The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason

Author:Daniel Mason
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781400077717
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 2003-11-12T16:00:00+00:00

And now only trajectory, falling. A crack of wood on bone and a spray of spit and then a bending, slipping, slowed by boots in metal stirrups, fingers still in reins, releasing, down, now the crash of the bushes, the body against the ground. Later he will wonder how long he is unconscious, he will try to recollect memories but cannot, for only movement seems to matter, not only his but others’, the descent of the men from the trees, the glinting arch of cutlasses, the sweep of shotgun barrels, the bolting of ponies. So that when he stands again in the crushed branches, he sees a scene that could have composed itself in seconds or, if measured by heartbeats or breaths, much longer.

They are still on the pony. She holds the shotgun and the boy a sword, high above his head. They both face a band of four, three with knives drawn, flanking a tall man with his arm extended, a fist, a pistol. The weapons glint as the men crouch and dance, it is so dark that the glinting is the only clue that tells him they are moving. And for this moment, they are all still, they bob only slightly, perhaps this movement is just from the deep breaths of their exertion.

The blades float imperceptibly, winking like starlight, and then a snap, and with a flash of light they move again, it is dark, but somehow he can see the tall man’s finger tense, and she must see it too, for she fires the shotgun first, and the tall man shouts and grabs his hand, the pistol is thrown across the forest floor, the others spring on the pony, grab the shotgun barrel before she can discharge the other chamber, pull her, and she doesn’t scream, all he hears is a small cry of surprise as she hits the ground, one man whips the shotgun from her hands and points it toward the boy, now the other two are on top of her, one grabs her wrists, the other tears at her hta main, she cries out now, he sees a flash of her thigh pale in the thin light, he sees that the flower has fallen from her hair, he sees its petals and sepals and stamens still dusted with pollen, later he will wonder if this was but his imagination, it is too dark. But he doesn’t think now, he is moving, he springs out of the brambles, toward the flower, and the fallen pistol which lies beside it.

It is not until he raises his hand, shaking, saying let her go let her go let her go, that he thinks he has never fired a gun.

Freeze, and now it is his finger that flickers.

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