Bone Dance by Joan Boswell Page B

saw a couple of brown spots, but couldn’t be sure. He had to get closer to see over the ferns into the hollow where the Hermit Thrush remained hidden. He inched silently forward.One step. Two steps. Three. A brief flutter stopped him.
    As the scale of warbling notes filled the clearing, he slowly brought his binoculars back up to his eyes. He pointed them to where he’d seen the movement, directly into a narrow trench at the edge of the fern patch. He almost chortled out loud when he saw the characteristic brown dot markings against a white background.
    Point scored for the good guys. One more, and he’d beat Sam.
    But his sighting was almost ruined by the abrupt appearance of the American Robin.
    What’s going on? Same thing happened last year. Harry had no sooner checked off Eastern Bluebird in his book than out bobbed this red-breasted menace. This time the intruder bobbed again, straight towards the hollow where Harry’s present sighting roosted. But, since their rules didn’t say how long the target was supposed to be alone, Harry figured this one still counted, like last year.

    Halfway back to the Arts Centre residence, Harry decided to go to Sam’s place instead. He couldn’t wait until music camp next morning to gloat over this new sighting. He wanted to see the look of disgusted envy wash over his friend’s freckled face.
    He trudged along the tree-shaded lane to the large stone cottage where Sam spent his summers with his aunt and her Russian husband, the director of the Orford Arts Centre, a fussy two-story building whose wrap-around verandah covered more ground than the tiny bungalow where Harry, his mother and kid brother lived in Sherbrooke. But Harry didn’t care if Sam’s uncle was a “big” name in the music world. Hisbuddy was just a regular guy and treated Harry, the musical prodigy, like one too.
    As Harry stomped up the stairs of the verandah, he could hear the strained notes of a violin. Sam’s practising, he thought. He banged the brass door knocker. The violin continued screeching. Too bad Sam hadn’t inherited any of his uncle’s musical genes.
    When no one came to the door, Harry followed the sounds of the violin to the back garden, where he didn’t find Sam practising. Instead, he whistled under his breath. Next to the roses stood a Baywatch babe with bright blonde hair.
    Bummer. If only he were old enough to date.
    With her eyes closed in concentration, she dragged the bow back and forth over the strings of the violin. A shame her playing didn’t match her looks.
    Too shy to interrupt, Harry waited, hoping this prime-time knockout would open her eyes. He glanced back at the empty windows of the cottage and saw no sign of Sam, his aunt or his uncle. Deciding Sam wasn’t home, he turned to leave.
    At that moment, Sam’s uncle came rushing around the side of the building. Harry was always surprised by the man’s size. Looked more like an NHL hockey player than a violinist. But Harry knew no self-respecting hockey player would be caught dead in a red lacy shirt like the one Mr. Malinovka was wearing.
    â€œSorry I am being late, Zoë darling,” the maestro shouted in his thick Russian accent. Then he directed his intense gaze at Harry. “What you doing here, boy, pestering my protégée?”
    Zoë stopped playing and looked at Harry with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “Please, sir,” she said, “he wasn’t bothering me, only listening to my dreadful music.”
    â€œNonsense, my dear. You playing marvellous. Only need practice.” He turned back to Harry. “Now go, boy.” Heshooed Harry away with his long musician’s fingers.
    But Harry stood his ground. He’d tangled with Mr. Malinovka before. “I’m looking for Sam, sir. Do you know where he is?”
    The maestro glowered. “Looking for silly birds. Better he practise. You too,