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They were down to their last three dollars. They had sold everything they conceivably could live without from their little cottage – even their tin silverware. Well, they called it a cottage but it was really more of a hovel, left to only nature’s defenses. Now, they were desperate. Sylvia stared into the near-empty jar sitting atop an old linen tablecloth in the middle of their kitchen table. Perhaps the harder she stared, maybe the longer she didn’t blink, more money would just appear in the jar. Not much, just a quarter or two, but if she tried hard enough, maybe she could somehow solidify the aching hope in her heart for just a few more dollars to make it through this dry spell. A solid kick in her womb pulled her out of her reverie. Sylvia looked down at her swollen belly and let out a long sigh. She felt a flutter, like bubbles popping inside her. The baby must bedoing somersaults, she thought with a tired smile. She ought to start dinner, Axel would be home soon. She looked hopelessly down at her bloated feet, throbbing with a dull pain, as she lifted herself awkwardly from the table and hobbled to the pantry.
One egg, three beets, two carrots, and a potato. That was all that was left. Sylvia would just have to make do. Filling a pot with water, she lit the stove and got to work. It wasn’t long before she heard Axel’s familiar whistle coming up the long drive. He always came home with a tune in his head. Axel was built like a bull – strong and powerful, burly and muscular. He was barrel- chested and stocky. His small, button nose and sparkling hazel eyes gave him a friendly demeanor. He was a man built for pulling plows and felling trees. So, it was a bit inconvenient for Axel that he found, despite his graceless stubby fingers, his joy as a luthier. Of course, in order to be a luthier, one needed customers to buy instruments. Every day, Axel walked two miles to the nearest town, peddling his wares. But they found themselves in mining territory. Few people had need for beautiful new violins and guitars. So, Axel tried to busk, playing his violin in town squares, markets, and parks all over the area. But he never had prodigious skill at the instrument. He found his talent in building the instruments, not playing them. With a spring in his step and a smile on his face, Axel slapped one dollar and a few cents onto the table from a pocket of the leather case he wore around him. Sylvia greeted him with delight, counting the money on the table. But her face fell, the dimples he loved so much fading away, as she realized the exact amount. “Only a dollar?” She asked quietly, almost to herself. Axel’s spirit didn’t break – nothing, it seemed, could do that. He planted a wet kiss on her forehead as he pulled out a burlap sack. “And a whole butchered chicken,” he said proudly, holding the bag out to his wife. She took it from him, smiling hesitantly. “Axel, we need money,” she said softly. She gestured around herself. “Look at this place. We have a mattress on the floor, scant clothes, and nothing for the baby – not even a cradle. I’m sorry, but you musr get some work.” Axel looked at her with such earnestness, such understanding. “I know things are tough,” he said, wrapping his stocky arm around her waist, “But we’ll get through this. I spoke to someone today interested in buying a guitar for their son.” “No Axel, you don’t understand. This is it, this is all we have,” Sylvia cried, almost pleading and waving to the diced vegetables on the table. “And a chicken,” Axel said with a wink. “And a chicken,” Sylvia sighed. “Give me more time, please. Just a bit of patience,” Axel said in a low, soft voice. He then turned and headed to the only room in the cottage – a room that was supposed to be a bedroom that he had made into his little workshop. He was working on a dulcimer now, hoping this regional instrument would gain more traction. Sylvia needed some air. Why didn’t Axel understand? She had been patient. More than patient. She could feel the walls closing in – it was suffocating inside this tiny cottage sometimes. She clambered out the door and leaned against the paint-striped facade of their home. Breathing in the warm summer air, she put a hand on her belly as she gazed across the bleak landscape of their land. Twelve dead trees stood before her, standing in two straight rows like skeletal soldiers guarding a tomb. Axel explained to her once they were peach trees. He had inherited this desolate land from his uncle, under whom he also completed his luthier apprenticeship. Axel and Sylvia had been hesitant to move in, well, because the once bountiful orchard was now simply dead. But they ran out of money; they didn’t have two pennies to rub together to rent a room for a night, let alone to figure out a more long-term solution. Sylvia had just delivered the wonderful news to Axel that they were now expecting a child. Left with no other viable choice for their growing family, Sylvia and Axel packed their few precious belongings, namely Axel’s luthier equipment passed down to him from his Uncle, and made the long trek to the loathsome cottage and the lifeless orchard they now called home. Truth be told, Sylvia didn’t mind her little army of dead trees. There was something beautiful – something sculptural – about them, as though they were frozen in winter, waiting for spring to call forth their fragrant pink blossoms, their bare and brittle limbs intertwined as if they were instantly petrified the middle of a free-spirited dance. She enjoyed the calm silence of the death surrounding her. Which is why she now found herself outside the cottage, taking in the stillness, trying to calm her panicking heart. What were they going to do? If Axel wouldn’t get a job, perhaps she could? At least for the two months before the baby came. Maybe she could earn enough just to get them through the first few months of the baby’s life, and then she could go back to work somehow. Somehow. At the very least, Sylvia could try to find some gainful employment, no matter how low or temporary. She made her mind up: tomorrow, she would go into town with Axel and she would find work. Axel wasn’t happy with her decision but didn’t bar her way. With an uncharacteristically stern face, he gave her the silent treatment almost the entire two-mile walk down the dusty gravel road to town the next morning. Nothing would sway Sylvia’s resolve – they needed money. On the road, Sylvia looked up through the trees and noticed a gray overcast sky. She frowned. She didn’t know if the roof of their cottage could take another rainstorm. Despite Axel’s frustration at Sylvia’s determination to get a job, he took her hand. Sylvia knew all she had to do was wait and be patient. Axel could never let tension just sit, he always had to break it. “Be grateful the sun isn’t on our necks,” he finally said with a smile. “Besides, if it rains, I packed a hat and jacket for you.” He patted his pack, strapped around his arms, sitting below the violin case buckled around him. Sylvia sighed with a smile as she met her husband’s eyes. And that’s why she loved him, of course. No matter the challenge, no matter the difficulty, somehow, Axel found the silver lining. The clouds were still dark and heavy when Sylvia and Axel finally made it to town. After being assured she would be safe and come back to him if she ever felt uncomfortable, Axel set himself up in the square in front of town hall, playing his violin for passersbys. Sylvia went business to business asking for work. She could do any job, she would say. Tend bar, stock groceries, clean houses. She was a hard worker, she pleaded. But everyone simply took incredulous looks at her big belly and pitifully shook their heads. The general store owner did let Sylvia borrow his old mare for the day. “Just send her back in this direction, she’ll know the way,” he said, waving her out of the store. Axel had a better day, earning eight dollars in tips. Nevertheless, Sylvia was beside herself. She failed. Door after door was slammed in her face. About halfway home, rain finally began to fall. First in small, sporadic droplets, then in a torrential downpour. “Go ahead,” Axel shouted through the rain, handing her his pack with the hat and jacket. “No need for you to stay longer in this storm if you can get home faster.” And so, Sylvia urged the horse to a quicker trot, leaving Axel behind. She finally made it home, drenched in cold rainwater, and sent the mare back up the road. She thought it was odd that the door to their cottage was flung open. But maybe a gust of wind had blown it open. But what she saw inside made her fall to her knees. Everything was gone or destroyed. The table was knocked over, the windows broken, the mattress torn apart. The pot and pans were gone, their extra pair of boots missing, and the jar was broken and all that was left was a nickel. And Axel’s tools. His equipment to make instruments – his saws, and bindings, and strings – all of it was gone. They had nothing of value before, and they had absolutely nothing now. She dropped to her hands, pressing her face to the moldy floor, cold and wet from the leaks in the roof. At first, she lost her breath. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t take in new air. She found herself gasping and gulping on all fours. And then, when she found her breath and caught it, she let out a howl of fury, of sorrow, of pain so deep that she wondered if it had a bottom. Her scream echoed in the near-empty cottage, shattering her heart into shards. She put everything into that roar. Every last drop of her she had. When she had no more, she found herself panting and whimpering, now curled on her side, cradling the baby still inside her. Weeping. Her cries came in bursts of violent sobs. Sylvia was trembling on the cold, wet floors, her body nearly convulsing, when Axel lightly – cautiously – padded in, his eyes as wide as saucers. Without hesitation, the bulky man dropped to the ground and lifted his wife’s delicate head into his lap. He stroked her soaked black hair, calming the untamed wild curls. “Everything’s gone,” she sobbed, her whole body shaking. “Shh,” was his only reply, stroking her hair and pulling her closer to his warm chest. They lay on the ground in each other’s arms for hours. Axel only briefly left her side to Fetch the only clothing that remained – an threadbare jacket, a pair of pants, and a white linen shirt – to drape over Sylvia. The wind outside howled, and the cruel rain never ceased. Eventually, Sylvia’s heartbeat slowed, and her body calmed. Axel felt the evenness of her warm breath on his arm as he held her close. “What are we going to do?” Sylvia whispered, exhaustion lacing her voice. “I still have my violin,” Axel answered calmly, “and we still have each other.” Sylvia didn’t answer. She just lay in his strong, warm arms. She didn’t realize how much she needed them – how much she needed this feeling of safety. And she did feel safe in his arms, despite the broken windows and furniture around her, despite the uncertain path ahead. As she lifted herself from the floor, Axel’s sturdy grasp helping her, she let out a cool sigh. Sylvia headed for that orchard, her personal guardians. Axel moved to follow, but she held a hand up. “We’ve had a long day, try and get some rest,” she said, steadily. “I just need a minute.” Sylvia hobbled past the door, now hanging from the lower hinge, and into the very center of their orchard. Leaning against a tree, she felt the storm begin to slow. In that same moment, the baby in her belly began to kick and twist. Somehow, it felt her agitation and her anguish. She took in a breath of the cool evening air, heavy with water and humidity, and placed a firm hand to support her stomach. But the baby still squirmed inside. She walked around a little, little bounces in each step. Still the baby wriggled. A kick came from within her so hard, it made her gasp. She grabbed a low branch of one of the trees to support herself. And still, the baby twisted around her womb. She took another deep breath, filling her lungs. She closed her eyes with one hand still on a tree and the other under her belly. Something in Sylvia remembered a little song her mother used to sing. Like a long-dormant instinct, the song came to her -– the melody, the words, the harmony, they popped into her mind at this very moment as if this is what her body was meant to do. She let the little song flow through her. Starting with a raspy, low first note that barely escaped her throat, she sang: “The gentle breeze hums a soothing tune while stars dance in the endless June,” As she sang, her voice became louder, more sure of its path through the long-since-used melody. She straightened her back, still holding the tree for support, and continued with renewed energy. “In this quiet embrace, worries retreat as the lullaby sings of dreams to meet.” She lifted her bright, sweet soprano voice to the sky as the song pushed all her fears to the side, if only for a second of respite. “So hush now, dear child, let this lullaby caress, as your weary mind finds its own sweet address,” She continued, taking her hand off the tree to cradle her swollen belly and calm the growing child inside. “Let the whispering melody weave its embrace, and lead you to a world adorned with grace,” She brought the song to its familiar cadence. And though the lullaby had finished and she no longer sang into the dark, dead, orchard, her music seemed to echo off the trees and stillness and peace filled her heart. Her baby stopped squirming within her, and with a new air of serenity, she strode back to the house and went to sleep in the nest of clothes her husband had made for her. “Sylvia! Sylvia!” Sylvia was jolted awake by the frantic voice of her husband. “Sylvia!” He cried. Groggily, she woke to a brilliant ray of sunshine filling the small space, in a pile of clothes on the floor of their cottage. The events of the previous evening slowly came back to her. Axel had apparently got to work cleaning up the house – the glass from the windows had been somehow swept up, despite the fact that they no longer had a broom, and the broken furniture had been placed in a pile. She let out a groan as she stretched, sitting up from the still damp wooden floor. “Sylvia!” Came Axel’s voice again. He was outside. What now, was all she thought as she struggled to get herself to her feet. Uproarious laughter floated in from the window. Laughter? Axel must have finally lost it. But as she got to her feet and padded to the window, she saw it. Amongst the dozen dead trees in the orchard stood two trees, full with leaves and shining with bulbous, heavy peaches. “Axel!” Sylvia cried, running outside to find her husband. She found him taking a bite of a golden peach. “My god, they’re delicious,” he couldn’t help but exclaim, closing his eyes and enjoying the fruit. As Sylvia ran up to him, Axel practically shoved a peach in her mouth. It was tart and sweet – so incredibly sweet – and was so succulent that juice dripped down their chins and arms. Axel picked another one. “No!” Sylvia said, her mouth full with peach. “Axel, don’t you see? We’re saved! At least for a bit. We can bring these to town and sell them. We can make pies and jams and –” Before she could finish her sentence, Axel grabbed Sylvia by the waist and hauled her up into the air, spinning her until she let out a shriek of joyous laughter. Sylvia indeed made jams, and pies and all sorts of confections. The town flocked to the orchard to behold the miracle trees. And while they examined the peaches, Axel played his violin, creating new appreciation for the instrument amongst the town. Every night, Sylvia would sing her lullaby to the orchard, and every morning, the tree brought forth forty-seven astonishingly delicious peaches. It was always forty-seven, no more, no less. Thanks to the boon of their pair of peach trees, Axel was able to buy replacements for most of his luthier equipment; although Sylvia could tell the loss of his Uncle’s supplies weighed on him. As he had no money for materials, he went to work on cutting down the dead trees in their orchard. The resulting violins didn’t have the usual full resonance of an instrument made from a typical healthy tree. But somehow, these instruments were hauntingly beautiful -- their music thin and delicate. The renewed appreciation for violin amongst the town was met with demand for Axel’s instruments. While Axel was busy in his workshop, Sylvia tended to the trees. Like an acolyte laying out favors for her god, so Sylvia worshiped these trees, taking care to prune them, clearing away debris, memorizing every branch and every knot. Just like she did with her new daughter, she learned the trees’ unique way of communicating their needs. She knew when they needed fertilizer or water. She knew when the relatively mild winters became too frigid. And the trees gave back so much – every morning she carefully harvested those forty-seven delicious peaches, giving immense thanks to these wondrous trees. Years went by and Axel and Sylvia’s family grew from three to four with the addition of a daughter and a son. Their daughter had grown a boundless passion for music, always bothering Axel for lessons on crafting instruments, always singing the evening lullaby with her mother to the trees, and even taking up the violin herself. One fateful night, a hurricane blew in. Axel and Sylvia protected their family in the heart of their now-sturdy cottage. They nailed the windows shut and wrapped themselves in heavy woolen blankets. All night they heard the deafening howling of the wind and the cracks of thunder. When the clouds finally parted the next morning, the whole family was devastated to find their orchard uprooted – Sylvia’s two miraculous peach trees were strewn about their land like dolls carelessly tossed on the ground. Sylvia ran to one of the fallen peach trees and held it like it was her child. She sobbed into its water-logged bark, throwing her arms around its trunk. It wasn’t long before the rest of the family joined her, weeping for the fallen trees that had given them so much – that had saved their very lives. Axel found himself, once again, stroking Sylvia’s wild black curl, comforting her in her absolute anguish. The children, who had grown to consider the trees to be family, likewise held the tree, pressing their cheeks into its knots and bark. The sun was nearly finished setting when his wife and children had fallen asleep on the tree, Axel lifted them each carefully in his arms and one by one and carried them to the house. While it felt wrong, he knew he had to cut the trees and clear them away. He made quick work of sawing them to pieces, and then brought the wood to his workshop. Axel emerged with a golden-orange violin and a matching dulcimer. The most beautiful instruments Sylvia had ever seen. He handed the violin to his daughter and the dulcimer to his son, who both took the instruments eagerly. Their daughter arched her bow deftly across the strings, producing an impossibly sweet and rich chord of stacked perfect fifths that reverberated through the small home and rang in their ears. It was as small and delicate as a human voice. Sylvia sank to her knees, tears suddenly springing from her eyes. It was her trees. This violin was the voice of her beloved peach trees. And then a pluck. One little staccato plunk from the dulcimer. But in that one pluck of the string came a note so full of warmth, depth, and life. Sylvia was filled with the very life of her trees through these beautiful musical instruments. Instruments that Axel had lovingly crafted with his own two hands. Getting up from the ground, she threw her arms around her husband. “Thank you,” she sobbed, as around her, her son and daughter took up the slow and dulcet melody of her lullaby. And Sylvia sang: “The gentle breeze hums a soothing tune while stars dance in the endless June In this quiet embrace, worries retreat as the lullaby sings of dreams to meet. So hush now, dear child, let this lullabye caress, as your weary mind finds its own sweet address, Let the whispering melody weave its embrace, and lead you to a world adorned with grace.” Jillian Flexner is a composer, creative-thinker, and professional fundraiser. Her second opera, Self Defined Circuits, was critically acclaimed and hailed as "meaningful, moving, wildly creative, and challenging." (Broadway World). Jillian adores long-form storytelling as an opera super-fan and bookworm. To learn more, visit jillianflexner.com and please keep in touch [email protected] Comments are closed.
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