Echoes in the Snow

     It’s only recently that I have started to realise how much I miss those days. I find myself thinking about them more and more during the winter months, waiting for the days to lengthen and life to return.

     It was the third day of the Month of Sleeping, and the world had filled with snow and ice. I had taken down my Christmas tree, and I knew it would be the last time I played the Jazzmosis seasonal album until it went back up. Sitting in my own leather chair, I allowed my eyes to close with the heaviness of a long day’s work. Although I felt at peace, I had an air of melancholy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As I listened to the fireplace cracking, I was close to drifting off when I heard a faint tapping noise. It was rhythmic, in time with the music, but strangely metallic. As I happened to have my favourite chair positioned next to the window, I rubbed the fog off with the cuff of my sleeve and peered out. On the street, there was a young Blumaroo. He was dressed in shabby clothes, which were stained with mud at the hems. His hat had a number of holes, some patched but others left bare. He was tapping my wrought iron fence, almost within reaching distance of the window, with a stick to match the tempo of the music. His ruddy cheeks puffed with the effort, and his head nodded in time, although he kept his eyes closed.

     I pried myself out of the chair and moved over to open the door. Upon doing so, the Blumaroo stepped back in surprise.

     “Oh, I am sorry, sir,” he began earnestly, “I was just walking past when I heard this… music that was so, so much that I had to stop and…”

     He looked down bashfully, miming hitting with the stick as if to complete his sentence. I looked him over again with one eye.

     “What’s your name, kid?”

     “Satch, sir”

     Satch. The same as my old man’s.

     “Well, Satch,” I continued, “Don’t you have a home to be getting to?”

     “Not just yet, sir. I’ve been told to keep out during the day, sir. I’m just waiting for school to start up again. Spend my time walking, fishing in the river, and playing down on the frozen creek.”

     I felt a frown crinkle on my face. A young Blumaroo like this out in his own all day? He must be freezing. The music from the speakers continued to play out into the snow-covered street.

     “Well, you’d better come in out of the cold for a little bit. Warm up by the fire. P’raps I can rustle up some chocolate Borovan for you.”

     Satch looked nervous, biting his lip reluctantly.

     “Don’t worry, lad, I won’t bite. Besides, Mrs. McGinnis is sure to already know you’re here and will be sure to keep watch to make sure all is well”.

     I pointed and gave a friendly wave to the house across the narrow street, and both Satch and I saw a net curtain twitch as if someone had just stepped back from the window.

     “There you go,” I smiled, “nothing to worry about.”

     Satch came in and shuffled over to the fireplace as I shut the door. I moved through to the kitchen to begin digging through the various drink options I had. Whilst doing so, I was sure to mutter to myself loudly, in the hope of easing Satch’s mind.

     “Borovan, Borovan. Hmm. Mint, no. Orange, not at this time of year. Vanilla? I don’t even like vanilla. Ah. Here it is. Chocolate-flavoured. And here’s a perfectly good cup, a little chipped perhaps.”

     I came back to the living room. Satch was hunkered down near the crackling logs, watching them flicker and burn. I swung the iron kettle, still part full of water, on its pivot over the flames. It sighed as the water began to reheat. Before it had begun to boil again, the record ended. I flipped it over to the second and set the needle in place. By the time the first tune was halfway through, the kettle was singing. I moved it away from the fire, the singing dying down to a burble, and poured the liquid into the mugs already part-filled with Borovan extract. The near-divine smell of asparagus and chocolate filled the air. Satch murmured a word of thanks as he took the cup from me, holding it in both hands. His hat was slowly steaming in the heat.

     “This one reminds me of my dad,” I began. “Every Sunday morning, he would put on a Jazzmosis record whilst we read the latest Neopian Times together. I got the comics, he read the articles. That was a good few years ago now, but I still enjoy reading the comics every Sunday. I read the articles for him.”

     I rummaged through the stack of books next to me, extracting last week’s copy of the Neopian Times, before handing it over to Satch.

     “Here you go, perhaps it might be of interest to you.”

     He took the paper keenly, opening it to the comic pages at the back. I watched him flick through them, smiling occasionally. The steam from his cup of Borovan slowly steamed in whirls. After a while, the record finished and the room echoed with silence.

     “Please, sir,” came Satch’s voice, “do you have any more? I love Jazzmosis. My mum says that they sound like a herd of wailing Snufflies, but I think they are just wonderful.”

     I smiled and put on another record.

     “You might be interested in this one. An old family favourite.”

     We sat in silence, listening as the record played out. Our drinks went cold and the fireplace settled into embers. When the music ended, I put a new log on and turned to look out the window. The light had dimmed outside.

     “You best be off, lad. Your mum will start to get worried about you.”

     Satch appeared downcast. “I don’t think she will, sir. Since my little sister came along, I seem to only be in the way at home.”

     I felt an ache swell in my heart.

     “Well, my door is always open if you need a warm place to sit for a while. Besides, some of my older Jazzmosis albums have been gathering a bit of dust and could do with being played.”

     Satch beamed. “Oh, please, sir, I would like that very much, sir.”

     “Well— be off with you for now.”

     Each day that week, until the schools returned, Satch would arrive just as the sun began to set, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He’d tap his stick against the wrought-iron fence and greet me with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. We would sit together, with the soft crackle of the fireplace mingling with the sounds of Jazzmosis drifting through the air.

     As we shared mugs of chocolate Borovan, Satch would tell me about his adventures—his fishing trips to the river, the games he played with other kids on the creek, and the stories he made up about the creatures that lived in the woods. Occasionally, I would share tales of my own childhood.

     Satch’s laughter filled the room as we listened to the records, some of which I hadn't been able to work up the courage to listen to in years. His face would light up with each new song. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of bittersweet joy.

     One Sunday afternoon, as the shadows stretched long across the floor, Satch looked up from the comic he was reading. “Sir, do you think I could learn to play like this?” he asked, his voice tinged with hope.

     “I’m sure you could,” I replied, remembering that rhythmic tapping of his stick. “Provided you were willing to put in the effort. Do you have any instruments, perhaps at home?”

     Satch shook his head, his expression falling. “No, sir. My mum doesn’t… I mean to say, sir, we don’t, but I would love to try.”

     A thought struck me, and I felt a spark of inspiration. “You know, I think that I might have an old trumpet in the attic. It must have been gathering dust for years, but I’m sure it still works. If you’d like, you can make use of it whilst you’re here.”

     “Really?” His eyes widened slightly in disbelief. “You would let me?”

     “Absolutely,” I said with a grin. “It’s not being put to any other use.”

     The next day, I helped Satch carry the trumpet down from the attic. It was tarnished and worn, but as he held it in his hands, it was as if a new light had been ignited within him. “I’ll practice every day, I promise!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

     As the weeks passed and the snow began to melt, Satch would continue to come to my house each weekend. I noticed a change in the young Blumaroo. He seemed more vibrant, more alive.

     “Listen to this!” he declared one evening, attempting a simple melody from one of the Jazzmosis records we loved. Admittedly, it was a little rough around the edges, but there was a rawness that brought a tear to my eye. It was only then that I realized how large a part of my life that Satch had become. The quiet spaces had become filled with laughter and music.

     “That was magnificent Satch. Thank you.”

     The Blumaroo beamed.

     Later that evening, as I sat in my leather chair, now worn with the memories of countless afternoons spent with Satch, I remembered my old man again. I thought back to those long Sunday afternoons by the fire. I understood now.

     The End.