The Last Musician. Jason Peterson

on the door, screaming threats at Kristoffer, Horace, and Ethel. Elder Anderson and the rest of the council were at the front, and their transformation from earlier in the day was startling.

      “Music is the thread, Kristoffer, and they will tear you apart because of it.” Elder Heckle sighed. “You’re the only one who can save us.”

      7

      Kristoffer splashed cold water on his face. He had left Ethel and Elder Heckle, telling them he needed to use the bathroom. What he needed was time to think.

      Could he just say no? Leave them all behind? Go and find another place to live?

      Forget about the music. The note. All of it.

      Maybe this was all just a bad dream. He pinched himself and splashed more water on his face. No, it wasn’t a dream.

      Ethel. He kept coming back to Ethel. She had taken him in and loved him as her own son. He thought of how she encouraged him in whatever he wanted to do. How she listened to him – really listened – unlike anyone else he had ever known. He couldn’t just leave her with this town falling apart.

      And Greenwood. It was the only place he had ever known, and even though he never felt like he belonged, the people here were good people. If he could help them, he should. Right?

      Then there was his life. Who was he? Where did he come from? And why was he chosen to be this way?

      Kristoffer looked at himself in the mirror. He was not strong or tough. He knew that about himself, and he saw it in his own eyes. He could fail, and Greenwood would destroy itself. All he knew and loved could fall apart because of him. But he should try. He would try.

      Kristoffer opened the bathroom door and walked back into Elder Heckle’s bedroom where Ethel and Elder Heckle sat, looking at him with anticipation. Kristoffer heard the angry voices outside. People fighting each other and fighting to get in. All because music had gone missing from their lives. The thread that held it all together. He would find it.

      Kristoffer took a deep breath and looked at Ethel.

      “I’m in.”

      8

      The idea was simple enough. Create a diversion, and make a run for it. Although, as with all plans, the potential for disaster was real.

      Kristoffer crouched in Elder Heckle’s cramped basement. Across his shoulder was one of the Elder’s leather satchels, which he and Ethel had quickly stocked with enough food and water to last Kristoffer for a few days. After that, he would be on his own. They had also packed the note, and at the last second Elder Heckle had given Kristoffer a small wooden flute he had whittled as a young boy many years ago. It was a good luck token, Elder Heckle had said. And maybe it would be useful along the way.

      Kristoffer opened the small window leading to Elder Heckle’s backyard. People were all over the place, spilling over from the front. He saw neighbors, church members, and Ethel’s old friends. They argued. Pushed each other. Screamed. Whatever was happening to them was tearing them apart.

      Wait for the signal, Kristoffer thought. Wait for it.

      “The boy is coming out.” Kristoffer heard the words, and he knew at that moment, Elder Heckle and Ethel were opening the front door. They were to pretend they were caught up in the anger and they were dragging Kristoffer out to be destroyed by the masses. They knew it was probably only a matter of time before they were caught up in it too.

      The crowds behind the house stopped fighting and started walking to the front. Kristoffer knew he had to make a run for it just after they left but before they discovered he was not there.

      He waited for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, then stuck his head out. No one was there.

      “Get the boy. Get the boy.”

      He heard the chant from the front of the house as he climbed out the window. The satchel snagged, and as he tried to yank it free, he heard the commotion from the front of the house grow louder. Shouts and jeers. Did they know he wasn’t there? Were they coming around to get him? Was Ethel safe?

      He couldn’t worry about that now. The satchel broke free, and he ran as fast as he could across the backyard. He looked back once and saw the mob overtaking the house like a colony of ants on a hill. He hoped it would not be the last image he ever had of Greenwood.

      9

      “Ogg get sleepy.”

      The two had been walking in the forest for hours, and Alistair had to admit he was getting tired as well. And he wasn’t the one carrying the heavy load.

      It was difficult in the forest to tell whether it was day or night, but Alistair figured it must be closing in on nighttime, and now would be as good a time as any to set up camp. He would reach the Forestbriar Inn tomorrow and be done with this job and with this beast and with this smell. And with the temptation of the bag.

      “All right, Ogg, we’ll settle in here for the night,” Alistair said. Ogg dropped the bag and stretched his shoulders. “Go fetch some firewood, and I’ll get us set up.”

      Ogg did as he was told, and Alistair built a small fire. With all his time spent in the woods carrying out various crimes for various clientele, he had become somewhat of an expert at camping, and he took pride in his fire-making abilities. Almost as much as his killing.

      Alistair heard crashing behind him, and when he turned around he saw Ogg had ripped a tree out of the ground and was in the process of cracking it over his knee to make smaller pieces.

      “That is one way to do it,” Alistair said under his breath.

      Once the fire was crackling and the smorgasbord of woodland creatures Ogg had managed to track down were roasting, Alistair let his attention fall again on the bag. It continued to sway and move as if it were filled with water sloshing back and forth. What could be the harm if he just took a tiny peek inside? He would still bring it to his client, and he might actually take better care of it if he knew what it was. Maybe when Ogg dozed off, just a…

      Alistair’s train of thought was snapped by a rustling in the woods ahead. He pulled out his knife and crouched near the bag, ready to attack. Ogg lumbered up and took position behind him.

      “What is it, boss,” Ogg said, his voice shaky.

      “Hush up and act your size,” Alistair said.

      The rustling sound turned to footsteps, which drew closer and closer. Alistair tightened his grip on the knife.

      “Hullo friends,” a voice called out.

      Alistair looked across the fire and saw an old man. It could be an ambush, he thought, but the sight of the man, with his worn-looking dress pants and suspenders, his kindly face, and his large round glasses made him think otherwise.

      “Name’s Colin Williams, and I’m the poet laureate of these here woods,” the old man said. “Looks like I could write a poem about the two of you. Call it the ‘Odd Couple’s Stand-off in the Woods Over a Big Bag.’ Kidding of course.”

      Alistair shielded his knife and walked toward the old man.

      “The two of us are of no business to you. Move along,” he said.

      “But Ogg love poetry,” Ogg said, practically skipping to the man’s side. “Ogg know of Colin Williams. Ogg heard his poems.”

      Great, thought Alistair. A cowardly, poetry-loving giant.

      “Always lovely to meet a fan,” Colin said. “Mind if I warm these old poetry-writing hands by your fire?”

      The old man stepped forward. Alistair cut him off.

      “I said be on your way.”

      “Okay, okay. No need to cause a fuss,” the old man said. “But I will say, and not to push my luck, but the woods know who helps