Ch 155

"The boys have returned!" Hilda exclaimed once we walked back to the farm in the middle of the afternoon.

Although I had no intention of telling my grandmother as much, her enthusiasm was very much like Bessie when I returned from merely walking out into the garden and back into the house.

"How could you possibly miss us this much?" Phelan asked, kissing her cheek. "We've only been gone for a handful of hours."

She kissed him back, multiple times, and stroked his cheek. Despite my brother's grousing, he melted into her affection before my eyes, his expression softening and posture more relaxed.

"Because I love you, both of you. My little ones."

"We are not little," he protested.

"You are little to me," she replied, putting her arms around him. Lan rested his chin on top of her head and smiled to himself, clearly enjoying the way she fussed over him.

Hilda squeezed him one last time before she looked at me and gasped, hands cupped to her cheeks. "And what is this, grandson?"

"I brought my violin," I answered, proudly holding up the case in one hand and a folder of music in the other.

"Your violin!" Hilda practically danced across the rug as she neared me, taking my free hand in hers. "Oh, my beloved. You fill my heart with joy."

The delight in her expression truly amused me as it was not a reaction I was accustomed to receiving. Meg found my music repetitive and I was fairly certain that Madeline humored me with her willingness to hear me play after decades of association. Charles was far too polite to say a word of protest while Alex, on the other hand, groaned loudly and asked if I could play quietly or cease altogether.

Julia, of course, looked forward to me playing for her, but we hadn't been married long enough for her to ask me to take a break so that the house was quiet.

Toke looked up from his well-worn chair where he had been dozing, the tabby cat stretched out behind him. "What are you going to play?" he asked.

Phelan eyed me. "What is he asking?" Once I answered, my brother rolled his eyes. "Honestly, what do you think he is going to play?"

"I don't have to play my own music," I said, sensing our grandfather lacked interest in big city music, as he had called opera.

Hilda gently patted my hand. "Yes, you do. My beloved grandson, you are the musician of the family and we are honored to hear you play for us." She turned toward my brother. "And my beloved artist. Have you drawn me pictures?" she asked in a mixture of Danish and German.

Phelan held up his sketchbook with more pride than I'd ever seen him display. "I have a dozen drawings for you to choose from, Hilda. Whichever one you like best is yours to keep."

"So very talented. Erik, isn't your brother talented?"

I nodded even though Phelan never took his eyes off of Hilda.

"We have work to do first," Toke said. He struggled to stand and took several shuffling steps across the rug, grimacing with each movement. He seemed to teeter back and forth as he walked, his hips refusing to cooperate.

"One song!" Hilda requested. "Please, my little grandson, one song for your dear grandmother before your grandfather takes you away for the afternoon."

As much as I wished to do whatever she asked, I hesitated, looking from my grandmother to my grandfather for his permission.

"Toke," Phelan said. "You can spare ten minutes."

Toke scowled, but paused near the door and crossed his arms. "You young people and your entertainment. No work ethic in your generation."

"What are you playing for me?" Hilda asked, ignoring my grandfather's grousing. She danced her way into a chair and perched herself on the edge, hands clasped in anticipation.

"I brought two compositions, if you would care to help me choose" I said.

"Me?" she gasped.

"I would be honored if you would pick one."

As expected, Hilda gasped when she saw my name on the cover page. With a gasp, she hugged both compositions to her chest and grinned at me. "My Erik," she said. "You wrote all of this?"

"And many more."

She thumbed through, nodding as she looked over the two I had considered.

"I cannot possibly decide," she said. She turned to Toke. "Do you want to see, husband?"

He shook his head, still scowling.

"Phelan?" I asked.

"Play both."

I unlatched my violin case and removed the bow and instrument, feeling more nervous than I should have with an audience of three adults and a large tabby cat sound asleep on the back of my grandfather's unoccupied chair.

Phelan took a seat beside our grandmother and handed her his sketchbook opened to a page in the middle.

"This is Alex," I heard him whisper. "Erik's son."

Hilda turned her head and smiled at the depiction of my son. "Oh, what a sweet boy," she said. "He looks like both of you."

Phelan gazed up at me, offering a smile of encouragement. I took a deep breath and began playing the shorter of the two compositions, the entr'acte from The Soldier and the Shell, which had been inspired by the upbeat tavern music I had heard as a child escaping from my parents' home in the summer.

The music, simple as it was, enticed me each time I wandered into the night. I would close my eyes, safely tucked within the shadows of an alley, and listen to the crowd clap their hands and stomp their feet. Sometimes, if I was feeling truly bold, I inched forward and peered through the windows, grinning at the sight of tables pushed against the wall in order to make a dance floor. I was fascinated by men twirling their women around while the musicians played rowdy, upbeat songs. It felt like looking in on someone's dream of a foreign land where laughter and music filled the air.

I thought of the joy those moments had provided in an otherwise dismal childhood, of how greatly I had always wanted to step inside, take a seat at one of the tables, and tap my foot in time with the music, no different than anyone else.

But I would have been driven out, I knew, pelted with empty mugs of beer and cutlery, dodging chairs thrown to make certain I bolted into the night, never to return. It would have been a miracle if I could have escaped unscathed.

They would have taken one look at me; a filthy and emaciated boy with missing clumps of hair and a ruined face, and they would have determined a monster had come out of the forest to murder their children and rape their women. None of them would have considered I was fond of the music, drawn to the melody, no desire to harm anyone, not even the stray cats and dogs that crossed my path.

I stayed hidden for the sake of the tavern patrons as well as my own safety, but I never forgot my love of their forbidden music.

With my gaze trained above my brother and grandmother's heads, I played for the three oval portraits on the mantel staring back at me.

The sunlight filtered through the curtains illuminated the drawings that had been difficult to see the previous day. There were two young girls and a boy; my mother, her twin sister, and younger brother, I assumed.

I wasn't sure which was my mother and which was my aunt, but the portraits were drawn in profile with the twins smiling at one another while their younger brother's image was between them, a frail boy guarded by his older siblings.

The music flowed through me, the melody playful in nature, much as I imagined two young girls running through the fields once their chores were finished. I thought of them laughing, these identical twins who were so deeply connected that they felt each other's emotions, holding hands as they shrieked with laughter and uncontainable mirth, free at last from their duties for the day.

I imagined them sitting on the fence in the evening, sharing stories of boys they found handsome and village gossip as the sun set and the fireflies blinked around them while the night sky turned to a blanket of dark blue and sparkling starlight.

There was something beautiful and simplistic about the affection between siblings, something I hoped Alex and Lisette would share with their new brother or sister the following year when our family expanded. It was also something I wanted as an adult with my own brother, through the stories he could share with me and his ability to find himself humorous.

As the song neared the last few notes, I risked a glance at my brother and grandmother. Phelan leaned toward her, nodding as she turned the page and pointed at the next drawing.

"Lisette and Julia," he mouthed. "And Marco."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Toke bobbing his head in time to the music, his hand gently tapping his elbow as he stood with his arms crossed. I didn't look fully in his direction, afraid that if I acknowledged him, his posture would become rigid and he'd scowl again.

I lowered my violin and bow once the last notes were played, turning first toward Phelan for his reaction, finding myself eager for his support and approval, much as I assumed I had wanted the same when we were much younger.

He shrugged. "I've heard better," he said lightly, his smile filled with brotherly mischief.

"And I'm sure you've heard worse."

"Also correct," he said.

"You must play more after supper," Hilda insisted.

"I am at your command."

Lastly, I turned to Toke, whose expression gave no indication of whether or not he had enjoyed listening to me play.

"You should play for the cows," he said.

I blinked at him, uncertain if I had heard him correctly. His request didn't sound like an insult, but it didn't sound like praise, either, and I found myself at a loss for earning his respect. "Play for the cows?" I asked.

He nodded and walked toward the kitchen. "It's time to milk."

oOo

I started to place my violin into its case, feeling somewhat deflated by my grandfather's lack of a reaction, but Hilda shook her head.

"Play for the cows," she said. Taking a step closer, she put her hand on my forearm and whispered, "Play for your grandfather."

I hesitated. "I'm afraid I don't have anything else he might find enjoyable."

"Well, then play something the cows will enjoy."

Phelan left his sketchbook on the small table between the chairs and stood. "What is all the talk of cows?" he asked me as we walked through the kitchen and out the back door.

Toke had already entered the barn, followed by the dogs, who trotted behind him with their tails wagging.

"He asked me to play for the herd," I told my brother. "I can't tell if he's serious."

"I would assume he's serious. He sings to them in the milk parlor," Phelan told me. "At least he does when he thinks no one is around. I've arrived by train in the past, walked here unannounced, and listened to him sing when he's alone. Supposedly the milk tastes better when the cows are serenaded."

"Now I cannot tell if you are being serious."

My brother shrugged. He patted me on the back and walked through the barn door first. "I suppose there is one way to find out, Kire."

Toke was already seated on a stool with one of the cows in the milking parlor, which was a smaller room off the main part of the barn with wooden floors and a stall made of horizontal metal bars. The brown cow lifted her head from the feeding bucket attached to the end, her large brown eyes examining us. Her nostrils flared before she continued to eat, apparently finding our presence acceptable.

The two white farm dogs sat patiently outside of the stall, tails sweeping the floor.

"Play, Erik, play your music," Toke said.

I looked from him to Lan, who nodded.

"Something relaxing," Toke added once I had my violin out of the case.

"Andante molto," I said under my breath. A leisurely pace, perfect for a relaxing stroll through the countryside.

I started out with Beethoven's Symphony number six, hoping that the second movement would be well-received by both the cows and Toke, whose expression gave me no indication whatsoever of his feelings.

"Did you write that?" Toke asked once I finished playing.

"Did you find it enjoyable?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Not bad."

"Not bad? That was Beethoven, Toke."

"It was acceptable."

"Acceptable? It's a good thing the composer is deceased," Phelan said quietly. He was about to seat himself on a higher stool near the door when Toke motioned for him to take the cow out and bring him another.

Two dozen cows stood outside of the double doors peering inside, some of them mooing while others pushed against the doors. It took a bit of effort on my brother's part to keep them from all storming in at once, but he somehow managed to avoid a stampede.

"Wait your turn," Phelan said, pushing the door closed once he had another cow inside. "My goodness, ladies, you're being very impatient."

The cow who had managed to squeeze into the milking parlor made her way toward the stall, placing her head into the bucket of grain while our grandfather moved the first bucket aside.

"Take this," Toke ordered, nodding at Phelan, who took the fresh milk and placed it onto a shelf.

"Frya," he called. One of the dogs stepped forward and he squirted a stream of milk from the udder toward the dog.

"Sif–"

The dog was already airborne before she received her treat of milk directly from the cow.

I stood gaping in astonishment, imagining how both Lisette and Alex would beg for a turn to milk dairy cows and attempt the same feat with Bessie.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Phelan asked.

"I doubt Bessie could do that without being squirted in the face."

"Guard," Toke ordered, and both dogs trotted from the barn where they joined the cows already in the field.

"What are you playing next?" Toke asked me.

I shifted my weight and decided on a ballet from a composition I had yet to complete, the melody slow and romantic.

When I had first started writing it while Alex was still a toddler, I imagined Meg in the role of Esmerelda, a princess who had been lost at sea on what was to be her wedding day to the handsome Prince Adrial.

Meg, however, was never interested in a principal role, much to her mother's disappointment. She preferred being lost within the chorus and blending into the ballet.

Although she had long since retired from the stage by the time I began composing bits and pieces of the story, I still imagined her overcoming her timid demeanor and agreeing to accept the role of my first full ballet.

The lulling music I played was the only part of the score that I truly liked and had kept relatively the same over the years. Alex would fall asleep on the rug when I played the melody, his arms waving and legs kicking until his eyes closed and he smiled to himself, bottle in hand and belly full.

"What was that? I don't believe I've heard it previously," Phelan asked when the song ended.

"Better than the first one," Toke said.

"Part of an unfinished ballet," I said.

"You wrote that?" Toke asked.

I nodded once. "I did. Years ago."

"Years ago? Quit procrastinating and finish it, Kire," Phelan said.

Toke motioned for my brother to take the next tin bucket away and told him to put both inside the out kitchen.

"He said to let Hilda know the milk is ready," I added before my brother walked out.

"Errands as always," Phelan huffed.

Once my brother was gone, Toke told me to bring him another cow and return the other one to the herd. I placed my violin and bow down and rolled up my sleeves, wishing I hadn't bothered with a new pair of trousers and a shirt if there were still duties around the farm needing to be completed.

As far as I could recall, I'd never been around a cow. Horses, yes, from the stables at the Opera House, but the dairy cows were much larger than I had imagined–and far more insistent than any horse I'd encountered.

Two dozen large, dark eyes stared at me through the top half the barn door, sniffing at the air as I approached.

"How do I–"

"Open the door," Toke grumbled. "But shut it quickly."

I took a breath, opened the door, and felt the push of several large animals attempting to all squeeze through at once. Three walked in before I could close the door, and when I turned, my grandfather sat shaking his head.

I couldn't tell if he shook his head in amusement or disappointment of my folly, but I attempted to grab one of the cows by the halter. She jogged ahead of me, darting one way and then the next.

"They're fast," he said.

"I can see that," I muttered.

"Leave them," he said. "All four will go out together when Phelan returns."

He didn't ask me to continue playing, but I picked up my violin and strung together another melody off the top of my head, feeling increasingly self conscious that the day had been filled with far more moments of proving to my grandfather I was nothing more than a useless city dweller.

"Who taught you to play?" Toke asked over his shoulder.

"My uncle started to teach me, but it was largely trial and error on my part."

"Your uncle?" he questioned. "From your father's side?"

"Yes," I answered. "His name was Alak."

He grunted and resumed milking while one of the cows came up and pressed her wet nose to the back of my neck and snorted.

I inhaled sharply at the unexpected sensation and drew my shoulders toward my ears. Once she gummed my shirt collar quite harmlessly, I patted the cow on the head. It felt like Bessie–if she was twenty times her size and able to reach my neck while I stood.

Toke chuckled at my reaction. "I believe Heni wants you to play more."

"Does Heni have a request?"

Toke patted the cow who was in the stall and began milking again. "You and your brother have the same sense of humor."

"Is that good or bad?"

He shrugged. "Neither, merely the same."

I absently adjusted the pegs of my violin, feeling more flattered by the comparison to Phelan than I had been previously.

"Do you play any other instrument?"

"I play the piano," I said. "Cello, flute, horn…"

"Did Gyda teach you piano?"

"No, I'm afraid not," I said.

"No?"

"I…I taught myself to play."

"Why didn't your mother teach you?"

"I suppose because we didn't own a piano," I said.

"She taught you music though, yes?"

I looked away from him, ashamed of the lack of relationship I'd had with my own mother–ashamed to admit to my grandfather that I knew virtually nothing about my own mother.

"I was not aware that she was fond of music," I answered.

"No?"

"We didn't discuss it."

Toke stopped milking and motioned me closer. "Take a seat," he said, nodding to the stool Phelan had previously occupied.

I took my violin and bow with me, desiring a distraction from the conversation as I felt like a child on the verge of being scolded.

"Did she sing?" Toke asked.

"Yes, quite frequently.".

He nodded, appearing somewhat relieved. The cow he had finished milking backed out of the stall and a different one walked in, drawn to the sound of more grain placed into the feeding bucket.

The cow's udders were so heavy with milk that it dripped from her teets and onto the wooden boards, and I assumed that they were adamant about entering the milk parlor simply for the relief of being emptied.

"Good, I am glad she sang to you. It brought her joy, as did playing the piano." Without looking at me, he continued milking the cow who had walked into the stall.

My lips parted, but I didn't want to tell Toke that my mother had never sung to me.

"What did Gyda teach you?" he asked.

I sat with my head bowed, studying the body of my violin resting on my knee, unable to think of a suitable answer that I wished to share with him.

My mother had taught me to sit in silence for hours on end, head pressed to the top stair of the cellar as I peered through the bottom of a door to watch her rock back and forth. She had taught me to be lonely, to wonder what I could have done that would have earned her favor.

"Was Gyda a good mother to you?" he asked quietly.

My silence made him frown, and immediately I regretted not giving a false answer.

"Phelan!" Toke yelled, the sound of his voice startling me.

When my brother didn't respond, Toke sat back and stretched his legs out beneath the cow. He sighed and resumed milking for a long moment, the spray of milk against the tin bucket making its own music.

"When your brother first came here claiming to be my daughter's son, I didn't believe him," he said, keeping his voice low. "I told him to leave, to stop giving Hilda false hope about our girl. When your brother didn't listen to my warning, I told Hilda to fetch my rifle."

I blinked at my grandfather, my lips parting. Phelan had certainly made no such mention of being turned away or threatened, and I was under the impression that their initial meeting had gone well, with both Hilda and Toke welcoming my brother with open arms.

"He's a stubborn one, your brother," Toke continued. "Your grandmother says it's because he wants to please others, but I think it is because he won't accept 'no' for an answer. Either way, he wouldn't leave, not even with a rifle pointed at him."

"What happened that you allowed him to stay?" I asked.

Toke went back to milking before the cow in the stall wandered away. "Phelan asked if he could prove that he was Gyda's son. I doubted he could convince me, but your brother knew the song Gyda and Greta always sang," he said, his blue eyes cast down. "Not well, but enough where it was obvious that he'd heard it before."

"Kong Toke," I said.

My grandfather grunted. "Yes, that's the one. Did she sing it to you?"

"She sang it to herself," I answered.

Toke nodded, his gaze distant. "That sounds like my Gyda," he said. "Lost. Directly in front of me, but still lost."

There was no more apt description of my mother than the one he offered.

"I was quite surprised that Gyda had a son," Toke said.

He continued milking the cow while the one still waiting pushed her head against my side, nearly toppling me from the stool. I realized there was a bag of grain behind me and reached inside, offering her a handful.

"What was Gyda like as a mother?" Toke asked. He eyed me again, his gaze trained on the masked side of my face.

I placed my hands on my knees, resisting the urge to touch the mask.

"Similar to your description of her as your daughter. She was always lost."

Toke frowned at my reply, but nodded.

"Was she good to you?"

I looked away from him.

"She didn't know how to be good to me."

I could feel him still staring at the mask, at the reason behind every rejection I had suffered in my lifetime. I considered telling him that his daughter had not been alone in her abhorrence of me; for years it was all I had known. I couldn't blame her for her the way she reacted.

"What did Phelan say about our mother?" I asked.

Toke turned his attention back to the cow. "I have never asked him."

"But you've known him for years," I pointed out.

Toke considered my inquiry for a long moment. "It was hard enough to speak of her twin and little brother, but at least we had them here, on our land. But Gyda? It was easier not knowing what became of my daughter."

"Why did you ask me then?"

His features softened briefly. "Because you are like her. You are musical." He patted the cow's side. "She would spend hours in the milk parlor bringing the cows in one at a time, filling the feed bucket without being asked, and singing to each one. It used to be just me and your mother." He smiled to himself. "We had two stalls and she was faster than me, filling bucket after bucket while Greta brought the milk to Hilda. Your mother would say it was because she sang to the cows and they liked her better."

His words lingered between us. There was never a time where I wished that I could say my mother and I had shared our mutual love of music and that in turn, she had found a way to look past my faults and love me as well, her musical son.

"The milk has come faster again today, just like it did in the past," he said. "Just like when Gyda would sing for us. Perhaps my daughter did not share her music with you, but you have still inherited her spirit."

"I wish I could tell you something different about her–"

"No," he said sternly. "No, I do not want to be told fanciful tales. There was enough of that in the past, grandson. I have no use for untruthful men."