of her. Cass pulled a few hairpins from her pocket and secured Mercy’s hair in a low, twisting creation. She moved around the table to unceremoniously reach over plates and mugs and a precariously placed skillet to grab a slice of brown bread and the small crock of butter, much to Margarette’s continued tutting. Violet was suddenly at Cass’ left, one of her petite hands re-situating the skillet and the other deftly holding Cass’ sleeve out of the grease. Violet’s brown eyes were watchful as she prepared her plate and poured chicory for herself and Cass, but they lightened in faint amusement at the sight of Cynthia and Mary in the doorway. Cynthia lead the way, breezing into the room and sweeping into her chair at the foot of the table. Mary sat at her left, her large frame engulfing the chair. They bowed their heads together, Mary whispering something to Cynthia that elicited a tinkling laugh from her and a grumble from Mercy. “It’s far too early, Cynthia. Take your sunshine out of here,” she grumbled, her fork clattering against the plate in frustration. Cynthia opened her mouth in protest, only to close it again at Mary’s fingers at her wrist. Laura grasped Mercy’s shoulder briefly as she flounced past, whispering a “stop that, Miss Sleepy,” before settling into her seat at Vega’s left. Laura straightened her glasses on her small nose, peering over them to shoot Cass a withering look. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s disrespectful.”
“Not my Lord, Laur,” Cass retorted, ripping a chunk of meat with her
teeth and chewing, “I’ll try to talk more pretty, though,” she said, mockingly quashing Laura’s building bluster. Vega looked over the seven women around the table and rolled her shoulders, hoping to banish the lingering questions she had about the violin player from the night before. She didn’t know who he was, and it was unlikely that they would ever see each other again or have a chance to meet formally. She had other things and people to tend to, and she didn’t have time for the violin player, no matter how handsome or intriguing he was.
~~~
Three city blocks away, Al poured out some coffee and added cream. He yawned and ascended the two flights of stairs to his stuffy attic room where he unlatched his window and climbed out onto the roof to watch the city slowly awaken. Street lamps were being extinguished below him, and in the distance, he could hear the cries of paperboys starting as they heralded their early editions. He fished a crust of bread from his pocket and chewed thoughtfully on it. Who was that woman? He knew he would be hard-pressed to keep his mind on his job today. He silently went over the previous night in his mind, peppering his musings with sips of scalding coffee. He finally rose and slipped back through his window to get ready for the day. He stretched on a pair of suspenders and quickly tied his tie before jamming a cap on his head and rushing out the door to catch the streetcar out to the Yards. He pulled on his jacket as he ran, tripping over his ill-fitting shoes. Al waved back at the saluting figures in the distance, slowing his run to catch his breath and walk the rest of the way. Ira and Mack were already waiting at the stop with Reuben, one of his housemates, and they all acknowledged him quietly as he walked up. He nervously scrabbled around in his pocket for a small can of pomade and a comb, working the grease through his hair as he waited for the car to come. Today, he scoured the group of men and women around him, hoping against hope to see the dark eyes from last night looking back at him. He knew it was futile; she would probably be a passenger on one of the later streetcars. Purchasing cattle for Union Stock Yards had Al in to work far ahead of most laborers, and he usually used this time for chatting with his friends before they all had to slip back into the daily grind.
Speaking of friends, Al thought, rolling his eyes good naturedly as his other housemate, the perpetually tardy Chip, came running up. “Sorry!” Chip huffed, leaning over to put his hands on his knees and breathe in large gasps. “I forgot my lunch pail, and then my cap, and then I had to make sure the door was locked...”
Mack, next to him, scoffed. “You’d forget your hair if it weren’t already attached to your head.” In reply, Chip grimaced and pulled a match from his pocket, idly striking it against the brick wall he leaned on. “Everyone here?” Al asked, looking around as the streetcar pulled to their stop.
“Yeah, yeah, Pa, keep your trousers on,” Reuben retorted, climbing into the car. Al shook his head and piled in as well, trying to focus himself on the day ahead.
~~~
Vega spent her day rather uneventfully, considering her position as head of the Dressmaking and Alterations at Marshall Field’s and Company. Despite the fact that there was always something to do or oversee in the department, Vega couldn’t focus overall on the day. She sighed, briefly pausing to check herself in the mirror and straighten her shirtwaist with a determined tug. She mentally shook herself and attended to the customer at hand. She was an example, after all, and she didn’t have time for daydreaming.
“...the blue, I think; with a length of peach ribbon throughout,” the young woman finished, looking quite uncertain and flustered. “Although, the chartreuse...”
Vega’s eyes narrowed slightly, quickly eyeing the other fabrics strewn across the consulting area. Together, the blue and peach would make an already garish ensemble look hideous. She squared her shoulders and interrupted the fretting woman. “Perhaps, miss, you would prefer a more monochromatic color pallet for your trousseau. You have so wisely chosen two dresses made from a lovely blush color, and we have an exquisite coral silk that was shipped in this morning.” Vega smiled at the red-haired bride-to-be. “The peach ribbon would fit so nicely with all three of those dresses, and we may even have a bit left over to send along to the jewelry department for your pearl necklace.”
The young woman stopped her bustling and blinked at Vega. “Ye-yes! You’re right, of course, but-” She looked to her mother, who was sternly chiding Cass about the misuse of lace on corsets, then back to Vega. “What shall I wear over it all? I don’t want to embarrass poor Henry when he takes me out to parties.” The young woman bit her lip, looking unsure once more. It was clear she was marrying into a family with “old money,” and Vega felt for the poor girl. She held up a finger and winked. “I’m not called ‘The Goddess’ for nothing. Let me see what we have tucked away in furs.” She swept towards the back room, catching the eye of Cass, who was still occupied arguing with the increasingly agitated mother of the bride. Pursing her lips and giving a sharp jerk of her head, Vega signaled Cass to quash the conversation and accompany her to the stockroom as soon as she could. She surveyed the rest of her department in an almost calculating manner. Everything, with the exception of the bride’s windbag of a mother, seemed to be going rather swimmingly for an average day.
~~~
Try as he might to think of the dark-eyed woman from the night before throughout the day, Al could not find the time to focus on anything but his work. From the moment he walked under the large, turreted gate of the Union Stock Yards and lifted a two-fingered salute to Sherman, the bronze steer mounted in the center of the arch, Al was busy. He spent the day filing papers and checking steers, overseeing the arrival of each shipment of cattle, and preparing accounts for review until Ira knocked on his small office door and let himself in. “Shift change, Al. Time to go home.”
“Thanks, six already?” Al questioned, running a hand across his stubbled face.
“Yes,” he replied quietly, lifting Al’s jacket from the coat rack beside the door and held it out for him. “I’ll be an hour or so behind you all, I have some things to finish up here, but maybe I’ll catch up with you before you head out tonight.”
“Yeah, okay. Right.” Al shook himself and stood, shrugging on his coat and grabbing his set of keys. “Going home.”
Ira chuckled. “Go.”
~~~
Vega watched the rising moon silently from the rattling window of the elevated cable car. The night was again clear, and the lamplights were bright below her, splattering golden and copper light on the red bricks of the cobblestone streets. Violin weather, she thought, bemused, before she started, her heart lurching in something like fear. Violet, seated beside her, raised an eyebrow and gently grasped the cuff of Vega’s sleeve between two fingertips. “I’m fine,” Vega replied to the unspoken concern and gave Violet a small shake of her head. Why was she nervous? He probably wouldn’t stop beneath her window again, or even remember their nondescript brick house at all. She had nothing to be anxious over. But what if he did remember? What if he stops? Vega scanned the sky once again, unsure if she should be excited, or if she should pray for rain.
~~~
Al opened his violin’s case reverently, his fingers blessing the faded velvet that lined the case and the worn, polished wood of the instrument. He cradled the violin in his large, calloused hands and hummed softly, thinking. If her window was open, he would stop. Just stop, not talk to her, just pause. Maybe wait for her to sing again? That’s unlikely, he thought, setting the violin down and picking up his bow and tightening it. She was so embarrassed about opening her mouth last night. He held some rosin in his left hand and smoothly drew the bow across the waxy substance. The hairs would soon need to be replaced, and he knew he was dragging his feet about getting his own violin, but this one had been his Pap’s. There was some almost otherworldly feel about the instrument that Al had never been able to find in other violins. This violin had seen famine, and war, and death, but the music that came from it spoke of rolling mist and heather, and the small, lasting joys of home,
and the certain shared reverence and deep, fierce passion of the watchers of stars. The violin only spoke of these things after nightfall, and his Pap warned him not to play of those things before the sky turned it’s purple dark, or after Dawn’s rosy fingers pulled back the curtains of the morning. Al raised his eyes to the fading light outside his window. Night was falling.
“Al, don’t, don’t do this to yourself,” Chip sighed from a corner as he used his pocketknife to clean his fingernails. “What is it- every time the moon is out, you go out playing that violin? It’s odd, and you always come back looking like someone told you there were no more fireworks left in the world.”
Al let out a slow, steadying breath and settled the violin at his shoulder. “You don’t understand,” he said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I have to go out there-”
“-to find whatever the blee bleh bah. I call bullshit on that!” Reuben called from his corner, where he hung off the seat of his armchair, upside down. He righted himself, huffing in frustration. “We all know about your Irish witch grandpa and his magical violin. It’s bullshit, Al.”
Al raised a brow and scowled at the two. “It’s not bullshit, and even if it is, what if I like playing? I can do what I want! America is a free country, after all.”
“Only free for rich boys that have money, and don’t need magic to find purpose in their sad lives,” Chip retorted, inciting a scoff from Reuben.
Al snarled at him and threw the rag he’d been using to polish the wood and help rosin his bow with deadly precision right into Chip’s face. “Shut up.”
Chip’s eyes glinted in fury. “Make me, magic witch boy.”
The wooden chair Al was sitting on crashed to the floor as the big man surged forward and tackled the other to the floor. Feeling rather left out, Reuben added a few well-placed kicks and punches before he was dragged bodily into the fight by Chip.