“WILL. It’s 10 am! Too loud, Wait up a bit would you?” Will heard his brother Paul shout from downstairs. He was in the attic, he hadn’t thought anyone could hear him playing. Apparently shredding the electric harp could transcend the barrier of a wooden floor. Who would’ve thought? Nevertheless he stopped, disappointed by the revelation that he was not as quiet as he thought he was. Naturally, unable to play, he found himself dressed and downstairs quickly, fringe styled quickly in an effort to not invoke the wrath of his mother. Out the safety of his bedroom door he immediately found his eyes bombarded with light. Dammed cave lifestyle coming back to bite him. Ouch. Upon his arrival downstairs, which had, admittedly, taken a tad longer than he would’ve liked (eyes adjusting to the light, imperfect stair steps. A tragedy really.) he found himself being told to go feed the rabbits. “Paul? Would you come feed the rabbits with me?” He called out to his brother, who nodded dismissively at him. “Ack, stop lurking in your room to play harp, Will, and while your out feeding the rabbits get some hay from the Dawson’s would you?” His mother scolded. “Will do!” He called back, lacing his shoes with impressively slow speed. With newly rejuvenated vigor, (he’d been up an hour, and scolded twice? He’d prove them wrong!! he’d be productive!!) he and Paul were out the door. “How long were you up playing your dammed harp before you graced us with your presence, dear brother?” His brother chided sarcastically as they walked out to the rabbits pen. “Ah ha ha, so funny….only about thirty minutes, you loser, tell me you don’t lurk about tad before getting up? Sure, sure.” He replied, annoyed. After a medium amount of back and forth with his brother they arrived at the rabbits pen, and gave them fresh food and water, which they moved for hastily. After a few minutes of petting the rabbits, he and Paul were walking steady-paced the path to the dawsons farm for hay. He never could go near them without sacrificing a sliver of time to their soft fur, though today they seemed reluctant to let him pet them. The path to the Dawson’s farm was worn, treaded by hooves, feet, and occasionally tires on the daily. Will never quite knew how to talk to Mr Dawson, really he couldn’t quite wrap his head around talking to most people. That, he thought is precisely why I don’t bother. Most kids his age weren’t into electric harp, or folklore, they were more into each other or gaslighting themselves into thinking Taylor swift was good. “Ey, Will, that a new patch? I got one for ya, actually!” He was snapped out of his thoughts by the booming voice of his older neighbor. Strange, his *elderly neighbor* giving him a patch? “Well, yes I suppose it is, sir. Also, you do?….er, thank you!” His words tumbled out akwardly, god he needed to work on not getting caught in his head so much. “I do, c’mere a sec, would ya? And, er, Paul, hay, Maggie, mincemeat, ack, words be dammed you know what to do” he barked out oddly, gesticulating uselessly to the farmhand Maggie barns sitting somewhat near. Paul scampered off, smiling a tad, he and Maggie were friends of a sort. He’d always known Maggie to have a bit of a thing for his older brother max, so she was around rather often, but that didn’t make him like her any more. “So er…..you into music, mister Dawson?” He asked awkwardly. “Indeed.” Mr Dawson commented back dryly. “You uhh…like folk-rock?” He replied. Man, was small talk always this hard, or was it just talking to his old neighbor he barely knew, that made it so terrible? “Yeah, still keep some old cd’s, y’know there was a local scene, back in the old days.” He muttered mysteriously. Why did old people always *mutter*? “Oh, really?” He attempted to keep the excitement out of his voice with limited success. “Yep, really there still is….quietly, though there’s been some bad folks in the scene for a while, trying to turn the art rotten.” Mr Dawson commented, seemingly trying to fish an opinion from will. Strange how people didn’t ever just ask. “Yeah?” Mr Dawson pressed a patch into his hand, though upon looking at it will found himself very confused. A grey circle quartered by a cross, embroidered on a small piece of black fabric. “Sew this on your jacket. And do good to remember that musics a clean art. It’ll be a clean art, even if it’s not now. Not now, but you’ll know soon boy, that good people prevail. Soon you’ll be a part of that, boy, soon….” As he tucked the patch into his pocket, he realized they’d just walked a loop, strange how much old people tended to walk and talk. Was it harder to feel your bones rotting when you walked? Whatever the reason was, Paul was walking back towards them, a can of mincemeat in one hand, phone in the other, and hay under his arm. “You ready to go, Will?” His brother called out. “Yeah, bye Mr Dawson!” He called back. He pondered the patch as they walked back with haste, trying to move faster than the sun could set and get back home, but those thoughts were interrupted by a harsh caw of rooks. When he looked up at the rooks, he saw them attacking some poor tramp. Quickly he decided to be a vigilante of sorts and shoo off the rooks. “AYE, OFF THAT MAN WITH YOU, DAMM BIRDS. YEAH, OUTTA HERE YOU HEAR? OUT!” He yelled to the rooks, who quickly scampered off. He probably looked mad. He must’ve been, really, because when he looked for the tramp to see if he was okay, he only saw a flurry of motion, a pile of dirty clothes and dark hair moving behind a tree. Then the rooks he’d scared off pecking at a piece of bread nearby. Guess he’d been too late to keep them off the tramps lunch. “Odd.” His brother commented softly as they walked back to their house. Eyes glued to his phone as he walked. How’d people even do that? “Rooks haven’t ever stolen *my* lunch….” He commented as they walked down their front path. “Oh, buzz off Paul!” Will shot back. God, did his brother lack any empathy? As Paul walked thru their door, handing off mincemeat to their mom and tossing hay to their porch, will noticed a flyer on their front porch. *”Darkfest, December 22!! Beyond imagining. Come for an awesome folk rock show and good company. Free entry!”* a folk-rock fest on his birthday? For free? Oh he was going. He was definitely going. The rest of the day flew by in newfound excitement for the next day, he only really caught bits and pieces. What did he want for birthday dinner? Liver and bacon, as always. What was he trying to escape upstairs to do? Play harp. Like he was now. He’d always loved harp, electric especially, but all harps, his fingers drifted across the strings, plucking out “in the bleak midwinter” with practiced ease. He really was going to a show tomorrow. Which meant he probably should sleep. He wasn’t going to, though, obviously.

Chapter two!!

Wow. This place was *loud*. Really loud. His bones were practically rattling in the storm of voices and people playing instruments. He walked into the venue of Darkfest, some old conference center that now got rented out for events, invigorated. He was going to listen to good music, he was going to make a friend, and he’d not be told off by anyone. He walked thru the venue aimlessly, trying to find somewhere to sit or something to do. What he found instead was…..the butler of that one old lady that lived on his street? Talking to randoms? Ah, so he was into music? Nice. He decided to walk over to him and say hello, he vaguely knew him so it shouldn’t be so difficult. As he approached the butler, whose name left him at the moment, and made to say something, the butler spotted him first and started the conversation. “Hey, will, is it?” The butler jerked his head to him and gestured for him to walk over there. (What a prat….he already was!) But he didn’t feel like arguing, so he walked over. Something about Merriman really killed the normal rebellious teen (preteen*) spirit in him. “Ah, hi mister……uhhh….” He spoke happily and, in all truth, awkwardly. God, names, why’d you ever even need names if they were just going to disappear from your head when you needed them? “Eh? Just call me Merriman, you know sound stuff right? Could you assist our tech with the speakers?” Merriman rushed his words like someone in a rush to a meeting. How did he know he knew equipment? He had no reason to know how to do any of that! But although he had no reason to know anything he realized, in that very moment, that, yes, he did know how to work speakers and PA systems and mixing worked. This brought a small drop of fear upon him before he realized something more important: he was getting roped into this without even knowing Merriman all that well. Whatever happened to stranger danger? Well, however stupid a decision it was, he decided that he would do sound tech for this strange man. Why not? “Ah….sure?” He shot out at Merriman with confusion. The moment after he spoke this was a flurry of motion, like he was a sheep being herded by this 40 something butler to a Jerry-rigged “backstage”. This so called backstage, was, in truth, just a small musty area sectioned off by some janky curtain and a few boxes. A few people were stationed there, a twenty something setting up speakers, some kid that looked a few years older than him, 15, maybe 16, tweaking EQ’s, and of course will himself. Looking at the person setting up speakers he realized they were slightly off. “Ah—that shouldn’t be in that corner, and there’s no toe-in…” he barked out at the sound guy currently making this tragic mistake. He decided to take it upon himself to fix the speakers, moving them out the corners, elevating them a bit more, and hbb jeh making them toe-in towards the audience more, earning a chide from the sound guy he has now identified as Darryl due to a very helpful name tag. “AYE. Stop touching the speakers, punk kid……” Darryl shouted at him. “Not my fault you set them up wrong.” He commented back, voice laced with sarcasm. He saw Darryl’s face contort with anger and confusion, seemingly about to yell something at him, but before he was able a jarring terrible high pitched sound, the squeal of a terribly set mic. In any other circumstance he’d usually look to blame any of the other sound techs around, but Darryl didn’t seem incompetent enough to mess that up, and the other tech wouldn’t have messed with the mics. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but instinctually he knows that this sound isn’t just a jarring mistake, there’s something inherently sinister about this noise that drives him to run out of the backstage area, he has no clue what’s he’s looking for. No. Who he’s looking for. Until it clicks in his head. Merriman. As he frantically looks thru the crowd to find Merriman the lights dim and the mic stops squealing, a booming, raspy voice rings out above the crowd, and electric guitar follows. Music. So it was just…..the first performance? No, no something was sinister, about that squeal, about how nobody even checked with sound backstage, about the chaos of it all. This wasn’t even folk-rock….this was, what? Edgy shock value rock? He spotted Merriman in the crowd and shoved his way thru, determined. “Ey—YOU, BUTLER BOY!” He knew not where this confidence, this determination was coming from. He didn’t know why Merriman was the key to this, but he was. He shoved past a few more people, who uttered a delightful mix of profanities and insults at him as he passed, and was finally able to grab merriman’s sleeve. “AYE, BUTLER. Look man, I don’t know what’s going on, or how your involved, or how I’m involved, but I know we are, and I know you know more then I do, so spill it!” He barked out at Merriman, a strange buzzing in his jacket pocket. “Kid, yesterday when you got that patch, you were told music’s supposed to be a clean art? You’re here to clean it, that’s not the last patch, go on, kid. Give em hell.” Merriman muttered out in a rush. Was this guy always in a rush? Well, right now it made sense. And right now he had to go fix this, this music wasn’t right, magically sure, but it was also the kind of music that just instigated and incited people. Rushing thru the crowd he’d already seen enough people looking ready to fight, and none of them needed it. The lights flickered. He made his way back thru the crowd. Patch. Speakers? What—what was he even supposed to do? Stop this music obviously…how though? Turn off the speakers? No, Darryl would stop him. Mess with the mixing? Get them off stage? No that was….thats a grown man, no chance. He would have to—what, cut the mics? How? Actually, no “how” it’d be easy. Scissors. Where would he even get scissors? He’d find some. Then it struck him. Backstage. For cable management. He found himself in a flurrry of motion, then without thought, backstage. Somehow, upon arrival, he already knew where to find the scissors. What now, what now? Just—what? Run on stage? Yeah, sure, get banned, who cares? And so in a dazed flash of movement, and ambition, and a strange sense that this was a part of something bigger, he ran on stage and cut all wites on site. Mic? Cut. Speakers? Cut? Guitar to amps? You best believe it was cut. The squealing stopped, the malicious energy or the venue dissipated, and everyone was staring at him. Of course after this he was immediately thrown off stage and ushered out by security. Strange they didn’t call the cops. After being ushered out the venue he caught a vague glimpse of Merriman, who gave an acknowledging nod before mysteriously disappearing around a corner. Well, time to wait for a bus home, he supposed. As he approached the bus stop he saw a harp case. Then he saw its owner, and was caught of gaurd by his (?) very white hair, and tawny eyes. Oh, one of those types. “You get kicked out too?” The boy said. “Yeah, that a harp” he spoke back happily. Maybe he would get along with this person. “Indeed it is, why’d you get kicked out, I may have been taken out for being in too rowdy of a crowd, like Jesus don’t let kids in if you just see them as a liability. Bran by the way.” Oh. This guy was cool. “Will. I cut the wires on stage in the middle of a performance, I had good reasons.” He spoke, somewhat sheepishly. “Sure, I was told about you. Patches, right?” Holy hell was everyone else aware of what was going on but him? “Yep. Cool to see another harp player.” “Yep.” After a few more minutes of small talk (and a rushed exchange of numbers) they were both on separate buses. God, how much more confusion was it gonna take to find his place in this magical mess. Probably a lot. But atleast he reached his goal. He had made a friend, after all.