Border music

Lately I go walking at night, to greet those who might come to the limits of our settlement. Unlike the wooded area and the field, not many have been coming through here, but the sound is changing, in the fog beyond the copses, and soon we will have a lot of tea to make.

 It sounds like music, Eugene told me, the first time I came out here. In that moment, I couldn’t understand what he meant. There was just us and the sound of a breeze and the bell, miles away, of the little shop door as it opened and closed.

Listen, he said, holding my arm quite suddenly. Stay completely still.

I listened and at first I could hear nothing but Eugene’s breath and the shifting of our outdoor clothes. He was right of course, as I stood there with him that cold night, we barely breathed, and in came the sound, like a dawning.

Dazzling music rushed in, complex structures in high strings, carried on a foam of soft organs and pipes. After a few moments - it could have been ten minutes easily - I found the courage to move.

I looked up at Eugene. You see, music! He said. I could not respond because I found it painful to break the sound of the music.

Eugene and I haven’t seen much of each other since that night, but I am here often. More and more these nights have become a routine for me. It is too quiet in my dwelling, under my soundless thin sheets. Drinking my tired malted water. I find I must exhaust myself with walking and listening to the music, which has grown louder and more urgent of late. In fact I can hear voices. Singing in the invisible language of souls in the mist, finding their way to us.