Chapter 1
A Long-Needed Party
Well, I fell into prison
About a quarter to t'ree
Where I found in my cell
A glass waiting for me
So I filled what was empty
And I pulled up a stool
But he stood in the corner
The old devil wouldn't move
He said, "You drink when you're lonely"
"No, I drink when I want"
He said, "You'll never be sober"
"Sure, why would I want dat?
I only drink to be merry
But unfortunately –
I'm in the wrong prison cell and the wrong company"
-Flogging Molly
A breath mark graced across the metal, trying to fade before being wiped away. With careful scrutiny, the black was polished to a glaring shine, revealing a pair of blue eyes in the reflection.
The instrument was brought close to face, given careful inspection, and, at a final length of time, deemed satisfactory and put down. The owner carefully disassembled the clarinet, placing each piece individually in its case.
A pale light cascaded across the room, through the triangular door, across the wooden table that was self-constructed, through the beams of the various chairs strewn around the room, and at last into the eyes of the clarinetist sitting, dutifully giving her instrument time and care.
She squinted, pushing loose strands of dark brown hair behind her ear as she closed and clasped her case. She got up and approached the door, noting the lack of any apparent activity or action. "Normal day in the Nyre," she noted glumly.
As she stuck her head out the door, she sighed – and rammed her head back into the wooden sides of the door as she leaped back. "Shit!" she hissed in frustration and pain. Grasping the back of her head, she took a wild swing at the mass of red hair that leaped away gleefully from her hit.
"What you up to, Marisa?" a boy asked, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "Anything useful?"
"If you consider planning you eminent death a useful aid to society, then yes," she told him bitterly. "And what could you possibly be up to?"
"Bothering you," he told her, moving back and forth.
Marisa decided it was best not to respond. She promptly turned the opposite way of Mark's position and started her way down the path.
"Hey," she heard him exclaim, "what's the matter?"
Marisa struggled to keep the ends of her lips down as she continued her walk, not looking back.
"What'd you expect me to do?" he demanded, running up beside her. He went a bit ahead and turned around, attempting to run backwards and face her without tripping over his feet. "I've been blowing my damn flute all day; I had to give it a rest. You know it doesn't have the same stamina as me."
Had it been any other random conversation, she might have laughed at her friend's joke. As it was, the back of her head still had an unpleasant throbbing sensation.
She glanced at Mark in front of her. His faced flushed from running, his crazed attempt to keep up with her pace, his mop of fiery hair in every which way, and the desperate gulps at more air only added to the comedy he was so desperately trying to display. Mark was known to get anyone to laugh and now was no exception to that constant display. Still, Marisa would try.
"Mark," she tried to say with a straight face, "I have no understanding as to why I bother to associate with you."
"Why yes, my clarie, life is full of mysteries. Pray tell, why would I dare to associate with so high pitched an instrument?" he asked her slyly.
"Excuse me, Mark Siermon, but I would surely hope you'd hesitate to comment on my high sound. If I recall, a flute is of higher pitch than a clarinet ever is."
Mark turned around, his ability to get enough air to sustain himself finally depleted, and walked alongside Marisa at her pace.
"Psh, claries. They think they know it all," he said breathlessly, giving Marisa a knowing smile. He knew she had calmed down now.
Again, Marisa decided the best course of action was to maintain silence. She glanced up at the huge oak tree at the center of their town. From here all roads went in their separate directions to all other ends of the Nyre.
The Nyre was split up into two main sections which divided into smaller sects – the West and East Building. Even though expansion of the Nyre had long since ceased, these names were still used in a formal manner (and the only manner) even though they were technically informal.
From there, the rest of the Nyre was divided by the original instrument families that had settled. Since then, families had multiplied, same instruments held different last names, and few groups of instruments had moved to other parts of the Nyre. As it was, their town was Instrumton, in the West Building.
Most of Instrumton and even the near town of Byspittle had begun talking about Nick Ikon and his upcoming birthday. It was his age that was the greatest marvel of the entire thing. For someone so young, he had already left the Nyre for some sort of adventure. The fact that it was with foreign brass and the wizard Handal made it all the more peculiar.
Nick had already a reputation before he even left of being too crude and a little too free with his speech. Nearly all of the Nyre, once word had gotten around, had been wondering what his return would bring. But as time passed, and Nick's return seemed missing, it was assumed he was dead. His distant relatives, the Saxville-Ikons, had already tried to seize his home of Reed End when he arrived back, him raving that he couldn't believe a woodwind would steal from another and, had it been any other Saxophone family, he would never have received such treatment. While it wasn't too much of an inconvenience, he had to result to buying back his property from his greedy relatives.
Given that Marisa Ikon was Nick's cousin, naturally word circled around her as well. As the two were walking through the main part of town, they passed by The Scented Bush, an inn, where Nam Siermon was telling passerby about the Ikon family. Nam had worked the gardens of Reed End and had retired, passing the job onto his son, Mark Siermon. The two stopped by to listen, out of sight of the gossipers.
"Perfectly fine bandie, if I may say so. Sure, Mr. Ikon can be a tad bit queer from time to time, but I'm sure he must have picked it up from his travels," Nam was saying.
"Oh, travels, my foot!" declared Old Loacks. "He's too crude and curses far too much, and the rest of you know it too! And don't tell me it was because of any travels, for we all know what that Ikon was like before he dared to leave. The only difference he brought back with him was he was suspicious of brass and percussion (and God only knows why) and that faded with time as he came back to his senses.
"In any case, what of that Marisa? Her name may be Ikon but she's more than half a Brandywood. Makes no sense for any sensible Instrumton to go looking away in Woodland for a wife – they're too damn weird."
"There's no question to that," Paddy Twotones (Nam's next door neighbor) added. "Pure woodwind, that family. That they choose to live near the Brandystring River is odd enough for a woodwind, yet they're against the Forest too. That's an avoidable place, if tales be true."
"All too true," Nam muttered as he blew out a smoke ring from his pipe. "And I hear tell they walk around in there from time to time. Talking to the trees, folks say. I'm a flute and I'll be the first to condemn: such actions aren't natural! Plus the boating they do up there? Were their instrument to fall in – why, they'd be ruined! Not even the percussion meddles with water more than needed and what fears have they of the stuff? True, the Brandywoods are a queer bunch.
"But that says nothing of Marisa. Kindest girl you'll ever meet and raised by Nick too. So I'd hold your tongue Loacks before insulting Ikon, there. He must be doing something right to have her come out as she has. Lord knows the girl takes after him, to an extent. And why not, after all? Her father was an Ikon. Pleasant man, Chriso Ikon, though not much was ever said of him, 'til he drowned."
"Drowned?" several asked. Rumors had circulated about the Ikon name and never was there a lack of thirst for them.
"So they say," Nam told them, deep in memory. "Mr. Chriso, he married Miss Prime Brandywood. She being the first cousin of Mr. Nick on the mother's side (her mother being the youngest of the oldest Took's daughters (all trumpets, that family)) and Mr. Chriso his second cousin, Marisa ends up being his first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is, if you follow me. Anyway, poor Mr. Chriso gets the idea that he might try his hand at boating with his wife and the two drown. Poor Marisa was just a baby too."
"I heard that it was Chriso's weight that sunk the boat," Old Loacks put in.
"And I heard Prime pushed him in and he pulled her down after," said Sawman, Instrumton's repair man for instruments.
"Well, rumors have been getting farther out of hand than I thought," Nam retorted. "Ignoring your two comments – and begging your pardon, whatever that may be worth – poor Marisa was stuck all on her own. So, Nick, being the kind man that he is, took the poor child in.
"Must've been an unpleasant surprise, though, for the Saxville-Ikons. They thought the deed to Reed End was just in their grasp when Nick had left and we all thought him dead. Yet he comes back alive, young as ever, and gets them away, and now he's got an heir to the place. They'll never see it in their lifetimes."
Mr. Sawman gulped down the last of the beer he was drinking before giving more of his two cents: "He's an odd one, and that's the most there is to it. Too free with the mouth, unrestrained with the women, and too free with his guests, if you ask me; always foreign instruments coming over his place. They visit enough, they'll start to move in, mark my words. And then what'll become of Instrumton? We'll be like Cree, with their socializing with the color guard, that's what!" While none would admit it, Mr. Sawman was saying exactly what was on everyone's minds.
"Well, you say what you like, "Mr. Siermon countered back, "but it'll be nothing of which you know anything about!"
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
As the party grew nearer, the rumors grew stronger. There was one dancing about that Handal would be there with fireworks. It was all the little ones would talk about for days on end and they nearly seemed fit to explode with excitement the day that Handal's wagon came rolling into Instrumton. They ran alongside it, cheering as he waved to them. As he neared the door of Nick's house, Nick came out to greet him. Helping him unload, Nick whispered to the old wizard, "Aw, look at the little fuckers. I bet they can't wait for the party."
Handal laughed at his joke. "Same as always, I see. Yes, it seems they are."
"Better make sure we'll have enough presents. Shit…" Nick muttered as he went back in, pondering preparations, to the amusement of his lifelong friend.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Inside Reed End, the two were admiring the garden. An array of colors shone out into the window which Handal and Nick sat by. Both were smoking herbs, as was normal in Instrumton, though Nick had a half empty bottle of vodka next to him.
"Beautiful garden," Handal remarked. "Mark has taken care of it well."
"Yeah, the little squirt has. Damn, I'm going to hate to go," Nick said bitterly. "But I feel I have to. I need a holiday."
"You mean to go on with your plan then?"
"Yeah, I do. I made up my mind months ago, and I sure haven't changed it."
"Very well. It's no good saying any more. Stick to your plan – your whole plan, mind you – and I hope it will turn out for the best, for you, and for all of us."
"I hope so." Nick abruptly laughed at that moment, with a sidelong glance from Handal. "What? I was thinking of Thursday," he explained. "I plan to enjoy myself, is all, and have my little joke."
"Who will laugh, I wonder?" said Handal, shaking his head.
"We'll see," Nick said with assurance, still cracking up.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
At last, the day of the party came. The entire yard of Reed End was decked out to utter extravagance. Streamers and other ornaments dotted the trees, and, once night hit, they came alive with light.
Nearly everyone from Instrumton and Byspittle was invited, along with others from the rest of the Nyre and even those outside the borders. Many presents were distributed and it took many a while to get the children calm enough to eat.
Food was to excess and every individual contented themselves until the late hours of the night. There was more than enough drink as well, though in that case probably unfortunately. Nick ended up regurgitating whatever he had gotten down three times during the party and his sense of when it was appropriate to display his sense of humor got muddled: at one point he brought in two girls, dressed as prostitutes, to the party as a joke, to a great deal of alarm from many of the mothers and fathers there. Luckily, he was able to explain himself and offer enough money and food to sooth ill feelings.
When it was dark enough, the fireworks began. To the Instrumton inhabitants' delight, there was a fair amount of instruments shown, with added sounds to go along: they watched as a shining, blue clarinet, a red flute, and a purple saxophone played, delighted at the sight of a player-less percussion feature, and laughed at a comical display of a flute verse a trumpet in higher pitch. While there many more pairings and a multitude of different acts, some fear ignited when a tuba blared flaming notes towards the crowd as the lights cut off. When all realized that no harm was done, they all tried to make it look as if they hadn't been afraid and tried to call the person next to them on their fear.
After that, dinner ensued (as if they hadn't enough food) and near the end Nick got up to make a speech. Having drunk enough that day, they knew what to expect in any speech he might give but, considering they had been stuffed with food and their own amount of drink, they didn't seem to care.
"Ikons and Bonkin percussionists," Nick started before being drowned out by cheers. "Ikons and Bonkin percussionists," he started again., "and Took trumpets and Brandywoods (of which there are far too many woodwinds to count), and Nrubb tubas, and Crubb baritones, and Browels brasses, and Hornblowers, and Rolger French horns, Bracegirdie snares, Goodnoddie bassoons, Siermon flutes, and Trombones." "'BONERS!" shouted an older bandie from the back.
"And you're sporting a nice one, I see!" Nick shouted back, to the embarrassment of the aging bandie. "Also, I greet my Saxville-Ikons. Welcome back to Reed End, which you still haven't stolen from me yet or ever will, stupid fuckers." Nick had muttered the last part but the front near him had still heard and there were a handful of children who were punished the next days for asking what a "fucker" was.
"I suppose I want to thank those who have been tolerable in my time here in the Nyre. I certainly haven't known you all long enough." There was an outburst of cheers, particularly from Nam Siermon. As the noise subsided, Nick continued. "For those of you who have pissed me off, consider this invite my last bit of hospitality to you." For those who knew they were on good terms with Nick, there were applause, but, for those who were uncertain, there were looks of suspicion and worry.
"As you all know, it is our birthday today – that being my niece, Marisa, and mine's birthday. Today, she comes into her inheritance – and rightfully so!" All cheered except the Saxville-Ikons. Shouts of "Marisa!" came up as well.
"I remember on this day I arrived at Ezgarnth. Wonderful town, but in all it's vicinity not a single brothel! Can you believe that?" Tenacious silence. They were afraid Nick might burst into some long and atrocious story right then and there. But no story was forthcoming.
"Lastly, I wish to make an announcement. I regret to announce that this is the end. I am going. I am leaving now. Good-bye!"
Nick stepped down from the chair he was on and, upon hitting the floor, disappeared. There was a blaring note that sounded like it came from a trumpet at the same time.
Immediately there was talk that sprang up from every Ikon, Bonkin, Took, Brandywood, Nrubb, Crubb, Browels, Hornblower, Rolger, Bracegirdie, Goodnoddie, Siermon, Trombone, and Saxville-Ikon. All agreed the joke was bad, though to be expected from Nick. Only Marisa seemed to be enjoying it, though she had known about it all along.
In the meantime, Nick was already entering his house and changing for his journey. His party clothes were packed away and an old cloak and sword were put on. He took a look at himself in the mirror, gave his yellow hair a rough run through with his hand and turned to the fireplace mantle. He placed a ring that would go around a trumpet valve on the mantle and a piece of paper as well. As he turned to go, he abruptly reached and took the ring and placed it in his pocket. Handal entered the room at that moment.
"Hey Handal," Nick said. "Was wondering when you'd show up."
"Glad to actually see you," Handal remarked, stroking his long beard. He took a seat. "I take it you're pleased with your little joke."
Nick laughed. "Pleased? Did you see their faces? And when that trumpet went off? They won't be talking about much else; of that, I'm sure."
Handal sighed, humored. "Indeed. Well, it seems your plans are coming to a full. You mean to leave, then?"
"Absolutely. The Nyre is great and some of the people are awesome but others –" A look of distress came over Nick's face, as if he were struggling with himself. He slammed his hand on his dresser. "They're all so ignorant!" he exclaimed. "There's an entire world out there!" He exhaled heavily, and then straightened up. "But I guess it can't be helped." He gave a harried glance at Handal, who watched his friend with worried distance. "I'm distressed, Handal. I – I feel I'm all over the place all the time. I'm restless and at odds with everything." He paused for a moment, thinking. A look of calm started to appear. "I think I've come up with an end to my story," Nick said at length. "'And he left contented, satisfied in his endeavors.'"
"And what did he leave?" Handal asked.
Nick gave him a slight smile and said, "That you have to figure out for yourself."
Nick checked himself and looked back at Handal. "You'll watch over Marisa? Sometimes I think she's the only person worth anything in this whole place."
Handal chuckled. "I'm sure you don't mean that. But yes, I'll watch over her."
"Good. I've left everything to her."
"Everything? The ring as well?"
Nick roughly ran his hand through his hair as he thought about the question. "Uh…yeah. Should be on the mantle." Handal got up to check when Nick slowly put his hand into his pocket. "No…." He took the trumpet valve ring out and looked at it in his palm. He half laughed, as if amazed. "It was right here in my pocket. But why shouldn't it be?"
Handal turned around slowly, surprised by his friend's change of decision. "We've talked about this already, Nick; leave the ring behind."
Nick whipped around, furious. "Why don't you just back off, Handal? What business is it to you of what I do with my things, you asshole!" His voice had lost the lackadaisical and friendly tone it normally had; it became anxious, piercing, suspecting, and harsh. Handal had never seen Nick give anyone the look he was receiving right now. He was unsure how to respond. "You always bothered me about it. It's mine! My own. My precious…."
If Handal had needed to sober up before, that had done it. "It's been called that before," he said slowly, "but not by you."
"Oh, and so what if Bullom called it that? It's mine now. And so it will stay." Nick's voice had risen to a shrill screech by now. Handal watched, his heart racing, striving to figure out what to do. Nick only saw a grave figure, watching him though.
"I think it may be in your best interest to let it be. To be free, yourself."
Nick's hand jerked to his sword, the ring poised over his index finger, his middle finger raised. "I think not."
Handal's figure seemed to rise, filling the room. "I think it may be my turn to get angry now," he warned. Both stood, staring each other down; Nick was crouched in a corner, looking ready to kill; Handal seemed to encompass the rest of the room.
At a time, Nick relaxed. "What's with you, Handal? It is mine, isn't it? I'm not a thief, as Bullom said."
Handal seemed to recede. "I never said you were. Nor am I one, while we are on that subject. I only mean to protect you, never rob you."
Nick rested against the wall for a moment, breathing heavily. "What was I doing? I don't want this stupid thing anymore." Though it seemed with difficulty, he placed it on the mantle. Immediately his skin regained color and he demeanor changed. He turned cheerfully to Handal. "Care to walk me out?"
The two went to the door, just as it opened to reveal Marisa. "So you're really leaving then?" she asked.
"I'm afraid," Nick responded. He looked at her for a moment. ""I meant to leave before you got back – figured it'd be easier – but it seems you beat that plan." She smiled at his statement, standing there awkwardly. "Don't get too close to any brass, alright?" he told her. "Especially any trumpets."
She laughed at his old suspicions. "I won't; I promise."
They stood there for a second before Nick noted, "Look, I'm not really good at these emotional moments, so –"
She laughed again. "It's alright." Nick laughed as well, put her in a fake headlock, and took his first step out the door. He started down the path, waving before he disappeared out of sight.
"Well, he's gone then," Marisa stated.
"Yes," Handal put in, "I was rather unsure if it'd even ever happen. He left a load for you, including the ring."
"The ring as well?"
"Yes, though I'd advice sparse use of it, if any at all. Keep it secret, and keep it safe! Now, I am going to bed." And with that the two departed.
