THE FUNERAL procession is quite orderly, considering.
“You really think this is an appropriate response?” Ally asks.
Rose spins around, eyes blazing. “Yes, I think it’s an appropriate response! It’s the only response as far as I’m concerned!”
I decide to say nothing and just watch the rising flames float downstream. A Viking funeral in the middle of July.
This was a bad idea.
It started on the afternoon after the nursing home. After we got back from our journey, Rose called her mom from Ally’s house to ask if she could spend the night. My parents were fine with it, but Rose’s mom said Rose had to come home to practice first. As Ally and I listened, what began as a regular conversation escalated into a full-on battle. I could never imagine speaking to my mom like that. Or vice versa.
Twenty minutes later, Rose’s mom showed up. She marched Rose out of Ally’s house and we didn’t hear from her for three whole days.
Rose showed up at Mathematics Camp on Tuesday like nothing had happened. She was carrying a backpack, though, and that was unusual. Especially because she didn’t open it or refer to it in any way.
Later, on the way to the pool, Rose still hadn’t said anything about the backpack over her shoulders. As we passed Mrs. Hale’s house, I reached my breaking point. “What’s with the backpack, Rose?”
“You’ll see,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling in the bright sun.
As we approached the pool, her pace quickened. We passed by the pool courtyard and descended onto the path that led to the woods. This was the first time in our lives that Ally and I struggled to keep up with her.
Once in the woods, we followed Rose downstream. I assumed we were heading for our island but when we passed the tree bridge and left our island behind, I glanced back at Ally. “Where are we going?”
“Almost there.” Rose marched on, our personal pied piper. Weaving through trees and brush, she hiked on, her backpack bouncing every step of the way.
Downstream, the creek became flat and calm. The water flowed evenly under lush green tree limbs that draped overhead.
Rose finally stopped when we hit the little beach at the shallows. It’s not a real beach with waves or sharks or anything. But it’s sandy and the closest thing this muddy creek will ever have to one. We’ve been here before but not in a long time. She dropped her backpack on the sand. “We’re here.”
“What’s with all the mystery?” I asked.
Rose kneeled down beside the backpack. “My parents sold the house, I hate my mum, and I’m never playing the violin again.”
“Oh, crap,” Ally said.
“Al, you’re a poet,” said Rose. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Ally and I catch each other’s eyes. We fall on our knees in the sand beside her.
“There’s no getting out of this. I’m definitely going back to England.”
We sat there silently, leaves rustling above. “We’re really going to miss you,” I said.
“Yeah,” added Ally. “A lot.”
Rose tried to smile. “I’m going to miss you squares, too. But I was thinking, I’m kind of an American now. And when Americans are fed up, we do things like the Boston Tea Party. Acts of rebellion are in our blood. We throw things off boats. We burn things.” She eyed us both, then said, “And on that note…”
She unzipped the backpack and pulled out her violin. Solemnly, she said, “I’m not taking everything with me.”
“What are you doing, Rose?” I asked warily.
Rose looked us as calmly. Too calmly. “Don’t worry. Not all things were meant to last.”
She laid her violin reverently on the sand. She reached in the backpack again, pulled out a hammer, and smashed a hole right in the middle of it. The strings whined and groaned. One popped off completely.
“Dude!” Ally shouted.
“It’s okay,” Rose said. “It’s like a Band-Aid. Had to be ripped off.”
Stunned, Ally and I just watched as she pulled more supplies from her backpack. Some newspaper. A box of matches. A bottle of lighter fluid.
“What the—” I almost said a bad word. I stopped myself, but seriously, Rose. Lighter fluid?
“It’s just from the grill. There’s hardly any left.” She handed me the metal container. “Here, shake it.”
“That’s not the point.” But I shook it anyway. She was telling the truth. “But it’s lighter fluid! That is against the rules!”
“It is,” Ally echoed.
“I know,” Rose said. “And I promise, I’ll never do it again. Just this once.”
We watched Rose fill the hollow violin with crumpled newspaper. Then we watched her shower the newspaper with lighter fluid. And I thought this: As much as I will miss Rose, and I will miss her so much, in some ways it might be better if she goes. Because it’s hard for me to say no to her even when she does questionable things. We aren’t even in middle school yet and she is about to set a fire using lighter fluid. What will she be like in high school?
Rose grabbed a match and held it up defiantly. “The tyranny I have lived under and by extension, you, my dearest friends, have had to endure is coming to an end.”
I felt Ally sneaking a peek at me. I dared not look back.
“Today marks the end of Mum’s rule,” she said, and went to strike the match.
“Wait!” I exclaimed. Rose stopped and stared at me. “If you kill yourself, I’m going to be really mad at you.”
Rose nodded. “That’s fair, Bird.” Her lips turned up slightly. “Totally fair.” Then she slid the match against the matchbox. It ignited, combusting in blue, red, then orange. She grabbed the long neck of her violin and lowered the body of the broken, lighter-fluid soaked instrument into the creek. As she pushed the violin from shore, she tossed out the burning match and, like something out of a Norse legend, the flame hit the target.
Whoosh. The violin practically exploded in flames. We leaned back, surprised by its fast fury.
“Lighter fluid really works,” Ally said.
“Yeah,” was all I could manage.
The current claimed the burning violin like a wooden ship pushing out to sea. This is how the Vikings did it. In old Norse times, they would place a dead warrior or nobleman on a ship laden with wood (no lighter fluid in those days), send it out to sea, and set it ablaze, sometimes by shooting it with a flaming arrow. The dead guy wasn’t alone on that floating funeral pyre, though. His treasures from life went with him to keep him company on his way to Valhalla (the home of the gods).
As black smoke unfurls from the burning pyre that used to be Rose’s violin, I wonder what treasure is being sacrificed with it. I fear we are witnessing Rose’s love of music, her innate talent, floating away, too. Floating to Valhalla. And I wonder if, someday, Rose will regret this.
We watch the burning violin grow smaller and smaller. As it disappears around the curve in the creek, I can speak again. “What will you tell her?”
“Not sure.” Rose says, her eyes fixed downstream. “Maybe I’ll say I lost it.”
“She won’t believe you,” says Ally.
“I know.”