Hidden Threads

Cedar Grove was the kind of place where people lingered over morning coffee at Benny’s Diner and gathered on their porches long into the evening, so even though it was midnight, Gord McKenzie wasn’t all that surprised to hear the drawn-out notes of a fiddle drift over the lake. After all, he himself was here by the shore setting up his camera in the hopes of capturing the predicted aurora borealis.

There were no homes nearby or on the other side of the lake, so the thin crescent moon was the only light that might interfere with his shot. And hopefully, the same chill that made him pull up his collar and don his fingerless gloves would ensure the best conditions for the lights to reveal themselves. Gord laughed out loud as he realized his body was moving in synchronicity with the peaks and valleys of the music, which inexplicably now sounded as though it was coming from the woodland behind him.

Thin veils of white began to creep across the sky. Gord checked the camera and nodded in satisfaction at the streaks of green displayed on the screen. With a bit of luck, they would soon be strong enough to see with the naked eye. The music shifted again; it was nearer now, and damn, it sure was hypnotic. Gord would be the first to acknowledge he was by no means a music expert, but he’d never heard anything like this.

Glancing up, Gord was pleased to see the shimmer of green and purple. The music grew louder and faster, the sharp high notes stitching through the rumbling low ones. The phrase "a sound older than the mountains" flicked into Gord’s thoughts. Suddenly, as though at the flip of a switch, ribbons of light unfurled to create luminous, swaying curtains that seemed to end just short of the lake’s cold surface. Gord raised the camera and spent thirty glorious minutes capturing the borealis.

That weekend at Benny’s, all the talk was about the amazing fiddle music that had been featured on Friday’s late-night radio show.

“Just mesmerizing,” said Jenny, the kindergarten teacher. “Sounded more like it was recorded at a concert hall than at Cedar beach.”

“Sent in anonymously, player unknown,” nodded Cheryl, setting down the cutlery and complimentary glass of water. “Damn tunes were in my dreams all night long!”

“Good dreams I hope?”

“I... I think so…” She stood for a moment, lost in thought. “Anyway. What about you? Ready for your exhibition?”

“Don’t ask,” laughed Jenny. “It’s in a week, and I have a pile of drawings, but – there’s no... you know…” She cupped her hands and stared at them as if looking for answers.

“Right. You’ll be wanting wine then?”

“You bet!”

A short while later it had quietened down enough for Cheryl to pull up the stool behind the counter, slip off her shoes, and grab a coffee. She closed her eyes to repeat her attempt to remember her dreams from last night; of course, they had melted away when she woke, but they’d left her with a deep sense of knowing and importance. She just couldn’t remember what she had known and why it was important.

Cheryl opened her eyes, sensing a presence in front of her.

“Ah! Good evening, Jim—the usual?”

The old man slipped the knapsack off his shoulder and nodded. Cheryl poured his coffee and put in his order of steak and eggs. She knew better than to start a conversation with him just yet. Jim had only been in town a few weeks, and Cheryl didn’t know what he did or who he worked for, but every evening he was exhausted and ravenous.

Usually, by his second cup, Jim’s cheeks had turned from grey to verging on pink. But not tonight. Tonight, his shoulders remained slumped, and his gaze stayed down on the counter. Cheryl was itching to know his story, but beyond his name and that he always ordered the same meal every night, she knew nothing. She couldn’t even guess at his age. Today, she would have sworn he was in his eighties, and some days he could have passed as sixty; albeit a hard-life sixty. Cheryl scanned the tables to see if she was needed, then popped into the kitchen and returned with a large slice of hot apple pie. She held the plate out to Jim, who looked up at her in puzzlement.

“On the house,” she said. Jim stared at her, finally lifted his hand to take the plate, and nodded his thanks. The moment left Cheryl with a feeling of being trusted, as if a wild bird had chosen to feed from her open palm.

The following Saturday was the opening of Jenny’s Art Show. She toured the hall one final time with John, the gallery owner, checking that everything was in order. She had almost cancelled the show, out of respect for Gord’s family; Gord McKenzie, a local photographer, had gone missing at the beginning of the week. But John and others had urged her to stick to the plan. The community needed something to lift their spirits, and cancelling the show wouldn’t help any. Jenny checked her watch. Ten minutes until the doors opened.

“What if no one comes?”

“They will,” laughed John, “and they’ll be glad they did. I must admit I was nervous that you wouldn’t have enough material, but my god – this is –” he gestured towards the artwork, “stunning!”

John opened the doors, and the Cedar Grove locals began filing into the warmth. Jenny took a deep breath, picked up a glass of champagne, and grabbed a bunch of brochures to hand out. As she glanced at them, she felt reassured in her decision to have them reprinted with the new title she had chosen for her revamped exhibition: Hidden Threads.

The largest piece, her most recent, a bold watercolour, drew attention immediately. Jenny stood at the edge of the crowd, listening to the comments that were spoken mostly in whispers. The music Jenny had heard on the radio last week had played over and over in her head, and she’d been compelled to try and capture the source. Her mind had conjured the silhouette of a fiddle player high on the rocks above Cedar Lake. Curls of light streamed from the fiddler’s bow, seeming to billow softly before skewering the stars to the night sky.

The quiet chatter continued: “That’s it! The music. It made me want to sing and it made me want to cry.” “Haunting. Just haunting.” “Who is he? Do we know him?” “I hear it when I sleep.”

“Jenny, it’s amazing!” Cheryl hugged her friend. “You painted that in just one week?”

Jenny nodded and, taking Cheryl by the hand, led her over to a framed drawing. Cheryl stared in disbelief. Jenny had captured a moment at Benny’s Diner: Cheryl offering the plate of apple pie to old man Jim. The simple charcoal lines suggested a soft radiance in the eyes of the server, and intuitively captured her posture—the slight lean forward that also held back as though in fear of spooking a wild animal. Even more striking was the shadowy figure of the man, with only the side of his gaunt face and the hesitant, reaching hand illuminated.

Cheryl squeezed Jenny’s hand and was about to speak when she saw the detail of the old man’s knapsack. Sat there on the floor. By the bar stool. Of course. Of course. Every night. How had she not noticed? How had she not connected the dots? The violin case that was always strapped to Jim’s backpack!

“No. No way!” She turned to Jenny. “You think… it’s him?”

Jenny just smiled and led her to another picture. “I sketched this last year.”

Cheryl hadn’t seen the picture before, but she remembered the occasion. An October storm had uprooted a dozen old trees in the park, and the town council had agreed to have a Bonfire Event with the brush and branches that were left over once the townspeople had come with their chainsaws to gather firewood for the coming winter. There had been stalls with hot chocolate and pumpkin pies. Jenny’s drawing had captured the bonfire at its fullest height, and even in the shadows and half-light, it was easy to distinguish friends and neighbours: the Mayor, Frank from the radio station, the three Brilze brothers, and there – there at the edge of the crowd, a dark figure with a knapsack on his back and what could be a violin case in his hand.

Cheryl put her hand to her mouth. “That’s crazy! Is he in any of the others?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve put up some that could have him in – but I just sketch what I see – I don’t really analyze what I’m seeing as I draw it. Does that make sense? In fact, I’ve even found a drawing I did when I was twelve that’s of an old man playing a violin in a forest. Coincidence? Or what?”

“It’s something,” laughed Cheryl.

Jenny spent the next couple of hours being congratulated and watching sold stickers being placed alongside her pieces. The attendees' initial disappointment that Symphony Over Cedar Lake wasn’t for sale was tempered by the fact that it would be a permanent exhibit in the Gallery.

It was late, but there were still a few people milling around. John had said to go home when she was ready; he and the staff would tidy up in the morning. Jenny’s elation couldn’t stave off her exhaustion any longer. As she headed to get her coat, the front door opened, and a man entered.

“Oh – we’re just closing,” she called out.

The man walked over to the watercolour.

“Better late than never,” he said without turning to look at her.

Cheryl’s breath caught in her throat. It was him.

“Jim? Are you mad at me? I didn’t mean to offend you in any – ”

“You brought me into the light, Jennifer. We don’t like the light.”

His words sounded more like the echo of something spoken from far away. The phrase 'older than the mountains' slipped into Jennifer's thoughts. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with her coat buttons. She glanced back into the hall, but she would have to pass him to get there, so she opened the door and ran out into the night instead.

+ + +

The summer turned to fall, and finally, Cedar Grove’s new Arts Centre was completed. The town’s only art gallery had burned down five years previously and had never been rebuilt. It had been quite the scandal. A local schoolteacher, Jenny Reynolds, had disappeared the night of her highly successful Art Show. On the same night, the gallery had burned to the ground. The talk was that she had run off with Gord McKenzie, a married man with a newborn at home.

To celebrate the night of the Grand Opening, Frank from Grove Radio was going to bring along a special recording. He couldn’t wait to see everyone’s reaction. The original renowned recording had been stolen from the radio station a few years back, and since then, he’d spent two or three nights a week down by the lake every October, where Gord had told him he’d recorded the music. And finally, last week, he himself had heard and recorded it. And like last time, there was an accompanying, amazing display of the Northern Lights. And like last time, the sound seeped into his soul.

Frank drew up at the venue and began to take the equipment from the trunk.

“Here, let me help you.”

The words echoed strangely startling Frank for a moment.

"Oh. Okay. Thank you kind sir," he said, as the figure of an old man emerged from the darkness.