Boots beat a unique rhythm on gravel. Heels caught the small stones, cast them forward. Steps were constant, and time was kept at a swift pace. Iggy’s gait kept in sync with the music that never ended in his head. Soles kept pace with his heart; notes, which played even in dreams, were born from within, until they were written down. Sometimes, he would trudge, strut, or seem to almost scamper, but most days the young man moved in a smooth stride. Chords, major or minor, carried him along, for people avoided hitchhikers these days.

The transition to pavement was as abrupt as a wide of the mark pluck. So smooth was his step, Iggy moved to accommodate the change. Rasp of boots were a whisper sung low. Cut off mufflers were a bass of a lifetime smoker. Newer cars sang tenor, more electronic and light than metal and heavy. Everything added to the sheet of music, though more vehicles contributed now. He moved, turned back with a thumb up, but still moved on. None stopped; all passed him by, as though a man with a guitar was accursed or trafficked with the unsavory.

To the crossroads he came, still to the rhythm, still on foot. Iggy paused. Superstition ran deep in Appalachia. Once, a bit over a decade ago, he had come to such a place, but it was of dirt. Desperate to be better on his guitar Paganini and in despair, he’d begged anything that would listen, god or devil. The only thing that came was the smell of hand rolled cigarettes, and the down beat of steel spurs. Tears had also come, as one consigned to a miserable lot. If no one above or below would help, he had sworn then and now, Iggy would play as his heart moved him. Fame sounded sweet, recognition even better; yet, he strummed his guitar out of love for the eternal music inside. Before that desperate act, his skill was noticed, although it earned him scorn. Over the road he crossed, when it was clear enough to go. A black truck passed him, windows tinted dark, and Iggy looked away. Memories swam up, dived own, to leave troubled waters. The music turned down in his heart, as he felt eyes upon him.

Like all the others, the motorist left him on the side of the road. Music turned up to match the dervish of his heart. Closer to home, he kept his thumb down, and looked away from all the passing drivers. One old man in a truck rumbled past slowed, but eyes found the guitar on Iggy’s back. The young man sighed, murmured a thank you as the vehicle drove on. Winter Rose County was next to Lear County, and a decade was a long time to some but nothing to rural folk. Others would pass, very few slowed.

The mall, where he had hitchhiked to as a teenager, was still open. Once, when he still lived just beyond Lear Mountain, he had come to the music store for records or strings. Every space had been occupied, especially on a Friday night. When a blockbuster movie hit the theater, every space in the parking lot would be filled. Last time Iggy saw a movie, he recalled, was that Halloween. Thought was pushed away with other memories.

No, he saw, most of the stores were closed. Previous occupants had left their mark, before they had folded or moved on. Dreams of stepping back into the record store faltered. People were dressed different, fashions new. Cars changed. Iggy had on the same clothes when he had left, though he was taller and thinner. They looked at him, the guitar, curious at the stranger.

To the record store he moved, and considered the money he managed to save. Iggy stopped. The steel shutters were pulled down. Nothing of Razor Hawk Records remained. Another store’s advertisements remained in the window; some had fallen into the floor. One of very few dreams he allowed himself hit a sour note. Deep was his sigh. Music inside skipped like a damaged vinyl.

Over to the bench he strode. He withdrew Paganini the guitar, set it down. Iggy rubbed the scar, which ran from above his right eye up into his black hair. Quite for years, it held a low ache. “What to do?” he asked too low for others to hear.

He picked up Paganini. The music skipped inside, and he frowned at the repetition. In he drew a breath, held it, and then released it. Fingers picked cords in a smooth motion, music again played. When hands pulled notes out through strings, the world felt farther away. Nothing except the song remained. They came easy as breathing. Sweet was the progression, ensnared any that heard. Iggy saw nothing, but rapture of creation filled the self. Heavy eyes focused on nothing, intense in ecstasy. People gathered. Women held hands to their hearts, but faces reddened as if an intruder in a secret garden. Men frowned, though heads bobbed, faces drained of color. Creation was the province of the Divine. Their mouths worked, and a few trembled; some even closed their eyes to hear better, eliminate the distractions of vision. None dared to make any noise. All fell under the spell.

“You’re that boy,” a man barked, face moved from pale to a violent reed.

Iggy jerked. Eyes found the man, who balled calloused hands into fists. “I…I don’t know what you mean,” Iggy looked at the small crowd, who blinked, frowned, and turned to the middle age man. They murmured as eyes moved between the two.

“DNA, BULL-SPIT,” his thick brow drew down, “you need to get going. You should have never come back.” His wife, who had a bag with a new blouse, rushed over. She whispered to him, pulled him, gentle yet insistent. “NO, Honey, once we would have hung men like him!” he growled. “He should have ended in Blackberry Bog!” She jerked him away, though the man’s baleful eyes returned to Iggy.