An old violin case lay yawning at the feet of a tall, scrawny youth. Eyes closed, the bow in his hand lightly touching the strings, he coaxed a serenade from the worn violin out into the soft evening.
The musician’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, a threadbare jacket draped on a nearby bough. There were buttons missing from his crumpled shirt and the tattered ends of his trousers were tucked inside a pair of scuffed boots.
Releasing the final note, he finished the performance with an unnecessary flourish of his bow. Somewhere, a cricket chirped in appreciation.
Looking into the empty case, Kepa frowned, tipped out the debris of leaves that had collected during his performance and carefully packed his violin away. Never trust a poet, especially one that owes you money. Lars had waxed lyrical about the volumes of people he had seen on this road. Oh, he had gone on and on. Surely, he had insisted, Kepa could make some cash by serenading the masses.
Why not? It was usually a busy enough spot. It was not on the route he had planned to take but if what Lars had said was true, well, he could do with the money. Besides, where there were people there was information.
Retrieving his jacket and shouldering the case, Kepa looked up and down the road. Not a sinner in either direction. The only thing that populated that part of the road was the lengthening shadows of the trees, and the faint sound of birdsong. Lying little shit. Funny though, Lars had never been that good a liar. But where was everyone?
It would be getting dark soon; he would have to find somewhere to stay for the night. Glancing up and down the road again, he slipped from the road into the forest, pine needles scrunching beneath his feet. The temperature dropped marginally in the full shade of the canopy. Picking his way lightly but surely through the forest, he headed to the Three Sisters. If anyone knew what was going on, one of the sisters would.