THE FLUTE

1959

The stool she sat on, like a Tuscan pillar, gleamed in the sunlight. With arms upraised and shoulders back, she touched the flute to her puckered lips, then gently blew. She’d come out here to the vacant stadium—where boys in leather helmets hurled and crashed their clumsy bodies—to pursue a different sort of game.

A burning breeze fluttered her yellow dress as the bright tones rose like butterflies, took flight. Up, up sailed arpeggios of eighth notes, a cyclone of sound—a cascade of spinning sonatas both wild and refined.

Evelyn’s spirit followed her song into the boiling air.

Soaring above the field, she gazed down on her own figure poised like a statue on the patchy grass. The sun flashed off her silver pipe, scattering petals of dancing light around her feet. The school building, parking lot, power lines, roads—all sank beneath her.

She soon approached a layer of high, scalloped clouds. The momentum of her dizzying ascent propelled her straight through.

Now she stood in an ancient, crumbling amphitheater. Before her, on a circular platform in the center of the ring, stood a high-backed golden throne. A rich velvet rug, crimson and purple, emerged from beneath the throne’s claw feet, rippled toward her, and spilled over the platform’s front edge, its tangled fringe grazing the dust.

A tiny man with the face of a goblin stood upright on the throne’s plush seat. Dressed in an oversized robe and crown, brandishing a battered scepter, he grinned when his eyes fell on Evelyn.

“She has come!” he announced in a pinched voice, and made an arcane gesture with his hand. When, after an uncomfortable silence, nothing happened, he shouted, “What’s the matter with you people? Are you deaf? She has come! She has come!”

The little king rolled his eyes as a company of knights, maidens, wizards, and acrobats came stumbling out from the wings. “Yes, Your Excellency,” they cried, bowing and tripping. “As you wish, My Liege. Places, people, places!”

Eventually, the group stationed itself around the throne in an awkward medieval tableau.

The king sighed. “The time has come, my child,” he continued, “to reveal your Destiny. Behold the slain serpent—” He halted, gazing down at the empty ground before him. “Frye!” he shouted.

A portly stagehand emerged from behind a column. He held a styrofoam cup in one hand and a powdered doughnut in the other. “Yeah?”

“Serpent, Frye!” snapped the king, jabbing his finger at the dirt.

“Right away, Yer Highness.” Frye slurped down the last of his coffee and finished off the doughnut. He wiped his fingers on his shirt. Then he turned, stooped down, and began dragging an enormous corduroy serpent out by the nose. When he’d pulled it all the way in, so that it lay belly-up before the throne, he dropped its head, trudged back to the wings, then returned with a flimsy sword. He plunged the sword into the serpent’s throat.

“Thank you, Frye,” said the king in an icy voice.

“No sweat,” said Frye, and shuffled off.

The king’s shoulders slumped. He reached up and adjusted his crown and stretched out his arms again. “Behold, I say, the slain serpent, which represents your vanquished nemesis. Yes, my child, word of your valiant struggle has reached us even here. Worthy art thou—”

“But, sir,” said Evelyn. “I don’t even have a nemesis. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

The king’s eyes grew round with alarm. A lanky wizard with a long white beard stepped up behind him and whispered into his ear. The king nodded gratefully.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the king. “The Forces of Darkness, then. Do you understand the Forces of Darkness?”

Evelyn thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said at last. “I suppose I do.”

“Excellent. Splendid. May I continue?”

“By all means.”

“—which represents the Forces of Darkness now driven back into the infernal regions by your noble bravery in the face of . . . in the face of—”

A pudgy money-changer stepped boldly forward. “Unfavorable environmental and circumstantial factors, Sire?”

The king flung down his scepter, sending it clattering beneath the throne. “Of course not, you bureaucratic twit! I’m trying to sound regal, for heaven’s sake! Where’s my Wandering Bard?”

A bird-like man in frilly pantaloons leaped out from behind a washer-woman and strummed a chord on his lute. “At your service, Majesty,” he crooned, and performed an elaborate bow.

“Bard, play this girl a song telling her why she’s here. I’m fresh out of pontification.”

The bard nodded, tossed back his silky locks, and began to sing.

“O the lass born under the exploding star
Could not escape from the fiery war.
It found her and took her and buried her deep
In a sepulcher most uninviting.

“Hey nonny, hey nonny, hey nonny O.
Hey nonny, hey nonny nonny.

“Yes, she found herself trapped in a terrible place,
But she battled and fought to uncover her face.
Now she’s conquered the devils who locked her in chains
And leads us all back to salvation.

“Hey nonny, hey nonny, hey nonny O.
Hey nonny, hey nonny nonny.

“Hey nonny! O nonny! Hey nonny! Whoa nonny—”

“All right!” barked the king. “Enough with the nonnies!”

Deflated, the bard slunk back into the crowd.

The king turned once more to Evelyn. “You get the gist of it, then?” he asked.

“I believe so,” said Evelyn. “But I hardly think I deserve this—fine ceremony.”

The king swiped the air with his hand. “Nonsense. Your humility is charming, I assure you, but really beside the point. Let’s discuss your next quest.”

“My next what?”

“Silence!” shouted the king. He stiffened his posture and took hold of the lapels on his robe. “Henceforth,” he cried, “you are in search of a knight!”

“Really? What kind of knight?”

“Why, a gallant knight, naturally.”

“I see. But how shall I know if he’s gallant?”

The king grinned. “Sir Frederick!”

A suit of armor, formerly immobile, sprang suddenly to life. “Here, Your Grace!” cried a tinny voice within the helmet.

“Sir Frederick,” said the king. “Kindly lift your beaver.”

The suit stood motionless for a long moment. “Are you being fresh?” said the voice.

“Oh, God!” groaned the king. “Your mask, you idiot! That grill of metal covering your mug! Lift it up!”

The knight did so. A pasty moon face blinked in the glare. “That’s much better, Excellency. I owe you one.”

“Indeed. Sir Frederick, you will now demonstrate your gallantry for the benefit of the lady.”

The knight lumbered forward. His armor creaked and rattled. At length he positioned himself at the head of the serpent. Then he reached out his hand, clutched the sword by the hilt, and dislodged it with a sweeping flourish. Cotton stuffing flew everywhere.

“Your knight will arrive in the Temple of Athena!” cried Sir Frederick, the sword hoisted above his head. Then he lost his balance and toppled backwards with a thunderous crash.

As several maidens sprang cooing to the knight’s aid, the king continued. “In honor of your newest mission,” he said, “our troupe has arranged a pageant. Observe and be dazzled!” The king clapped his hands three times, and the whole company sprang into action.

Several actors in bear suits sprinted on from the wings and began dancing around a wizard holding a glowing glass sphere. The bard stood to one side, strumming his lute; he was accompanied by two jesters on glockenspiel and bells. As the music took hold of the crowd, a maypole rose up behind the throne, and a dozen maidens gathered eagerly around it. The knights in armor were content to wiggle about as best they could. Then a magician stepped forward and produced birds and colored scarves from his coat sleeves. Someone held up a ring of fire for others to dive through. The king himself hopped in place on the throne, utterly caught up in the excitement. Acrobats tumbled, tankards were raised, and greasy mutton bones sailed through the air.

“Remember the knight!” cried the delirious king. “And Godspeed!”