The Cove by Ron Rash

Ansel agreed. “He’s a gung-ho fellow for getting a body volunteered and over to the fight.”
    â€œExcept if that fellow is his ownself,” Hank said.
    â€œHaving a rich daddy does have advantages when a war starts up,” Boyce said. “Get to put on a uniform and no one within a thousand miles who’ll kill you for the wearing of it.”
    â€œHe still got those school lads dandied up in shirts and britches?” Hank asked.
    â€œHe was last Saturday,” Boyce said. “Feith struts them around like peacocks, all the while them saluting and yes sirring him. Gives him something to do when he’s not bedeviling that German professor.”
    â€œFeith claims him for a Hun sympathizer, maybe even a spy,” Ansel added. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Feith and his troops will be storming that college any day now, dodging chalk and erasers all the while.”
    â€œMakes me and Ansel glad we don’t get to town much,” Boyce said. “It’s bad enough to hear about such nonsense, much less see it.”
    Slidell lifted his guitar from the case and leaned close to the instrument. He plucked each string and then turned the wooden pegs until he was satisfied.
    â€œFetch out your dulcimer, Boyce,” Slidell said, and turned to Hank. “These boys said they can’t stay long.”
    Boyce opened the case and settled the dulcimer on his lap, a raven feather in his right hand. Walter was looking at the dulcimer intently.
    â€œYou ever played one of those?” Laurel asked.
    Walter shook his head.
    â€œBut you’ve heard one before?”
    Walter nodded.
    Slidell and Boyce began to play and Ansel joined in. As Ansel sang And there’s no sickness, toil, or danger in that bright world to which we go, Laurel wondered if Walter believed what the song claimed, that there was a place where no one got sick and the lame walked and he would be able to speak. But what good did that do in the here and now. It gave you some hope, Laurel supposed, and that was something, but it didn’t change the day to day very much.
    â€œThat was a good one,” Hank said as the men paused and passed the jug.
    â€œAmazing how a couple of drinks always makes my guitar sound better,” Slidell said. “I guess some of the fumes seep into the wood and oil the squeaks out of it.”
    Slidell turned to Walter.
    â€œGet that fife of yours and join us.”
    Walter hesitated.
    â€œI’ll fetch it for you,” Laurel told him, and went inside.
    â€œI’ve not seen a fife like that one,” Slidell said when she returned with the flute. “Mind if I have a gander?”
    She handed it to him. Slidell let the flute balance in his palm, measuring the weight as he read the words etched on it. Slidell whistled softly and handed the flute back.
    â€œPure silver and made in Paris. Good thing it was there instead of Vienna. If it had been, Sergeant Feith would claim you’re bunging spy notes in it.”
    The men began “Shady Grove.” Walter listened to the first verse and then raised the flute to his mouth. He entered the song so smoothly that Laurel wouldn’t have known he was playing except his fingers moved and lips rounded. It wasn’t so much a soaring sound but something on the song’s surface, like a water strider crossing a creek pool.
    â€œYou two are going down a trail I can’t follow,” Boyce soon said, and raised his hands palms up as if surrendering.
    Ansel quit singing as Walter and Slidell played on. The guitar and flute tightly wove their sounds and then untangled them, did that several times until Slidell shook his head and the guitar’s strings stilled. Walter played on for a few more notes. When it was over, the only sound was the fyce grinding the bone.
    â€œThat’s the damndest thing I ever heard,” Boyce finally said. “It makes me want to turn this dulcimer into a ball