by S W Vaughn
Grace paused. Silver, I'm coming up. She always let him know, to avoid startling him. He never replied. This time proved no different.
She ascended the ladder and pulled herself into the room. Yesterday's bag had remained in place. Silver had not.
"Silver?” She crossed to the table, scanning the room. Not that he could stay hidden anywhere in here. She moved the old lunch and discovered it hadn't been touched.
A soft sound, an intake of breath, drifted from the tree house porch. Grace dropped everything and rushed out. Silver stood beside the bunk beds, gazing through the screen toward the camp house. His eyes caught the sunlight and amplified the glow until they appeared burning coals. An expression of wonder had replaced his vacant stare.
Grace shivered. He had been beautiful. He'd become ethereal. Alive.
Silver raised an arm and rested his fingertips on the screen. “Grace. Do you hear? The sound. The...” She felt a gentle stirring in her head, as though he were searching her memories for the right word. “Music."
"Yes.” She whispered it, afraid to break the spell.
He closed his eyes. Grace watched him bathe in the sound, draw it into himself like oxygen. When the song ended, he remained motionless for a full minute. At last he regarded her with glittering eyes and said, “Will the music return?"
A lump formed in her throat. “I'll see what I can do,” she said, and Reached to Megan.
Can you guys play that song again?
Grace? Uh ... I guess. But why?
You have a captive audience.
Who?
Grace smiled. Silver.
Holy shit! Hang on...
Several seconds passed. The poignant melody drifted on the air again.
Silver went rigid. His eyes closed, and Grace remained silent for the duration of the song. The last notes dissipated.
How was that? Megan asked.
Perfect. Thank you.
Silver straightened and lowered his arm. “You brought it back."
"I only asked Megan and the others to play again,” she said gently. “They were making the music."
He faced her fully. “Thann ... kew."
"Oh! I—” Tears flooded her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “You're welcome."
"You are crying.” He lifted a hand, stopped just short of touching her.
"Yes, but I ... It's because I'm happy. For you."
Silver stared at her. “I feel you,” he whispered. “Inside. As I felt Lorin. But ... she is dark. And you are light."
It took everything she had not to dissolve into sobbing. “Silver. I feel you, too.” She swiped at her streaming eyes and glanced back inside the tree house. “You know, you can hear music whenever you want."
"How?"
"I'll show you.” She stepped in from the porch and headed for the stereo on the shelves. Silver followed. “This is a stereo, and these are CDs,” she explained, gesturing to each in turn. “Together, they make music. First you have to turn the stereo on, like this.” Her finger hovered over the power button. She glanced back to make sure he was watching, then pressed it gently. The display lit and flashed ready.
"Now, we'll put a CD in. Let's see what we have.” Grace scanned the titles in the rack beside the stereo and spotted a compilation of rock ballads. She eased it out, opened the case and held up the CD by the edges. “This side goes up. The shiny side goes down.” She turned it over to show him. “Don't touch this side or the stereo won't be able to play the music."
Silver's brow furrowed. “Does Megan not make the music?"
"Not this music.” Grace smiled. “This is a recording. The sound is stored here and the stereo plays it back.” She opened the CD tray. “You put the CD in here. One at a time. You can play any of them—just take one out, and put another in.” She placed the disc, closed the tray and pointed at the play button. “Then push this button. Go on, you try it. Don't push hard ... you only need to touch it."
She stood back. He raised a hand, hesitated, and touched the play button. The player clicked and whirred. The music began.
Silver caught his breath. “I have made music."
"Yes, you have."
Grace showed him the volume control, and explained how to skip and repeat songs and stop the CD. Silver learned quickly. He remembered everything the first time. After she'd gone over all the functions, he ran his fingers over the spines of the CD collection and regarded her with wide eyes. “This music. I can play it any time?"
"Of course you can. Whenever you want."
"Grace.” He closed his eyes, opened them. “Thank you."
"You're more than welcome.” Warmth expanded inside her, a bubble threatening to burst. This was more than a step. Nothing short of a miracle. She tempered her emotion, aware he would need time to adjust. “I can bring you more music."
"There is more?"
Grace laughed. “A lot more. I'll get Megan to help me pick some, and I'll come back tonight with new CDs. For now, you can listen to these."
"Yes. This, I will ... like."
Grace left him with his music and descended the ladder. When she reached the ground, he turned the volume up to what she suspected was the stereo's highest setting. The music swelled above, clear and soaring and free. Like Silver.
Like her.
A gentle wind rippled the grass and caressed her face. Grace smiled. She turned and walked back to the house. To live.
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Acknowledgements
They say it takes a village to raise a child. What they don't say is that, though writers are by nature odd and solitary creatures, it also takes a village to raise a book. Therefore, in no particular order, I would like to thank my village:
My husband and son, who put up with my frequent disappearances and obsessive behavior with unfailing patience and love; my mother, father, sisters and brother, who have been nothing but supportive; various other family members (you know who you are) who have loved my work in spite of its nature running contrary to my sunny disposition; Aaron Lazar, who read all six thousand drafts of this book and loved every one of them, bless his giant heart; Marta Stephens and Kim Smith, the best blog and crit partners out there (and Aaron too!); Miss Snark, who showed me the flaws in an early version of this story and helped me redefine my vision into something (hopefully) more powerful; my wonderful agent, who helped make this story great and believed in it even when it turned out no one else in “big” publishing did; and everyone at Lyrical Press, who have given me the best publishing experience I've ever had.
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About S. W. Vaughn
www.lyricalpress.com/swvaughn
S. W. Vaughn wrote Hunted over a long and brutally cold upstate New York winter—the second winter in a row with no heat in the house. Sometimes she had a little electric heater, but sometimes she just bundled up in a lot of layers (including fingerless gloves) and typed away in the cold back room she uses for an office. You may have noticed that this story takes place in the summer, and there is frequent mention of heat and warmth. This is evidence of Vaughn's wishful thinking at work ... that, and the indoor swimming pool, which would otherwise have no rightful place at an isolated house in the Adirondacks. Fortunately for Vaughn, her characters have more money than she does.
S.W. Vaughn's Website
www.swvaughn.com
Reader eMail
[email protected]
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