Making Magic Read Online Free Page A

“Don’t let anyone buy that mixed set.”
    “Try the Pisgah Pale Ale. It’s the best,” Jake said as the bell rang and they were gone, arms linked and laughing. Life’s one big adventure for them. He followed them and propped the door open to catch the soft evening breeze.
    Returning to his work, he thought about how he was going to spend his Friday night. Six sound hole inlays to finish and stain and glue in place. Then he had to string and tune the three instruments he had ready. And tune and play and tune again. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get much sleep the next few days, other than the workshop’s futon. There was only a week until the festival.
    On top of running the store, he still had the extra practice sessions with the band, a gig that had to come off like clockwork, and finishing the hammered dulcimers. It was going to be close. But he was determined that any instrument with his name on it was going to be a unique and beautiful piece that he would be proud to own and play himself. If he sold them all, he would make the down payment on this place.
    He glanced south into the green dark where Woodruff Mountain reared her beautiful peaks and ridges into the sky.
    Unlike his older brother, he had never considered leaving here, even to get away from their dysfunctional family. He still couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Eric had found mountains of his own, but those over in Washington State weren’t anything like these. These mountains had ancient roots that reached the heart of the planet, peaks that touched the stars and a song that hummed through your soul until your fingers itched with the need to play it.
    As he leaned over his workbench, he thought of others who had left these mountains behind. There weren’t many. People born up here stayed if they could. Families endured. Some families like his and the Woodruffs had history going back to the beginning, back to the first settlers and even to the native tribes, right here in these mountains. Even when some of them did leave, like Grace and Daniel Woodruff, they tended to come back. And then there was Thea Woodruff.
    She was another one, like Eric, who had escaped as soon as she could, although he never understood why. It had been Becca’s death that had been the final blow for Eric. Eric had only come back to town once—for their dad’s funeral. Hell, between his dad’s death and his mom’s struggle with alcohol, Jake had been tempted to skip town himself. But he was the one who stayed.
    At least Eric was still playing his guitar. From what Jake had heard after the Woodsman’s funeral, Thea wasn’t even playing anymore. Another thing he couldn’t imagine—Thea without her flute.
    He couldn’t imagine not playing. His instrument of choice was a bit more unwieldy to carry around than a flute or guitar. It was even harder to describe to your average music lover, but he had finally come up with a description that worked for him. “ The hammered dulcimer is like a guitar with no neck, a much bigger soundboard, a lot more strings and two sound holes. And what makes it more fun? You play by whacking on it with tiny hammers. ”
    The openwork carving of musical notes he was working on would eventually be set into the sound hole. He had carved a musical note for Thea a long time ago. Hers had been one note, stained dark, with an intricately carved flute of lighter wood laid across the stem and tucked under the flag. He remembered how she had worn it proudly every time their little group—Appalachian Synchrony—played together. Now only Jake was left.
    And Thea was stuck in the big city without her music. Surrounded by glass and concrete and noise, she probably rarely saw a bird, much less heard all the myriad sounds that composed the mountain’s song.
    But Jake could hear it through the open door. He turned off the store’s sound system, cutting off “Sí Bheag, Sí Mhór” mid-note. With only frog song from the nearby creek, the breeze