The Mahler
VAL BOHLE
Archie darted around the shed, his heart thumping as he checked for the fourth time that all the music was in the right place. Violins, cellos, oboes, flutes, trombones - each instrument of the orchestra had its own handwritten sheet. Archie’s writing was meticulous – tiny, black, spidery hieroglyphics that sailed across the five lines of the staff like miniature acrobats. For the last two months he had been up late almost every night laboriously writing the parts out by hand. And now, finally, everything was ready.
Archie climbed onto the podium and rapped his baton on the music stand in front of him.
“The Mahler,” he commanded. “From the top.”
~ * ~
Early that morning in the frosty dawn, Archie had stood on the highest boulder of Black Rock Tor. He was trembling but not because of the cold, despite his thin, cotton shirt and grey school shorts. The sun was still hidden behind the stubbled hills, the family’s cherry orchard a ghostly smudge in the gloom. Far below him, Archie could just make out the winding line of willows the hugged the river as it crept through the tiny town of Ouse, past the church, the schoolhouse, speckled fields and farms, and down through the valley like a wintering snake.
His eyes were fixed on the horizon, waiting for that moment when the sun shivered and the land awoke. When his wondrous, glorious day would begin.
Raising the trumpet to his lips, he took a slow, broad breath from his heels to his head, just like Grandpa had taught him. For a moment he paused, silence hanging around him in thick folds, then at an unseen signal known only to Archie and the cosmos, the sun burst free from the hills and Archie began to play.
The solemn tones of the reveille shimmered in the morning air as Archie serenaded the four corners of the globe. Lastly, he turned to the west where the farmstead sat among an untidy tangle of outbuildings and rusting machinery. As the last notes faded, a thin whisp of smoke from the chimney caught his attention. Instantly he was galvanised into action. Tucking his beloved trumpet under one arm, he began to clamber down the Tor as fast as a ten-year-old boy could. He skipped across the paddocks playing a double-time version of the William Tell Overture, almost tripping over himself with excitement. Today - today! - had finally arrived.
Archie Jericho was the lead trumpet of the Ouse Philharmonic Orchestra. He was also its conductor and music arranger and, as Musical Director, chose the repertoire. In the year since he had formed the orchestra, they had played Verdi, Mussorgsky, Bach, Haydn, Dvorak, Charpentier and Rossini. Unsurprisingly, these pieces all featured some of the most magnificent trumpet solos in the classical canon.
Every Friday afternoon Archie rehearsed the orchestra in the small, corrugated iron shed in the top paddock. It was not the most ideal space, with a dirt floor and several holes in the roof, but he had cleaned it out as best he could, added a couple of chairs and an old music stand of Grandpa’s, and placed a podium at the front for himself as conductor and soloist. He had allocated an instrument to each student of his small, two-room country school and was, in general, pleased with the orchestra’s progress.
As Archie entered the kitchen, Scott, his eldest and most hated brother, snatched the trumpet and threw it to the middle brother, who caught it one-handed and casually lobbed it back.
“Little weirdo!” they chanted rhythmically, snorting with laughter as they threw it backwards and forwards. Incensed, Archie flung himself at his middle brother with a roar, kicking him hard on the shin. Paul yelped and dropped the trumpet into Archie’s outstretched hands with feigned outrage.
“Stop that!” barked Mum from the stove. “Give the kid a break for once, can’t you!”
Archie slid in beside Grandpa and placed his trumpet safely on his knees, panting with relief. He began making a tower of toast, bacon and multiple fried eggs for himself, and then covered the result in tomato sauce. Grandpa looked at him as he bit into the teetering mound. “Got to keep your strength up, hey son!”
Egg yolk dripping down his chin, Archie eyed the old man carefully then whispered, “Today’s the day, Grandpa.” He wiped off egg with the back of his hand and took another enormous bite.
Grandpa eyebrows shot up and his mouth became one big O. “Today?!” He put down his mug of tea and turned his full attention on his grandson. He dropped his voice and leaned in. “And is everything ready?”
Archie nodded solemnly. “I’ve finished all the music, Grandpa. We’re doing the Mahler.”
Grandpa’s eyebrows climbed even further up his forehead. “The Mahler!”
Archie bright blue eyes focussed on Grandpa’s faded brown ones. “But I don’t know if Katie will turn up.”
“Ah.” Grandpa was silent for a moment. “Win or lose, Archie, it doesn’t matter. Just do your best.”
“But what if she doesn’t turn up? What will I do?” It was almost a wail.
The old man let out a sigh and patted Archie’s hand with his dry, papery fingers. “I know you’ll do me proud, son.”
Mum glared at them from across the table. “And just what are you two whispering about?” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t encourage him, Dad. Such a daydreamer!”
His breakfast tower consumed, Archie escaped to the sanctity of his bedroom. This afternoon’s rehearsal was playing out relentlessly in his head. What had he forgotten? Was all the music correct? And, most importantly, would Katie be there?
Conducting Mahler’s First Symphony had been a passionate dream ever since he had first heard it, particularly the third movement with its hauntingly beautiful solo. But for once, this was not a trumpet solo. This was for double bass.
And the soloist was Katie Fletcher.
Like Archie, Katie Fletcher was small for her age, but whereas Archie was bursting with the energy of a tungsten filament, Katie was soft and quiet, her perfectly round face hosting a spatter of freckles like biscuit crumbs. He had realised when putting the orchestra together that she would be perfect for the double bass. He had even found a tall stool for her to perch on. Despite being considerably smaller than the bass, she played beautifully, or at least Archie assumed she did, as she had yet to attend a single rehearsal.
~ * ~
Archie tapped his baton on the music stand. “The Mahler. From the top.” He gazed over the orchestra like a commanding general.
The school day had been agonisingly slow, and it had been impossible to keep his knee-jiggling under control, no matter how fiercely the teacher glared. He had been out the door almost before the school bell had rung, his bike creaking and groaning as he flew home along dusty lanes and down the rutted driveway.
Grandpa was sitting on the veranda waiting for him as Archie had screeched to a halt in a cloud of dirt and thrown his bike down, panting from exertion.
“Win or lose, Archie, it doesn’t matter!” called Grandpa, raising his mug of tea. “Just remember, I’m proud of you, son!”
Archie’s reply was lost as he raced into his bedroom, snatched up his trumpet, the baton and a neat stack of manuscript paper and flown off towards the shed.
Now the orchestra had finished tuning and was sitting quietly awaiting his baton. He fixed his eyes towards the back of the shed where the timpani player sat, his sticks poised and ready. Archie carefully angled his body away from the cellos and double basses. He didn’t want to know if Katie was there. He could not bear to look.
Taking a deep breath, he raised his baton, held it suspended for a moment, then lowered it with a precise swish.
The drums began their hushed two-bar introduction.
Archie tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He could scarcely breathe.
Then he heard it.
The soft rasp of horsehair on gut, the sweet vibrato, the gentle kick of the quavers, the simple melody from the double bass floating over the timpani’s relentless march. As the notes of the old French nursery rhyme came to life, Archie felt a quiver of joy piercing the very centre of his being.
She was here! Katie was here! He was thrilled!
But he did not dare open his eyes and break the spell.
At that exact moment, there was a tremendous clatter and the sound of heavy footsteps from above his head. His brothers! Archie let fly a howl of rage. A thick, black, sticky liquid cascaded in through the holes in the roof. It was putrid, stinking of dirt and manure and rotten eggs and oil and diesel and everything noxious found on a farm. It rained down in viscous clumps upon his head, his shoulders, splashing down on the floor and coating his precious music.
Still howling, Archie grabbed the paper in front of him and tucked it under his arm. He launched himself out of the shed and shot across the top paddock, leaping and whooping and holding his trumpet high as he went.
Archie was bursting with adoration for Katie. She had come and played divinely, just like he knew she would.
~ * ~
From the roof, Paul watched as Archie charged out of the shed and galloped across the top paddock, waving his trumpet aloft like pirate’s treasure. Large pieces of paper trailed behind him, scattering across the paddock like limp flags. Paul narrowed his eyes. In one lithe movement, he dropped off the roof and stood at the entrance, puzzled.
Two chairs, broken and cracked, lay like castaways on the dirt floor. At one end of the shed was a blue milkcrate and to its left, propped against the wall, was a wooden stool missing one of its three legs. A wire music stand, bent and twisted, leaned at an odd angle. Large sheets of paper were scattered across the floor. The place reeked.
Paul made his way carefully through the puddles of foul, sticky liquid and picked up a piece of paper, shaking off the dirt and filth. He peered at it closely, wrinkling his nose. It was covered in ruled lines and perfectly formed circles, some black, some white, some with sticks, some without. He recognised Archie’s meticulous handwriting. At the top of the page in neat capitals was written:
MAHLER SYMF No 1
DEDCATED 2 THE MOST NOBEL FRAULIN KATI FLECHER
YOR HUMBE SERVENT, ARCHIBALD GUSTAV JERICHO
Paul shook his head and collected up the rest of the pages. Crazy kid, he thought, walking to the door and gazing after Archie’s still galivanting form. Lives in his own crazy world. He almost felt a pang of affection towards him.
He hooked the end of his sleeve over his hand and began wiping away the mess, trying carefully not to smear Archie’s finely etched lettering.
“Ya little weirdo!” screamed Dennis after Archie from the roof, fumbling with the front of his pants. “What ya doing in there waving your arms around, ya freak!”
Paul scrambled aside as a stream of urine shot out in a long radiant arc.
“Fuck off, Dennis,” he yelled angrily. “Leave him alone!”
Dennis froze at this unexpected treachery, his mouth hanging open, small droplets of urine dripping down his front and staining his socks.
Paul walked slowly down the paddock just as Archie swooped by again. “Hey, Archie!” he called, stooping and picking up more paper. Archie stopped, hovering, and eyed his brother cautiously from several metres away.
Paul proffered the music. “Here, I’m sorry, I’ll help you clean it.”
For a moment Archie hesitated, but then he was gone, scampering down the hill and up the other side towards Black Rock Tor. Paul watched as he scrambled up onto the boulders, hopping from one to the next like a little wallaby, climbing ever higher, leaping and bounding. He reached the top and pulled himself up tall, visibly panting, then raised his trumpet to his lips and began to play, fiercely and triumphantly.
The paper dripped, stinking and rotten, onto Paul’s feet as the sound of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy rang out across the valley. Paul gazed, open-mouthed, as the dying rays of the sun caught the trumpet and splintered it into a thousand glorious rays, bathing Archie for a single moment in a pool of celestial light.
On the veranda, Mum tucked the old man’s blanket around him to protect him from the rapidly creeping chill. As the trumpet reverberated across the valley, they looked up, startled, shading their eyes from the evening glare.
Mum shook her head. “That kid. Lives in a world of his own!” She turned to her father. “You shouldn’t encourage him, you know.” But she was smiling.
Grandpa raised his mug towards Archie’s silhouetted form. “Sink or swim, Archie,” he called out proudly. “Sink or swim!”
Val Bohle is a re-emerging writer of poetry, fiction and non-fiction and has yet to write a short story that does not include music. She lives in lutruwita / Tasmania with her partner and two Chinese Crested Powderpuffs (dogs, not chickens).
