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“I’m not doing nothing,” Lev responds, holding up a worn leather-bound tome he’s been glued to. “I’m learning the Arápache language. It’s actually very beautiful.”
“Sometimes, Lev, I just want to smack you.”
“You already hit him with a car,” Grace tosses in from the other room. Connor’s response is a growl that doesn’t do much of anything but at least makes him feel a tiny bit better. He’s sure Pivane would say he’s connecting with his animal spirit.
“You forget that I was under house arrest for a year,” Lev points out. “I got used to semi-incarceration.”
Una spends most of her time down in the shop, either tending to customers or crafting new instruments in the workshop. The whine of drills and the gentle tapping of a hammer and chisel have become accustomed sounds. It’s when those sounds stop that Connor wonders what’s going on.
Two days ago, and then again yesterday, Connor heard Una locking up the shop, and he peeked through the blinds to see her leaving. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, except for the fact that she was carrying a guitar in one hand and her leather rifle case in the other. Where she might be going with both a guitar and a rifle did not take Connor’s imagination to happy places.
“Una has issues,” was Lev’s entire assessment of the situation.
Connor, however, suspects that it’s more than that.
Later that afternoon, she leaves again, and Connor decides to follow, against Lev’s warnings to just let her be. “We should be grateful she’s letting us hide out here. Don’t repay her by messing in her business.”
But he doesn’t have time to argue if he’s going to effectively tail her. He pushes past Lev, down the stairs to the shop, then out into the street, where he sees her turning the corner. There are people in the streets, but Connor wears a woolen Arápache hat he found in Una’s closet, so no one pays him much attention. Besides, it’s not like Una is seeking out crowded places. Even though the rifle is in a carrying case, it’s pretty obvious what it is. Wherever she’s going, she probably doesn’t want to be questioned about it, which, Connor reasons, is why she’s taking only the quietest side streets to get wherever it is that she’s going.
At the edge of town, Una lingers until there are neither cars nor pedestrians on the street; then she crosses to a narrow footpath that leads into the woods. Connor follows, giving her a long lead.
Although he can’t see her in the dense woods, the ground is soft from an early-morning rain, and he can follow her footprints. There are several sets of them. She’s been back and forth on this path many times over the past few days. About half a mile in, he comes to a building—if it can really be called a building. It’s an odd-looking structure, the shape of an igloo, but made of mud and stone. He hears two voices inside. One is Una, and the other is male—but doesn’t sound like anyone Connor’s already met on the rez.
His first thought is that Una is meeting a lover here for a secret liaison and perhaps they should be left alone . . . but the argument inside doesn’t sound like a lover’s spat.
“No, I won’t do it!” shouts the male voice. “Not now and not ever again!”
“Then you’ll be left here to die,” Una says.
“Better that than this!”
There’s only one door, but the apex of the dome is in disrepair and full of holes. Carefully, quietly, Connor climbs the curving surface of the stone and mud structure until he can peer through a gap where the stones have given way.
His first impression hits a chord in him as resonant as any instrument Una could build. He sees a young man about his age with odd multitextured hair of different shades. He’s tied to a pole, struggling to pull himself free. By the smell of the place and the look of him, he’s been here for a while, in this helpless, hopeless situation, without even the freedom to relieve himself anywhere but in his clothes.
Connor’s immediate gut reaction is identification. This prisoner is me. Me being held in Argent’s basement. Me desperately trying to escape. Me struggling to hold on to hope. The sense of empathy is so strong it will flavor everything that transpires between them.
Una is not Argent, Connor must remind himself. Her motives, whatever they are, must be different. But why is she doing this? Connor waits and watches, hoping she’ll give him a clue.
“Either you have to let me go, or you have to kill me,” her captive says. “Please do one or the other, and let this end!”
To that, Una responds with a single, simple question. “What’s my name?”
“I told you, I don’t know! I didn’t know yesterday, I don’t know today, and I won’t know tomorrow!”
“Then maybe today the music will remind you.”
Then Una undoes his bonds. He doesn’t even try to run—he must know it’s no use. Instead he sobs, his arms going limp. And into those limp arms Una puts the guitar she brought.
“Do it,” Una says. Now she speaks gently, and she caresses his hands, lifting them into position on the instrument. “Give it life. It’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done.”
“That wasn’t me,” he pleads.
Una moves away from him and sits down facing him. Taking her rifle from its case, she lays it across her lap. “I said do it.”
Her prisoner reluctantly begins to play. Sorrowful strains fill the space and echo, the entire building becoming like the tone chamber of the guitar. Connor feels it resonating in his chest.
This music is beautiful. This prisoner of Una’s is a true master of the instrument. He’s not sobbing anymore. Instead it’s Una who sobs. She holds her gut as if there’s great pain there. Her sobs grow into wails that resonate with the music like some great chanting of grief.
