The Pipe Organ

The shop was always loud from what I remember. There were trumpets, flutes, drums, guitars–all sounding simultaneously. The only time the shop was quiet was after closing time, and sometimes the quiet frightened me. Quiet in that shop was foreign until the newest pipe organ came about.

The shop was called Mr. Morter and Goyle’s Instrument & Repair Shoppe, owned by myself and evidently, Mr. Morter, a fine musician, composer, and instrument craftsman. As I recall he was an intelligent man, with crystal blue eyes that studied each craft carefully. His specialty was his pipe organs, though, designed entirely by himself and mostly manufactured in buildings much larger than our own. I was an assistant in the craft. Harmoniums and pump organs were primarily sold at our shop, but we crafted large church organs that loomed over entire rooms.

I loved aiding Mr. Morter in his craft, working alongside him and getting to share the success of a finished product. I valued my time with the man as much as I could before it all slipped away, before the newest pipe organ came about in the shop. It got quiet, but I had my pipe organ.

On a chilly November morning, I approached the shop. I gazed up at the overhead sign, which, due to the fog, only read Goyle’s Instrument & Repair Shoppe. I entered the shop to find it empty, save for my partner organizing papers near the cash register. We greeted each other.

“Have the builders said anything?” I asked.

Mr. Morter nodded, coughing. “They told me it is complete now; they finished Saturday.”

“Oh how delightful! I did not know they finished so quickly,” I said.

“Neither did I, but they are just in time,” Mr. Morter smiled.

Multiple organs were in the works at a time. Our main priorities, though, were the pipe organ being built at the church and the chamber organ being built for our shop. Upon completion of the church organ–which had been under construction for six years–Mr. Morter was to perform its debut. Who better to do the honors than the grand Mr. Morter?

Mr. Morter certainly was grand. I loved him with every fiber of my being; every vein within my body coursed with not only blood, but love for the man. He was extraordinary in his craft, composition, and being overall. There was not a man I wanted to spend time with more than him. There was not a man I wanted to work with more than him.

Soon it was nine o’clock and I opened the doors to begin the work day.

On the day of the performance, Mr. Morter and I made it to the church early. It was expected to fill up with people soon. We had been practicing every day leading up to the performance. While he was to sit at the console, I was to pull stops, flip music pages, the like.

Before the performance began we descended from the looming organ. I spotted his wife and children and offered them a wave; the children reciprocated. Mr. Morter stood next to me, heaving deeply with a hand on his chest. Despite it, he delivered an introduction.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I am Mr. Morter and this is my partner, Goyle. This instrument has finally been completed after six long years. To celebrate that, I will perform a selection of pieces I’ve written,” he announced.

Everyone clapped. We ascended to the organ where Mr. Morter fluffed his coat tails over the bench and sat.

The performance was spectacular–everyone enjoyed it! When we descended the organ, a slew of people rushed to the organist to express their enjoyment over it. I was shoved off to the side where I watched Mr. Morter shake the hands of his assemblage. They cheered, clapped, and showered him with praise. He thanked them all, but it was evident he was trying to turn the attention elsewhere.

“May we take a moment for my assistant, please?” he asked.

No one complied.

The praise continued for the rest of the evening until the church closed. I only watched, and as I watched, a sudden sense of envy swallowed me whole. It started small but progressed as the evening progressed. No one batted an eye at me, they only ripped him away, occupying themselves with him. I wanted to rip them away from Mr. Morter, I wanted them to beg me for an encore, even though I did not touch the keys once that night. Never once had I wanted it before yet in that moment desire possessed me! I wanted the praise, I wanted the recognition. I wanted what he had!

Mr. Morter and I went back to the shop after nightfall. I busied myself with tidying up while he poured into his office, coughing. While I cleaned, I thought about how I felt in the church. Oh desire ate me, gnawed at me! Not for one moment did I think it preposterous; it delighted me to think of myself in his position.

Soon enough I heard my name called from the office. I came to it and found Mr. Morter pouring two glasses of rum. He gave one to me, and toasted to the successful debut. We drank for a little while before he turned to me.

“Goyle,” he said, “there is something I have been meaning to tell you for months.”

“What is it, sir?”

“I’m afraid our days together are numbered; I’m dying, I’ve been diagnosed with an illness and have been told it will kill me,” he said.

I felt my heart drop in my bosom. “But sir, it can’t be!”

“Goyle, the inevitable is upon me. Listen carefully. I have a dying wish only you can fulfill: make me a part of my organ. Cremate me, mix me in with wood varnish, and house an organ in it like I have housed them in my heart all these years,” he explained in between coughs.

My only reply was a sob. I embraced him like I was going to lose him at that very moment. My best friend was dying! The tears I cried were true and honest!

After he comforted me, I went to finish tidying up. While I did, I wiped my tears. For a moment I froze, and suddenly my tears were no more as the envy from earlier slapped me in the back. I wanted that praise–that position! A thought whizzed into my head: I would seize that position, seize it by killing the man and taking it myself! Yes, I was going to kill him! Death was already upon him, so why not bring it sooner? It was a wonderful thought!

I had devised to watch his every move for two weeks. I observed that he was busiest during the afternoon and stayed three hours after closing each day. I planned to strike while he was in his office late after work one night, but when was unbeknownst to me yet.

I let another week pass and in that week I planned how I was going to execute it. I stashed a knife away in the shop where only I could find it. Everyday though, I acted normal: aiding customers, speaking politely, focusing on work. No one suspected a thing!

An evening came where it was only him and I in the shop. Again I heard my name being called from the office, and, on impulse, grabbed the knife from its spot. I stashed it behind my back.

“Yes, sir?”

“I wanted to express my excitement over the new organ. Now that we are finished with the church organ, we can resume our project!” he beamed.

I agreed and he coughed. He blabbered on, and while he did I felt myself begin to sweat. It was a matter of now or never at that point.

Mr. Morter turned around to his desk, murmuring, “Long after I’m gone, this organ is what will be left of me.”

Then I struck, struck as if I had been commanded to do so instantly. I threw him down onto the desk and brought the knife down upon him ten times. I did it, he was dead! It did not take long for him to die.

I huffed, throwing the knife down. I flipped the body over to examine the lifeless corpse. There, on his lips, was the faintest smile I had ever seen. I stared… Oh it irked me!

Excitement subsided for me to think of what to do with the corpse. My eyes glided to the floor where the blueprints for our organ lied, and that’s when the idea hit. Mr. Morter wanted to be a part of his organ? I would make him a part of his organ!

The next day, a Saturday, I came into work. The shop was empty. I had brought the blueprints home with me and fashioned a new layout: display cases. I was going to display his organs inside the chamber organ! Yes, and he would be a part of his organ and his shop forever!

The wonderful thing about the new organ was that it was halfway complete–all that was left to do was fashion the casing the way I wanted it and dissect the body. I got to work on the latter first. I gathered his lungs, brain, heart, and eyes. Each was coated in clear resin, stashed to dry on hooks. It would take some time to complete the cases, I knew, so I prepared well.

For six weeks I labored on the cases. One day in particular, I dug through Mr. Morter’s music and came across a special packet. The music was composed by him twenty years ago when I began working for him. I looked at the music and soon I remembered the display cases in the instrument. An idea came to me again. These pieces would open the displays! Five pieces, the last acting like a special key! I would have to rework the piping, but it was no nuisance to me for it would be grand.

For six weeks I ran the shop without Mr. Morter. Everyone including his wife begged to know where he was, and my answer to all was that he was away in France supervising the building of a cathedral organ. Everyone believed my fib, it was so wonderful.

When I had each organ in its specific case, I assembled the organ at the back of the shop, where it was going to live, reworking the pipes as I did so to fit the pieces. The displays were connected to a specific set of keys on the manual, and when those keys were pressed, the hatches would open. I kept the instrument under a large canvas cloth permitting no one to touch it but myself.

Upon completion, people began questioning me harder about when Mr. Morter was expected home. In a bluff I assured them he would be home in the coming three weeks. That excited them as well as the wife and children.

“Yes,” I continued, “and there will be a performance for the debut of the new chamber organ. Every pipe organ deserves a grand debut!”

Everyone was elated! Only, after saying it, I was not elated because it was not true. Mr. Morter would not be arriving home, a performance would be pointless. It was a stupid impulsive thing to say that now pains me to think about, but I had to live the lie.

Practice occurred after hours every day of the three weeks leading to the supposed arrival of Mr. Morter. The pieces, “Admiration,” “Jealousy,” “Busy Scheme,” “It Happened Quick,” and “Here I Am,” all proved to be exceedingly difficult as they were written by a master. Rest assured though that I knew my way around the keys of an organ; I had the pieces performance-ready in no time.

Silence hummed throughout the shop, reminding me of my loneliness without the man–without my best friend. I caught myself, for a time, grieving his death–and I was the murderer! Mr. Morter was always tender with me. Never had he hurt me in any way, yet I did it, I murdered him: an innocent man who cherished me so…

But envy snatched me as quickly as grief did. I had a performance to prepare for! I prepared with vigor–I was going to make this performance worthwhile!

Friday came, performance day. I had the shop cleared and ready for seven o’clock. I myself was dressed in my finest performance suit, anxiously awaiting the crowd that promised to attend. When they arrived I welcomed them tenderly. An extra special greeting went to Mrs. Morter and her children. I had the main floor of the shop hollowed out and everyone gathered there as I made my way to the instrument in the back.

A woman from the crowd begged of me the location of Mr. Morter.

“Mr. Morter is busy in his office,” I announced, “and should be out shortly after the performance.”

Everyone was content with that. It made me marvel.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Shoppe’s newest addition!”

I tore away the cloth unveiling the grand chamber organ for everyone to admire. The organ loomed over the crowd, and I loomed over them too, smiling widely.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Goyle, the”–I hesitated some–“assistant and friend of Mr. Morter. My repertoire consists of pieces he composed some years ago that I hope you will enjoy this evening,” I said, sitting down at the bench. I placed my music on the stand in the console.

Quiet overtook the shop and that served as my cue to begin. I started with the sweetest of them all, “Admiration,” which wooed everyone with its tinkling melody. “Jealousy” tinkled as well, only darker with a thicker texture. “Busy Scheme” followed, growing more harsh. “It Happened Quick” made everyone howl in amazement with its fast note progressions! People shuffled around behind me to get a better look at the magic I conducted on the keys and pedal board. “Here I Am” progressed to a speedy tempo. For the most part I followed the piece as it was written, but I veered off the tracks suddenly.

As I played I felt passion build inside me. The piece required it, but the passion I felt was more than that. I heaved with the pipes. With the chaos occurring on the manuals I started to cry, tears splashing onto the keys causing my fingers to slip. Excitement, frustration, and regret balled into one, throwing itself at me with each note I struck! Almost there. Through the blur of tears I could see the end of the piece coming, the final bar line appearing to me like the end of a jagged, treacherous road.

Nearing the end I sobbed wildly. Alongside me the pipes produced sad and angry sounds that blared out over everyone. All of my weight fell onto the pedal board as I stood on the final notes. My fingers slammed down onto the final keys, and I leaned into the organ.

The cabinets flew open and a shutter overhead snapped up.

To the left and right were two lungs, overhead was a heart and brain, and aligned with my eyes while standing were two crystal blue eyes.

Sound died from the pipes. Sound died from the crowd. I threw myself back down onto the bench, pointing at the foul instrument.

“There!” I shouted. “There is Mr. Morter–or whatever is left of him!”

No one said a word.

“He was never in France, he was here all along, he was here while you went on about your days!”

Nothing.

“This organ is his new home–look!” I stepped away from the organ to unveil the eyes gazing upon the crowd.

At that point I doubted anyone believed me, so I tried harder.

“He is dead–he has been dead for months! I killed him–I, Goyle–killed Mr. Morter!” I wailed, hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

No one said a word, so I took my seat back at the organ and whimpered to myself. Suddenly a lady, to my surprise, began to shout, “Someone get the police!”

That’s when the shop erupted into noise. I slumped forward in anguish, my head hitting the keys of the first manual, the pipes producing the notes of whichever keys I hit. The blare of the pipes combined with everyone’s confused screams was a painful sound, but I cared not.

It felt as though police arrived quickly because the next thing I knew I was jerked from the organ. Cuffs flew around my wrists. Officers questioned a few ladies and they reported a murder, suspecting me to be the murderer. I did not defend myself. An officer checked every room until they came upon the office where the rest of the body was. I wanted to shout, “Don’t go in there!” Only I had no voice to shout it with…

I was ushered out of the shop. My eyes briefly met the shocked eyes of Mrs. Morter and the crying eyes of the children. I lowered my head in shame as the childrens’ cries lingered in my ears. I was arrested.

Streets grew noticeably silent during the last twelve years. I was not around to watch the gradual progression of the change since prison had become my home then. Each walk I took on the streets was dull, lifeless. Each walk reminded me of a time when it was not that way, too. Everything and everyone was grey. All eyes ventured to me when I passed by; children, adults, even animals figured me atrocious.

Now young adults, the children of Mr. Morter were two I regularly saw on my walks. They did not dare to bat an eye, even when I gently yet passionately attempted to apologize for my hellish deed. I did not beg for forgiveness, though. Their pain was to the point where I understood no apology could relieve any ounce of it.

Somewhat recently I learned the children lost their mother in the midst of my sentence, who had passed away due to a sudden illness she contracted. The hurt I felt for the innocent children expanded to where I could feel it throbbing throughout the entirety of my bosom, throbbing stronger than my heart beated. I wanted to give my condolences, but again, it would be wrong to, seeing as they wanted nothing to do with me.

One foggy day in November, from a crossroad I spotted them on the path I took to the shop everyday. I recognized that road. I had made it a point to never set foot on it again as it served no purpose to me anymore. Out of curiosity, however, I broke my rule and stepped onto the cobblestone. A chill danced up my spine. The two young adults went on about their business without spotting me, and for that I did not care.

I began to walk to the shop. Why I knew not, but I suspected a subconscious part of me craved nostalgia, even if it was painful to me. Oddly enough I continued my walk without ignoring it.

Upon reaching the shop I gandered at the sign as I always did when I approached the shop. Covered by a thick stream of fog, it read Instrument & Repair Shoppe. My mind ran empty as I stared at the miserable establishment, and I tried the door. To my surprise it was unlocked.

I stepped in and scanned around. The register was still full of money, money I did not dare to touch or take. For the most part the shop was set up the way it was set up for my fatal performance years ago, save for the overwhelmingly horrid state of the place. It was dark, damp, and trashed. I stepped about the place touching only with my eyes. I assumed police investigations were conducted during my incarceration, therefore the place looked as it did.

Suddenly, a structure caught my eye near the back of the shop.

The pipe organ.

I shuffled to it. I swiftly pulled the canvas cloth from it to the floor, dust flying everywhere. Strangely, the organ appeared the same as it did a dozen years ago, like it had been untouched. It begged the questions: was I the only one that ever played this organ? Was there another player I was unaware of? There could not have been, for I heard word on the street that “old Mr. Morter and Goyle’s Instrument & Repair Shoppe had been closed for years.”

Something about the instrument begged me to sit down at it. I did so after brushing away the dust on the bench. My heart began to beat ferociously. My feet hovered above the pedal board. Promptly I brought my hands up to the manual but hesitated to play a note. When I finally pressed a few fingers down, I listened to the old pipes produce the most miserable, sorrowful hum I had ever heard them produce. It jerked tears in my eyes. I knew the pipe organ was hurting just as I was.

I pondered testing the keys again. But what would I play–if I was to play something? I lowered my hands from the manuals. I looked down to my left to see scattered sheets of music. They would disintegrate in my hands if I were to touch them, so I disregarded them.

Just then I felt warmth wrap around my wrists like two hands had grabbed onto one each, and my hands lifted to the keys. The warmth elongated to my arms, stopping at my shoulders. It did not alarm me…it was quite nice. I leaned into it.

With strange ease my hands were brought down onto the keys, and the last passionate measure of the piece I performed years ago rang out of the worn pipes. How they wailed and sang with sadness! How the notes collapsed onto and over each other defeatedly! I wanted to do the same yet I did not.

The cabinets flew open and the shutter overhead snapped up.

I looked into them to see the stashed away parts half rotted half protected by the resin. I looked up to see the eyes of Mr. Morter still looking straight as they did when I first mounted them years ago.

I stood on the sides of the pedal board, putting my forehead to the bar in which the eyes were mounted. A soft smile took over my lips and a few tears fell from my eyes onto the manual. The warmth which I had felt only on my arms now encased my back, and I closed my eyes against the other pair. All was silent in the shop–I felt safe, content–even the organ’s pipes were silent. I leaned into my pipe organ as the warmth consumed me more.

“Hello, my old friend, how sorry I am for what I have done,” I whispered. “I have missed you so.”