A slightly brighter beginning:
According to his father, the Richmond family owned hundreds of acres of the forest along with everything in it. So when Jericho found the derelict cabin on the edge of a long-dry creek, he--naturally--assumed that it was his to claim.
So he claimed it.
The books were first to come because they were easier to hide. The instruments came later--carried in pieces, sometimes, and painstakingly pieced back together with the knowledge he'd found in some of the books.
The Richmonds had never been any sort of wizards, but he tried to erect wards around his sanctuary, not that he thought his father would find him here. He'd never seen his father set foot in the forest. He should have been safe.
But even then, he spent a month in wretched indecision before he began to play.
He'd never actually played the instruments, just studied them. But that didn't seem to matter; his finger instinctively knew which notes to play. Vampire flesh did not callous well, but he had callouses on his fingers from many an overnight concert as spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall.
One November night, he thought he heard a snatch of music as he approached the cabin, but there wasn't anyone there when he arrived, and nothing seemed to be disturbed. But when he went to leave, someone waited for him on the porch, a someone with a guitar case on the floor beside him, sitting in a rocking chair that hadn't been there just hours before, his face hidden by a broad-brimmed hat.
"I'm not here to harm you in any way," the figure said before Jericho could bolt or do something he'd regret later. "I heard you playing, earlier."
Jericho wasn't quite sure what to say to that. No one had ever heard him play.
"How old are you?" the figure asked, still friendly.
"I'm eight years old," Jericho said. "Do you live out here?" It seemed impossible that his sanctuary could have neighbors, especially after seeing no one for so many months.
"Eight years old," the figure murmured. "Incredible." In reply to his question, the figure said, "No. I don't live near here. No one does. You're quite secluded, here on the edge."
"The edge of what?" Jericho asked.
The figure raised his head so that the moonlight spilled across his face, and suddenly, Jericho could see him clearly.
Not a human. Nor a vampire.
An elf.
Jericho had heard the stories; he knew what the elves did to vampires who strayed onto the territory. But this--this was Richmond land.
Wasn't it?
"As I said before, I mean you no harm," the elf said softly.
Jericho stepped back over the threshold. "How do I know you are telling the truth?"
"You don't," the elf said, and bent to lift the guitar case onto his lap. "But I'm hoping you accept this as a token of my trust." He opened the lid and lifted out a guitar, but not just any guitar.
Jericho hadn't been able to figure out how to smuggle a guitar into the house, and then into the forest and to his sanctuary. He'd managed a violin, and a passel of flutes and whistles, and even a ukulele, but not a guitar.
His fingers itched to hold this one; to play it. But he restrained himself. There would be a price; he knew that much as well. Nothing ever happened for free.
The elf held out the guitar. It was beautifully made; handmade, he sensed, and masterfully done. It wasn't as large as some of the guitars he had seen hanging in stores, but it wasn't a child's guitar, either. And it was very, very old. He sensed its age, even from across the porch. The wood gleamed in the moonlight.
"Try it," the elf said. "If it likes you, then it will be yours."
"On one condition," Jericho said when the elf did not continue. "Or maybe two, or three--" He waited, but the elf said nothing. "There are always conditions. There is always a price. I've heard the stories--" And then, "If it likes me?"
"The stories aren't always true," the elf said, ignoring his actual question. "But in this case, yes. One condition. I don't think you'll find it difficult."
"What is it?" Jericho asked suspiciously.
"That you play," the elf said. "And keep playing, until the guitar is no longer in your possession. Until you can no longer play."
"My father--" Jericho began, then stopped, because he didn't really know how to explain his family to a stranger, especially an elf.
"Your father will not deny you this," the elf said, and it was that--that assurance--that made Jericho take the guitar from the elf; accept a pick--just a simple plastic pick, nothing more, and place his fingers in the correct position--
When he finally glanced up; when he realized that the night was over and that it was well-past dawn, and he stood alone on the porch, in sunlight; the elf was gone, the guitar case open at his feet.
In sunlight.
It was past dawn.
The cabin he'd claimed wasn't on Richmond land. It was past the Veil, in Faerie. He'd been trespassing all along.
He stood there on the porch, staring out at the sunlit forest. He'd never actually stood in unprotected sunlight before. The world seemed too bright; too sharp. The nighttime world was full of shadows. In sunlight, the shadows faded away. He started to retreat back into the cabin, into his sanctuary, but the guitar caught his gaze, and he sat down in the rocking chair that hadn't disappeared with the elf, and began to play.
Later, when he returned home--after dusk, of course, since he couldn't see the Veil--his father made no mention of his absence. His mother noticed the guitar case, but she said nothing.
It was almost as if he had never left.
Ten years later, he returned to the cabin in the forest, only to find it empty; the instruments he'd abandoned as an eight-year-old child gone, the floor choked with leaves and twigs and forest debris. The table was still there, however, showing its age now, stained and sodden and close to collapse.
Jericho left a CD of his first album on the table, as thanks. He never returned to see if it was gone.
So now you see where we begin.
According to his father, the Richmond family owned hundreds of acres of the forest along with everything in it. So when Jericho found the derelict cabin on the edge of a long-dry creek, he--naturally--assumed that it was his to claim.
So he claimed it.
The books were first to come because they were easier to hide. The instruments came later--carried in pieces, sometimes, and painstakingly pieced back together with the knowledge he'd found in some of the books.
The Richmonds had never been any sort of wizards, but he tried to erect wards around his sanctuary, not that he thought his father would find him here. He'd never seen his father set foot in the forest. He should have been safe.
But even then, he spent a month in wretched indecision before he began to play.
He'd never actually played the instruments, just studied them. But that didn't seem to matter; his finger instinctively knew which notes to play. Vampire flesh did not callous well, but he had callouses on his fingers from many an overnight concert as spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall.
One November night, he thought he heard a snatch of music as he approached the cabin, but there wasn't anyone there when he arrived, and nothing seemed to be disturbed. But when he went to leave, someone waited for him on the porch, a someone with a guitar case on the floor beside him, sitting in a rocking chair that hadn't been there just hours before, his face hidden by a broad-brimmed hat.
"I'm not here to harm you in any way," the figure said before Jericho could bolt or do something he'd regret later. "I heard you playing, earlier."
Jericho wasn't quite sure what to say to that. No one had ever heard him play.
"How old are you?" the figure asked, still friendly.
"I'm eight years old," Jericho said. "Do you live out here?" It seemed impossible that his sanctuary could have neighbors, especially after seeing no one for so many months.
"Eight years old," the figure murmured. "Incredible." In reply to his question, the figure said, "No. I don't live near here. No one does. You're quite secluded, here on the edge."
"The edge of what?" Jericho asked.
The figure raised his head so that the moonlight spilled across his face, and suddenly, Jericho could see him clearly.
Not a human. Nor a vampire.
An elf.
Jericho had heard the stories; he knew what the elves did to vampires who strayed onto the territory. But this--this was Richmond land.
Wasn't it?
"As I said before, I mean you no harm," the elf said softly.
Jericho stepped back over the threshold. "How do I know you are telling the truth?"
"You don't," the elf said, and bent to lift the guitar case onto his lap. "But I'm hoping you accept this as a token of my trust." He opened the lid and lifted out a guitar, but not just any guitar.
Jericho hadn't been able to figure out how to smuggle a guitar into the house, and then into the forest and to his sanctuary. He'd managed a violin, and a passel of flutes and whistles, and even a ukulele, but not a guitar.
His fingers itched to hold this one; to play it. But he restrained himself. There would be a price; he knew that much as well. Nothing ever happened for free.
The elf held out the guitar. It was beautifully made; handmade, he sensed, and masterfully done. It wasn't as large as some of the guitars he had seen hanging in stores, but it wasn't a child's guitar, either. And it was very, very old. He sensed its age, even from across the porch. The wood gleamed in the moonlight.
"Try it," the elf said. "If it likes you, then it will be yours."
"On one condition," Jericho said when the elf did not continue. "Or maybe two, or three--" He waited, but the elf said nothing. "There are always conditions. There is always a price. I've heard the stories--" And then, "If it likes me?"
"The stories aren't always true," the elf said, ignoring his actual question. "But in this case, yes. One condition. I don't think you'll find it difficult."
"What is it?" Jericho asked suspiciously.
"That you play," the elf said. "And keep playing, until the guitar is no longer in your possession. Until you can no longer play."
"My father--" Jericho began, then stopped, because he didn't really know how to explain his family to a stranger, especially an elf.
"Your father will not deny you this," the elf said, and it was that--that assurance--that made Jericho take the guitar from the elf; accept a pick--just a simple plastic pick, nothing more, and place his fingers in the correct position--
When he finally glanced up; when he realized that the night was over and that it was well-past dawn, and he stood alone on the porch, in sunlight; the elf was gone, the guitar case open at his feet.
In sunlight.
It was past dawn.
The cabin he'd claimed wasn't on Richmond land. It was past the Veil, in Faerie. He'd been trespassing all along.
He stood there on the porch, staring out at the sunlit forest. He'd never actually stood in unprotected sunlight before. The world seemed too bright; too sharp. The nighttime world was full of shadows. In sunlight, the shadows faded away. He started to retreat back into the cabin, into his sanctuary, but the guitar caught his gaze, and he sat down in the rocking chair that hadn't disappeared with the elf, and began to play.
Later, when he returned home--after dusk, of course, since he couldn't see the Veil--his father made no mention of his absence. His mother noticed the guitar case, but she said nothing.
It was almost as if he had never left.
Ten years later, he returned to the cabin in the forest, only to find it empty; the instruments he'd abandoned as an eight-year-old child gone, the floor choked with leaves and twigs and forest debris. The table was still there, however, showing its age now, stained and sodden and close to collapse.
Jericho left a CD of his first album on the table, as thanks. He never returned to see if it was gone.
So now you see where we begin.
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