The Harp - Caleb Scott

The Harp
So it’s true, he thought, it’s really true. None of the others had believed the stories, but he had. He had known he was right all along. The music was here; he had heard it himself, long before anyone told him about it. Now all of them would see. It was true. He was not mad.
“Come on, Raff,” he called. The small dog hurried after him, bounding with ease across the tangled roots and brambles that had given the boy so much trouble. It was just there, just up ahead down the stream on the opposite bank, golden strings being plucked as though by the gentle breeze itself. It was calling him in its melodious, wordless voice. He had never seen another harp, but something made him unequivocally certain that this was the most beautiful one in the entire world.
As he began to cross the stream he barely noticed the cold of the water as it lapped at his ankles, barely noticed the rocks that clawed at his soles and left weeping red furrows in his skin. All he was aware of was that harp gleaming angelically in a lone beam of light on the other side. He was almost there, almost able to touch it. Once he had it he knew it would all be set right. His aching, twisted hand; his mother’s long absence; his father’s secret fits of hysteria when he was reminded.
Raff came splashing along, splashing water into the boy’s face. His eyes were ripped away from the harp as he whirled about to face the dog, his face contorted into a mask of mindless rage. After a moment, his temper cooled. “Stay behind me,” he said softly. “Stay.” And Raff stayed.
As he drew nearer and nearer to his goal, he drifted once more into his reverie. He reached out with his good hand as the harp came within a few paces, and the gilt frame began to darken. Bits and pieces of gold leaf seemed to chip away, more falling off the closer he approached. The music was changing, too, taking on a tone that was still enchanting but somehow less fulfilling than it had been. Where once there had been a fluid blend of melody, now a few notes here and there stood out almost to the point of dissonance. But it didn’t matter. He had only to get there, to hold the harp in his hand—his hands—and everything would be fine. More than fine. Good. Perfect. No more worrying, no more fear of those eyes and those words and those hands waiting back home, reminding him again and again that he was the reason she was gone. No more of that, once he touched the harp.
Stepping out of the water, the boy slowed his pace. He crouched to the ground, enraptured, and reached out. The music was growing chaotic, almost unnaturally so. No matter. It was only growing impatient for him, he knew.
Now, leaning in, he was sure he could almost see pale, thin fingers plying the harp strings at a furious rate. All trace of opulence was gone from the frame, leaving it scarred and stained with age and abuse. The discordant tune it sang was now joined with voices, disembodied but undoubtedly there, voices much like his own it seemed. Oh, how he longed to join them. They surely never had to live with the fear he felt. Surely not. He took a deep breath and wrapped his fingers around the harp frame. It disintegrated into ash. The boy began to scream.
And all alone, the little dog waited patiently in the still, silent forest.