Prologue

Prologue

Ronks, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania

B oom! Clang! Rat-a-tat!

Nine-year-old Mark Troyer jerked upright, the horse feed tumbling from his hands. The neighbors were at it again. On Christmas Eve.

He bent and picked up the fallen bale of hay. If he hurried, he could sneak over and listen. Haphazardly, he plopped hay in the horses' feeders as his feet danced along to the loud, insistent bass. His heart swelled to the rhythm and matched the staccato beat. Between horses, his fingers tapped out the tempo on the wooden stall doors.

The second he finished, he slipped out of the barn and checked to be sure nobody in his family was peeking out the windows. Daed would be upset if Mark didn't go straight into the house, but their Englisch neighbors had two teens who played in a rock band. They practiced in their garage, filling the air with the enticing thump of drums, the twang of electric guitars. Because the Amish didn't play music, the band fascinated Mark. He sneaked over to their house as often as he could to listen to practice sessions.

Something about music, any music, touched his soul. He loved singing hymns from the Ausbund , and once his older sister whispered he had a great voice. If Daed had overheard, he'd have scolded her for encouraging hochmut , but Mark treasured her compliment, even if it made him feel a little prideful.

Humming along to the tune drifting from the garage, he sneaked across the stubble of his family's small cornfield to crouch in the bushes beside the Musslemans' house. Concealed from view of his parents, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the music.

He wished he'd been born into this family. All of them were musical. Mrs. Musselman taught piano and voice lessons, Mr. Musselman played the saxophone and trumpet, and when their two boys were younger, they took violin lessons. Now, as teens, the boys and their friends gathered to practice with different instruments. Instruments that enchanted Mark. The bangs, plinks, and high-pitched wails vibrated through his body.

Whenever he could slip away from his chores, he hid outside their house to listen to the tinkling of piano keys or the smooth alto tones of the sax. Even the screeches of beginner violins fascinated him. But of all the notes flowing from this house, Mark's favorite came from the garage. The syncopated beat of the drum, the strumming of the guitar, and the throaty voice of the lead singer merged in an exciting blend that took Mark's breath away.

He smiled as he recognized the song. He'd heard it many times before. Tipping his head back, Mark belted out the lyrics. If Mamm heard them, she'd wash his mouth out with lye soap. The crashing and banging from inside the building drowned out his voice, so he sang to his heart's content.

A hand descended on his shoulder, and Mark gurgled to a stop. Fearing his parents' wrath, he slowly opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, although he wasn't really sorry. The only thing he regretted was getting caught.

But when he glanced back, Mrs. Musselman smiled down at him.

"You like music?" Her eyes appeared friendly and appreciative. She must like music as much as he did, but—

He hung his head. He shouldn't have been listening or singing Englisch rock lyrics. " Jah ," he whispered.

"You have a wonderful voice." Her soft words flowed over him with a comforting warmth. "Would you like to come in and watch the boys play?"

Mark's spirit soared. He almost nodded, but caught himself. Mamm and Daed would be upset to find out Mark liked this kind of music. They'd be even more distressed if they discovered he'd gone inside to listen.

Desire warred with his parents' teachings. Didn't God say to make a joyful noise? Unlike the slow, monotonous draggi-ness of Ausbund hymns, these lively tunes seemed more like they'd please God. If Mark were in God's place, he'd choose this more exciting music.

Mamm's and Daed's disapproving faces and the bishop's stern frown popped into Mark's mind. "I—I can't." He forced out the words even though he longed to shout jah .

"That's too bad." Mrs. Musselman sounded almost as sad as Mark. Her forehead creased in a frown, she glanced toward his house. "Just for a few minutes?"

The temptation was too great to resist. Too filled with excitement to answer, Mark nodded.

Mrs. Musselman led him to a side door in the garage. When she knocked and then pulled it open, the sounds flowed in, over, and around Mark, wrapping him in joy. The music crashed to a stop.

"Mom," one of the boys, dressed in a ripped black T-shirt and jeans with holes in them, glared at her. "You interrupted us."

"Sorry, guys." She flashed them a winning smile, put an arm around Mark's shoulders, and pushed him forward. "I thought you might like to meet one of your fans. He seems to know your songs by heart."

The guys glanced at each other and snickered.

"Can you play one or two songs for him before he has to leave?"

The guitar player sighed and flicked his hair. "I guess."

"Mark, you sing along," she ordered as she slipped from the garage.

Two of the guys grimaced, but they started one of Mark's favorite songs. Fascinated, he stared as fingers strummed chords, sticks tapped on drums. He was so thrilled he almost forgot to sing. Then the words burst from his lips, his feet stomped, and his hands clapped out the beat.

The band members stared at him, but continued to play. After the song thundered to a crescendo, they all focused their attention on Mark.

"Wow, kid, that's some voice," one of them said.

Mark took a step back, unsure if that was a compliment or criticism.

The teen smiled. "If you were a little older, we'd ask you to join our band."

"You—you would?" Mark couldn't believe it. Joy flooded through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Him in a band?

Several heads nodded, and Mark almost floated off the ground. Then reality crashed in. His parents would never allow him to do this.

" Danke ," he whispered, downhearted.

The drummer studied Mark. "You don't look too happy."

"I—I can't ever be in a band."

"Why not?" he asked.

Mark nibbled at his lips. "My parents wouldn't let me."

His neighbor clarified. "The Amish around here don't do music. Except hymns in church. No piano. No organ. Nothing. Just a cappella ."

The drummer shot Mark a sympathetic look. "Whoa. That's too bad, kid. You got talent."

"Let's do one more song for him," the lead singer said. "You sing along," he told Mark.

The sadness tugging at Mark lifted at the first notes of the song. How could something that made you feel so good be bad? It didn't make sense. Music burst from deep inside him. He threw back his head and let out the notes. They bubbled and sparkled around him, and his whole body wriggled to the beat.

When it ended, Mark longed for more, but he had to go. Nobody would believe it had taken this long to feed the horses. Reluctantly, he pushed the door open.

The band members called after him to come back anytime. And Mark's feet barely touched the snow-covered ground.

Mrs. Musselman stopped him as he trudged off. "Mark, if you'd like, I'd be happy to give you music lessons."

Ach , how he wished he could agree. "We don't got the money for it." When he'd peeked in at piano and voice lessons, he'd seen kids' parents paying her.

Disappointment filled her soft brown eyes. "That's too bad. A talent like yours should be nurtured." Then she brightened. "Would you be willing to work for us in exchange for lessons?"

A jah almost flew from Mark's lips, but he caught it in time. "Mamm wouldn't let me take lessons. But I could do jobs for you." Maybe he'd get to hear some of the lessons while he worked.

"Wonderful." The sparkle in her eyes promised more than chores.

* * *

Eight years later, on Christmas Eve, Mark slipped over to the Musselmans' house after he'd finished his chores. Over the past weeks, he'd helped Mrs. Musselman decorate the house for Christmas. He'd cut down a blue spruce and put it up in the family room. He'd strung bulbs on the tree, hung glittering icicle lights from her eaves, tacked stockings to the mantel, inflated a balloon-like Santa and his reindeer on the front lawn, and set up a large wooden nativity scene on her wide front porch.

Everywhere Mark looked, lights twinkled, ornaments shimmered, and snow gleamed. Unlike his own plain living room, with a pine garland on the mantel and a string of Christmas cards on the wall, the Musselmans' house burst with decorations, piles of presents, and glorious music. The soaring strains of "O Holy Night" poured from the kitchen as Mrs. Musselman slid tree-shaped cookies from the oven. She and Mark warbled along.

Mark wished he could stay overnight here and wake on Christmas morning to open some of the gifts wrapped in shiny paper or dump out treats from a stocking. He'd get one or two small, practical presents from his parents, perhaps a book, a much-needed tool, or a pair of wool socks to keep his feet toasty on frigid mornings when he tended to the animals.

Mrs. Musselman interrupted Mark's thoughts. "The boys will be here soon."

She still called them boys, although they were in their twenties and married now. The oldest one even had a small boy of his own. Neither of them played in the band anymore, so their instruments and equipment sat idle in the garage. Mrs. Musselman had told Mark to use all of it whenever he wanted. She'd even encouraged him to bring his friends.

Once he'd turned sixteen, he'd taken full advantage of it. Although his parents might have disapproved if they realized he'd been the one making most of the loud music coming from the garage, he eased his conscience by using Rumspringa as an excuse for playing his heart out. All the lessons from Mrs. Musselman and her sons over the years paid off. Mark had become an accomplished musician, skilled on the electric guitar, the piano, keyboard, and drums. The Musselman family all agreed he sang like an angel. For the band, though, he'd perfected a gravelly voice with a rough edginess that everyone seemed to love.

Several of his friends joined him in the garage for jam sessions. Mark showed them what he knew, and Mrs. Musselman offered them lessons in exchange for lawn care and tree trimming. Over the past year, they'd developed a unique sound together, and in addition to popular songs, they began playing some of Mark's original compositions. Mrs. Musselman even taught him musical notation and introduced him to lyric software on the computer. She was as proud of his compositions as he was. He owed her so much. No matter how much he helped her, he could never repay all she'd done.

"Anything else you need before your sons get here?" Mark would gladly do it.

"How about sampling these cookies to make sure they taste okay?"

He grinned as he took the three kinds she held out. "I'm always glad to check out your cooking." Over the years, she'd insisted he try meals and snacks, knowing he was often hungry because, with eight children, Daed struggled to put food on the table, especially in winter when construction jobs slowed down and the garden shriveled. By Christmastime, they lived mainly on what they'd canned during the summer.

Mark chewed each cookie thoroughly, savoring every bite, and pronounced them delicious.

"Oh, good. I packed some for your family to wish them a Merry Christmas." Mrs. Musselman handed him a large tin embossed with a poinsettia.

"You didn't have to do that," Mark protested.

"I want to. I'll be giving one to all our neighbors. Even though my husband's not around this year and I have no children at home, I can't get out of the habit of baking for four."

" Danke. " Mark's heart went out to her. Since she'd lost her husband nine months ago, Mark had done all the household jobs Mr. Musselman used to handle. It made Mark happy to know she'd have company for Christmas. "I'd better get home. I'm sure Daed has plenty of chores to keep me busy."

"Before you go, I have a present for you."

"You've done so much for me. I can't take anything more."

"It'll be a gift for me too. Although I might be a little selfish in keeping you around here."

Mark furrowed his brow.

"I've checked with my sons, and they agree. We'd all like you to have the equipment and instruments in the garage. I know we said you could play them whenever you wanted, but as of today, they all belong to you. Merry Christmas, Mark."

"I—I can't take them. That's too much."

"If you don't, I'll give them away to someone else. But I hope you'll take them, and that you'll promise to practice in the garage. Hearing the music lifts my spirits when I'm lonely."

She'd told him that before, so Mark had spent as much time as he could playing. Not that it was a hardship. Far from it. And his friends stopped by often to join him.

"You've gotten good enough now to play some gigs. I want you to be free to take the instruments to the different venues." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a list. "I've contacted these clubs and cafés. They're all willing to give you a chance."

Dazed, Mark reached out to take the paper she held out. "My parents won't approve." He'd kept his music a secret from his family. They all believed he was doing chores for the Musselmans. He had been, of course, but only for a short time each visit.

"I can talk to them if you'd like. You're very talented. It would be a shame to hide your gifts when they could be shared with the world."

Shared with the world? She thought he was that gut ? Pride snaked its way into Mark's heart. Maybe he did owe it to others to play his music where many people could hear it. That desire took root and couldn't be squashed.