Title: Chapel Bells

Dedicated to: David, Lindsay, Ian, Clint, and Carol who understand what it is to play the clarinet.

~*~

Every summer growing up we went to the same place. Hiking through the shallow hills at the base of the mountain, through the aspen groves, we would always find ourselves in the same field.

Butterflies.

He would pull out his clarinet and begin to play. Every time it was the same melody-haunting but beautiful, sliding through my skin like the wind that penetrated my light turtleneck. I would lay back into the grass, feeling the grass mesh with my hair, and I would listen to the way that the sound of that music floated away with the wind.

At the base of the hill, the bells of the chapel would chime to signal another wedding. Every summer, at the same time, some happy couple was being joined. It was almost frighteningly predictable.

The music would pick up, high and fast in tempo, singing with the birds, drifting away in the wind. My eyes would close, and I would see red from the bright sun that beat down on my eyelids. The warmth of the sun would comfort me-the wind could not chill me, and the perfectly tuned wooden clarinet would bring everything into harmony.

And the butterflies.

He would sometimes lay beside me, listening to the wind, and we would stare at the shapes the clouds would make in the sky above us. Still, the haunting melody of the clarinet would be in the wind, forever a part of nature from his persistent, flowing song. Eerily, it would drift away, past our ears, and we would let the melody pass in silence, afraid to break the balance of it all.

There were always butterflies-until the day when the clarinet was suddenly, abruptly silenced.

~*~

I was twenty-three when I first came to this town. Admittedly, I didn't know where I was going in life. I had just graduated college, I had a degree in English, and I was working at a small publishing company in town. What did we publish? We were a magazine company, and we published "The Note", a gazette that covered all things pertaining to the musical community.

My boss, Sharla Hover, the editor, was a beautiful and sassy young woman who didn't seem to know the difference between coming in a little early and staying until dawn. I think, at one point, she actually kept a full wardrobe and a bed in her office, but that was a little before my time. She hired me to be her assistant, to help lighten her work load, and to. well, get coffee. I wouldn't have taken the job, but I was young, inexperienced, and I didn't want to settle into anything too serious yet.

I went to work every day at the same time, went through the same routine, and returned home to the same apartment until I felt thoroughly in a rut. It was nice, though. Sometimes one needs to be in a rut for a while before something good and spontaneous happens-if they aren't, how is the new thing good and spontaneous?

Unfortunately, the pay of the job was not really enough to maintain an apartment, even for a man in such a rut as I was, so I started looking for a roommate. At this point, I had lived in the town for almost two years, and I was hoping, maybe, to snare in someone who was as young and inexperienced as I was when I was of the proper age.

I found Devon.

.A word about Devon: this kid was totally insane. He came to my door dressed in a nice suit with a flower in his hand, smiling almost seductively at me, and told me he was responding to the ad he saw about a roommate. I damn near slammed the door in his face then and there.

So, you're probably wondering right about now why I didn't slam the door in his face. In the hand that wasn't holding the flower, he held a small case- a clarinet case. Seeing it, my mind filled with images of a field, of aspen trees, of butterflies. Memories or maybe dreams from my childhood. "Is that a clarinet?" I asked quietly, motioning to the case at his side.

"Yes, it's a metal clarinet, actually," he said softly. "They aren't very common these days, you know." He smiled at me pleasantly, extending the flower to me. It was a red rose, not yet bloomed, and it smelled sweet-at least it would have, if the flower hadn't been practically shoved up my nose. "My name is Devon."

"You have a last name, Devon?" I asked in response, batting away the offending rose bud.

"How do you know Devon isn't my surname?" There was a long pause following that, while I just looked at him with eyebrows raised, and he smiled back at me. "I really don't have much to move in. A duffle I left down in the car and this clarinet. Not one for worldly possessions, you know."

"Who said you're moving in?" I asked him, surprised.

"You've been running the add for a month and a half, and I'm the first one to respond, from the looks of it, so I am assuming you're in pretty desperate need of some financial help by now." Devon slid past me, into the living room, and set down his clarinet, lightly placing the rose on top. He looked out the window, over the balcony, and out to the panoramic view beyond with a smile. "Aspens will start changing soon. They are beautiful when they're yellow."

"You're going to sleep in the living room, for now. I'm using one of the bedrooms as an office, as it is. When I get the chance to move everything out of there into the living room, you can." I trailed off as he looked up at me. A mess of yellow-blonde hair, powdery skin, and bright green eyes, he was the picture of a man in his youth. His gaze stopped me where I was in my explanation.

"That's fine." Devon winked at me, "it's good to know you're going to let me move in."

"I." I thought about it, realizing I had made my decision long before he invaded the room, and just shrugged. Little did I know that this moment would be the turning point-my life would be anything but a rut forevermore.

~*~

Butterflies would land on my fingers if I held up my hands, away from my body. Peacefully they would sit, lightly flapping their wings, gently inquiring at the taste of my skin, a splash of color against pale skin.

He used to love the expression "butterflies in the stomach". He'd tell me, "that's what it feels like to be in love, Christopher-butterflies in the stomach. So many, you damn near think you're going to cough a few up." Then, he'd put a hand to my head, his fingers going through the thick, dark hair, and he would smile at me. "And to be loved. there aren't words to describe what it is like to be loved."

Sometimes I would inquire further into love, sometimes I wouldn't. Always, he would say the same thing, "One of these days-love is going to hit you, and hit you hard. Then, Christopher, you'll know what I feel." Always, after that, it would be time to go home. He would pack up his clarinet, careful of the delicate reed, and would begin to walk down the hill- regardless of whether or not I was ready to follow.

The butterflies never followed us back to town. They always just stayed put, lightly flapping about in a colorful dance, disturbed only by our presence and the obtrusive clang of the chapel bells.

~*~

I never asked how Devon made rent. But, he always had his part of the payment ready on time. He continued to sleep on the couch, insisting that doing otherwise would upset my delicate routine. Really, everything he did upset my routine. He would do my laundry, sometimes, or cook me breakfast. As nice as it was, I had advertised for a roommate, not a housekeeper.

One day, over one of his breakfasts, I finally asked, "How old are you Devon?"

He smiled at me, that irritating smile that meant nothing and everything all at the same time. "How old do you think I am, Chris?" he responded, putting his fork in his mouth. He then proceeded to take a drink of his coffee while I just stared at him, irritated. Finally, he sighed, saying, "you are an impatient person, sometimes, Chris. I'm twenty-one. I'll be twenty-two come August."

"You just turned twenty-one? Are you still in college then?"

"No. I graduated college a year ago," he said simply. I was staring at him, amazed. "I graduated high school when I was sixteen. Don't look so surprised." He ignored me for the rest of breakfast, taking to reading the morning paper. I was still stunned.

At work, Sharla asked me if I was okay. I hadn't realized how out of it I must have been. I was intrigued by Devon. I didn't understand him at all. I couldn't figure out what he was trying to accomplish in life, or why he was always so damn calm. Seeing my state, Sharla asked that I come to her house that night for dinner-and she invited Devon.

Well, I wasn't one to decline an invitation, so I called Devon while I was on my lunch break and told him about dinner, and he flat out refused. Somehow, I felt I should have known it would happen, even though I had never heard him be so rude and forward since I met him. I told Sharla the news, and she asked if it might be better to just reschedule the dinner. I agreed with her, and went home as usual that night.

When I got home, Devon was dressed up again, sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the other with his ankle over his knee. He held a bouquet of red roses on his lap, and was looking at me like he was surprised to see me. "You're supposed to be having dinner with your boss," he pointed out flatly.

"You're dressed up," I commented in reply.

"I have reservations at a nice restaurant in an hour." He titled his head to the side. "So, you better hurry." I blinked at him, not understanding. "Go get ready, so we don't miss our reservation." I continued to just stare at him, agog. "I knew you wouldn't go if I didn't," he explained a moment later.

I sighed, pulling off my tie, and went back to the bedroom to get changed.

~*~

One day, it was dark in that field. The clouds hovered over the sun, and a light mist rose off the ground, making for an eerie effect. He didn't bring his clarinet that day, because the moisture would be bad for the wood of the clarinet. Instead, he brought a book and a towel, and sat down to read. I had brought a sketch book and some charcoals.

I set out to find a butterfly to draw. But, there were no butterflies that day. All was silent, except for my footsteps in the wet grass. My jeans, by the time I had given up on the butterfly, were soaked up to the knees. He handed me the towel, and motioned for us to go.

"There are no butterflies today," I complained quietly.

"I guess there's no love," he replied. That day, the chapel bells did not ring.

~*~

In the second week of September, I came home one Friday evening to find Devon holding his clarinet case in one hand, and a coat under his arm, looking around as though thinking he had forgotten something. Once he noticed I was in the room, he smiled at me, that strange smile that meant that he was thinking about something that really had nothing to do with me, but he was acknowledging my presence all the same.

I walked past him to the kitchen counter, setting down my briefcase and I found a note to me, saying briefly that Devon was going out for the night, he had ordered a pizza, and that the twenty bucks under the note were for the pizza man. "You're leaving?" I asked, picking up the note.

"The aspens are changing," Devon explained. "I have to go see them-and I need to practice my clarinet." He came to stand next to me, looking at the note. "Are you coming with me?" I found the offer strangely intriguing, his voice beguiling me into saying yes.

"I will. But, the pizza." The doorbell rang, interrupting me. Devon took the twenty from my hand, and went to the door, where there was in fact a young, attractive woman delivering the pizza. I watched the exchange detachedly, loosely holding the note between my fingers, and had nearly lost track of what was going on when suddenly I found Devon was beside me again.

"Pepperoni-your favorite, right?" I knew we had never discussed pizza. I nodded to him, my brows furrowed, and he laughed lightly. "Mine too. I had a feeling you were a pepperoni person!" Laughing again, he danced about the kitchen, getting down glasses and plates, and took everything into the dining room to eat. I grabbed two sodas from the fridge and followed him.

"We won't make it to the mountains before dark," I reminded Devon sternly. He looked up from where he was putting two slices of pizza on each plate, frowning at me seriously.

"You're right. we can go tomorrow, then." He extended a hand, motioning me to give him the sodas, and he proceeded to pour them into the two glasses, handing me a plate and a glass when he was finished. "I rented some movies, anyway, because I knew you wouldn't want to go tonight."

"How do you know these things about me?" I asked, meaning to be more playful than anything.

"Because, there are butterflies compelling me."

"Butter.flies.?"

"Let's watch this one!" Devon handed me the DVD, and I glanced at the title, stunned to see it was my favorite movie. Devon was never anything short of weird and perceptive, but this was downright bizarre, even for him.

"How do you.?" I stopped when I realized he wasn't paying any attention to me, too engrossed in the DVD player to notice me at all. I sighed heavily, shaking my head, and sat back on the couch, accepting my fate. Honestly, I couldn't get too upset about someone going out of his way to give me everything I wanted. Besides, it was good pizza.

~*~

One day, I found him in his study, eager to return to the hill. The chapel bells were loudly sounding only a few doors down, making it a little difficult to really hear what he said. "Let's go!" I insisted, taking his hand, and trying to drag him up out of the chair. He smiled patiently at me, and shook his head. "Why not?"

"Not today, Christopher," he said simply. "I want our last time there to be special." His hands clasped around mine, and that smile grew so warm. "Why don't you amuse yourself with your friends today, Christopher. We can go next weekend."

"Last time. are you leaving?" I felt tears coming to my eyes. By then I was fifteen, nearly a man, and I should not have been crying. Society dictated that I should have been handling this whole thing more like a strong man would. But, he had always made me feel like a child. He really wasn't that much older than me, maybe in his early twenties, but he had always known exactly what to do in every situation-it made me feel so young.

"Christopher, I have somewhere to go," he explained quietly. "But, don't trouble yourself with it just yet. Why don't you go see the wedding? Or find some of your school friends and spend time with them? Or possibly work on homework?" He released my hand, looking away. "We will go again next weekend."

Reluctantly, I turned from him, leaving the house in search of distracting myself with one of his suggestions. I looked up the hill to see the aspens had just started changing from green to yellow. It was beautiful, but haunting. Soon, those leaves would fall.

~*~

That Saturday, we did indeed go up the mountain, taking with us a picnic, the clarinet, and my sketchpad. Devon insisted on leading the way, taking me to a beautiful clearing in the trees, silent and unmarred except by a small creek that bisected it. I couldn't believe my eyes-it reminded me of something out of a dream. or perhaps out of a childhood memory.

Devon and I sat down and ate, and then I set out to find something to sketch. Meanwhile, I could hear Devon tuning the clarinet. It had a strange sort of tone, probably unique to the metal clarinet that oddly complimented the sound of moving water from the creek. I sat down to simply sketch the landscape, when he began to play.

The song was oddly familiar and haunting, but still beautiful-sliding through my skin like the wind that penetrated my light turtleneck. I lay back into the grass, feeling the grass mesh with my hair, and listened to the way that the sound of that music drifted away with the burbling of the creek. My eyes slid shut as calm overtook me. It was like I had lived the moment before-but it wasn't a bad thing. I wanted to stay there forever.

Eventually, the song did end. I opened my eyes, looking up to the clouds, and a butterfly flew over me. At first, it was as though my brain couldn't register what it was. I blinked at it a few times, and then my hand lifted off the ground, and the butterfly set down on my finger, its wings flapping slowly. My eyes drifted up to see that there were actually thousands of butterflies, filling the sky in a sea of color. Amongst them was Devon, who was calmly coming to my side, laying beside me on the ground where he could observe the clouds.

"There. there are so many." I managed quietly, sounding stupid to my own ears. Devon laughed quietly, putting his hands behind his head.

"You love butterflies, don't you?" he asked rhetorically. "I do too. Without them, how would we ever know we were in love?" He then turned his head and smiled at me. I turned to look back at him, and suddenly my heart flittered and I felt as though thousands of little wings were fluttering about in my stomach. So many that I just might cough one up.

I felt my gaze soften, my eyes shutting slightly, and my lips parted slightly in a small smile. Devon gave me the same look in return, and there we sat until the sun so compelled us to return home. As we walked down the hill, back to the car, chapel bells filled the air, moving not by man, but by the sheer force of the wind-making for a beautiful unplanned melody.

~*~

The last time he took me to the clearing, it was my sixteenth birthday. We went by the same route to the same place with the same sun and the same butterflies. He played the same tune on the same wooden clarinet while I listened from the same place watching the same clouds above. Everything, now, was so routine that I could thoroughly consider myself in a rut. But, I liked it. It was worth it to me to be in a rut, if it was with him.

Was that the nature of love? Is it to create an unbreakable routine that is never boring, despite the repetitive nature of the routine? Could you only be in a rut with someone and enjoy it if you really loved him?

After his song, he came and sat beside me, putting an arm lazily around me. I moved a little closer to his side and smiled as his warmth transferred into my body. I felt so safe there, so calm. "I will leave you today, Christopher," he told me evenly. "I'm dying. I was diagnosed with cancer the day I met you. It is a miracle that I have even lived this long."

"But, you can't leave me! I need you!" I protested, throwing my arms around him, throwing both of us to the ground with me on top of him. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

"Christopher, let me tell you something," he said patiently. "These memories you have of all the time we spent together, they will disappear as soon as I die. You will forget me because it will be too painful for you to remember-because I am the one who loves you the most. And, given time, you might have felt the butterflies in your stomach when I was around, too."

"Dev." he put a finger to my lips to silence me.

"Christopher, you need to go on with your life, and stop thinking about me. One day I will be back for you. I'll come back because I love you too much to be without you. That day, you still won't remember me as I am now, but I hope you will love me, too." He smiled at me. "So, Christopher, be happy."

He died in my arms that day. The chapel bells rang, mourning his death as he passed. But, as he predicted I would never remember him, or a word he said.

But, I never forgot the butterflies. I never forgot that haunting melody. I would never really forget Devon.

~*~ End ~*~

A/N: This was written on a cold stormy night on the hill when the Swasey Chapel bells were ringing and Ian was upstairs playing the clarinet. The main character and Devon are taken from a screenplay I'm working on. This is a character study on Devon.