Enchanting Emerald
by Eric Li | Grade 10 | Scholastic 2024 | Short Story | Gold Key
Darkness has fallen, and most people have descended into sleep. But, under a lamplight, in a small shed, The Artisan still works relentlessly. Wiping the water off the wrinkles of his forehead and fanning away the sticky sweat clinging to his cotton shirt, he proceeds to cast the brass into the flaming furnace.
Carefully removing the scorching metal, The Artisan hammers it on top of a circular rod, morphing the brass into a dented, hollow cylinder. He sets the molded piece aside and takes a quick break, before picking up another piece of brass. He repeats the process in the furnace, picks up his hammer, and rains down more blows until he produces another hollow pipe with a bell at the end of it. His next step is the sanding and welding station. He places the two pipes together and polishes the instrument. After finishing, he holds it up to the dim light. What does he see? A golden glimmer of his smile reflected towards him.
The Artisan cuts each pit by hand, drilling holes into the saxophone one by one. Brass sprays launch at his face, but he simply brushes it away. He crafts each individual key to fit the saxophone, and he places them gently with his rough hands. He arranges the perfect pearls, on top of the shiny keys, with steady fingers.
Finally, The Artisan enters his lounge next door and sags on his couch. He falls asleep, but not for long. When he awakens, he returns to his station, picks up the instrument, and resumes the final steps of his unfinished work. It was still dark outside the window, with the first rays of light breaking the horizon. He looks for the flat gravers to engrave the glamorous instrument with a design of weaving flowers. Running his crusted fingers through the smooth brass and shiny pearls, the Artisan puts on a gentle smile.
But as he inserts a reed into his newest saxophone and blows, nothing comes out. The Artisan’s cheeks balloon as he puffs harder now, until finally, a high-pitched scream shrieks from his newest saxophone. Disappointed and exhausted, the Artisan sets the instrument down and locks it away in the darkness of a cabinet.
***
This is how I was born. Supposed to be a masterpiece. Instead, a failure.
***
A light finally emerges from the door after years. How long, I do not know. The voice of a young boy follows, echoing through my lifeless body, his soft, warm hands touching my cold shell. His fingers brush off the years of dust and reveal patches of rust all over my body, turning me into a shade of turquoise. Then, I feel my body lifted into the air — I’m leaving the cabinet for the first time since the day I was made. The boy holds me up and grins at my mottled emerald exterior. He swings me left and right, before running to his grandpa and asking if he can keep me.
The Artisan recognizes me and shrugs. “Only if you really want to,” he says.
The boy nods and smiles. And if I could nod and smile too, then I would have, for that day I was adopted by Michael Green.
I will always remember our first day together. Michael set my gold velvet case onto the soft carpet and opened it, exposing my lustrous green skin to the sunlight. He fumbled as he lifted me- perhaps he had never learned to hold a saxophone before. He eventually settled down in a chair. Fumbling with the pieces, he slides the mouthpiece onto my neck and puts his mouth to it. He didn’t know he set me up wrong, and the first note was just a stream of air through the instrument. After hours of trial and error, he finally learned how to hold me the right way, but the second note he played emerged as a shattering screech. I was scared that I was again hopeless. But Michael didn’t give up on me.
Eventually, he got a private lesson teacher, Mr. Bae, to guide him through his technique and tone. The tutor always questioned him about me, asking, “Are you sure you want to keep this instrument?”
But Michael was stubborn and faithful. “Yes, I love this instrument! My grandpa gave it to me!” he always responded.
Unable to convince him, the instructor sucked in the air between his tight jaw and inspected my creaky, rusted keys. “How can anybody ever play this thing?” Mr. Bae murmured under his breath.
Day after day, Michael practiced in his room, sitting in front of his window. Miraculously, he began to improve, at first slowly, then exponentially after sticking with his determined regiment of scales, études, and symphonies. It took a year of daily practice, but finally, he blew a resonating golden sound that echoed throughout the room. I was no longer a cold scrap that belonged to a dark cabinet. He brought me to life and gave me purpose. At that moment, I knew he was the one for me.
Every day after school, Michael would fetch me from my case and simply forget about everything else. As time went on, we began to play Mozart and technical études perfectly. We soon joined the band and began playing alongside other young, talented musicians. I remember the first chair saxophone then was Brody, and Michael and I were determined to get his place and cement ourselves as the superior duo. We started at the very bottom, with six other saxophone players ahead of us. But by the end of the year, we were in the second chair, just beside Brody.
When the day came for us to challenge Brody, I could feel Michael shiver as we stepped into the soundproof audition room. Brody started playing first, performing his scales and étude with nightmarish accuracy and precision. All I wanted was to send snobby Brody and his perfectly smooth, golden saxophone to the second chair. But Michael shrank in his seat. When it was his turn, he started off with a few wrong notes and played out of time– yet just when I feared this opportunity would pass us by, Michael got into the groove. He embodied the essence of Eugene Rousseau, his saxophone swinging with rhythmic grace, and every note bouncing off the instrument. He flawlessly ended the étude with beautiful style and a golden tone. We became first chair not because we were technically the best, but because we played with soul. With passion. With courage.
As he grew older, so did I. In high school, we won countless prestigious classical trophies, but we soon branched out into new styles, experimenting with jazz, blues, pop, and even a few solos. Michael was an adult now, and soon our duo was known as the “enchanting emerald” as we mesmerized the audience. Despite my mechanical limitations, Michael understood me best, flawlessly executing and performing the courageous crescendos, graceful glissando, thrilling tenutos, strong staccatos, magical marcato, and elegant, elegant eighth notes. Soon we were in newspapers around the nation praising my intense emerald and unique but sensational sound. They called us the “pinnacle of passion.”
After 15 years of traveling millions of miles through sea and land, we landed our last symphony on the Jazz World Tour, projected on stage in front of ten thousand admirers. Michael was a true prodigy with the sax, a three-time Grammy winner now, a soloist for the Zingers, the very son of Apollo. Notes swam through the air, jumping off the hollow walls. The tune started soft and melodic, with care put on and into each note.
But then Michael stood up and started to really jazz. The spotlight was on us- my pearls glistened as he swung his notes, glossing arpeggios up and down, the harmonics and melody meshing together, enchanting the crowd.
But as the beat dropped, I squeaked. I could no longer support his technical game. My keys jumbled and jostled; my pads cracked and cried. Just one more performance, I thought as I fumbled with my keys. My eroded emerald interior gnawed and weakened the glue that held my bell in place. Not now, I begged, clutching onto my own body as tightly as I could.
He never let me down. Never gave up on me, never forgot about me. I have what it takes to finish the last symphony. I will never let him down.
When he finished, the audience cheered and erupted with excitement. They found happiness in music, and so did we. I wept with Michael’s spittle inside of me, for I knew this was the end for me.
After the show, Michael understood too. He positioned me on a podium overlooking his music room. He would come in every day and polish me.
After Michael passed away, so did I. I no longer worked; I was eroded and broken into a hundred parts. Now my pieces face the flaming furnace, again. This time, I know I won’t make it out alive. As the heat flows over my body, I understand that I will be gone, yet my music will not. My only wish is that I will make a lasting impression on the generations to come and inspire others to play an instrument.
Goodbye.
