Wintersong(33)

The instrument felt alive in my grip. It was carved from some sort of wood, possibly alder wood, which was sacred to the Goblin King. The flute unsettled me; it was like holding someone’s hand, a touch that felt back. The instrument was old, built on a simpler design, without the keys and metal joins of the newer flutes I had seen the musicians play in church. Yet it had the right holes that allowed chromatic fingering, not like the fifes and old transverse flutes in our inn that had belonged to our grandfather. Papa had taught me the rudiments of the flute; I knew how to play all the notes, but whether or not I could get them to sound as I wished remained to be heard.

I wet my lips, brought the instrument to my mouth. Nothing but a hollow whistling noise emerged, the sound of the wind in the trees. I gently blew into the instrument itself, attempting to warm the air within, the wood of which it was made. It helped but little; my hands trembled too much to hold the flute straight, my numb fingertips scarcely feeling the holes beneath them.

In the silence of the forest beyond, I thought I heard the mocking echo of a laugh.

You have not defeated me yet.

Fire. I needed fire. I could not keep going like this. The mist grew thicker, droplets of moisture forming on my hair. They would be droplets of ice before long.

I looked at the lantern Constanze had given me. It had a small well of oil at its base, along with a wick of flame. Perhaps I could spill a little bit onto the woodpile I had made, just enough to prompt a fire. But I worried that the damp would defeat that too, and what little light I had would be gone with it.

No, I needed something else to burn: something dry, something seasoned, something like … paper.

I remembered my box of compositions.

I wanted to laugh. I thought I had known the meaning of sacrifice. I thought I had known the meaning of suffering. But no, I had been a fool. What did it mean to sacrifice my music to the Goblin King? I had thought a few tunes would be enough. But I was wrong. So very wrong. He wanted more. He wanted my very soul.

Hands shaking with more than cold, I reached into my satchel and pulled out my box of compositions. It was nothing but an old lockbox I had found in the garret—long emptied of its coins but filled with treasure nonetheless. The lock was rusted through, but the clasp still worked, and the box stayed shut until I opened it. I opened it now.

My compositions were scattered in its depths, dead leaves on autumn loam. Music scribbled hastily on foolscap, on parchment stolen from my father’s account books, on fancy stationary our guests sometimes left behind. All paper. All flammable.

“Is this what you want, mein Herr?” I asked. “Is this the sacrifice you asked for?”

No response from the wood but a waiting silence, as if the air held its breath.

With a cry I scattered my music over the woodpile. Then before I could lose my nerve, I splashed the burning oil from my lantern over it.

The pages caught fire immediately. Flames flared into life, then died down. No, I would not burn my life’s work for nothing. I kicked their burning ashes further into the kindling, and the rest began to catch light. Twig after twig, branch after branch, a small, smoky, but steady fire began to grow.

For you, mein Herr, I thought. Is this enough?

Nothing again but that waiting silence. First the pages, then my soul. This last scrap of self, he demanded it all. This was the meaning of sacrifice.

I pulled out the slice of cake Constanze had given me. Unwrapping it, I broke off a piece and cast it into the fire. The sweet smell of its ashes rose into the night air. I took one bite. Subtle sweetness melted across my tongue, subtle sweetness and strength.

“Let us share a meal, you and I,” I said to the waiting stillness. “But first, some music.”

I lifted the flute and began to play.



I played everything I knew, every étude and écossaise, every chaconne and concerto, every sonata and song. I embroidered, I embellished, I improvised, I improved. I played and played and played until the flames died down, until my fingers turned white with frost, until my throat grew hoarse with ice. I played until the darkness creeping in on the edges of my vision became the entirety of it, until I could no longer see the approaching dawn.



Someone takes me in his arms.

“Hans?” I ask weakly.

There is no reply.

Only the sensation of long fingers running along the length of my neck, soft and gentle as spring rain. They rest against my collarbones. The caress is light, and somehow reminds me of the flute in my hand.

Then I know no more.





Part II

THE GOBLIN BALL

A linnet in a gilded cage, -

A linnet on a bough, -

In frosty winter one might doubt

Which bird is luckier now.

But let the trees burst out in leaf,