by M. L. Rice
Aidan took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. Once upon a time there was a family of mockingbirds who lived in a tall tree on the edge of a beautiful valley.”
“Meadow.”
“Do you want me to tell it or not?” he asked irritably.
Riley nodded sheepishly, so he continued.
“Once upon a time there was a family of mockingbirds who lived in a tall tree on the edge of a beautiful meadow.” He waited for an interruption, and when he didn’t get one, he continued. “The mother and father mockingbird first had a little boy mockingbird, and when he burst from the egg he knew how to fly right away, without his parents having to teach him a thing. They were so proud. Soon, the mother laid another egg and out hatched the most beautiful little girl mockingbird they had ever seen. Once again, they were the proudest mockingbirds in the meadow. But,” he said with emphasis, “they soon found out that the little girl mockingbird was never going to be able to fly like her brother.”
“Why not?” Riley asked, already knowing the answer.
“Because the little girl mockingbird was blind, and if she tried to fly she would fly crash straight into the ground or into another tree and that would be the end of her! The mom and dad mockingbirds were desperate and searched the meadow for an answer. They asked the rabbit if he knew of a way to help the girl fly because she would never be able to survive without them otherwise. The rabbit didn’t know, of course, because he couldn’t fly himself, and if one of his children ended up blind they could just sniff around to find their way. Next they asked the wise owl if she knew of a way to help the little bird fly even without sight, but she was no help because owls can see in the dark so well that she couldn’t even imagine not being able to see at all. Finally, worried that their sweet daughter would have to stay safely in the nest forever or die, they spread word far and wide asking for help. Finally, they received a visit from the oldest nightingale in the meadow. She was known for her beautiful voice, and she sang constantly as if in response to an invisible symphony.”
“I like this part. This is where Mom started playing the relaxing music.” Riley smiled and closed her eyes.
“Shh,” Aidan admonished her. “Anyway, the nightingale was ancient and hadn’t left her own tree in ages. When she arrived at the nest of the mockingbirds, she was weak and could barely stand at all. She asked the rest of the mockingbird family to leave, as she had a special message only for the little girl mockingbird. They did, and this is what the nightingale said: ‘I’m going to teach you something that all songbirds know. A secret. This is something I must do before I go.’
“The little bird lifted her head to the soothing voice and asked, ‘Will this secret help me to see?’
“The nightingale tilted her head in the way that birds do and said, ‘In a way. I’m going to teach you about the melody of light.’
“‘What’s the melody of light?’
“‘Without light, we wouldn’t be able to see. Just like you can’t see right now.’
“‘Even owls?’ she asked.
“‘Even owls. There is always light around us from somewhere, even if it’s too dark to be able to see clearly. But the secret of the songbirds is this: Light also has a sound.’
“The little mockingbird was interested. ‘What kind of sound?’
“The nightingale paused as if listening to something. ‘It’s like a song. A continuously moving and changing song. That’s why those of my kind are always singing. We can’t help it. We love the melodies. We love the harmonies. These songs help us find our way, even in the darkness. They’re always there, even when the light is so dim we can’t see it with our eyes.’
“‘Can other birds, birds like me, hear it?’
“The old bird nodded. ‘Yes. But not so well as the nightingales. Most of the time the other birds are focused so much on what they can see with their eyes that the melody is lost.’
“The little bird waited for her to continue and then asked, ‘Can you teach me?’
“The nightingale said, ‘Yes, but it will take more than just listening with your ears. You also have to listen with your heart.’
“The little bird tried to listen with her heart, but that made no sense and she couldn’t hear a thing.
“‘I’ll show you. You’re too young to have known much of the world, but it is with our hearts that we really see, hear, and feel the world around us. I want you to think about your parents.’
“The little bird did as she was told.
“‘What do you feel?’
“‘I feel…warm. Happy.’
“The old nightingale smiled to herself. ‘That’s exactly right. Now, listen to the light. It’s all around you. Your heart will hear it.’
“The little bird strained and listened, but she could only hear the breeze blowing through the leaves of her tree.
“‘I don’t hear anything except the wind.’
“With that, the old bird lay down and rested her head at the feet of the little mockingbird and said, ‘I am very old, little one. I don’t have much longer in this world. Just remember the feeling you have in your heart and keep listening. You will hear it. And when you do, let it guide your way in the darkness. It will always be there.’
“The little bird waited for her to say more, but the old nightingale would never speak again.
“The mockingbird put her wing out and rested it on the breast of the nightingale. It was still. She knew that the old bird was gone. She had used her last moments in life to share her wisdom and help a little bird in need.
“A deep and joyful sadness filled her chest. Her heart swelled with sorrow and appreciation. And then, without knowing how, she heard it. A soft and blissful song filled her ears, her feathers, and her heart. She could hear the light! She stepped up to the edge of her nest and turned her head this way and that, listening with growing excitement. She heard the other birds chirping in the distance, she heard the songbirds singing, she heard the grass growing at the base of the tree, and she heard her family cheering her on. Every inch of the light itself had a melody too and every melody wove together with the others in perfect harmony. Through the songs she could see the world around her.
“The little bird smiled and raised her wings to the air. She let the melody fill her…and she flew.”
*
Almost a year to the day after arriving at the Home, about a week before Christmas, a beautiful blond woman arrived in an SUV full of things Riley had never seen in person before. The smiling staff gathered the kids into the activity room as the woman laid out each strange and mysterious device on the table and floor in front of them. Riley’s eyes danced over the fine lines, the shiny metal, the polished wood of each one, wondering what the differences were and what sound each would make. She didn’t have to wait long.
Beaming, Ms. Suzanne made an announcement to all gathered in the room. “I have some really exciting news for all of you! This is Miss Geddis. She’s the music teacher at Garrett Junior High, and she, the school, and our very own local Rotary Club have generously donated these instruments to our home! Not only that, but she herself is going to volunteer her time two days a week to teach any of you who are interested in learning how to play!”
There was a smattering of confused applause from the children who probably didn’t know the first thing about music. Riley, however, felt her eyes widen with excitement. She had always been fascinated when she saw musicians on TV and when she heard music of any kind on the radio. It had been one of her only escapes when her aunt and uncle had been on meth-induced tirades in the living room. She and Aidan would crawl under their covers with an old clock radio and spend the night surfing through the stations, listening to the many different and distinct sounds that flowed from the speakers. Pleasant memories stirred deep within her as well. She remembered her mother sharing her love of classical music with them, even when they barely knew what music was. She would hold them as they fell asleep and tell them the names of the pieces that played. She’
d say, “Listen to this one, kids. You don’t need words to express what these songs can say with music.”
Now Riley had the opportunity to learn how to play something herself and bring her mother close once again.
Miss Geddis took the facilitator’s place in the middle of the room and smiled. “Hi, everyone. I want to thank you all for letting me join you here, and I hope that some of you are interested in learning how to play an instrument. Music is one of the best investments you can make in your life. It gives you a lifelong hobby, opens doors to organizations and friendships, it will help you do better in school—”
Groans from most of the kids.
“And playing music is just plain fun. So here’s what we’re going to do today: I’m going to tell you about each of the instruments I’ve brought with me, and if you’re interested in playing one, I’ll have you go and stand by it. I only have these few that were donated, so not everyone will get the one they wanted. I apologize, but hopefully, we can work it out so that everyone is happy.”
With that, she started with the long silver stick that had about a million buttons on it. Riley soon learned that it was called a flute and it made a high-pitched airy sound that was pleasant, but just wasn’t for her. From there the kids learned about the clarinet, the trumpet, the snare drum, the saxophone, the violin, and the trombone. Miss Geddis wasn’t a learned musician on each instrument, but she got the point of each one across with ease. Each was interesting and beautiful, but it wasn’t until she saw and heard the cello that Riley’s heart melted. The sound was mellow and deep and it pierced her heart with each movement of the bow across the strings. What she heard when it was played seemed to echo the exact emotions that had been burning in her chest for years. As each note filled the air, Riley could feel an almost purifying cleansing throughout her whole body. She realized that her eyes had filled with tears as the woman played. The cello was Miss Geddis’s primary instrument, and she made it sing. Riley knew exactly what she wanted.
*
The clock on the wall had stopped. She could swear it. Every time she looked up the minute hand was in the same place! She tapped her foot in irritation as her teacher droned on and on about a book about animals on a quest to find their home that Riley had already read two weeks ago. All she could think about was that it was Thursday afternoon. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were the days she got tutored on the cello by Miss Geddis. With Christmas past and three months of lessons under her belt, she felt she was finally starting to get the hang of how to hold her bow and could even play a couple of scales without having to look at her finger placement on the neck. Every spare minute she had was spent practicing in the activity room, much to the annoyance of her fellow foster kids.
Everyone else had seemed to be, if not excited, at least interested, in the prospect of learning to play an instrument, but as time went on, and they had figured out that it actually took a lot of hard work and practice, their enthusiasm had begun to wane. They played halfheartedly during their group rehearsal sessions, but only one or two ever played on their own time. That, and the other kids were always coming and going from the Home as they were welcomed into full-time foster families and new kids took their place. Riley alone had latched on to her instrument and actually loved the challenge of learning how to play properly.
Aidan, who didn’t have a musical bone in his body, enjoyed playing Madden Football on the Xbox in the activity room while she practiced and he often helpfully told her how much she sucked—in a brotherly sort of way. But she knew he was kidding with her and was happy she had found something that she enjoyed doing. He could tell that having a hobby she loved helped her mood too. His support meant the world to her.
“That one sounded like a dying moose,” he said with his back to her as a computer opponent sacked his digital quarterback.
“Shut up, Aidan. You try it. Miss Geddis just taught me the A minor scale and I’m already halfway through book one of Suzuki!”
“Gesundheit.”
“It’s a method, stupid. She says I’m going to be really good one day.”
“Well, you’re sure not good yet, so keep practicing!”
Heat flared in her cheeks as she grabbed her box of bow rosin off the music stand and threw it forcefully at his head, where it connected with a thud.
“Ow! Watch your temper! How many times do we have to talk about that?”
Riley took a deep breath. She did get angry so easily. “That’s what you get for being mean. Just wait. I’m going to be in a symphony one day.”
Aidan paused his game and turned around smiling while rubbing what was sure to turn into a large bump on his head. “I know you will, Nugget. You can do whatever you want to do. Mom and Dad always said so and I know so too.”
Riley breathed out held-in frustration and smiled back meekly, thankful he understood and believed in her.
“But right now,” he continued as he turned back to his game, “you sound like a rabid raccoon in a washing machine.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed as she carefully placed her fingers back on the taped portions of the cello’s neck that marked the proper finger placement, ready to start her scales all over again.
Chapter Three
As the months and years passed, Riley grew more and more fond of her chosen instrument, and with that fondness came a much greater proficiency. She was talented, and Miss Geddis knew it. She had started offering free lessons to her alone on Thursday evenings, much to the chagrin of the other foster kids. They didn’t care about music like Riley did; they were just jealous of the attention she was receiving from an adult. Because of this, Riley was ostracized by the few left that had once been her friends, and the bullies took every opportunity to make her life hell. When Aidan wasn’t around to protect her, she often found herself on the losing side of a set of stairs or with less hair on one side of her head after having it violently jerked out by the jealous girls of the Home. She had to plead clumsiness when Aidan noticed stray bruises on her wrists and knees. The way she was treated infuriated her, but nothing she tried seemed to help. Standing up for herself, hitting back, or even being overly nice had no effect whatsoever.
Riley quietly pondered the reasons for the bullying one evening in the last minutes before curfew. She had finished a full play-through of “The Swan” by Camille Saint-Saens, and slow, melancholy music always put her in a pensive mood. Her thoughts were interrupted by three girls, who also happened to be in her sophomore class, bursting through the door of the activity room, laughing loudly. When they saw Riley staring at her sheet music in a vain attempt to ignore them, they wandered over and jerked the sheet music off the stand.
“Hey!” Riley shouted.
“Whatcha doin’, Ginger? Nerding out to some dead guy’s music again?”
Riley glared at them and made a snatch at the paper, but it was quickly passed to another girl who, in turn, shredded it into tiny pieces.
Riley’s blood boiled. “First of all, my name is Riley. You’ve known me for three years. If you’re too stupid to remember something that simple then I have absolutely no hope for you.”
The three girls made offended uch noises and took a step closer.
“Secondly, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it, Bush Fire?”
Riley fumed. They were all in the same year in high school, but these girls acted like they were three years old.
“I’m going to ask nicely for y’all to continue practicing your signatures for your future welfare checks and leave me alone.”
The girls were quiet for a moment, trying to figure out if they had just been insulted.
“Oh, hell no,” said the girl who appeared to be the leader. She ripped Riley’s cello out of her hands and threw it on the ground where Riley heard a sickening crack as the cello’s neck broke into two pieces, held together only by the now slack strings.
Riley erupted.
Brandishing her bow like a blu
dgeon, she shot up from her chair and swung wildly at the girls who screamed and ran from the room, trying to protect themselves from the whip-like connections to their backs and heads.
When they were gone and Riley was alone, she looked down numbly at the shattered remnants of her only bow in her shaking hand. She let out a trembling breath and walked to her cello, lying quiet and broken on the floor. She knelt next to it as if it were a fallen comrade on the field of battle. She was crying quietly when Ms. Suzanne approached her and placed an understanding hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t know why they do this to me,” Riley whimpered.
Ms. Suzanne pulled her to her feet and hugged her. “I don’t know either, but what they did was wrong.”
She led Riley over to the couch and they both sat down. “You have your brother and your music.” Riley could only gaze miserably at her broken companion on the floor.
“What am I going to do now? I don’t think we’ll be getting another cello donation any time soon.”
“Can you use the ones at the school?”
Riley nodded. “Yeah, but we’re not allowed to take them home. Not since one of the seniors stole and sold seven of the school’s violins on eBay.”
Ms. Suzanne was quiet for a little while, thinking. “You know, I think we may have a few extra dollars in our emergency fund. I’ll get the cello fixed for you—”
Riley brightened.
“But,” she continued, “I’m going to insist that you see the counselor who volunteers for us to help you get that temper under control. You cannot act out the way you just did.”
Riley looked down at her trembling hands still clutching the splintered bow. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Be the better person.”