Free Phoenix Overture by Jodi Meadows Page B

prepare for departure. “Then we’ll grab some breakfast.”
    “Okay.” Rock waiting in the sling pouch, I sucked in a deep breath, let it drop back and around. I stepped forward and released, and a whine sounded from air cutting across the ridges.
    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