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It was the sound of strings.
The guitar notes were as rich as the late afternoon sun. The chords were as clear and bright as the gentle breeze. And yet, there was no sharpness to them. No insistence they be heard.
It was a soft kind of sound that you could imagine in a lively café—tones that lifted the laughter and framed the atmosphere, rather than fighting it.
Luca crept through the undergrowth, stopping at the edge of the tree line, not wanting to interrupt the song.
Artair was sitting on one of the logs by the fire—the bark deeply colored from the rain. He was barefoot, in jeans and a blue flannel rolled up to the sleeves, highlighting the stockiness of his red-thatched forearms.
The camp had changed since Luca last saw it. Where there’d previously been a few bits of clothing out to dry, now there were dozens—what had to be Artair’s entire hiking pack. The smoking hut was packed away, and in its place was a smaller fire more of haze than flame, typical of cool coals and wet branches. Still, some heat was sizzling there, evidenced by Bowie lying flat on his back beside it, belly exposed and snoring.
Artair played the guitar without a pick, and now that Luca could see more clearly, without chords either. Every note was plucked individually, with a delicacy unexpected of so large a man.
His eyes were half closed, utterly relaxed. His lips were set in a contented smile, pleased at his sound or the idyllic scene or perhaps both.
Luca couldn’t blame him. The meadow had the texture of a dream, soft-focused around the edges and glowing from every point. The river babbled clear and strong over smooth rocks. The fire crackled, low and unthreatening.
And through it all was the song. One he’d never heard, yet somehow felt he already knew. Because there was something true there. Something absolutely harmonious with the surrounds. As if the notes were being drawn directly from the water and the grass and the post-rain sun.
And just when Luca thought the scene couldn’t get any more beautiful, Artair began to sing.
It wasn’t words, more the rhythm where words might someday be added. And yet, it didn’t matter, because even the melody took Luca’s breath away.
The man’s voice was like finely aged rum—honey and vanilla and darkest caramel.
Just like the notes, the hum seemed perfectly in tune with its surrounds. The higher notes resembled the mottled golden light through the trees, the deeper tones resembling the swirl of the river. And between them was a richness, like heat and sweat and the promise of long, happy days.
The melody seemed so deep, so personal, that Luca felt like he shouldn’t be listening. Like the man might become upset if he discovered that he’d been overheard.
And yet, he didn’t look away. How could he in the presence of such beauty?
Instead, he waited, nestled among the shaded bows.
Just listening.
Just watching.
So entranced was Luca by the maestro across the meadow, that he completely failed to notice Bowie wake up from his nap and sprint to Luca’s feet.
The sudden yip made both men jump.
And in a flash, Artair’s eyes were on him.
Where Luca had feared anger from Artair at being watched, there was only the grateful glow of seeing him again. “Well, look at you all scrubbed up! For little old me?”
Luca clicked his tongue. “Don’t flatter yourself. My mother would be pissed if I turned up to someone’s house without making effort.”
“Good call,” he said, putting his guitar away with a little more haste than Luca felt was warranted. “And you’re just in time. Look!”
Luca joined him beside the fire, consciously taking the adjacent log, rather than the free spot beside Artair. “Wow, you’ve been busy!”
What had to be every leftover bowl in the cabin was laid neatly on a checkered picnic rug, full of prepared ingredients.
The pastel orange salmonberries had been separated from their stalks, looking more plump and juicy than before. The mushrooms had been peeled of their outer skin, revealing creamy and fibrous flesh, already smelling deep with flavor. The tips of the fiddlehead ferns had been snipped from the longer stems, curling around in deep green spirals, like the tail of a chameleon.
And next to them were dozens of other forage bowls, full of flowers and leaves and roots that Luca had never heard of before, but which Artair explained enthusiastically.
Wild hazelnut and maple blossom.
