Literary Corner

Mackerel clouds covered the last vestiges of sun as I turned onto the unpaved track beyond Purcellville. More desolate than I remembered, its deep ruts canceled the option to turn around. Then, with a lurch, a shimmy, and the sickening crunch of tailpipe against boulder, my car bottomed out.

Goaded by fear, I revved the engine and stomped on the accelerator. The tires spiraled deeper into the gravel and the undercarriage lifted off at jet speed. We ricocheted from side to side for several yards until, just short of the drainage ditch, we settled onto a smoother stretch of road.

The trees were bending and bobbing. Lightening zigzagged from cloud to ground. Although the rain had not yet begun, I decided to turn back to escape the storm and meet Burke.

But my good intentions dissolved at the next clearing. I was transported back two centuries, so quaint was the low building hidden behind a tangle of boxwood and ivy. Its simple masonry and the inscription ? Short Hills Meetinghouse ? carved on a weathered stone post confirmed that this was the church founded by the Davis family.

Beyond the gravel trace circling the building, the road ambled northward alongside a fallow field. Mindful of the approaching rain, I drew near the building, cut the engine, and got out to assess my options. The windows set behind deep stone stills were
thickly veiled with spider webs. An open padlock dangled against the handle of the wooden door signaling that someone recently crossed the threshold.

The moment I shoved open the door a mournful cry reached my ears. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw flagstones, rudely set, leading into an austere chamber that was bare save for several rows of rustic benches. A man sat at the end of one, his back to me, and as the eerie moan developed into discernible notes, I realized that he was creating the curious sound on a violin.

He studied an instrumental score propped on a wire music stand and illuminated by a clip-on lamp. Intent on perfecting a spooky set of triplets, he repeated the measures time and again with such chilling inflection that I half expected a squadron of ghosts to float down from the rafters. Minutes passed before he laid his bow across the bench and expelled a sigh.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me…”

I caught the trace of a foreign accent as he leaped up and demanded, “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m studying Early American architecture. The door was unlocked, so I decided to take a look inside.” The lie slipped through my lips as easily as if it were programmed by invisible caretakers.

Middle-aged, of average stature, swarthy complexion, and unremarkable features, the man struggled with civility as he pondered my remark. “Architecture, is it?”

“The building caught my eye. It must be very historic.”

His eyes narrowed. “Caught your eye? It’s a long way from the main road to catch someone’s eye. Are you sure you weren’t sent?”

Employing all the caution I could muster, I said, “Actually, I’m a real estate agent and I’ve lost my way trying to find a house near here that I sold recently to a Mr. Elmont. It fascinated me when I went through it with the buyer, but at the time I was
concentrating on making the sale instead of jotting down its historical features.”

The man peered at me hard over his reading glasses. “Then you’ve taken the wrong turn.”
I threw up my hands in mock desperation. “I found that out in a hurry. These unpaved back roads are really confusing. Treacherous, too.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “I may know the house you mean. Take the road that runs behind this building. When it meets Short Hill Mountain Road, turn right. About a kilometer farther, you’ll see the house. It sits back from the road.”

“I’m so grateful. But before I go, what do you know about the history of this building?”

“Nothing.” He seemed more annoyed than suspicious.

I persisted. “Then how is it being used today?”

“It’s not.”

“But you’re here…”

“I’m practicing for a concert, madam. This is an abandoned building. It gives me the privacy I need and keeps people from bother me. I found it, I’m not damaging it, and I’d like to get back to work.”

“I see. Well, thank you again for the directions and good luck with your…music.”
He snorted, turned his back on me, and started to sit down.

Determined to stall until I could sort out the situation, I continued babbling. “I know a little bit about music, but I don’t recognize the piece you were playing.”

His head swiveled back in my direction. “Don’t you?”

“I’m usually pretty good at identifying composers, but this is out of my repertoire.”

“That’s not surprising. It’s from an obscure German opera.”

“Fascinating! Who’s the composer?”

He flicked back to the cover sheet and adjusted his glasses to read the small print. “Name of Heinrich Marschner.”

“It’s rather weird, don’t you agree?”

“It’s also very difficult. Now I must get back to work. I’ve a concert coming up.”
I brightened. “So you’re a professional musician?”

Hurriedly, he said, “Oh, no. I just dabble, mostly in local community orchestras.”
“Really? Which ones?”

“Uh, Fairfax, Arlington, Loudoun…”

“You’re wonderful to keep at your hobby so faithfully. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Thanks again.”

Relieved to be walking away from a potentially ugly situation, I turned toward the door and discovered that the storm was already underway. The thick stone construction had dulled the sound of rain hitting the roof. Sheets of water now separated me from my car.

Already the man had returned to his task, and as he sawed away at a score that conjured up tales of the macabre, I settled myself on a back bench. Before the rain subsided, I traveled on wings of devilish sounds and discordant passages devoid of
melody and rife with hints of death and destruction.

© 2007 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at ecary@chesapeakestyle.com