He had never been formally educated on percussion instruments, but found himself immediately attracted to the bongos. The base was made of a light colored wood that was rough to the touch: it hurt to draw his hands up the sides. But it was the smooth, ivory tops that made the drums a delight to play. It was the skin of something young, something pure. For preservation purposes, he only withdrew them from his closet once a year -to prepare for the annual festival. Yves was always forced to beat out notably ornate rhythms when his family would gather about and celebrate "Vernal Cessation", their homespun idiom for summer solstice.
It had begun five generations before when men from a neighboring county placed twelve goats against that year's entire wheat crop that Yves's ancestors-all farmers--could not gather enough visitors to their village to slaughter five pigs for a meal. Having competitiveness in their blood, they naturally did what any men would do in that situation: they called upon all their existing family to join them in a huge feast. Now, because the family was Catholic and generally disapproved of betting and gambling, they were told that the feast was a celebration of the ending of spring and the beginning of summer, the most radiant time of the year. During that first celebration, each of the men performed a special talent to demonstrate the superiority of their blood. As the legend goes, one man was able to grind stones into flour and used it to make loaves for years to come. Vernal Cessation therefore became a family tradition, transformed, though it were, with each passing year.
Traditionally, the feast began at midnight on June 20th and lasted until sunrise of the 21st. In those last few years, the guests totaled around twenty to thirty, an all-time low. The family had branched out so expansively that only a few sectors kept in touch with Yves and his parents. There were always a few Aunts and Uncles who would travel up to three hundred miles to get there, but Yves's favorite guests were grandma Bethany and grandpa Erik, who would come each year bearing golden Christmas balls with which they would decorate the house. There would be hundreds of them, hanging from the ceiling or placed gently into baskets. Erik said they resembled the "mighty sun, ruler of the summer kingdom". Aside from the hearty dining and socializing, everyone was required to perform an artistic talent sometime during the night. Yves's mother, Annelyse, declared that tradition as the cause of the loss of guests.
"Well, how else are we gonna make this holiday any different from Easter?" Erik asked. He was the most adamant supporter of the tradition, and the reason for its continuation. Annelyse rolled her eyes. "Less bunnies."
On the night of the final Vernal Cessation that was ever celebrated, Yves stood about the table and picked at the delectable foods. Corn, lobster, truffles, something that resembled beef stew but didn't quite make it. He wasn't all that hungry, but felt idiotic just standing in the dining area staring at people. When the food became less interesting, however, he observed his mother scuttling about in the kitchen.
"Momma, I'm nervous about playing tonight." He went in and began helping her load rolls into a wicker breadbasket. "I mean, I haven't practiced in a while and you know, I don't wanna disappoint grandpa or anything."
"Oh, sweetie, you'll do just fine." She lovingly rubbed his shaggy, dark hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I have to sing tonight." She bent down so that her eyes were level with his. "And don't say anything," she whispered, "but your cousin Jeremy's whisky practically destroyed my vocal chords." She winked at him and let out a fake cough.
Yves smiled and said, "I wish I could somehow destroy my hands for the night. You know, it wouldn't be that bad if I didn't have to play all by myself."
In the adjacent room, with a sly smile on face, sat Erik. Aside from his thinning, white hair, he showed few signs of tremendous aging. He had no hunch in his posture and because of his love for German sausages was by no means frail or brittle.
As though he had overheard the conversation in the kitchen, he beckoned Yves to take a seat across from him.
"Hey there, boy, I got an idea. You beat your drums, there, while I do my poetry." Erik sat in a large, wicker armchair, puffing away on his pipe. He smiled and nodded his head a few times and his face was shiny with sweat, as he tapped his foot slightly to the sound of the grandfather clock. "Huh, boy? Don't that sound like somethin' good?" Erik always tried to make his narrative poetry the highlight of everyone's evening. He wrote amateur scribbles about war, human ignorance, and boys becoming men. But his work was always original. He felt that performing an unoriginal work was "an insulting imposition upon another man's genius."
"Is it good this year, grandpa? Is the poem good?"
Erik leaned forward in his seat. "This is one of the best, I think."
"And the ending, is it happy? I like it when there's blood and guts, and all that gross stuff, but then everything's okay in the end."
"You promise you won't tell anyone?"
"Yeah."
"It's a nice ending. Our secret." He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes meditatively. "So what do say boy? Be my back-up band?"
Yves smiled and the two reached out to shake hands.
Around one-thirty a.m., Yves sat on wooden bench in the darkness of the living room and began to play a soft, steady rhythm, caressing the silky surface as Erik cleared his throat to begin. He stood completely erect, arms raised high in the air, eyes closed, breathing deeply. From behind him, warmth flowed from the hearth and the bittersweet scent of wood burning circulated around the room. The fire provided the little light that was in the room and it bounced off the golden decorations. Bu m, pa, pa, pum. Bum, pa, pa, pum. Bum, pa, pa, pum. Minutes passed and the audience waited in tense anticipation. Erik remained completely still and in position when he muttered softly, between several breaths,
"Yves? Turn on the light there, boy. I wanna start this thing the right way."
Yves stopped drumming and sat in awe, examining the way the old man stood. He looked as if he was in deep meditation, his head lolling back and forth slowly on his neck. His breathing was quite slow and audible , and beads of sweat continued to pour down his forehead despite the coolness of the room. Yves shifted a bit in his seat in an attempt to check the temperature of the room.
"Well? I said, go on, boy, go. We ain't gonna", Erik's voice trailed off and mixed with the thickness of his breathing.
"Yes, sir." Yves stood u p quickly and made his way towards a lamp on the side of the room. As soon as he pulled the cord, Erik's arms fell to his sides and he appeared to regain lost consciousness.
"Alright," he said with an edge in his voice. He walked over to a plush maroon ottoman where one of the golden Christmas balls had been placed. Removing a white handkerchief from his pocket, he directed his wife to place the ornament on the floor before him.
The guests had created a "U" formation around Erik, who stood very near to a Steinway & Sons upright placed against the wall near the fireplace. People began clearing their throats, whispering to one another, and quietly chortling as they watched the old man.
"Wonder what he's got up that aging sleeve-a-his this year, eh?"
"...gonna set somethin' on fire again, y'think..."
"...don't like the looks of..."
Erik approached the Christmas ball cautiously, as though he were hunting for rabbits, the floor creaking slightly with each tip-toed step. He proceeded to open the handkerchief and place it gently on top of the shimmering ornament.
"Erik, is this gonna be one of them riddles of yours?" Bethany looked up from her needlepoint, a baffled look on her face.
"I'll give you a hint. Remember that Jewish weddin' we saw?" Bethany tilted her head back and let out a cackling laugh. "Aren't any Jews here, love."
"See now, at the weddins," he explained, "they put a glass under a piece of cloth and then the bride and groom smash it with their feet. They say that until the glass puts itself back together again, that's how long their marriage will last. So, who wants to do the honors?"
As was customary, no one wanted to challenge Erik at his own game and he knew it. In World War One they had called him "The Juggernaut" and his reputation within his family was no different.
"Okay," he nodded and his eyes sparkled excitedly. "This one's for the tradition then!" He lifted up his foot and slammed it down against the globe, which crashed into dust. "Damn right! That, ladies and gents' is when the traditions are gonna end, when that ornament puts itself back together again!" That comment stirred several cheers and laughs from the guests, some of whom just rolled their eyes at Erik's sudden silliness. All reacted but Yves, who had been slightly listening. He concentrated more intently upon deciphering the sudden change in Erik's composure, from a panting, weariness, to a loud, energetic bolt. But Yves was sitting slightly nearer to him than the rest and noticed the flushed look of his face and the delicate waver of his ever-trembling hands. If Yves knew anything of his grandfather, it was that he was a great actor.
"Okay, this here's the debut of my newest, uh, masterpiece, if you will, and it's called "Irish Boy". So, Yves, if you'd, uh, get the lamp there, I'd like to now begin.
"There was once a little Irish boy
Who lived in a slum near Dublin
Every evening he would dance until dusk
And every morning he would sleep, sleep, sleep
"His father was drunker than a Russian
His mother, a decrepit old spinster
Together they would beat him till his chores were done
And then they would sleep, sleep, sleep
"Until one day when the rains came down
So hard they were that they uprooted the weeds
And the Irish boy had a vision
A woman wrapped in gold, and a naked leper"
Erik began to dance in a unique mock-Irish fash ion. He kicked his legs out in front of himself and moved his arms in slow crossing motions at his chest, back and forth. His face was pointed towards the ceiling and his words became increasingly louder with each stanza.
Yves continued to beat the drum, louder and louder so to preserve the balance of sound between the rhythm and the words. Bum-pa-pa-pum. Bum-pa-pa-pum. Pa-rum-ba-ba-ba. His hands stung and his fingertips were pink and tender.
"They led him across the land
Over the roaring sea
Until he forgot about Dublin
And he forgot about dancing till dusk
"They told him of his purpose
And the woman gave him faith
But the leper gave him dignity
The leper gave him trust and family
"And they were happy
And, yes, they were beautiful
Uninterrupted by the cadence of life
Connected in the rhythms of time"
Erik danced in creasingly faster, making each movement more graceful than the last, craving the beating of the drum. Bum pa pa pum. Di-da-dum-paaa-paaa. Yves looked small, almost peaked behind Erik, but he shut his eyes and smiled as he tapped, not hearing the sounds enveloping him, but rather, feeling them. And they flowed through the room like electricity.
With the next stanza, Erik suddenly quieted himself, poetically hinting oncoming doom. Joy ceased from his face. The drums b eat slowly and the grandfather clock ticked its own beat as Erik continued to skip in place.
"Then one day the oceans felt hunger
Beginning deep, rumbling within
And then rising to the heavens
To beg for peace in its choppy waters
The sounds began to rise as if they were those waters. The drums. Fast. Erik's feet, lifting and crashing. The clock. Constant. Everyone's breathe. Heavy, intriguingly audible. Bum-pa-pa- pa-pum. Bum-pa-pa-pa-pum. Yves examined Erik's face closely. It was blood red and beads of sweat flowed down like rivers, his wrinkles like ravines.
"The oceans saw the leper
The oceans saw the boy
And envy made them tear the land
Rushing, roaring to steal their love"
Each word was thick and heavy, impassioned. Erik's voice ground through the air like stones crushing seeds. Louder. Faster. The presentation was no longer a poem, but more a rhythmic story. It, too, was choppy in nature. Broken to pieces, yet so very sure of itself.
"The leper warned his boy
'You must leave us now
They want your heart'
They embraced and whispered farewell
"And the boy ran
Through the twine
Through the forest and mines
Through the ivy and weeds
"So fast and so frightened
Wishing for a pair of wings
Breathing, nearly choking
Wary of the ravaging jaws
"His legs began to crumble to dust
His mind became numb and severed
His voice muted, eyes blinded, ears deafened
As he ran and ran and ran
"But the waves ran too
Bigger and bigger and bigger
Crunching away at the earth
Roaring like hungry dragons"
Erik began shouting. He violently punched and clawed at the air in front of him as if he were fighting it, searching it for something it had stolen from him. Leaping and gasping. Faster and faster. BUMpapapum. DrrrrumpaPA.
"Constantly coming
Faster and faster and faster
So close that he could feel its bubbling strength
Taste its bitter resolve"
He titled his head back and raised his thrashing arms up. Every beat, every whisper, the sound from every movement rose and merged to create a deafening roar heard only by Erik and Yves. Shouting louder. Beating faster.
"And he ran!
Choking, blind, and dumb
Consumed by the pain
Unable to feel his own heartbeat
"AND ... HE .... RAN!!!"
Yves dropped the bongos.
They tumbled to the floor, completing one and one half rotations until the wood base cracked on the cold, slate floor.
Bethany let out a shrill scream and lunged forward out of her seat. Crimson blood leaked through her sweater on her forearm and her embroidery needle hung limply from the wound. She didn't notice it.
Erik fell forward, groping meekly at his chest. His face turned scarlet as he let out a few shrill, desperate cries to his audience, staring blankly at the mantle, yet not seeing it at all. He began to reach out to Yves, but his legs trembled like gelatin beneath him and in those few short moments before he collapsed to the floor, he looked older than he ever had before, fragile, like a naked leper.
An unsteady hand tentatively touched Erik's chest. It searched for a beat underneath the thin, flannel shirt, but felt nothing. "He's gone."
The second hand twitched on the grandfather clock before another trembling hand reached inside and steadied the pendulum.
For an immeasurable period, silence consumed them. The continuous rhythm of time seemed broken and crumbling.
And then Bethany began to tremble. She lay down next to Erik and rocked his body, back and forth, her sobs straining through the air. "Why God? Why? I didn't do nothin' to you," she whispered. Her long, gray hair stuck to the tears on her face. "Why, then, have you done this to me?"
Yves shrunk in his olive-colored T-shirt. His voice became slightly audible in the darkness. "I'm sorry, Bethany." His lips barely moved and he sounded as if something were attempting to pull his voice right out of his throat with a long cord, making him inept, mute. He struggled against it. "It's my fault. I must've beat too hard -- I mean ...no ... I mean his heart...his heart must've beat too hard."
"Oh, Yves, honey it's not your fault. It's no one's fault. These things just happen." Annelyse spoke through her astonishment, still trying to absorb what had just happened.
Bethany peered up at Yves, with a stern look of acknowledgement etched into her face.
"You did this, didn't you? You did this!" She pointed a jerking finger at Yves and proceeded to stand up and walk towards him. "You knew he had those problems and you still beat that goddamn drum like it was a medicine, you still made him go on, and he, you made it too fast, damn it!"
As she approached him, Yves stood up and shied away towards the corner.
"No, no. I couldn't help it. I know I couldn't." He huddled there, in a shadow, whispering his words while trying to deny everything he had seen, everything he had felt, everything he had heard.
"You beat it faster and faster, too much, and you pushed him. Damn you, Yves! YOU did this! YOU DID THIS!!" She lunged at him, scream ing in his face, eyes wide, tears ripping down her cheeks.
Annelyse quickly grabbed her , screaming and kicking, by the shoulders, pulling her away from Yves.
"How dare you blame my little boy?! He didn't do nothin'! It was a heart attack, an accident. We all saw it! Yves didn't even ... he didn't even touch him!" She spoke forcefully, but with a degree of calmness and control. As Bethany struggled in her arms, however, the old woman accidentally stepped on the remains of the bongos, grinding them down even further until she, too, collapsed.
Amidst all of this, Yves had glided slowly from the corner of the living room to the front door. He paused for a second, doing an inventory of the events that had occurred, and then slipped out into the darkness of early morning. The lights had been turned on in the house so that proper telephone calls could be made. Through the windows, Yves could see the commotion. Everyone huddled around the body, Annelyse holding onto Bethany as they sobbed together.
Yves reminisced about past summer solstices. One year, Erik had tried to build a fire from fresh roses. Of course it didn't work, but it was the wonder of his performance that made everyone dream about it.
Yves looked on into the night. There was a road to the north that was outlined by Norway spruces. Beyond that, all was invisible in the darkness. He took a few cautious steps ahead, and then realized, quick as the tide rises during a storm, what had happened because of the drums. Choking, blind, and dumb, consumed by the pain, unable to feel his own heartbeat, he ran.
Bio:E. K. Reid lives in Maine with her husband and 5-year-old son. She attended Boston University for a degree in the liberal arts and is now attending law school. Writing has been one of her hobbies since she was a teenager on the high school newspaper staff.
E-mail: elmoly@aol.com
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