The Demon's Riddle

by Jessica Brown

  This time it was Kerry who smiled when she was done. Cavanaugh immediately added the rest of her part of the front row to the equation, and everything came together almost instantly. The second part came together almost quickly, and even the back row was up to the challenge of singing without words, capitalizing on the familiarity of the melody line under Cavanaugh's crisp, elogant direction.

  When the Dvorak was done Cavanaugh repeated the process once again, collecting the sheet music and passing out another piece. This one arrived in the same condition -- no words, just notes, no title, credits or anything similar. Kerry tried to read the melody, but this one was foreign to her -- she could barely sing it to herself, and she knew immediately without voicing any of the notes that it had a decidedly odd sound.

  Nonetheless, she was willing to take the power of the piece on faith alone. Cavanaugh was two-for-two so far, and Kerry was utterly sold on his talent and the uniqueness of his approach. She was sold on him as well, and dying of curiosity to find out more about him.

  More than that, though, she wanted to be alone with him, regardless of the context, to experience his power one and one and bask in the glow of his talent. And she had a feeling she was about to get her chance.

  Kerry's adoring reverie was broken, though, when the conductor finally spoke.

  "This one is different from the other two," he began. "Less familiar, for sure. And also..."

  Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence and glanced down at the score in front of him. He smiled and shook his head, as if amused at himself, then scanned the choir to address them all once again.

  "I almost forgot," he said, his voice tinged with chagrin. "And the most obvious part, no less."

  He paused for effect, knowing he had his audience in the palm of his hands.

  "The words."

  A murmur rippled through the choir, and Kerry heard a couple of women giggle. Cavanaugh had them so mesmerized that no one had thought about this at all, not even Kerry, who should have been the first one to mention it. She knew the way her father would react at hymns without words, and no matter how powerful or good the music was, such an approach would bring both his disapproval and considerable wrath within the church community.

  "Allow me to explain," Cavanaugh continued. "Rest assured, there will be words, and they will be in the normal style of the hymns to which you have become accustomed. I have developed my own set of liturgical texts, and the will be matched appropriately to the music you have just sung."

  He paused once again for effect, and Kerry looked across the front row to see a couple of heads nodding in approval and agreement. For some reason she couldn't put her finger on, though, she was more skeptical about this. Not because Cavanaugh's approach was so unusual -- it was more the way he explained this. Something about it seemed off and didn't quite ring true to her.

  Nonetheless, she continued to give him the benefit of the doubt. Kerry watched him more carefully now, to see what rabbit the conductor would pull out of his motorcycle helmet for selection number three.

  "As I was saying," he went on, appearing just slightly flustered, "this one is different. In fact, I can guarantee with full confidence that none of you have ever heard the melody, much less the substance of the accompaniment parts."

  He let this pronouncement hang in the air, as if they were supposed to know what he was talking about, when in fact Kerry knew it was his intent to remain mischievous. Little did she know, though, that she was about to become the specific focus of Cavanaugh's attention.

  "Ms. Harrigan," he said, his head swiveling as he looked right at her, no longer mocking her with his derisive music school nickname. "Will you sing the melody line for me? I believe your part is different than the other first parts."

  Kerry shook her head, slightly stunned and a bit taken aback. Cavanaugh had set her back on her heels, and he knew it, she could tell from the way he was grinning at her. Flustered, she started to think of a question to ask to give herself time to think, but before she could do that his baton was rising in front of him, pointed right at her.

  Instinctively, Kerry responded according to her training and programming. She began to sing the line, hesitant at first, and she thought back with embarrassment at how awkwardly the first hymn had sounded. Determined to show how confident she was, she focused on her breathing, then on the notes, just the way she had learned at Oberlin, not trying to read any connotations into the notes or anticipate a specific melodic sound that might not be there.

  It took a couple of measures, but slowly the line came into focus. Not everyone understood it as quickly as she did, she knew that, but she kept going, one note and a single phrase at a time. Once the first phrase clicked in for her she knew where it was going, and suddenly her struggle to read the line seemed almost foolish and silly to her. She knew this music, somehow, even though she had never heard it before, and she continued on, following his lead as he shaped the phrase into a line.

  When it was done, the melody line was as beautiful as the other two had been, but in a much less obvious way. The only word Kerry could come up with to describe it was haunting, but even that didn't do it justice, and she wanted to hear and see more, much more. Cavanaugh nodded with satisfaction at her when it was done, but this time no words of praise or assessment followed, the physical gesture of approval was all she got.

  And in a strange way Kerry knew now that this was all that was necessary, that somehow her status with him had been elevated in a way she couldn't quite put into words. Cavanaugh turned to the rest of the choir and paused before speaking, then stunned all of them with his words.

  "That was the solo part," he stated simply. "The other four parts will simply support that line, and we'll go through them now, in the same way we did with the others."

  Kerry's jaw dropped suddenly, and several heads wheeled toward her just as suddenly. She looked at the other choir members who were staring at her, and Kerry could tell they were wondering what had transpired or passed between them during those brief few moments when their paths had crossed on the church steps. She shrugged, more than a bit nonplussed herself, then turned her attention back to Cavanaugh, awaiting his next instructions.

  As soon as she did, his eyes met hers. "You will sing the first part with the others for now, Ms. Harrigan," he stated simply. "The solo part will be taken care of at a later date."

  There was an authority and a finality in his tone that completely eliminated any possibility of questions, comments or anything of the like. He paused again, allowing the silence to hang in the air, then tapped the baton on the stand and addressed them as a unit once again.

  "Now then," he continued. "Shall we continue with the first part? Same format as before, same configuration, same approach."

  With that Cavanaugh raised the baton and gave them the downbeat, as if nothing unusual had just taken place. Kerry, though, couldn't begin to describe the changes taking place inside her. For one thing, her stomach was roiling and churning, but not necessarily in a bad way, this was more like a supercharged case of butterflies.

  She hadn't soloed on anything complex since her graduation at Oberlin, when she had been the featured soloist in the final performance of the concert choir. Her mind moved back to that performance, and suddenly she had the strangest sensation of deja vu, that something just as significant was about to happen with Cavanaugh.

  Kerry had nothing to authenticate that feeling, just the power of her intuition, which was something she thought had gone dormant since she had returned home to Mississippi. Evidently, though, it was still with her, and more powerful than ever at that. She tried to wrap her head around the idea of soloing off the line she had just sung, but nothing would come to her, and she realized she was basically at Cavanaugh's mercy when it came to needing the power of his guidance.

  Once again, though, her reverie was cut off by Cavanaugh's return to the music. Kerry was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost entered a half beat late, and she caught Cavanaugh's s
harp glance at her, which somehow also contained a sly half smile. Feeling chastened, she put her focus back on the point of the baton and simply followed his lead, realizing that this was simply the way it was supposed to be between them.

  But mastering the line was another matter entirely. Grasping it may have been something of a challenge for Kerry as he led her through it, but for the rest of the choir is was like a musical Rubik's cube, at least initially. It took several slow repetitions before it began to come together, and Kerry had to force herself to be patient while this happened, for there was no way to transfer her understanding of the line to the rest of her half of the front row.

  Ultimately, though, this didn't matter. Cavanaugh suddenly turned patient, gentle even, to a degree that surprised Kerry quite a bit. It was more than a bit of a revelation seeing him this way, his guidance slow and measured. He always approached them as a group, even when it was obvious which individual singer was gumming up the works.

  When this happened he would merely pause and start again, sometimes breaking up the line into smaller and smaller bits so that his charges could understand it, and the way he did this reminded Kerry of a mother bird feeding her young, tempering their eagerness with patience so they could take in and understand what he was doing.

  It took a similar approach to rehearse and master the other three parts, with the lack of expertise in these groups slowing down the process even more. By the time he reached the fourth part the rehearsal as a whole was crawling, and Kerry found herself beginning to fidget, her mind drifting to the thought of her solo even as she tried to stop herself from going there.

  And whenever this happened, Cavanaugh would slowly glance over at her, no matter what he was in the middle of with the rest of the group, and to Kerry it felt as if he were reading her thoughts, one by one as they floated through her mind.

  Finally the rehearsal was over. Kerry thought it would never end, although she did notice at the end that Cavanaugh transformed into something a taskmaster, working every detail as if it was the most important note in the piece, which for all she knew it might be. She could feel the energy of the choir as a whole flagging, and she wondered if Cavanaugh noticed that, he was so immersed in the process that he seemed somewhat oblivious to that part of it.

  Then suddenly, all at once, it was over. The conductor did seem to notice that his charges were tapped out, and indeed maybe even physically exhausted as well. This was the most rigorous rehearsal Kerry could ever remember the choir going through, and while she was exhilarated at the familiarity of this kind of process, she knew that at this point none of her fellow singers shared her enthusiasm.

  Cavanaugh closed things out rather unceremoniously, ending the rehearsal rather abruptly. Kerry had the definite feeling he wasn't satisfied, that he wanted to do more, but he knew better to push when there was little or no energy left to give. He collected the music quickly and efficiently, leaving no instructions as to their next meeting, which struck Kerry as decidedly odd given how much the piece itself obviously needed polishing.

  She wondered what that was about, but just as she did this Cavanaugh caught her eye and nodded toward the stairs down to the church entrance, an obvious gesture that she should join him on his way out. Kerry met him at the top of the stairs, aware that multiple pairs of eyes were following her from the choir as she did.

  Chapter 10

  My Solo

  She could almost anticipate the vocal buzz that would follow and the words and thoughts that would dominate the conversations. There would be gossip about this, she thought to herself ruefully, and it was only a matter of time before some aspect of all this would get back to her father. There would be an inquisition about this, she knew that already, and Kerry felt her stomach clench at the thought of that confrontation.

  But then she was with Cavanaugh, walking down the stairs, and somehow Kerry relaxed, without knowing quite how that happened. There was something about being in his presence that was magical for her, and she reveled in it, wondering if it could even shield her from her father's impending wrath. She said nothing as they came to the door, and Cavanaugh pushed on it gently, opening it almost effortlessly, which was a wonder to Kerry given how heavy she knew it was.

  As he held the door open for her, he spoke, softly. "So...your solo."

  "Yes...my solo," Kerry repeated, as if she were an automaton, even though that was the last thing she felt like.

  "You're curious about it," he added, his tone matter of fact.

  "Slightly," she replied, the word coming out instinctively.

  "Slightly." He smiled as the door closed, making a noise like thunder.

  Kerry giggled, hopping down the stairs ahead of him. "Ok," she started, "maybe more than slightly."

  "Ah...I thought so."

  After that was silence, and a very pregnant silence at that, as they walked down the church sidewalk. Kerry wondered exactly where they were going, and then she remembered that she hadn't seen his motorcycle.

  "Where is it?" she blurted out, before realizing that he would have no idea what she was talking about.

  "I beg your pardon?" He turned to her, his eyebrows arched slightly.

  "The motorcycle," Kerry said simply, glad it was dark so her fierce blushing wouldn't be quite as obvious, even though she suspected it was to him.

  "Ah," he said, pointing to where the sidewalk broke off to the left, in parallel with the church. He smiled again, that damn piercing, penetrating smile. "You'd like to walk with me?"

  Kerry snorted. "I'd like to know what you're doing with me," she stammered. "With all this."

  "All what?" he asked, the eyebrows lifting again.

  "You know exactly what, Mr. Cavanaugh," she stated, her voice soft but fierce. "The music. The solo. All of it."

  "You already know that," he said, striding toward the bike.

  "I do?"

  "Of course."

  "Why don't you tell me then?" she asked, totally frustrated. "Because I'm totally lost right now."

  "No you're not," he said as he mounted the bike, managing to make the awkward motion of leg over seat look smooth and athletically natural. She watched, transfixed, carefully measuring the arc of his leg as it swung over the seat."You know exactly where you are."

  Kerry almost blurted out "I do?" again, then realized how much that would make her sound like a blithering idiot. Cavanaugh waited, seemingly enjoying her awkwardness, then finally decided to rescue her.

  "You're here. With me." He gripped the handlebars and throttled the engine, then realized if he started the bike she wouldn't be able to hear him, so he stopped. "And tomorrow night we'll start your solo."

  "We will?"

  "Of course." He put the helmet on, sliding it over his head, managing to make that awkward motion look sexy as well. "We'll meet here. Same time as the rehearsal."

  She started do answer with another "we will?," then managed to hold herself back. Instead she stared into his eyes, which was like looking into a bottomless well, not knowing if she would drown or enter a totally new world of wonder. For her own safety, Kerry decided it was the latter.

  "We will, then," she said softly, trying to convince herself that she was making the decision.

  Cavanaugh smiled softly, and this time he did throttle the bike to life, slowly but firmly. The bike sputtered to life, then roared, and the conductor brought the throttle down to idle, making it purr in a way that made Kerry think of music, and singing.

  She wanted to say something else, but the noise of the engine was too loud, even just idling. Cavanaugh slid his leg back toward the kickstand, in a single motion that was somehow both violent and languid. The conductor nodded, gracefully balancing the motorcycle between his legs, and then he was off into the night, the roar of the engine filling her ears, like an ocean wave she had suddenly become caught in, crashing down around her.

  The wait that followed was even more agonizing than the previous one between rehearsals. Kerry's return home was une
ventful -- her father had turned in early, thankfully, so at least she didn't have to face another inquisition.

  But her sleep was turbulent, to say the least. She tried to read and then watch TV before going to bed, knowing that both of those efforts would prove futile as potential distractions. Kerry simply wasn't tired, and she knew she wasn't going to be. She had to at least try to sleep, though, even though she had no idea how to go about it, what to do to tire herself out, or if she could even do that to any significant degree.

  She turned in around midnight, feeling what she hoped might be the beginning of fatigue but remaining skeptical about that possibility. Kerry normally dreamed all the time, but as a rule she could only remember the beginnings of her dreams and was rarely able to get past the preamble.

  Tonight was different, of course. Kerry felt herself plunging into the first dream as if she was diving to the bottom of that well, the one that began when she looked into Cavanaugh's eyes. She saw him constantly after that in the dream, but only in snippets, there was no narrative to the dream, only pictures and flashes that were both profound and intense.

  Kerry heard his voice as well, but similarly, only in phrases, asking brief questions that were more riddles than anything else and giving short answers that barely helped illuminate the nature of the riddle. There was an odd kind of violence in the way these two things were juxtaposed, his voice and the image of him, as if something or someone was creating a strange, disjointed film that wasn't designed to make sense, only change her sense of who she was.

  Kerry knew there was no way something like that could actually be happening, but that was what it felt like. There were times when it felt like she was trying to wake up from the dream and couldn't, and other passages of what felt like time when she felt like she was diving deeper into it, even though that made no sense at all when she tried to express it to herself.