Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  “No,” he said, fetching his mortar and pestle, “but I know a lot better than you. You’d do well to listen to your elders. You could have a long career here, Loxley.” He glanced up to her and cocked an eyebrow. “Or you could say what you’re thinking right now, and have no career here. It’s your choice. I can always find another assistant.”

  Little Fiddleback

  LOXLEY TOOK HER key from around her neck as she climbed the green steel stairs to Harrison Hoop Station. She’d waited to ascend onto the platform until the five twenty-two had left, which gave her six minutes to get inside, get to her locker, and get tuned up. After that, the next train would arrive with deafening force and clamor. She wanted to be ready before that happened.

  Reaching the platform, she found only a few people. After the day she’d had, she welcomed the sparse population. Harrison Hoop Station wasn’t nearly as bad as Vulcan’s Bazaar, but on crowded days, she’d have to force herself to walk inside. She hurried to the station lockers and opened hers. Inside, she had a violin case, a blanket and a glass jar. She fetched her things and put fifty cents into the locker to retrieve her key. She knew she was paying to hold onto an empty locker, but she had an affinity for that number. One hundred and five; it was hers. She picked up her stuff and rushed to her usual spot against the edge of the station.

  The walls were all the same forest green as the rest of the place, solid steel and half-eaten with rust. Since the Hoop was elevated, those walls could get bitterly cold in winter, offering no comfort from the blistering winds that swept through the place. She spread her blanket over the frigid concrete floor, plunked her jar down in front of her and opened up her instrument case.

  The crackled finish of her violin was a visit from an old friend – always a little new, but full of warm familiarity. It had been her mother’s violin, and before that, her grandmother’s. Her grandmother had been a master of its arts, traveling the world, but Loxley couldn’t imagine such a thing. She’d never been outside the Hole, and she certainly didn’t long to see other cities. She fetched the violin from its case, along with her bow, which had started to look a little frayed. She rosined the bow and was just about to play when she remembered the most important thing about playing in the Hoop station. She dug into her pocket and threw a dollar or so of loose change into her jar.

  One minute until the next train arrived. She placed the bow to her strings, savoring the tension of the interface. A slow drag, and she brought the wild A string into line with a half-turn of the peg. She bowed across the other strings in pairs, tuning them to the perfect fifths, just like her mother had taught her. Several heads had turned her way during the few notes, not exactly friendly faces, as no one enjoyed the sound of tuning.

  Once tuned, she pulled an open note across the low G, and it was like straightening a wavy line in her mind. The complicated, awful world became a single pitch as the station resonated with the sound of her instrument. Low and droning, she kept her bow traveling back and forth to keep the tone alive. Each push and pull brought a new peace to her, like laying her head against her mother’s chest as she breathed in and out with restful deliberation.

  She saw lights on the tracks in the distance and heard the horn. Her fingers flew across the neck, playing her first scale. She paused at the top, savoring a high E before plunging headlong into the valley of her melody. Loxley played the song in her heart, and as she became dimly-aware of the train thundering into the station, she disappeared into her music. She could not see or hear the passersby; there was only the touch of horsehair on string and the embrace of her instrument.

  On the top ring, in Edgewood, they had a lot more trees, nestled amongst the alabaster houses. Squirrels liked to make their way into the city from the endless fields beyond, scurrying amongst the branches. As Loxley played, she imagined the squirrels, scampering across the ground to bound up the massive trunks, jumping between the branches, sometimes graceful, sometimes falling. In turn, her music began to patter about, dashing along nimble phrases and perching on long, thoughtful measures. Without her permission, her body began to sway, and a sleepy grin spread across her face. She wanted to tell the world about the squirrels with a voice she didn’t have.

  Her tune wound to a close, and she opened her eyes to see a clapping audience. The world returned. Cash poured from the crowd into her jar, and she watched the tips pile up with mounting excitement. The rush hadn’t even started yet, and it would already be a banner evening for Loxley’s second business.

  She picked up her bow and began to play again. Through the hours, people would come and go and her jar became stuffed with bills. She’d grown used to attracting a throng, but never like this. After the hellish day she’d already had, she appreciated every shout and clap. It warmed her bones to be liked, even if she had no idea how to address the folk gathered around her. They didn’t crowd her in, either. Whenever someone would stand too close, she’d simply play as loudly as she could, and they would back away.

  A black fellow in the front applauded wildly, a lot louder than the others around him. She didn’t like the look of him: tall and burly, a wide smile with too-white teeth. His clothes were strange, too. He sported a crisp shirt and vest under a sleek suit coat. She saw dark acne scars pockmarking his cheeks as he crouched down in front of her.

  “What was that song, Pumpkin? Never heard you play it before.” His voice floated to her – polished, too practiced.

  “I don’t know you.” She squeaked as she spoke. “Doubt you’ve heard much of my music at all.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m a good guy to know.” He extended a calloused hand, gold cufflinks flashing from his shirt sleeve as his coat pulled back. His suit was immaculately pressed, and struck her as both stylish and restrained. There wasn’t a speck of dust in evidence anywhere on his person. “Quentin Mabry.”

  Loxley glanced at the clock. Three minutes to the next train. She stared at his hand, willing him to retract it. She didn’t have any black friends, though the lower rings were full of them. They walked in their own social circles, and she much preferred it that way. Familiar faces were scary enough. You keep to yourself around the negroes, Loxie. They ain’t all bad, but they ain’t us.

  Quentin straightened up. “What seems to be the problem, Pumpkin?”

  “My name isn’t Pumpkin.”

  “And I’m giving you every opportunity to correct me.” He extended a hand again. “My name is Mister Quentin Mabry.”

  She looked to the crowd, but they’d all dispersed. She glanced back at Quentin’s hand and shook it quickly. His grip was gentle, but his skin was rough. She pulled away as fast as she could.

  “Loxley.”

  “Is that your family name?”

  When Loxley was young, she’d asked her mother what their last name was. Her mother asked her what she wanted it to be, and Loxley thought hard. There was a spider that terrified the little boys on the block. They said, if it bit you, it’d rot your flesh. They said it liked to hide, and it was ugly and strange. It wasn’t mean-spirited, just scared of everyone. It just wanted to be left alone. She’d taken its name ever since for herself.

  “Fiddleback,” she told Quentin.

  “You serious?”

  “Yes.” She’d told people that name for years. No one had ever questioned it before. Her cheeks felt hot.

  “Then I’ve got a proposal, Miss Fiddleback.”

  “I don’t want to marry you.”

  Quentin’s rich laughter echoed off the walls of the train station, and she flinched at the volume of it. He nearly doubled over, but she didn’t think it was funny at all. First Birdie, then the ghost, then Don, and now this total stranger had begun to mock her. She felt a little flare in her stomach, and she thwacked him hard across the side of his leg with the tip of her bow. He jumped back with a startled shout.

  She’d had enough. She stood, the neck of her violin clutched hard in her balled fist. “Stop laughing at me!” If he came any closer, she’d strike him
across the face next time.

  He smiled, rubbing his leg. “That smarts. You’ve got some fangs, Miss Fiddleback. I meant that I had a business proposal. You understand there are several types of proposals?”

  She scowled at him. Why wouldn’t he just leave?

  “I’m the maître d’ at a nice nightclub, and I want you to come audition to play for us.”

  “You just made that up. No such thing.”

  He shook his head. “It’s short for maître d’hôtel. It’s French. It means I’m the host.”

  “You don’t work at a nightclub in France.”

  “The club isn’t in France. It’s on the eighth ring.”

  She settled back down onto her rump and got ready to play. The next train would be here soon, and she didn’t want to be caught out talking to Quentin when it arrived. “Now I know you’re lying. There isn’t anything nice on the eighth ring.”

  He slipped his hands into his pockets. “I just want you to hear me out, Miss Fiddleback. If you’ll let me, I’ll take you down there to play, and you can make some good money. Better bread than you make up here. A lot of folks would like to come see you saw that fiddle of yours. I can probably get you a new one, if you want.”

  “Don’t need a new fiddle.” She saw the lights of the approaching train and put her bow to the strings. “Now stop talking.”

  “Please listen, Miss Fiddleback. You could be making anywhere between three hundred bucks and a grand, every single night. I’m not saying you have to make a decision right –”

  The station began to rattle, and Loxley shut her eyes tightly as she sliced a note from the air. She could make Quentin vanish into her music, just like the train. She searched her heart for a melody that captured him, an unctuous song, fraught with little disharmonic tones. Out of a clattering world, he emerged like a snake from rustling leaves. She wanted to walk away, but he tangled her legs. He became a phrase of minor notes that she wove into a major tapestry – always about to bite her.

  She managed to keep her eyes closed the whole time, and soon she heard nothing. The serpent raced after her through the grove, and she kicked at it when it got close. His fangs passed close to her pale flesh; a single nick would prove deadly. Her song spoke of the others killed by this scaly worm, all of them innocent and gullible, and they lay sleeping in the grass until the end of days. The snake would see her on her back, too, if she didn’t do something. The Loxley of her mind scurried up a tree, using the same scales as the squirrels did, until arriving above the canopy.

  A sunrise stretched before her, unfettered from the walls of the Hole, and the sporty music of the squirrels dilated into a soaring ode to the silver clouds above. She grew lighter with each interval, playing away the weight of the world. Her muddy toes lifted from the branch, and she began to float upwards. She would fly away from this place, even as the snake climbed the tree behind her.

  Across the expanse, there was nothing, no one. She looked down and only saw clouds. Above her was the blue haze of endless space. She could fly forever or fall forever, and neither would matter because she’d passed beyond the fearful domain of any other soul. She could be alone up here.

  She opened her eyes and smiled, proud of her work. The train had left, but the crowd hadn’t. She waited for them to clap for her, but no one was watching her. She saw that her overstuffed jar of money had vanished... along with Quentin Mabry. She looked up at the bystanders in panic, and saw them staring toward the station exit. She shot to her feet, fear and anger flooding her veins.

  Then she spotted Quentin, straddling another man and beating the tar out of him. The prone fellow had her jar in one hand and shielded his face with the other, and he screamed with each strike. Quentin tried to take the jar, but the thief wouldn’t let go. Quentin pushed the man’s guard up and knocked his teeth in. Then he yanked Loxley’s earnings from the thief’s hand, stood up and brushed himself off.

  The gathered crowd erupted into applause, and Quentin took a long bow before sauntering back toward Loxley. When he was amongst them, receiving back-slaps and congratulations, he presented the jar to each person there, soliciting their donations. “No, not me! Let’s hear it for the beautiful music of Lady Fiddleback!” he laughed, and the money came in even faster than before. Folks liked music, but they seemed to like violence even more. When at long last he’d milked every last drop from the crowd, he tucked two crisp hundred dollar bills into the overflowing coffer and presented it to her.

  Her eyes widened. This would more than cover the loss of her cart and cash. Why was he acting this way?

  Quentin spun to address the crowd. “If you liked that, you can see more of her at the Hound’s Tail, on the eighth ring! Ya’all going to come see her?” Hollers from the crowd affirmed his showmanship.

  She didn’t say that. When did he get that idea? Embarrassment rouged her cheeks once more. She jammed her violin into the case and snatched up her earnings and blanket, floundering with the spread as she tried to hold onto the jar. Quentin moved in like a dance partner and took the blanket from her, folding it up as she watched and fumed.

  “You all done for the evening, Pumpkin?” he cooed, coming far too close for her tastes.

  She went to slap him, but restrained herself. He still flinched, and that made her happy. She didn’t know what he was up to, and she didn’t care to know.

  “My name is Loxley, Mister Mabry, and I’m not playing your game,” she said, and stormed off in the direction of the lockers. She hoped to God he wouldn’t follow her.

  Chapter Three

  She Came Home

  LOXLEY’S JOURNEY HOME weighed on her. The entire way, all she could think about was the roll of bills in her coat pocket. She tried not to imagine that everyone could see her loaded down with cash, but the idea kept creeping into her mind. She would not let anyone close to her on the ramps, and she scanned every single person’s face for even the slightest hint of danger. The descent into the lower rings was hellish, because she had to walk through the poorer neighborhoods – her neighborhoods – if she wanted to get home. Familiar fixtures of those areas became worrisome, the streetlights dimmer, the residents more hostile. She knew if she acted suspicious, people would be more likely to hurt her, but she could not hide what she was.

  She felt the ants on her legs, telling her to run home, like she did in her school days. However, that would be like running from an angry dog. It would certainly chase her down. When Magic City Heights came into view, the tightness in her chest melted away. She knew this neighborhood well, and the people knew her. She didn’t stand out here. Her apartment beckoned to her from behind a fence of other buildings, promising its protection and hurrying her the final few blocks.

  When she turned the last corner to the entrance, she spotted Officer Crutchfield sitting atop her cart, smoking a cigarette. He smiled and waved, and she nearly skipped as she rushed to him. He leapt down from his perch, and she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. He stunk of smoke with a tinge of whiskey, but it didn’t bother her; he’d brought back her cart.

  She circled her property, inspecting it. She had to shake the crackles out, but only because her heart soared with pleasure. There was a new scuff on the back fender, and she felt a little like her cart was an old friend that had grown a beard: mostly the same, but a little unfamiliar. She wondered what adventures it had gotten into over the course of its day with Officer Crutchfield, and she laughed out loud.

  The policeman put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “What you giggling about, Loxie?

  “A cart with a beard,” she replied, nearly crawling up under it to inspect the undercarriage.

  “Sure. Why not?” Crutchfield grabbed the back of her coat and pulled her upright. “I can assure you it’s all there. I’ve been waiting out here for two hours to give it to you. Question is, what do you say back to me?”

  She stopped and bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, Officer Crutchfield.”

  “You’re
welcome. I’ve told you to call me Burt for two years now.”

  “But Officer Burt sounds dumb.”

  “No ‘Officer.’ Just Burt.”

  She frowned. “But that’s not what you call a police officer. You’re wearing a uniform. That’s queer.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief from his black police parka and wiped his nose. He looked as though he’d been sitting outside in the chilly air for quite some time.

  Loxley took the cart by the tongue and carried it back to the fenced area, opening the lock with Rick’s key. She put the transport back where it belonged, under a rickety awning, then chained the fence and rejoined the policeman. He had sat on the front steps of the building and lit another cigarette. He offered the pack to Loxley. She shook her head no and sat down beside him.

  “You got a fenced area and everything,” he said. “First time I’ve ever seen your operation.”

  “My garden is up on the roof. Rick lets me use it.”

  “He your superintendent?”

  She nodded.

  “He lets you up on the roof?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He’s really nice to me. He hates everyone else.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He tells me a lot. He gets drunk and bakes me cookies. Then he sits in my apartment and talks about his dead wife and how she liked everyone but he doesn’t.” She looked up at Officer Crutchfield, and she couldn’t tell if he was smiling or squinting, so she stared at the ground instead. He’d always told her she should look people in the eye, but his face didn’t make sense.

  “Probably wouldn’t like me, much,” he mumbled around his cigarette. “God knows no one else does. I think the wife has had about enough of my bullshit.”