Ailey thought the cabin would be a lot smaller, like some of those places south of town. It was big, five or six rooms, and made of stone.
Later, filled with cat fish, green beans, four biscuits with wild honey washed down with cold goats milk, Ailey could barely hold himself up. His head drooped with the sheer weight of Luther’s cooking.
Luther had built a bench all along the front of the cabin. Ailey sat beside Luther and watched him roll a cigarette. He did it much as his father had before him. Ailey’s eyes closed and he lay down on the bench as limp as a fed cat. He slept within minutes.
Luther got up after a moment, went in the cabin, brought out a blanket and spread it over Ailey. He sat at the other end of the bench and watched the boy. He thought of his wife buried by the garden in back of the house.
They wanted a baby but it hadn’t happened. Luther looked out across the spread of green turning gold.
“Lord...I’d sure like to know what yore up to. I knowed you are testin’ me, like you done Job. This little boy plays the fiddle. Ain’t no way that’s an accident. You want I should give him the one you put in my care? Is that it?”
Luther listened for the voice of God, as he often did.
“Alright...I will wait. You know I can do that, but you makin’ it awful hard.” Luther looked down at Ailey and spoke aloud.
“You’ve got sand, boy. I like that. That big ole catfish like to pulled you all the way across the pond.” Luther smiled, “and you sing louder’n anyone I ever heard.”
Ailey smiled in his sleep, probably catching the catfish all over again.
An hour later, at two minutes till two, Ailey woke with a start. He looked around, saw his Uncle Luther sitting at the end of the bench dozing.
“Excuse me.” Luther didn’t stir. “Excuse me,” he said in a louder voice. Luther woke up.
“Darn, I guess that cat fish got to me too,” Luther said.
“Do you have a watch, Uncle Luther?” Ailey asked.
“Uh, huh.” He went in the cabin and came out a few minutes later. “It’s almost two o’clock.”
Ailey jumped up. “Uh, Uncle Luther, I’m sorry, but I got to be goin’. It’s time for my music. Sammy Sue will be a waitin for me.”
“Well, if you got to hurry I can drive you down in the truck. Shouldn’t take more’n ten, fifteen minutes.”
In Luther’s pickup, Ailey explained all about WNEW and the New York Philharmonic. Luther listened. Missus Cole liked that kind of music.
“Well, you know where I live, boy. We’re kinfolks. Yore welcome up on my mountain anytime. Might be, some time you could bring your fiddle, play me a tune.”
PARIS, FRANCE, 1818
The lawyer, Morency, read the spidery scrawl of Pierre La Houssaye with difficulty: Last Will and Testament, August 10, 1818
I, Pierre La Houssaye, being of sound mind and failing body do separately bequeath the violin, Hercules, given into my hand in the year 1770 by Giuseppe Tartini, to Nicolò Paganini.
I have heard all that is bad of him and all that is good. As in my own case, I think the good out weighs the bad. I do not know when Monsieur Paganini will come to Paris, but I am assured that he will. They all do.
For some years now I have been going deaf. But for the fear of God, I would have taken my own life when I knew.
I am, as l’Avocat Morency knows, a pauper. My greatest fear is that he will use the Hercules to settle my bill for authentication of this document. It is difficult to place something this important at the mercy of God. I fear the whimsical nature of a supreme being who would permit my legacy to fall into the hands of Satan’s servants.
I have seen his manifestations and I am not comforted. God allowed the government of France to be formed. I have seen their greatest creation, the guillotine. And Napoleon! How can a Christian accept such evil. Were I a saint, which I hasten to add, I am not, I would cry out, enough!
Now, I must place that which I value above all things, in the hands of fate. The Hercules is the greatest instrument I have ever heard or played. It must not be possessed by one unworthy, by one unable to match the beauty of its creation.
In despair I pray that my dying wishes be carried out.
Pierre La Houssaye
Morency rattled the paper angrily. “Arrogant swine. Rest assured, Monsieur La Houssaye, I will do the right thing.”
Morency called to his assistant. “Bertran, who is the leading dealer in musical instruments in Paris?”
Chapter 11
Luthersville, West Virginia, Fall 1981
After his Saturday music, Ailey practiced extra long. He felt guilty for having missed part of it. Since he’d gone beyond what Miz Bentley could teach him, hours of daily practice was as close as he got to having a lesson. He thought about going back to the mountain. He liked his uncle Luther. He listened better than anyone he knew. But playin’ the fiddle for him, he wasn’t sure about that. He’d never played for anyone, not even Miz Bentley, though she been after him for a long time. He practiced in his room on the third floor of her house, but he didn’t actually play listening music for her.
She wanted him to perform at the school for all the students and parents. He’d told her a hundred times he wasn’t good enough. Seems like she’d understand that. He thought he’d play for Uncle Luther. He’s family. He didn’t say anything about it to Miz Bentley.
During the week Luther went down to the Barkwood farm and talked with Sammy Sue. After that she allowed as how there really wasn’t anything wrong with Luther at all, he just liked living off by himself on his mountain.
Before he left he made an arrangement with Sammy Sue. He’d give her some money for the boy, for clothes and other necessities. He went to Elkins and bought Ailey a bike and brought it back to the farm for Ailey when he came for the weekend.
Ailey began to go up the mountain whenever he had a chance. He liked the feeling. It was the same as having a real family.
Six months passed before he brought his violin. Luther, like Sammy Sue, asserted nothing, demanded nothing. Ailey figured he’d listen, and that would be that.
After supper Ailey got out the violin and tuned it. Luther sat at the old oak table cleaning his shotgun.
Ailey was shy.
“If you want, I’ll play something.”
“That’d be fine, boy. You go ahead.”
Luther wasn’t ready for what followed. He figured it’d be some childish songs he’d learned at school.
Ailey with the violin tucked into his shoulder, stopped being an eight year old boy who liked to fish at Blair’s Pond, chase squirrels, and sing at the top of his voice.
Awkwardness disappeared. He changed before Luther’s eyes. As he played, he leaned forward and the tension transmitted by his small, wiry body filled the room.
Not having any idea what Luther would like, he played a series of practice pieces by Vieuxtemps. He made mistakes, held the bow incorrectly and some of his fingering was creative to say the least, but the music was powerful and compelling.
It was mediocre instrument, but he drew from it every ounce of sound. Luther had no experience to measure the extent of Ailey’s genius. But he sensed the thing that made Ailey