The rock smacked against the sign, a small thunderclap echoing around the caravan. A number five fell to the ground.
I laughed and threw my hands into the air. The sling cord dangled in my face. Fayden was laughing, too.
“Now,” he said, “you may practice your music. We’ll work on this more when we stop tonight.”
Buoyed by his praise and pride, I helped with breakfast and soon the caravan was on the move.
We trundled past decaying wooden shacks, fallen metal towers, and miles and miles of half-buried black wires. Earthquakes and storms during the Cataclysm had claimed so much of the previous civilization. Was there anyone else out there? Other children of the survivors?
Or were we all alone in the world?
After my morning duties were taken care of, I climbed onto the roof of the wagon with my flute. I knew only the basics of the instrument—how to blow across the hole, where to put my fingers, and to keep my posture straight to achieve a better sound—but I hadn’t had the opportunity to learn much more.
Now, I pinned my music book open with a pair of rocks, studied the fingering charts, and began with simple scales. One octave. Two. I learned how to adjust my mouth and throat to the pitch, where to turn the flute in or out to stay in tune, and how to make my breath last as long as possible.
Stef popped his head out from inside the wagon and rested his elbows on the roof. “Didn’t you just start learning that?”
My sling arm ached as I lowered the flute. “I know. I have a lot of work to do.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, I mean, you’re really good at it already. It’s a little scary.”
I inspected the flute, how the silver shone in the hot sunlight. “I wouldn’t say really good, but I guess . . . it just makes sense to me. Music just makes sense. Like you understand machines and”—I waved a hand—“stuff I don’t.”
Stef nodded. “Well, play a song.”
“Songs have words.” But I turned a few pages in the music book and found something that looked simple enough. I studied it for a few minutes, silently finding the notes on my flute before I risked playing it aloud. On the tops of the neighboring wagons, people peered over curiously. More people than there usually were.
Stef followed my glances. “You can do this,” he muttered. “You’ve played for Fay and me a million times. Just forget they’re there.”
“Then I was playing an instrument I had more experience with.”
“Only one way to get experience with this one.” Stef winked and pulled himself the rest of the way onto the roof. When he was reclining against the edge, he motioned toward the flute. “If you please.”
Annoyed and grateful to him at once, I lifted my flute.
A long, silver sound poured across the landscape as I began to play. Knots of worry and uncertainty untangled in my heart, and the whole world faded until all I could hear was the flute’s piercing voice, the bass of wheels rumbling over the crumbling road, and the percussion of Stef thumping his palm on the wagon roof.
Music lifted and carried me. It wasn’t great; I could hear all the imperfections and the limitations imposed by my own lack of skill—but I’d practice. I’d practice for the rest of my life if it meant I could feel like this.
When I finished, people atop the neighboring wagons clapped. “Play it again!” someone called, and I felt my face pull into an awe-filled grin.
People did like music. And maybe now, more than ever, they needed it.
I wasn’t so useless after all.
The caravan moved slowly. We traveled alongside the range of immense mountains for over a month before we reached an enormous, fast-moving river, and were forced to trust ancient, pre-Cataclysm bridges to allow us safe passage. It took three days for the entire group to cross, made more miserable because of a sudden rainstorm.
The weather stayed humid and hot for days, and the looming mountains in the west seemed like an impenetrable wall, but sometimes I spotted ruined roads winding around the sharp curves. Night came earlier and earlier as the weeks turned into months and the weather cooled. Autumn browned the trees and land, and it seemed our lives had always been this: rising early, preparing the wagon, gathering fresh water and food before the call to push off.
Our days had always been bartering with others—with Stef fixing wagons, Fayden running errands for anyone who could pay with food, and me standing atop the wagon in constant search of danger. Sunlight baked my shoulders and arms, faded my black hair to brown, and made my eyes water every time we neared a river or lake; the reflection of sunlight on water made it hard to see.
Dust was the worst. It crept into everything, especially my clothes. My skin itched from the moment I awoke to the second I finally fell to sleep. Nothing helped.