The Devil Tries Again

By R. F. Gammon

I stroke the strings of my finntler as I set it up under the burning lights of the spaceport overhead.

I reckon the best way to describe a finntler is it’s mighty like a xylophone, ‘cept with strings. That and it’s my life on a table. I’m just a boy, but most cain’t mimic the way I play. Travelers passin’ by throw coins. A few stop to listen to the music; my regulars clap along, whoopin’ and cheerin’ as I finish.

I’ll eat well tonight.

As I finish, glowin’ under the attention, I notice someone walking towards me. A man carryin’ his own black finntler case tucked under his arm. They’re heavy; he gotta be strong. But his strength ain’t what chills me—it’s his eyes’ cold glint, his unsavory smirk.

On top of that, he’s meddlin’ in my territory.

“You wanna bet, boy?” he yells to me. My listeners gasp. “My instrument’s better’n yours, and I’m better’n you.”

“You’re wrong,” I yell back. “An’ when I outplay ya, how ‘bout you give me your better finn?”

“When you win?” He cackles. “It’s on.”

He doesn’t name his price, but that ain’t no surprise. Men like him do what they want and pay up after. I stand in front of my finntler, smirkin’, while he assembles his.

The Earthen merchants say a finntler plays like a combination of a fiddle and a xylophone. I ain’t never seen neither, but I do know ‘bout fiddles from the family legends. My kin never forget, even if we left Earth with the early immigrants a few generations back. Grampa used to weave yarns ‘bout some ancestor of ours who made a deal with the Devil over a fiddle. Sounds like fool talk to me, but I ain’t arguin’ with Grampa’s memory.

The stranger clips together his finntler. He wasn’t lyin’—the instrument is fine indeed. Its strings sparkle in the faint streetlight, and it definitely ain’t lost paint. I pat my own instrument, imaginin’ how well I’d play with that beauty. I could take up professional music and git off the street.

One of my regulars, a hoity-toity merchant’s wife, whispers to her husband, “Can the boy possibly win?”

“Guess we’ll see, ma’am,” I whisper back, though she wasn’t askin’ me.

The stranger finishes his assembly and stands before his instrument. “If you don’t mind, boy, I’ll go first,” he says, and without waitin’, he lowers his bow and plays.

The audience listens, rapt, as he weaves his song. It’s a fast-paced, mighty jig of a song, enough to knock you off your feet if you ain’t careful. I stand with arms folded and watch, unflinchin’. Sure, he’s good, but he ain’t got soul like me. Good don’t compete with best.

He finishes, and the sparse applause grows. Most people stick around, gapin’ at him, as though unsure how I can beat such genius.

I spin my bow in my hand. “Sounded purty.” I smile. “Mind if I give ‘er a go?”

An unholy smile grows across his face. The spaceport behind me rumbles—a freighter taking off. Most people would wait for it to go by, but not me. With another spin, I dive headfirst into my song.

I play smoke down on the city. I play love and heartbreak, death and birth, betrayal and friendship, beauty and agony. My song weaves from fast to slow, breaks my heart and puts it back together. I saw wildly on the strings, buildin’ momentum to match that of the spaceship.

Lights flash overhead. Sound shakes me to the core, rattling my ribs and knocking my teeth together. Reverberation joins my music—but I play on. It’s probably bragging to say it, but of the two competing sounds, my finntler dwarfs the spaceship.

Finally, I finish with a crashing note and take a step back, spinnin’ my bow one last time. My heart is pounding, but I didn’t even break a sweat.

My listeners stare at me, eyes wide. The crowd grew while I played, and there’s at least a few dozen people standing here. Now that I’m done, they break into applause almost louder than the spaceship’s roar a minute ago.

The stranger’s eyes smolder black as he glowers at me. For a minute, I almost feel afraid—did I jump the gun?

Then he slams down his bow atop the finntler and turns to leave.

“Oh, you never did tell what you wanted for your price,” I call after him. “Don’t be a sore loser, now—what was your bet?”

He vanishes into the streets without an answer. I walk over and run my hand over the shiny new finntler. It’s one of the best on the market—I’ve been admirin’ this baby for months. And now I got one.

“What if he’d beaten you?” The merchant’s wife sounds both anxious and relieved. “What would he have taken?”

I smile without looking at her. “Oh, ma’am, nothin’ to be worried about. I come from a long line of fiddlers, and if there’s one thing we know, it’s this…” I stroke the strings of the finntler with one finger. “The devil won’t rest ‘til he gets his due.”

I don’t tell her the last, most important bit:

He won’t be gittin’ it from us.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. F. Gammon is a high school student currently residing in the wilds of Maine with her family. She has written a number of novels, but Havok is her first publication. If she isn’t writing, she’s listening to Fall Out Boy, petting her cats, or playing Chopin. Most importantly, she’s a daughter of the One True King.

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