The Arena

I hold my violin closer to my chest and stare up at the rings of spectators.

All calling. All cheering. All clamoring.

For my death.

Jago holds out one hand.

“I’ll keep it with me, thanks.”

He scatters the weapons the other fighters will use when they come out. All the city council leaders who tire of hearing my violin in the park every day. “You know it’s why you’re in here, right, Marisol?”

“No one can outlaw music.” I dig my feet deeper into the sand.

He shakes his head. “If only you weren’t so crazy.” He raises his hand and walks backward from the ring.

But as soon as his feet leave the sand, he spins and faces me again.

And pulls out a dagger sheathed inside his coat.

No one told me I’d be fighting my best friend.

He charges at me. I can’t think of anything beyond what I’m seeing.

But I can feel the timing of the rhythm deep in the ground. So I count it off. “One, two, three, four . . .”

I tuck the violin under my chin, taking my eyes off him. Let him come. I force my muscles to relax.

Just as he would have landed his final blow, I raise my bow.

And music pours from the violin.

A few of the chants in the crowd die away.

Jago pulls off at the last second. His dagger nicks my shoulder.

I clench my jaw. One off-key note sounds. I keep playing.

“You have to fight! Those are the rules!” Jago calls from several paces away.

“I am,” I whisper in time with the music.

With each dance of the bow across the strings, the crowd falls a few notes more silent.
Jago strengthens his pose, preparing to go at me again.

I prepare myself, too, and lose my mind in the music.

One, two, three, four . . .

Jago pauses and turns to a new angle, as if he’s forgotten how to fight.

One, two, three, four . . .

Somewhere in the crowd, someone claps.

One, two, three, four . . .

And with that one person rises an army. One by one, across the crowds, person after person stands, clapping their hands with the folk song that tumbles from my violin. A folk song of the nation that used to be.

My eyes open. Jago still stands a few paces away, his dagger raised, but still.

“Magic,” he whispers.

I let the note dangle in mid-air.

One lone person calls for his death.

I shake my head. “No. Just music.” I take two steps toward him and hold out the violin.

Our violin.

He stares at it numbly.

“I think we wound up on the wrong sides of this war.” I hold out my other hand.

Slowly, as if swimming in a dream, Jago places the dagger in it.

I toss the dagger into the sand on the outskirts of the arena.

That leaves only the violin.

And Jago takes it softly. Tucks it under his chin. Raises the bow.

And I lose my mind in the music.