Music of the Runes--MG Mystery Feb 7, 2019 12:51:23 GMT -5
Post by austen on Feb 7, 2019 12:51:23 GMT -5
Sam ignored the guy in the fedora pacing in front of his parents’ instrument booth. If he was looking for an Indiana Jones convention, he was way off. Like by 400 years.
Inside the auditorium people buzzed with excitement, plucking lutes and mandolins and blowing on recorders like they’d traveled back in time to a medieval Disneyland. The Handmade Instrument Festival was his parent’s other child. They’d been carving instruments no one ever heard of all year. At the moment, they were showing them off at some period concert.
The guy in the fedora was probably like the others. He’d ask Sam a bunch of questions and never open his wallet. Sam shoved his ear buds in. Most kids would play a game or text a friend on their phone. Not Sam. He listened to a Gaelic app, straining to hear the words for “It’s raining in Scotland” over bites of corn nuts.
“Excuse me.” Fedora man leaned on the table.
He pulled out his ear buds, waiting for a question about how a lute is carved or the dynamics of ancient music.
“You’re Ian’s son.”
Sam nearly choked on a barbecue-flavored corn nut. This guy knew Sam’s dad, which was weird enough. But he was too old to be Dad’s student. Not to mention he spoke with a Scottish accent. Dad’s voice had the same lilt, but it was eerie hearing it from someone else.
“Aye, you look like him.” Fedora man fingered a lute and a couple other instruments Sam didn’t know.
“You know my dad?”
“Let’s say I’m an old pal.”
Yeah, right. Dad never mentioned any old friends. Besides, he would’ve mentioned someone who fancied himself Indiana Jones.
The stranger pushed aside some bagpipes and set his briefcase on the table. It clicked open. More proof he wasn’t local. In Portland, most people didn’t wear fedoras or bomber jackets or carry briefcases—they lugged backpacks to work as if they were scaling Mt. Hood.
The man laid a box the size of a laptop next to a lute on the table. It smelled musty and ancient. Like the shadow boxes Mom used to display medieval music, a glass panel covered the top.
It took all Sam’s strength not to touch the glass. Yellowed paper lay inside the box, and the edges were torn like a pirate’s map. Staff lines crossed the page. It had no time signature, something his parents always examined when they discovered old music. Underneath the staff, or lines of music, were symbols. Another language.
No one under forty got it. To Sam, each language he learned was like a rare coin added to his collection. At school, they made fun of his language obsession. But Scotland would be different. It had to be.
“I know your dad is quite good—” The man wiped his brow. Rain pelted the auditorium windows. “I need his help.”