The Maestro Read online

  THE MAESTRO

  Also by Tim Wynne-Jones

  FICTION

  Rex Zero, King of Nothing

  Rex Zero and the End of the World

  A Thief in the House of Memory

  Ned Mouse Breaks Away

  (with pictures by Dušan Petričić)

  The Boy in the Burning House

  Stephen Fair

  The Lord of the Fries and Other Stories

  The Book of Changes Some of the Kinder Planets

  PICTURE BOOKS

  The Last Piece of Sky illustrated by Marie-Louise Gay

  Mischief City illustrated by Victor Gad

  The Hour of the Frog illustrated by Catharine O’Neill

  Architect of the Moon illustrated by Ian Wallace

  I’ll Make You Small illustrated by Maryann Kovalski

  Zoom Upstream illustrated by Eric Beddows

  Zoom Away illustrated by Eric Beddows

  Zoom at Sea illustrated by Eric Beddows

  The Maestro

  A NOVEL

  TIM WYNNE-JONES

  The author would like to thank the Canada Council for its support

  during the writing of this book.

  Copyright © 1995 by Tim Wynne-Jones

  First mass market edition 1996

  Sixteenth printing 2008

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to

  1-800-893-5777.

  Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  110 Spadina Ave, Suite 801, Toronto, Ontario, M5V 2K4

  Distributed in the USA by Publishers Group West

  1700 Fourth Street, Berkeley, CA 94710

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Ontario Arts Council.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Wynne-Jones, Tim

  The maestro: a novel / Tim Wynne-Jones

  ISBN-13: 978-0-88899-637-4

  ISBN-10: 0-88899-637-3

  I. Title.

  PS8595.Y59M35 2004 jC813’.54 C2004-906351-0

  Design by Michael Solomon

  Cover illustration by Peter Gouldthorpe

  Printed and bound in Canada

  This one is for Geoff and Carolee Mason,

  with fond memories of Pog.

  PROLOGUE

  Suckers Run

  ONE DAY BURL CROW FOLLOWED HIS FATHER to a place on the river where the old man liked to fish. The spot was a secret. Burl hung way back.

  Cal was whistling to himself. It was spring. Along the red dirt road there was new velvet on the sumac, new lace on the wild carrot, and here and there hairy stalks of liverwort poked through last year’s dead leaves. Spring looked like it was dressing up to go somewhere.

  It was odd for Burl to hear his father whistle. Cal was quiet most often, a sullen kind of quiet like thunder a long way off. Then all of a sudden he could Texas two-step himself into a rage and send things hurtling across the room: a plate of mashed potatoes, a broken shoe, a chair with you in it—whatever came to hand. You had to hold onto your seat when Cal was like that.

  The whistling led Burl to believe his father was not in one of those thunderhead moods. It gave him the nerve to go on.

  It was a foolish game, trailing a man like Cal. But Burl still recalled a time when his father took him places, showed him things. Those times might be lost, but Burl imagined with all the foolishness of a first-class dreamer that when something was lost, you just had to keep hunting for it.

  Cal had teased him about the secret spot often enough. “It’s a man-sized hole,” he said. “You’d get lost—hook, line and sinker—in a fishin’ hole like that.”

  He had taken to rubbing Burl’s nose in things. “Whose limp minnow is this anyway, Dolly?” Burl’s mother, Doloris, knew better than to answer.

  The secret place was way downstream on the Skat, deep in the bush, at a bend in the river. The water was fast there, shallow but pock-marked with good cold sinks hard by the bank under trailing willow branches. In those green shadows a brook trout could laze around growing awfully big.

  From the clumped and crooked cover of the alder scrub above the clearing, Burl could see that the river was swollen with suckers. The suckers were running up the rapids to spawn. You could have shovelled them out. But Cal had only his rod, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to use it. He leaned it up against a beached driftwood log. Crouching on the gravel flats right at the water-licked edge, he lit up a cigarette.

  The sun glinted off the water, off the backs of the swarming black fish. A bit of a breeze came along to finger through the bulrushes, as if it was looking for something. Just looking, like Doloris fingering through blouses she couldn’t afford at the Woolworth’s down in Presqueville.

  The breeze ruffled Cal’s thick head of hair, but it never found its way up to Burl in his uneasy hiding place. The blackflies did. They liked the sweaty company of Burl’s face. He swiped at them, his hands whirling in a frantic sign language to which the pesky flies paid no attention.

  The flies didn’t much bother Cal out by the water. He’d swat his big ropey neck the odd time. Cal’s hand was fleshy and fast. Burl had felt the back of it enough, the palm of it, too. The knuckles were new to him. It was as if Cal had been saving the knuckles as a surprise for when Burl got old enough.

  In the cover of the alder brush the blackflies descended on Burl in a cloud. The swarm drew blood; he felt it warm on his hand. Hunting with his father once when things were different, when he could still get close to the man, Burl had seen a bull moose driven suicidal by blackflies. It had crashed out of the bush and hurled its great heaving body into the muskeg, where it swam out deeper and deeper until only its snout could be seen above the water. Burl felt the urge to run now but an even fiercer urge to stay put. He might outrun the blackflies, but he couldn’t hope to outrun Cal. Any more than he could hope to saunter down to the river and say, “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  He allowed himself to imagine it all the same. He imagined Cal putting out his cigarette and offering him a stick of Dentyne. He imagined them taking off their shoes and socks and wading in amidst the suckers, scooping them out onto the gravel, roe squirting out every which way. “How about we fill ourselves a 45-gallon drum with these guys, put ‘er up in a tree and bait ourselves some bear?” He imagined Cal saying that.

  Then Burl heard a sound from behind him up on the path. It wasn’t his imagination. Someone was coming. Someone whistling the same tune as Cal.

  Cal heard it. He turned leisurely and his eyes went right to the sound. He dropped his cigarette on the gravel, put it out with his steel-plated toe. Then Burl watched his father’s face harden into a frown, as if he’d suddenly caught a whiff of something not quite right. His hunter’s eyes perused the hillside until he picked his quarry out of the newly green shrubbery.

  “There better not be an idiot-kid hiding in those bushes.”

  He spoke loudly, casting his big voice far enough that the someone coming heard it, too. The whistling stopped abruptly.

  “Burl? That you, boy?”

  Burl let the blackflies close around him then, like a veil. In his mouth, his ears, burrowing in his hair, crawling up his nose and into the corners of his eyes. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But even a fierce dreamer like Burl could not imagine himself out of this. When he blinked, there was Cal coming, crunching across the gravel in th
ousand-league boots. And Burl’s legs shrivelled under him.

  “You dumb stump-for-brains,” said Cal.

  Burl untangled himself, broke from cover—too late, always too late—and Cal was on him as quick as a bear on a spawning sucker.

  “When you gonna learn to act your age, boy, and not your shoe size.”

  Burl covered his face. But before he did, he saw the whistler, a blonde-haired woman in jeans and a brown suede jacket with fringes all along the arms. She looked anxiously his way and then ran off.

  “Now look what you done,” said his father. Burl wasn’t sure what that might be, except to get himself into a Calsized jam.

  But before the first cuff landed, another sound came out of the hot blue May sky. It was a sound like someone beating the air with a giant hand. Swatting the side of the sky as if it were a great blue, stupid son. It was a sound different enough—unexpected enough—to slow Cal’s fist. Stop his hand, though he did not release his grip on Burl.

  The sound grew nearer, a throbbing that drowned out the whir of dragonflies, the chattering of squirrels, the squawking of blue jays. It was not a train. The CPR line passed this way, but no train had ever saved Burl Crow from a beating.

  A helicopter. It appeared over the ridge of spruce trees southeast of where Burl stood in his father’s grasp. It was a twin rotor, flying low, carrying something large suspended by a long cable.

  The boy and the man looked up into the sun as the great noisy chopper approached, a silhouette coming straight for them.

  Burl had never seen a grand piano, but he knew that’s what was hanging from the cable. Its shadow passed over him before it did. Then for one solitary instance it was suspended above him, blocking out the sun. A black hole in the blue sky. He could see the big bones of its undercarriage, its three solid legs and a flashing glimmer of its varnished, curvy side.

  “Don’t you tell no one about this,” shouted his father. “Ya hear?”

  Burl’s head shook violently—he heard, all right—but his eyes never left the chopper. Where had he seen something like this? Not a piano but something else large and helpless. On the TV at Granny Robichaud’s. A flood; cattle being airlifted to safety, dumb with shock, leather straps around their fat bellies. The piano was like that, Burl thought—a dumb three-legged animal.

  But not dumb. It spoke to him. At the moment it was above him, even through the shattered air, he heard its song. The wind was playing that thing.

  Burl followed the passage of the chopper and its strange cargo north by northwest until it was out of sight. And when he looked down again—his neck aching, dizzy from the sun, dizzy from the vision—his father was gone.

  PART ONE

  1

  The Good Secret-Keeper

  BURL TOOK THAT INCIDENT AT CAL’S FISHING hole, wrapped it in a cloth of silence and placed it in a small drawer in his thoughts. He didn’t want the memory loose in his skull, where it might tumble out of his mouth at the wrong moment.

  There were parts to the memory, like the beads on Granny Robichaud’s rosary. He remembered her fingering the rosary as she said her prayers. There were small beads and large beads, all held together on a string to help her keep track of the many prayers she seemed to have to say.

  On Burl’s imaginary rosary there were also many beads: the suckers, the mystery blonde, the look in his father’s eye. Something more than anger. Maybe even fear.

  But the grandest bead of all was the piano. Burl fingered that bead more than any other. It was a warm, smooth black nugget in his mind.

  By the time he was fourteen, Burl was almost as tall as Cal but without Cal’s coiled mass of shoulder and gut, and without Cal’s axe-handle wrists. Burl next to Cal was like a sapling birch in winter.

  Fourteen.

  Cal said he must be counting in fairy years. “This boy ain’t a day over six, Dolly,” he said. Dolly wasn’t listening; by then she was all listened out. For his part, Burl curled his shoulders in and stooped low. He made himself small. And he made sure never to stand close enough for the man to notice he was growing up. Burl kept his size a secret.

  Burl was a good secret-keeper. If at night he lay awake listening to a train heading somewhere, and if his mind rushed along the track with that train imagining himself going somewhere, too, he kept the secret to himself. You could shake him up and down the next morning and no train would fall out. What train?

  It was the same at school. Knowledge was a thing to keep well hidden. Something to make sure Cal never found on you. He’d want it for sure, and he wouldn’t think twice about taking it.

  So Burl hid his knowledge away where it might be safe. He built walls around it. Stories.

  “What’d you learn at your school today, boy?”

  “We learned about the war in Quasiland.”

  “Where in hell is Quasiland?”

  “In Africa. There’s a war there.”

  There was no Quasiland. No war. It was imaginary. If Burl had to—if he was cornered—he could scare up a story in the twinkling of an eye. It saved the truth from getting trampled on by his father. What Cal didn’t know, he couldn’t hurt.

  Burl didn’t make stuff up at school. His imagination was something between him and Cal. But then Mrs. Natalie Agnew came along. She was grade eight, Burl’s last year at Presqueville Elementary. She was new in town and hadn’t heard about how Burl kept things to himself. Early in the year she got him in after school for a chat.

  “I’ll write the test again,” he said. “Right now, if you want.” He stood there, slumping, his arms crossed on his narrow chest. “I know the stuff.”

  Finally she spoke. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “About what?”

  She laughed. “If I knew that, then it wouldn’t be something I don’t already know.”

  Burl was on guard. Her face was kind—as far as he could tell—but he wasn’t any expert on kindness. Kindness might be a trap. He shut down, waited some more.

  “Listen,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

  “Then what?”

  Mrs. Agnew looked puzzled.

  “After I tell you something you don’t already know, then what?”

  She thought for a moment. “Well, then maybe I’ll tell you something you don’t know and you’ll tell me something else and we’ll end up having a conversation.”

  Burl looked out the window. “Why?” he asked.

  They didn’t have a conversation that day. So she called him in again. This time she told him it was a test. And if he failed it, she’d keep him after school every day until he got it right.

  So he thought a bit. And then he told her about his mother’s country and western band. He told her that his mother was the singer and that the band was called Dolly and the Swing Set, and that she wasn’t home often, but when she was it was a lot of fun. It was all a lie. Mrs. Natalie Agnew had cornered him.

  Then she told him a little about herself. About moving north with her husband and building a house together. She went on a bit and then stopped. “I always wished I could sing,” she said. “You must be very proud.”

  There was a long silence. It was painful for Burl. Mrs. Agnew had shiny hair. She smelled pretty. He liked sitting by her desk while she cleared up her papers. But he hated this conversation thing. Hated it.

  She must have known. She got up and walked over to a shelf where she kept some books that the students were allowed to borrow. She chose one and handed it to Burl.

  “I’ve got a map I have to draw,” she said. “How about you pick a story in here and read to me while I work?”

  Burl looked at the cover. The Red Fairy Book.

  “Out loud?” he asked. Was she serious? She seemed to be. He looked at the table of contents. “Koschei the Deathless,” he read.

  She didn’t look up. She was tracing the outline of the Great Lakes, twirling the pencil point to keep it sharp. “Now that sounds really scary,” she said.

  “It sounds like my fath
er,” said Burl.

  There was a bus from the high school in Vaillancourt which passed through Presqueville at five on its way to Pharaoh. Mrs. Agnew arranged things so Burl could catch it on those days when he stayed after class.

  Sometimes she would get him to read to her, or she would read to him while he did some classroom chore. And now and then they would have a conversation. Burl would try to think of something worth talking about.

  Some of the things he told her were true.

  He told her about Laura, his sister who had died.

  He told her about the dugout canoe his father had made him when he was little.

  Then one sunny Monday morning in May, Burl came to school in a state of rare agitation. The others might not have noticed it, but Mrs. Agnew did. His face glowed. His eyes were brimming over with some extraordinary news.

  “What is it?” she said. “What are you hiding on me?”

  But he didn’t dare tell her. Not even about the piano. He couldn’t tear the incident at the secret place into separate parts. It was like a rosary. He couldn’t show her some of the beads and not others. So he kept it all to himself.

  And then school was over and so were his meetings with Mrs. Agnew. She was going to be back south all summer long, but asked him if he would come and visit her in the fall. He said he would.

  She gave him The Red Fairy Book. He thanked her, but when she wasn’t looking, he left it behind in his desk. He was afraid of what Cal might do if he took it home. The only stories that were safe were the ones in his head, wrapped in silence, where Cal couldn’t find them.

  2

  The Antique Lure

  SUMMER COMES TO THE NORTH LIKE A RADIANT visitor, a fair-weather friend liable to leave in the middle of the night without warning. There weren’t many visitors to Pharaoh. Certainly no one came to the Crow house. Cal Crow valued his privacy. But summer came there just the same, even if she never unpacked her bags.