“Are you God?”
This one has snuck up on her, so engrossed was she in the music. He is on hands and knees, on the cavern floor, just close enough to see by the torchlight. He doesn’t yet realize that the cavern is plenty tall enough for standing. Or maybe he knows and doesn’t care. She doesn’t know what language he’s speaking, but she understands him.
One of the many quirks of this place.
“No.” She continues playing. She’s learned to keep the interactions to a minimum. Speaking distracts her, makes her miss notes.
“Oh.” The man watches her play for a moment, then opens his mouth to ask a question.
“No, I’m not him either,” she answers before he can ask.
The man relaxes.
“May I rest here?” he asks.
“Rest anywhere you like. I have no authority.”
The man pulls himself into a sitting position. From his clothing, she guesses he died centuries before she was even born. She sees many people from the distant past. She sees people from her own time too, and some even that seem to be from the future. Perhaps the outside world progresses at a different rate, or maybe it’s possible to crawl backwards and forwards through time in these dark tunnels.
Time is strange in this place.
“I’m looking for my wife. Have you seen her?” he asks hopefully.
“No.”
The man nods glumly.
She continues playing. The next time she glances over, the man is gone. She doesn’t know how long he’s been gone. Minutes, days, months. Centuries. Doesn’t matter.
Time doesn’t matter.
#
She was one of them, once. Maybe she still is, but she can’t crawl and play at the same time. For now, this grand cavern is her place, with this dusty old Wurlitzer piano that never goes out of tune and these flickering torches that never burn out. She sits upon this worn wooden stool and plays tirelessly, fingers never cramping, transitioning seamlessly from melody to melody. Or perhaps they’re all movements within a larger work, an eternal piece that never ends.
Sometimes she rests. Silence is, after all, a valid–and vital–component of the music. When she stops, she can hear other music in the distance. Flute, harmonica, electric guitar, other instruments difficult to identify within the strange acoustics of the tunnels. Sometimes she hears singing. She’ll listen briefly, but won’t rest for too long. Too much silence creates tension. That’s when the screams begin.
She hates the screams.
She remembers how it felt, when she was one of the crawling. The darkness. The narrowness of the tunnels. The endless search. The disorientation.
The melodies that echoed faintly through the tunnels were like beacons in the darkness, hints to suggest direction and distance, thin threads of hope against a chaotic background of despair. There were many threads to choose from, but it was the piano that caught her attention. She focused on it, followed it, followed it forever until she finally found its source.
In those tunnels, when the piano music would stop, her sanity would kick and buck and strain to escape. Sometimes she’d lose this battle. She remembers well the sound of her own screams on these occasions.
But that was long ago. Or maybe it hasn’t been that long. It doesn’t matter. She’s the music, for now. She plays, and for now they crawl to her.
#
She remembers other things, when she cares to try. Things from before. These memories are painful.
She remembers the car crash that ejected her from her mortal body.
She remembers waiting ever so patiently for the light that never appeared.
She remembers discovering the boundaries of her earthbound prison. She remembers those boundaries shrinking.
She remembers the tunnel that opened near her feet, when her parameters had shrunken to the point that she could touch opposite walls with her outstretched hands.
There was no light in that tunnel. It was dark.
She remembers weeping. She remembers assuming much, drawing conclusions about the fate of her soul.
And when the walls were about to crush her, she remembers giving up and crawling down into the tunnel.
She doesn’t dwell on these memories. She can’t change them. But they do influence the music. They taint it, stain it, color it. Wound it. She plays it anyway. It’s hers.
#
“I know you.”
It is a young voice, and it startles her a little. It has been so very long since anyone has passed through. Or maybe it hasn’t been that long.
“Do you?” she responds without looking up.
“Yes. I’ve been looking for you.”
She looks up now. The boy is standing, a rare sight indeed. Perhaps he’s small enough that he can actually walk the tunnels instead of crawling them. He watches her with his hands behind his back. Strangely mature, she thinks. He takes a few steps forward, and she sees his face in the torchlight.
She misses a note.
“Do you remember?” he asks quietly.
“I remember,” she whispers.
It’s a memory from before, long repressed. She sees it now, though, very clearly. She sees the car crash. She’s always seen that much.
But now, near the wreck of the car, she also sees the body of the little boy she’d tried–unsuccessfully–to avoid. She’d clipped him anyway, just before striking the oak tree head-on.
He hadn’t died immediately. They’d taken him away in an ambulance. She’d wanted to follow but hadn’t been able, confined as she was to that ever-shrinking space around her former body. But she’d known that he’d passed. They’d started leaving flowers where his body had been, before she’d crawled into her tunnel.
The guilt. Oh, the guilt. She’d searched the tunnels for him forever. But she’d given up. And then she’d forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Sorry? What for?”
“I ran out from between those parked cars. Made you swerve into that tree. It was my fault.”
“Oh, sweet child. You did nothing wrong. I should have been driving slower. It was my responsibility to watch for children. It was my fault.”
“You couldn’t have stopped.”
“You weren’t old enough to know better.”
“It was an accident.”
“Yes. An accident.”
They stared at each other for a good long while.
“I think I can go now,” he says finally. As he says it, a new tunnel appears. This tunnel is filled with light. “You could come too. If you want.”
“I can’t,” she says sadly. “I have to keep playing.”
“Are you God?”
A new voice. Another one has crawled into the cavern. A young man, eighteenth century perhaps, judging from his hair and attire.
“No,” she and the boy answer in unison. And before the man can even open his mouth she adds, “Not him either.”
The man relaxes.
“Do you play piano?” she asks.
“I used to play a little. Before.”
“Would you like to play again?”
The man glances at the keys. “I would. But I’m looking for my brother. Have you seen him?”
“No. But if you play the right song, he might hear it. He might find you here.”
“Well. I suppose I could try. For a little while.”
He gets up from his hands and knees, dusts himself off, walks over. She stands. He sits. The transition is seamless, just like when she took the job from the previous player. She wonders briefly what became of her, that kind woman who gave up this beacon so she could use it for herself. Abandoned the piano and crawled off into the darkness. Maybe she got lucky, happened upon a familiar tune, navigated to its source, found what she was looking for.
Maybe she searches still.
The newest player isn’t very good. He winces as he fumbles through some simple chords. She smiles sadly. It’s his song now, and he has plenty of time to practice.
She walks over and stands near the boy. The tunnel of light doubles in size.
“I feel better,” she says.
“So do I.”
They walk together into the light.
—
Ronald Schulte is an avid reader and writer of speculative fiction. His work has previously appeared in several online and print publications including Theme of Absence, The Literary Hatchet, Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in upstate New York with his wife, son, and twin daughters. Follow Ronald on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ronaldschulteauthor/.
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