Gypsy Soul

You've got a gypsy soul to blame and you were born for leaving.

He’d been too many places to count.

He’d started out in Arden. On Emasis. Later he’d return, and he didn’t know why. But that’s another story for another time.

At the age of fourteen he stuffed everything he owned into a leatherskin knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and never looked back. Or so he thought. He looked back many times over the years, wondering if he could have done something better. Something right.

The first thing he did was catch a ride on a space shuttle. They went between the planets, a taxi of sorts. It was then that he cried. The starlight reflected in his tears. Why had he left? He honestly had no idea. But it was too late to go back now.

He landed on a planet severely different from his home climate. Arden was a forest-land, filled with trees and country songs. This was a veritable desert, with a beating sun and choking desert sand. He nearly dissolved into a coughing fit as soon as his feet hit the ground.

And then he found the city. It was a haven in the midst of the hot, dusty ground. And somehow, it somewhat reminded him of home. He settled in and started looking for a job. At first he wondered what the heck he was going to do. He didn’t have any talent… or did he?

And then he found the violin.

He was engaging in the highly amazing pastime of searching through dumpsters for his next meal. And then he saw it. A dusty violin, sitting against the wall. Waiting for him.

Normally he was horribly against being sentimental. No feelings. Things were things. That was that.
And then he remembered the paperclip. The way his father made ordinary things extraordinary.

And somehow, even though it reeked of everything his father had done, Ryan wanted to do the same thing, too.

So he picked up the violin. And tucked it in the crook of his arm.

And took it home.

He cleaned it that night with a semi-clean cotton cloth. When he was done, the cloth was coated in dirt and dust. But when he was done, the violin was clean. In the tiny light in his cramped cave-like quarters, the wood almost seemed to shine.

He didn’t know how to play of course, but he was determined to learn. He was walking against the cobblestone streets, choking in the summer heat and watching the heat waves reflect off the pavement. The violin was tucked into the deepest recesses of his oilcloth knapsack. He didn’t want to risk losing it. Not now.

He wasn’t looking where he was going, and he almost tripped over a bundle sitting in the street. On second glance, the bundle proved to be a man.

“Oh… I’m…I’m sorry.” He stammered, taking two steps backward. The man was rancid, with yellow teeth. Gray hair rested in two long braids on his shoulders, and wisped out everywhere else. A knit cap covered what was left of his shrunken, wrinkled forehead. His legs were covered in rags and dirt and who knows what else. Unless he was mistaken, Ryan heard flies. Or fleas. Either way, the man was bound to be crawling with disease and plague and—

“Watch where you’re goin’, boy.” The voice eked out.

“Right. Sorry.” But Ryan didn’t watch where he was going. His foot caught on the nearest cobblestone and he fell forward, face first. He caught himself with his hands, narrowly avoiding a faceplant. The old man continued to watch him with wide blue eyes. Somehow, even in the rancid environment, the man’s eyes held a spark of life. And if the eyes were the window to the soul, then this man’s soul was alive. Very alive. Despite what outward appearances seemed to suggest.

Unfortunately, Ryan had completely lost his hold on his knapsack. Therefore, it spilled its contents everywhere, which included Ryan’s only other pair of clothes (including his underclothes, which were now spread all over the street), a granola meal bar… and his violin.

“Do you play?” the man’s voice was barely audible, even though the street was dead quiet, unusual for the time of day.

“What?”

He gestured to the violin, lying face down in the grimy street crevice. “That. Do you play?”

“Uh… no,” Ryan said with a fair amount of embarrassment as he snatched his violin and brushed it off possessively. “No. I don’t.” Once he was satisfied that every speck of dirt had been cleared off, he snapped back to reality. “Do you?”

“Used to. A very long time ago. In another life.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve got a broken string.”

“Yes.” Ryan fiddled with the frayed end. “I need to get it fixed. Do you know how?”

“I did. Once.”

“Would you now?”

“For a fair price.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Can you work, boy?”

“What?”

“I said, can you work?”

“…Yeah. My da’ taught me lots of things. We lived in the country. I can do most anything, and if I don’t know how, I can learn.”

“I’ll take it.”

“…Excuse me?”

“You work for me. I’ll fix your violin string. Good? Or will you just trip off over the cobblestone the way you came?”

“No… no, I guess that would be fine.” Ryan blinked.

“Fine, fine. The name’s Ebenezer.” He stuck out his hand and took Ryan’s in an iron-hard grip. Despite the appearance of disease and grime, Ebenezer seemed fairly clean, a shocking realization on Ryan’s part.

The days ticked by. Ebenezer, despite the appearance of a beggar, led a fairly decent life in a shack on the outskirts of town. Ryan spent his time there, hauling sacks of flour into storage, sweeping the front porch, and nailing back loose boards. Ebenezer put him to work doing most everything.

The violin string was fixed in no time.