For Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020. Prompt word: “music.” Tuckerization: Mark Wilson
A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Author’s Note: Yes, I am almost two years behind, but I slog ahead, fulfilling my commitment to write 30 flash fiction pieces for October 2020. I will not stop until I have completed my promise to all the people who desired tuckerization in a Loewen story.
The jeep bumped along the rugged road leading up the mountainside. Not that the South Mountain range could be compared to mountains like the Rockies or the Sierras, but in southcentral Pennsylvania, it was the adjective used to describe them.
Mark Wilson steered around a gully that had washed out part of the old, gravel road. Courtesy of Google Maps, he had found a small, isolated mountain pond. It would perfectly serve his purpose.
Next to him in the passenger’s seat sat two large backpacks filled with all that he needed for his project: a tent, food, some light camping gear, some recording equipment, and a Yamaha flute valued more than the Jeep Wrangler he drove. It would take two trips over rocky terrain to get all his equipment to the location, but the exertion would be worth it.
The late September air felt crisp and clean, making the journey to the pond enjoyable. Arriving, he paused and surveyed the area. The forest went directly up to the edge of the water, and the thick detritus of the forest promised a comfortable night in his tent.
The pond was less than an acre in size, and Mark could see no evidence of any presence of other campers or hikers past or present. Birds quietly sang in the trees, and a late-season cricket started announcing the temperature with his chirps. Mark counted twenty-seven chirps in fifteen seconds and added forty. The ambient temperature was a comfortable sixty-seven degrees.
He placed his equipment near a tree and made the return trek to his jeep.
An hour later, Mark set up the small tent and started hooking up his recording instrument to two microphones. Dawn would arrive at 6:30 in the morning, and Mark was determined to be up and ready and catch the background sounds of nature waking up. Back in his studio at home, he would lay tracks of his flute playing over the sounds of wind, birds, and any wildlife he hoped to record. Far away from roads and airports, he hoped to record at least a full hour of the environment free from humanity’s ever-present noise.
That evening, he sat around a small fire drinking tea before sleeping. The moon was full, and the pond glowed with its reflection. Occasionally a small fish would come to the surface to take advantage of an insect’s fatal fall onto the water. Deep in the woods, a green glow revealed a decaying stump succumbing to one of the fungi collectively called foxfire.
Later, as he fell asleep, Mark heard the distant yipping of coyotes and the bark of a lonely fox.
The following day as the east began to glow, Mark uncovered his microphones and began recording. Dawn started with no wind, but the air was filled with bird calls and an occasional splash from the pond, either a fish looking for morning breakfast or a muskrat looking for a meal. The occasional burp of a bullfrog competed with the incessant chirping of last night’s cricket and added more to the morning symphony.
Content, Mark leaned back to enjoy nature’s concert, and after an hour, Mark moved to turn off the recording equipment, delighted for what would now serve as the background of his flute solo.
After a gulp of his cooling coffee, Mark opened up his flute case and lovingly put the parts together. Done, Mark put the flute to his lips and began the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Playing for an audience of none, the solo floated over the pond where the trees swallowed it up.
Suddenly to his surprise, his flute was answered by another. He stopped playing to hear the counterpoint notes stop abruptly as well.
Blinking in surprise, wondering if he heard things, Mark again put his flute to his lips and began to play. Immediately, the music across the pond joined in, and, taken by the serendipitous opportunity of being united in a duet, Mark stood and continued his playing.
For an hour, Mark’s tune was pursued by his unseen companion’s artistry, a weird, haunting air that complemented his playing. When Mark stopped, the music continued, and now he had the opportunity to accompany his partner with an improvised melody made up on the spot.
Exhausted, Mark stopped, and the music across the pond concluded within a few moments. “Thank you!” he called, but there was no response. Waiting for a few moments, Mark reluctantly began dismantling his flute, storing it carefully in its case, waiting for the other player to call out or somehow reveal their presence. That was when he realized that, thinking he had turned off his recording device, it was still running. Delighted, he pushed buttons and grinned when he heard the duet that he thought was lost only because he did not know to record it as it was happening.
Mark again listened to the mysterious duet with his invisible partner that evening in his studio. With a smile, he sat back, closed his eyes, and relived that moment’s joy again. The soaring accompaniment brought back memories, and his senses remembered the aromas of the woods, the feel of a bed of forest leaves where he sat, and the vision of the sun reflecting off ripples on the pond.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie, and Mark opened the door to find Daniel, his friend, with a pizza box and a liter of soda.
Mark smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “You have got to hear this recording I made.”
After telling Daniel the story of his invisible partner, Mark replayed the music, and both men sat spellbound.
“What do you think?” Mark asked.
“That was amazing, especially since the instrument we hear is not a flute.” Daniel restarted the recording. “Listen very carefully.”
Mark listened intently and smiled. “Pan pipes,” he said. “And masterfully played. I’ve never heard pipes played with such range and depth.”
“It’s a pity,” Daniel said, “you don’t know the artist. This is worthy of a release on a recording label. You have to find out who this is and talk to them. See if they’ll agree to release the composition with you.”
The following day was blurred with activity. Once again, Mark examined the area around the pond on Google Maps but found no residence within a reasonable distance. Furthermore, he confirmed that his trip to the pond and the resulting hike was the only realistic path.
The only logical thing to do was to travel back to the pond and see if he could reencounter this fantastic musician.
He emailed Daniel about his plan, and he once again journeyed to the pond the following day.
Two weeks later, Mark’s parents reported him missing. With emails and telephone calls unanswered, his worried parents traveled to his apartment to find it undisturbed, with Mark nowhere to be found.
The police found his jeep in the South Mountain range abandoned near a gravel road with deep ruts, but the vehicle worked perfectly. An intense search by 200 volunteers failed to turn up any sign of the missing man. After five days, the search officially ended.
It was October when Daniel decided to walk the area where it was assumed Mark had disappeared. The sun, still below the horizon, turned the eastern sky into a riot of salmon and pink. Daniel parked his jeep where Mark’s car had been abandoned. Walking up the mountainside, he followed a dimly remembered description of the location Mark had mentioned in his last email.
The sun had just peeped over the horizon when Mark found the pond. He stood at the water’s edge and mourned for his friend.
Within seconds, the sound of a flute floated over the water, and Daniel’s jaw dropped open in shock.
“Mark!” Daniel shouted. “Mark!”
The flute continued as if the player was unaware of the interruption. Within a few minutes, the lone flute was joined by another, creating a haunting duet with the sounds of a forest greeting the morning.
Daniel listened for a few moments longer, mesmerized by the song.
Then, running as fast as the uneven ground would allow, he jogged around the pond to find his friend.
Daniel chased the flute players, but they remained invisible to his eyes. Calling out his friend’s name, the music never stopped, and the players always seemed just a few yards ahead of him behind a tree or boulder.
After a fruitless search, Daniel collapsed near a tree and allowed the music to wash over him. Tears ran down his face, but he did not know if they came from the ethereal hymn that plucked at his heart or the grief that he knew Mark was forever lost.
After a while, the music ended, and the forest was again abandoned to the normal sounds of wood, wind, and its denizens. Daniel struggled to his feet and slowly returned to his car.
Content that Mark still lived though in a plane or dimension he could not see, Daniel slowly drove down the mountainside. He sincerely hoped his friend was happy.
Resigned to the reality that his friend had been spirited away, Daniel never returned, leaving Mark and his unseen partner to greet the dawn with otherworldly music until time ended.
THE END
