The Last Musician. Jason Peterson

can hear it, right?”

      He hit the instrument, and its sound rang throughout the hall.

      “But if I try to play music, the sound disappears.”

      He picked up a drum and gave it to Connie Scopes, another elder and an accomplished percussionist. Her gray hair had a streak of blue in it, and she pulled at it nervously.

      “Connie, hit the drum like you’re just knocking on someone’s door.”

      Connie did as she was asked, and the thump, thump, thump resounded.

      “Now play me a groove.”

      Some of the teenage Greenwoodians giggled at Elder Rogers’ use of the word “groove,” and were quickly hushed by their parents.

      Connie began a simple, repeating groove on the drum, and to everyone’s amazement, though not their surprise after the rest of the morning’s events, no sound could be heard.

      The only person who did not react to this incredible display was Horace Heckle, the oldest elder, who had not heard music, or anything else for that matter, for many years. He appeared to be sleeping on stage.

      Carl Anderson stood once again and shifted the unruly batch of fake hair on his head.

      “Thank you Edward and Connie,” he said. “I would like to repeat Elder Anderson’s question: is there anyone, anyone at all who can still play or sing? If there is, maybe we can figure out why no one else can.”

      As Carl Anderson’s question echoed throughout the room, the huge door to the town hall slammed shut. Everyone inside, including Ethel Snider, who at that very moment was scanning the crowd for her son, turned to see who had entered.

      It was Kristoffer.

      He walked slowly toward the stage, and in a cocky tone that Ethel had never heard him use before said:

      “I can still play music.”

      3

      A collective gasp followed Kristoffer’s words.

      This gasp was soon replaced by an explosion of muttering and murmuring, as the entire hall reacted to what the boy had said.

      Carl Anderson was so surprised that, without realizing it, he pulled the toupee from his head and began fanning his face with it.

      “My word,” he said again and again.

      The rest of the council of elders reacted in much the same way, as if the sudden rise and fall of emotion was too much for even them.

      It was Horace Heckle who got everyone to settle down.

      Staggering to his feet and shuffling to the podium, Elder Heckle cut through the crowd’s noise with a strong, stern, “Enough.”

      The voices stopped.

      “Come forward, boy,” Horace Heckle said, curling a shriveled finger at Kristoffer.

      As the crowd stared, Kristoffer walked toward the stage. Any cockiness was gone. His knees shook as he walked.

      All eyes locked on Kristoffer as he wobbled up the stairs and made his way to Elder Heckle at the podium.

      “We all know I do not take kindly to liars, boy,” Horace said. He was addressing Kristoffer, but the crowd hung on his every word. “You had better not be telling tales.”

      Ethel Snider held her breath. What was Kristoffer doing?

      “No sir,” Kristoffer said, his face flushing. He breathed in and leveled his gaze at the elder. “I’m not lying.”

      “Well then, boy. Prove it.”

      Elder Rogers rushed over with the ukulele and thrust it toward Kristoffer, while Horace Heckle removed a collapsible funnel that looked like a Victrola horn and stuck it in his own ear.

      “Play a groove on it, Kris,” shouted Billy Turner, one of Kristoffer’s classmates and one of his biggest tormentors. Some in the crowd laughed, while most shushed Billy.

      Everyone in Greenwood knew Kristoffer Snider was some kind of musical prodigy, and it was rare they saw him without an instrument of some kind. It seemed to most in Greenwood the only way Kristoffer could interact with the world was through music. But still, why would he be the exception to this strange event? Greenwood had a lot of musicians. What made him so special?

      Kristoffer held the ukulele in playing position and formed a chord. He had only played the instrument a few times in his life, but his fingers knew where to go as if he’d played it since birth.

      He gave the instrument a strum, and everyone leaned forward in their seats, straining to hear if they could hear anything.

      And there it was.

      The lilting, happy sounds of the ukulele were subtle at first, but as Kristoffer continued to play, they filled the hall.

      People sat back, mouths agape at something that would have been completely normal only a few hours before but now seemed to be the strangest thing they had ever seen. They weren’t the freaks, they thought. Kristoffer Snider was. He always had been. Why should today be any different?

      Horace removed the horn from his ear and stared at Kristoffer.

      “Can you sing?”

      Kristoffer nodded his head and strummed the uke again, this time accompanying himself by singing the Greenwood Anthem. The crowd, including the council of elders, tried to join in with him, but no music came from their attempts, only the sounds of mass exhalation.

      The tension had grown since Kristoffer had begun playing, and once he stopped it hung in the air. Something needed to break it.

      “Freak!”

      The first shout may have come from Billy Turner, but no one was quite certain, as it was quickly followed by another. And another. At first it was just teenagers, but soon others joined in until a cavalcade of calls rained down on Kristoffer.

      The nastiness was as sudden as it was harsh, and even some of the council members were having a difficult time restraining their hatred, their disgust, for Kristoffer. Something was happening inside of them. Changing. Who did he think he was? Better than everyone else?

      The mood had shifted so drastically, so quickly, Kristoffer did not know what to do. He stepped back from the podium, the ukulele dropping awkwardly to his side. He looked out into the crowd and saw a sea of angry faces staring back at him. He heard the names being hurled at him, but it didn’t seem real. Was he dreaming?

      He felt something hit him in the shoulder. It bounced off and hit the floor. A rock. A rock? His shoulder stung. Something flashed by the corner of his eye, and he ducked. Another rock flew over his head.

      Kristoffer stayed on his knees and began shuffling to the back of the stage. He dropped the ukulele and covered his head with his arms, inching closer and closer to the staircase. He heard footsteps behind him and tensed his shoulders, ready to take a blow. Instead, hands pulled him up off the ground and pushed him forward.

      “My son is not a freak,” he heard Ethel call from behind him. He couldn’t believe she had lifted him. Little Ethel? But she had, and wherever her strength had come from, he didn’t care. She had saved him.

      The Council of Elders snapped out of whatever insanity was sweeping the rest of the crowd, and they gathered around Ethel and Kristoffer as the two stumbled their way out the back of the hall. Rocks, pieces of wood, and whatever else could be found in or around the hall fell all around them, striking some and barely missing others.

      The group spilled out of the hall. It was still early in the day, though Kristoffer felt it should be night. So much had changed. Could it only have been in a few hours?

      “My house. Now.” said Horace Heckle, and no one in the group disagreed. Horace lived close to the hall in a house surrounded by a strong fence, the better to keep those dang kids off his lawn. And a crazy,