fantasy of perfect pitch...chapter 1

Chapter 1







The small red truck is still tiny when I spot it. I watch it turn onto our driveway and I raise my eyebrow. Then it goes under the cover of the thick forest that our driveway winds through, and I don’t see it again for another mile, when it reaches a break in the trees. Persephone hears the car, and pricks her pointy ears. I pet her furry head.

“Mommmmmmmmm,” I warble, and hop to my feet. My cat looks up lazily, but does not move as I skip through the front door and run into the kitchen.

“What?” she returns, glancing up at me. She crosses the hardwood floor, carrying a large plate of seasoned chicken. I watch her put the meat in the oven, and then she moves to the sink and scrubs her hands with apple-scented soap.

“There’s someone coming up our driveway.” I declare, as I plunk down on a bar stool. This observation might not be an odd thing for some people, but for us it is. As we live in ‘the middle of the boondocks’, as my mom likes to call it, it’s rare that any friends just stop by for a visit, or solicitors come and bang on our door.

Mom passes me on her way to the window. She squints down at the car that is now climbing the steep incline to our house, and then she turns and marches out of the room. I hop off my stool and follow as mom walks quickly to the door and out onto the porch.

The truck sputters a few times, and I smile. “Nice car.” I giggle, and run to the porch railing, crawl up it, and sit on the rail, where I have a better view of the scene before us.

Mom is frowning. She’s wearing one of the aprons her mom made for her, a red-edged, brightly striped one that reminds me of something a gypsy would wear. Her hands are on her hips, one of her fingers curled tightly around the apron string.

“Who is it?” I wonder out loud.

“It’s the visitor I told you about yesterday, remember?” mom looks at me and smiles.

“Nope, I forgot.” I say, and grin. There is a large bug crawling towards me on the railing. I poke it so it crawls over the edge.

Mom smiles again, but says nothing. We watch in silence until the truck crests the hill, sputters some more, and dies in the middle of the driveway, still at least fifty meters away.

I purse my lips to hide my smile as the driver attempts to start the truck two more times, finally succeeding on the third try. The truck then jolts forward some more, and the driver finally lets his truck rest in front of the garage. Without the roar of the man’s old beater, everything sounds especially quiet. I listen, but can hear no birds chirping. The archaic vehicle must’ve scared them all off.

We wait. I can see through the truck’s window that the driver is a man, not one I know. He is alone in the tiny vehicle, which is a good thing, because I doubt if his truck could’ve carried one more pound up our driveway. The man’s means of transportation is making quiet clanging noises, still protesting from its arduous task.

After what seems like quite some time, the man gets out. He looks to be in his early to mid twenties. I wouldn’t know-I haven’t seen many young men. He has an olive skin tone, and dark brown, almost black hair that curls loosely over the top of his forehead. The man’s eyebrows are straight and thick. Those same thick eyebrows pull together as the young man tries to shut his truck door softly, but it does not latch properly. He opens it again, and slams it shut with what looks like a lot of strength. The door closes with an unhealthy-sounding crash, a noise that sounds as if he has jolted several parts loose from underneath his hood. I would not be surprised.

“Hello,” mom says to the man.

The man advances to the porch. I notice he is dressed like a businessman, if one ‘off-duty’. This strikes me as slightly comical-this man and his truck could not be more different. The man wears a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, slacks and dress shoes. What’s the occasion? Surely we’re not worth all this finery.

“Good afternoon.” He says, climbing the three stone steps. “Are you Mrs. Lansing?” His voice is musical and I am enthralled with it immediately.

“I am,” she answers, and steps forward to shake the man’s hand. “You must be Mr. Starker.”

He nods in assent and mom begins to question him about who knows what; I quickly tune them out, because I know mom can ask questions for a very long time. I look down at the railing I’m sitting on and hum a peaceful tune I had heard on the classical radio station, thinking it sounds better in the key of A than in the key of E.

The bug has crawled back onto the railing. He is kind of cute, in his own way, and is crawling like he’s in a hurry to get somewhere. Where could a bug want to go? I pick it up, still humming, and, instead of crawling away like I expect it to, the bug folds up its legs and sits down on my hand.

At first I think it’s playing dead and I stop singing so I can watch it closer. The minute I quit humming, the bug rises to its little feet and tries to hurry off my hand.

I conclude that this bug isn’t the smartest-it didn’t play dead for more than a few seconds, and if I was a predator, I wouldn’t have had time to get bored with it and leave.

Bringing my hand level with the railing to let him crawl off my hand, I begin humming again and glance in mom and Mr. Starker’s direction. They are still talking about dad’s work.

Looking down at the bug, I notice that he has sat down again on my hand. I frown. A very odd bug. I push him off onto the railing just as mom says my name.

“Elle, this is Julian Starker, and he’ll be here for a while.”

I look up at the man shyly. “Hi…” I say quietly, and jump down from the railing.

“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” He says, smiling at me. His eyes, I notice look kind of like mine. Gold, with green flecks. No purple, though.

I say nothing, but smile timidly instead.

“Well, I don’t mean to sound rude, but how old are you? And are you quite sure it must be this way?”

“With Bartholomew Stedge around, yes, it is necessary. And I can assure you,” he says, with an odd little smirk, “I am plenty old enough.”

“Well…I was expecting someone more…well…knowledgeable?”

“Mr. Gulthador taught me all I need to know. And then some.”

“We can’t wait, can we?” Mom seems to be hedging. Around what, I can only guess at.

Julian shakes his head. “Today’s her tenth birthday. This is when it will start. Have you noticed anything yet?”

I am tired of being left in the dark. Before mom can say anything, I cross to her side and look up into her face. “Wait for what?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

Mom smiles tightly. “For now, let’s welcome our guest. We’ll talk about it at dinner when dad’s home.”





I stab my asparagus and inspect it closely. It looks kind of like a tree…I bite off the ‘stump’ end and stick it vertical down on my plate, then do that to the next one, and the next, creating a forest on my plate.

“Elle,” mom says, raising her eyebrows and smiling, “as people say, no playing in your food.” I can tell she doesn’t mind terribly, but I stop.

Mom turns to look at Julian, who has been rather quiet since dinner began. “So,” she says, “Do you want to tell Elle why you’re here, or should I?”

Julian finishes chewing his mouthful of quinoa, takes a drink of water, and replies, “I can, if you want.”

Mom nods, and I look expectantly at Julian. He leans back in his chair, as though he’s going to be here a while, and begins to speak.

“Well. I was sent here by Hiram Gulthador, my…boss, you might call it, to teach you.”

Was something wrong with the way mom was teaching me? Was her form of homeschooling not good enough for the school district?

I say nothing, but eye him suspiciously.

“I’m not here to teach you mathematics or history. Your mom knows far more about that than I ever will. But today is your tenth birthday, and today is when things can start to get…dangerous for you and those around you. You don’t seem like the type of girl who would go around destroying everything she could find when she found out about her power. But simply not knowing how to use your powers can be extremely dangerous. And yes, you do have powers. Many. Many more, I presume, than anyone I know or ever will know. I am here to help you discover them all, and to help you control them, and use them wisely.”

I stare, but am not quite sure I have heard all that he has said. Julian has not spoken so much all evening, and I am not so much listening to what he’s saying as to the sounds his vocal chords can make. His voice, when used for a long amount of time, seems to center around the note D. As always when I meet new people, I am focused on the way their voice sounds. Many people’s voices are toneless, but Julian is one of the rare people who has a voice that I could probably listen to for hours on end and not get bored of it, because of the melodies it makes. Odd, I know. Not that I think other people’s voices are painful to listen to-not in the slightest. But they are ordinary, and Julian’s voice is anything but that. I wonder about this.

But then he stops speaking and I am able to concentrate on his words rather than his voice. And I understand what he said. I have powers? What is he talking about? What kind of a voodoo king is this?

“Elle, sing me a D, please.” He says, and I do it automatically. I find it fitting that D is the first note on his mind-it’s the first one in his voice.

For a moment, Julian looks stunned, incredulous. Then he blinks and smiles, and it is almost as though he never looked that way at all. Was I imagining it?

“Yes-perfect pitch.” He affirms, and I realize that he too must have perfect pitch, to be able to tell that my D was really a D, and not an E or even a B or some other obscure note that my brain would spit out my mouth.

I expect him to say something more, to explain the reason for all of this. But he says nothing, just finishes eating his chicken.

Mom stands up and begins clearing the table. Dad must take this as a cue that dinner is over, for he too stands up, and turns to Julian.

“Are your bags still in the car, then? We can get them and then I’ll show you to your room.”

Julian pushes back his chair and says, “I can get them, thanks.” Then he turns to me. “I’ll tell you everything else tomorrow morning.” Then to my mom he says “Is ten o’clock all right for her first lesson?”

“Just fine,” replies mom over the percussive clank of dishes.

Julian and dad leave the dining room, and I stand slowly. I have powers? Feeling foolish, I raise my finger and point it at my plate.

“Hocus pocus,” I mutter, and wave my finger around. Nothing happens, as I knew it would not. Ah well. My curiosity will have to wait until tomorrow.