All That Lives Must Die

the duration of the semester, and if I continue to practice the musical arts, in perpetuity. All mental aberrations, diminishment of spirit, lost faith, substance abuses, and other similar conditions are solely the undersigned’s responsibility to avoid and, if possible, correct.

(SIGN FULL LEGAL NAME HERE) / (DATE)

He’d signed it, of course. It wasn’t such a big deal. Eliot knew he was already in over his head with his music. . so much so that his soul burned a little every time he played.

So let it-even if there was nothing left but ashes. He had to know how far he could take it, if his music would eventually save him. . or destroy him.

Ms. DuPree clapped her hands. “So,” she said, excitement gleaming in her eyes, “you got what it takes to be a great musician? You got real soul?” She stood and waved toward them. “Who’s going to show me first? Someone make me laugh. Someone make me cry.”

A boy stood and walked onto the stage. He was a junior or senior, with a goatee and a long black braid down his back. He carried an electric guitar.

Ms. DuPree motioned, and stagehands quickly set up amplifiers and speakers. Then with a bow, Ms. DuPree turned the stage over to him, backing to the shadowy edges.

Eliot couldn’t help but stare-not at the boy, but at his guitar. It was solid black with silver rivets, powerful and masculine, everything dinky Lady Dawn was not.

The boy took a deep breath and then played a rock ’n’ roll riff-tough and rough and shifting keys fast and furious as sound distorted through the speakers, so loud it made the hairs on Eliot’s arms dance and his insides quaver.

The boy’s face contorted with exultation and agony, as if this song caused him joy and pain.

Eliot clenched his hand into a fist. He could relate.

But more fascinating than the music was the guitar: Eliot wished he had something that. . well, wouldn’t embarrass him every time he took it out to play in public.

Lady Dawn was a beautiful instrument. Eliot loved her. She had been his father’s heirloom before given to him, and he respected the music they made together.

He squeezed the never-quite-healed wound in his palm where Lady Dawn had cut him with a snapped string, and remembered there was a price to pay for playing her, too.

The boy onstage finished with a screaming crescendo and slid onto his knees.

Eliot and the others clapped. He was great.

How was Eliot going to pass any audition following that act?

The boy grinned and stood, and he held up one hand to the applause in mock modesty.

Ms. DuPree clapped as well, but slow and without enthusiasm as she walked toward him. “A technically perfect performance,” she purred. “High marks for showmanship, too.” She moved closer and whispered to the boy-but with the perfect acoustics, Eliot still heard: “But you didn’t move me, kid. So go live a little, and then show me something next year.”

The boy’s smile contracted to a grimace, but he nodded, seeming to take her criticism seriously. He gave her a bow, picked up his guitar, and left without looking back.

Ms. DuPree addressed the remaining students, “Somebody make me feel something,” she told them. “Don’t just perform-move your audience.” She looked at each of them. “So who’s next?”

Sarah stood, trembling. “I’ll go, ma’am, I mean Erin, if you please.”

“Show me what you got, kid.”

Eliot touched her arm lightly and nodded to her.

Sarah nodded back.

It was a simple gesture between them, but genuine: his reassurance and hope. . her gratitude for the kindness.

Sarah walked to the stage with slow deliberation. Ms. DuPree offered a hand and helped her up.

Sarah had no instrument, nor did Ms. DuPree signal for any to be brought out. Instead Sarah clasped her hands in front of her and sang.

Eliot didn’t understand the words, not even the language, Gaelic maybe. But while the words didn’t mean anything to him, the song did.

She sang of marshes and glens and trees and birds. He could almost see the land, and almost smell the heather and the ocean in the distance. He knew how she felt, that her heart was still at home. How she missed it all. How she loved that place.

Sarah finished and looked down.

No one clapped.

Not because it was bad, but because Eliot and the others were in shock. He’d never realized the human voice could be so lyrical and evocative.

Ms. DuPree came to Sarah, took one of her hands, and petted it. “Very nice.”

Sarah managed a tight smile.

Ms. DuPree waved her back to her seat and then looked to the rest of them. “That’s what I’m talking about. Who’s next?”

Sarah shakily sank back into her seat. She looked ill.

Eliot understood how music like that could drain you. He wanted to tell her, too, that’s how it was for him when he poured himself into his music.

“No volunteers?” Ms. DuPree sounded disappointed.

A spotlight snapped on Eliot.

Adrenaline flooded through his body, and he cringed in surprise.

“How about you, then, Mr. Post? Why don’t you show us all what you’re made of?”

Eliot froze as if he were a deer in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Everything he knew about music was suddenly gone from his head.

Sarah whispered to him, “Go show her a thing or two.” There was a bit of her usual sarcasm in her tone, although Eliot didn’t think it was directed at him this time.

It was strange: Eliot’s confidence returned (what little of it there was) because he didn’t want to let Sarah down. He didn’t understand why he should care what she thought, but he did.

Well, he’d come to audition. He’d give it his best shot.

He grabbed Lady Dawn’s case, plodded to the stage, and stepped up without taking Ms. DuPree’s proffered hand.

Ms. DuPree gave him a wry look. “Well, Mr. Post, I’ve heard you got a spark in you, but so did the boy up here before you. Do you have soul? Can you make me cry?”

Eliot snorted. He felt irritation prickle at the back of his neck.

She wanted him to make her feel something? He flipped open the violin case and removed Lady Dawn, set her on his shoulder, grabbed the bow. . then stopped.

He had to play a song that meant something to him, though. It couldn’t just be “Mortal’s Coil” or “The Symphony of Existence” or the “The March of the Suicide Queen.” They were great pieces, but they were other people’s songs.

Even “Julie’s Song” wasn’t Eliot’s. He’d taken what was inside Julie, turned it inside out, and added a melody, that’s all.

This had to be all his. Like Sarah had sung about her home, revealing a part of herself he would never have guessed existed. . exposed herself in front of all of them.

He swallowed.

There was one nursery rhyme he recalled-or thought he remembered. It was like fog in his memory, shifting- there but ghostly, something he thought his mother might have once sang to him. Maybe the only thing she had ever sung to him.

Eliot set aside his bow. He wouldn’t need it.

He cautiously plunked out the tune.