Tree Symphony Read online

  Tree Symphony

  A novelette by

  Gina Marie Wylie

  Copyright © 2008, 2013 Gina Marie Wylie

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1482520729

  ISBN-13: 978-1482520729

  Dedicated to youth symphonies everywhere and the volunteers who support them and the young people who combine together to make such beautiful sounds.

  I

  Since I was little I would lay awake at night, listening to the trees and the wind outside my bedroom. I listened to their voices, and those voices spoke to me, telling me things no one else could hear.

  I wrote much of what I heard from the trees and the wind in my diary. Their stories, their poetry, but above all I wrote about their music.

  My mom understood, at least a little, and didn’t make any fuss about a daughter who preferred to spend long hours alone in her room looking out the window or writing. I was tall, wore glasses and talked like I was ten years older than my classmates. At school I didn’t have friends -- there were just kids who teased me and kids who didn’t.

  As I grew older I was allowed to go by myself to the small patch of trees a block down the street from our house. I would sit leaning up against one or the other of the trees and read or just listen to the conversations going on around me.

  In Arizona there aren’t dense forests. The trees were mostly pines, cottonwoods and a few oaks that clustered along a stream running a few hundred yards from where a spring bubbled out of the ground and ran down to an irrigation ditch that connected to the other irrigation ditches that were everywhere in the city of Phoenix.

  It was a place where few of the other kids in the neighborhood went. Off in one corner was a small fenced yard. The area inside the fence was heavily overgrown with shrubs and all sorts of plants, a lot of them weeds. No one seemed to know for sure who lived there, but legend had it there was an old witch who chased kids who came to hurt the trees. The stories said that if she caught you, she did unspeakable things to you. Except it was just stories; I never saw anyone.

  Instead, I would sit listening to the trees and the wind. The trees in particular sang most all of the day and night. They sang sweet beautiful music, music that filled my heart with love and caring, tenderness and beauty. Other kids dreamed of knights and castles, jet planes or spaceships, dragons or fairies. Only a few read books with those things in them. I longed to be with the trees. I wanted simply that; I wanted to listen to their music.

  I would leave early for school, and I would stop by the trees and lean up against one or the other of the trees and spend time gaining strength from them, preparing myself for the day ahead. On the way home, I would tarry there for hours, until I was sure one of my parents was home. After dinner I would listen to the trees from my bedroom as I did my homework and read. And, of course, I wrote down the things the trees told me. That more than anything.

  My father was distant. He worked long hours for a company as their comptroller. I asked him once what that meant, and he’d said, “I’m in charge of the company checkbook.” That was something I could understand, although I wondered why Mom did the checkbook at home. My father was almost never home early in the evening or on Saturday mornings, and when he was home he spent most of his time in his office with the door closed, listening to his own music and doing I knew not what. He appeared at meals and at odd other times. He was always pleasant, but there were times I wasn’t sure if he was really my father or just someone staying with us.

  Mom never once complained, at least not in my hearing. She was there, always, when I needed her. I talked to her like she was the best friend I didn’t have at school, and she talked to me like I was her younger sister, not her daughter. Most of the times that I remember all three of us together, there was music playing in the background. Sometimes we did simple games, other times we just talked. It didn’t happen often, and as I grew older it happened less and less.

  In sixth grade, we were supposed to write a poem, and I turned in nearly two hundred lines of iambic pentameter, a tale of two weeping willows I’d written in my diary a year before. My teacher gave me a B, certain I’d copied it, but she didn’t know from where. I didn’t protest the grade; I knew the words I put on paper weren’t mine.

  At the start of seventh grade I was told I had to learn to play a musical instrument and was handed a flute. I took it home and blew on it a few times. I could hear the trees wince in pain.

  My first instinct was to quit; except Mom made me listen to a tape of James Galway. I learned that trees had a sense of taste, even if they didn’t entirely like something. I stayed awake late that night, sitting cross-legged on my bed, intent on listening to those outside, trying to play something the trees would like with the flute I’d been given.

  I didn’t understand; it was very frustrating. The trees liked the flute played well, but not that much. I didn’t play the flute well at all. It seemed to me that what the trees were saying was that the high notes made them made them think of the wind blowing hard and fast. Wind blowing like that hurt trees; the trees preferred something lower.

  I told my mom I didn’t like the metal taste of the flute in my mouth, was there something else I could try?

  We spent an evening at a music store, listening to people blow on saxophones, clarinets, oboes, bassoons, French horns, English horns, trumpets, trombones, even a tuba. All kinds of things. Then, from the back of the store, I heard something I’d not heard before -- a low, melodious and very charming sound.

  I asked about the beautiful sound, and the slightly exasperated shopkeeper explained that several teachers used the store’s facilities to conduct classes, and that I was listening to a cello lesson. Wide-eyed, I went in back and watched a young woman not much older than me, who was creating those magnificent sounds.

  After the lesson the woman teacher saw my expression and grinned. “Would you like to try this?” She lofted the cello bow she held and I nodded. She showed me how to hold the cello and the bow. From the first time I ran the bow over the strings I never wanted to stop.

  I didn’t sound nearly as good as the other girl, but I kept trying to make the notes come out right. I experimented; trying over and over again to get one of the simple melodies the trees knew to sound the way they would like. It was very difficult, and I tried and tried, but there was always something wrong. I fought down my frustration; I tried counting to ten. Then to a hundred. I never stopped playing.

  I grew aware of the silence around me, and for the first time I looked up at the teacher and my mother. “This is very hard,” I told them, trying to sound like it was no big deal.

  “With practice,” the teacher said quietly, seriously, “you’ll be better.” Mom had a curious look on her face, one I didn’t understand. I happened to notice the clock; somehow I’d lost almost an hour. Had I played that long? It didn’t seem possible.

  The woman looked at Mom. “There are one or two teachers in the area better than I am. It is possible you could get your daughter signed up with one of them without any further work. Your daughter does need further work. Raw talent does not overcome the need for skills and knowledge. In six months she will have her pick of teachers. I would, though, be pleased, very pleased indeed, if I could be her teacher until then. My name is Sharon Walker.”

  Mom always spoke softly. “Kira’s school doesn’t have a string program. I asked. I played the violin when I was her age and had hopes of her doing the same. But everyone said it would be too difficult.”

  The teacher waved her hand, showing that Mom’s concerns weren’t a problem. “There is a city youth symphony; your daughter can play with them. I’ll see about an audition for her. They will probably take her in the beginning group, at least at first; it will be
very good for her. They meet to rehearse on Saturday mornings and will play two concerts at the Encanto Park band shell in the fall and spring, and another concert before Christmas, downtown in Symphony Hall.”

  I was a little surprised -- there was no talk from either of them about whether or not I could do it or if I should. It was as if the matter was decided already and out of my hands. Normally, Mom isn’t given to doing things without thinking them over ten different ways. This time, at least, I was glad when she agreed, because I really wanted to play the cello.

  That night in my room with my rented cello I played the melody I’d practiced at the store for the trees over and over, listening to their comments on how it should sound. I experimented, changing this and that. Mom knocked on my door, finally.

  “Kira, dear.” I looked up when she poked her head in. I was still frustrated, wanting to get it right. “It’s after two. You need some sleep. I know it’s Saturday, but you still need to get up sometime this morning. Your dad and I wouldn’t mind a little sleep either.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” I told her. “Soon.”

  “Now, Kira.” She was firm, my mother.

  I sighed and carefully put everything away. The trees murmured and sighed the rest of the night, nearly as eager as I was for me to learn more.

  I’m not stupid. I know people can’t hear trees. I hear them.

  I knew that if I told anyone, they would think I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy then and I’m not now. I wasn’t sure why I’d never thought about making music myself. The trees made music all the time and I knew people made music, too. It had never occurred to me that I could do the same thing. The thought filled my world -- could I really make something as magnificent as the music of the trees?

  II

  I practiced and practiced. My first lessons were spent with Mrs. Walker showing me how to bow and where my fingers had to go to make notes. I was insatiable. I wanted to know all of the notes; I wanted to know everything about the cello.

  From hindsight, I know this isn’t how most people learn, but at the time I didn’t suffer from hindsight -- just hunger. I dreamed music. The cello was the first thing I reached for in the morning and the last thing I put away before bed at night.

  At my third lesson an older man sat in the back of the room while I played for Mrs. Walker. He never uttered a word until we were finished.

  When we were done, the teacher nodded to him. “Kira, this is Jerry Gora.”

  Mr. Gora was my father’s age or a little older, with bushy brown hair, a hank of which hung over one of his eyes. He had a perpetual grin on his face.

  I nodded to him, trying to feel grown up. “How do you do, sir?” I asked and held out my hand to shake his.

  “Fine, thank you, young woman. Kira is it?” I nodded and he went on. “Sharon tells me you have been playing the cello for a few weeks now.” He had simply returned the handshake and then let my hand go. I felt very grown up.

  I nodded. “I’m not very good yet,” I told him, “but I practice a lot.”

  He smiled and nodded, “That’s how we improve. How much do you practice?”

  I blushed. “Four or five hours.”

  “A week?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “A day,” I admitted, my voice subdued.

  Mom wasn’t very happy about that, except my school grades had, if anything, improved. I knew if I didn’t do well in school, Mom or my father would tell me I had to concentrate on school; that there wasn’t time for distractions.

  Mr. Gora smiled slightly. “Let me see your hands.”

  I held them out, like when I was in third grade and the teacher was checking to see if we’d washed our hands before lunch. He ran his fingers lightly over my fingers and palm. “Tender?” he asked, feeling the new calluses.

  I shook my head. They weren’t tender any more. The first week I had the cello I’d had problems, but since then I’d been more careful.

  “Sharon tells me that you can play without music.”

  I looked at him carefully because I didn’t want anyone to think I was a freak. “I hear music in my head; I can’t explain it.” Not so as he’d understand anyway. “I try to play it on the cello. I can’t always.”

  “Would you play some of it for me?”

  I looked him in the eyes; they were gray-green and kindly. Interested. I decided that if he wanted to hear what I had to play, I’d play.

  I took a deep breath and set to the piece I’d been practicing in particular. It was the favorite of one of the older trees, and the tune, the tree had said, was one he’d heard a long time ago.

  I played for nearly ten minutes; neither Mrs. Walker or Mr. Gora spoke. “That was very good, Kira,” he said when I finished. “Could you play the part,” and he hummed a few bars, “that goes like that?”

  I did, until I saw him nod. “And how about this one,” he hummed a few notes again. I thought I knew what he wanted, one of my favorite parts and played it. “No,” he shook his head, “it goes on like this.” I knew what he meant and then played it.

  Mom returned from her trip to the grocery store a block away, and the man pressed a packet of paper on her. “I’m Jerry Gora. I’m the music director and conductor for the Phoenix Youth Symphony. I’d like it very much if Kira could play with us.”

  Mom nodded, unsure. “Kira practices a lot, but she just started.”

  Mr. Gora grinned. “Probably a bother,” he said mildly.

  Mom shrugged. “Sometimes she stays up very late. Even on school nights.”

  He spoke to Mom, but his eyes were on me. “Your daughter has a rare talent, Mrs. Kinkaid. If she plays with us, I’d expect she’d want to practice at least as much -- and maybe more.”

  I brightened. More?

  “School...” Mom asked, her hands fluttering helplessly.

  The conductor nodded. “Most music students of your daughter’s caliber do very, very well in school. I’d be surprised if Kira didn’t do at least outstanding work.”

  Mom bobbed her head, seemingly reassured.

  “And if that should change and you were to tell me, perhaps we could redirect some of her energy.” Mom nodded again. “Saturday, at one PM.” He gave us the name of the high school where they rehearsed. “Come and see me, a little before that.”

  On Saturday we arrived at the school a half hour early. Normally, Mom is one of those people who cut things very close; I was a little surprised we were so early. I had been worried. All week she’d been noncommittal on whether or not I could play with the youth symphony.

  Mr. Gora was very busy, surrounded by people asking questions, then who went and did things. Others seemed to hang on his every word. When he saw Mom, though, he stopped and walked up to us and held out his hand to shake hers. “Mrs. Kinkaid, I’m pleased to see you and Kira.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, waving helplessly. Mom isn’t the most outgoing person in the world; I knew she wanted to talk to him alone. I saw her jaw set when she realized no one was going to leave. “We’re not rich. The cello and Kira’s lessons... we don’t have much more.” She held up the forms she’d gotten at the lesson. “This is very expensive.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll make you a deal -- you don’t hassle Kira about practice hours, and we won’t worry about the fee. You can pay as much or as little as you want. Or nothing. Possibly we can do something about a better instrument for Kira as well. Something more affordable, at the same time.”

  Mom nodded. “I guess so, then.”

  “Kira,” he asked, “would you like to play with us?”

  I had no idea why they thought I might not. To me, any chance to play, to learn, seemed like a treasure beyond measure. I nodded eagerly.

  “Good! Come with me, Kira.” He smiled and led us down a hall, trailing his acolytes.

  He waved us into a large room. “This is where the intermediate group rehearses. Normally you’d start in the beginner’s group, but we’ll try the intermediate group for today. If you ar
e uncomfortable or don’t think you can handle it, let me know at the break.”

  He waved a young woman in her early twenties over. She was short and a little pudgy. She had gleaming black hair that fell nearly to her waist. She had amazingly large, warm brown eyes. “Kira, this is Rachael Morgenstern. Rachael was a musical prodigy, too.”

  The woman laughed; a bright, clear, wonderful sound.

  “Rachael is the Intermediate Orchestra Conductor.

  “I want you, Kira, to sit with Rachael’s group and see how well you can do. And, afterwards, please don’t leave right away. I want to have a couple of people come and listen to the piece you played for me the other day. A little jam session.” He smiled, but I had no idea what he was talking about. He talked privately to the woman conductor for a minute and then left. Mom hovered nervously, as the woman smiled at me.

  “Come sit here, Kira,” the woman told me, and led me to a chair in the front row. “I made a spot for you. Do you have a music stand?” I nodded. “Please, sit down and set up. I’ll just go and fetch the music we’re working on.”

  I took out the cello and worked on tuning like Mrs. Walker had shown me. When I finished I looked up. The conductor, Rachael, grinned. “At least you can tune! There are a few of the other strings I still have to help.”

  Again, I had no idea what she was talking about. The cello was supposed to produce notes that sounded like so, and when it sat for a while, they didn’t sound right. You twisted the little knobs until the notes from the strings sounded right. Rachael handed me a folder with my name on it and I opened it. There was all kinds of music inside.

  “Jerry tells me that you aren’t much of a sight reader, yet.” I nodded; I knew I wasn’t very good at reading music, but I was practicing that, too. “Just do your best. If you get lost, stop. You’ll get the hang of it pretty quick.”

  For some time I looked at each piece, trying to figure out what I knew and what I needed to learn. I needed to learn a lot, I realized. When I finally woke up to what was going around me, a young man was sitting next to me, tuning his cello. It didn’t sound good at all.