Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Read Free Book Online Page B

cook with whom she’d become friendly did it for her. The chicken made a good lunch, and Allegra kept the feathers as stuffing for a pillow. Nevertheless, she stayed away from Sissy for a while, and three weeks passed before she found any more eggs on her doorstep.
    The first flute Allegra made didn’t have a very good sound, so she gathered some more bamboo and started over again, this time experimenting with different kinds of reeds: faux birch bark, chicken feathers, cloverleaf, whatever else she could find. She’d never fashioned her own instruments before—what little she knew, she’d learned from observing craftsmen back in New England—so it was mainly a matter of trial and error. Eventually, she discovered that swamper skin, cured and tightly stretched, produced the best results. She got it from a glovemaker in Shuttlefield; when Sissy began leaving eggs on her doorstep again, Allegra bartered a few for a square foot of skin, with the promise that she wouldn’t go into the clothing business herself.
    Early one evening she sat out on her front porch, playing the flute she’d most recently fashioned. The sun had gone down, and Bear was rising to the east; she’d carried a fish-oil lamp out onto the porch, and its warm glow cast her shadow across the rough planks of the porch. The night was cool, the air redolent with the scent of approachingautumn. Not far away, she could see bonfires within Shuttlefield. It was the fourth week of Uriel, the last month of Coyote summer; next Zaphael would be First Landing Day, the colony’s biggest holiday. Already the inhabitants were gearing up for the celebration, yet she wanted nothing to do with it. Her only desire was to be left alone, to practice her art in solitude.
    The new flute had a nice sound: neither too shrill nor too low, and she was able to run up and down the scales without any effort. Now that she knew how to make one, it shouldn’t be hard to duplicate others like it. On impulse, she shifted to a piece she’d written for the Connecticut River Ensemble. She was about halfway through the first stanza when a nearby voice began humming the melody, and she turned to see Sissy Levin standing next to her.
    Allegra was so startled, she nearly dropped the flute. Sissy didn’t notice. She leaned against the awning post, her eyes closed, a soft smile upon her face. In the wan lamplight, Allegra could clearly see the deep wrinkles around her mouth, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes; as always, her hair was an uncombed mass that formed a ragged halo around her head. Even so, at that moment she seemed at peace.
    Her fingers trembling upon the flute, Allegra managed to finish the composition, with Sissy humming along with it. When she followed a melody, Allegra realized, Sissy had a beautiful voice; she repeated the first stanza just so she could hear more of it. When she was done, she lowered her instrument, but was careful not to speak. Let the moment take its own course. . . .
    “That’s a nice song,” Sissy said quietly, not opening her eyes. “What’s it called?”
    “ ‘Deerfield River,’ ” Allegra replied. “Do you like it?”
    A nod, ever so slight. “I think I remember it. Wasn’t it once in a movie?”
    “No . . . no, not that I know of.” Although there were probably other pieces that sounded a bit like it; Allegra’s style had been influenced by earlier composers. “It’s my own. I wrote it for—”
    “I think I once heard it in a movie. The one where there’s a man who meets this woman in Vienna, and they fall in love even though she’sdying, and then they—” She stopped abruptly, and opened her eyes to gaze off into some private memory. “It’s a great movie. I really liked it. Jim and I saw it . . . oh, I don’t know how many times. I’m sorry about the chicken. It was meant to be a joke, but I don’t think you thought it was very funny.”
    The abrupt change of subject caught Allegra off guard. For a