The Carillon – Part 1: Four Hundred Steps

The tower had four hundred and eight steps, and Pieter-Jan took every one with his eyes shut.

"You can look," said Lotte, over her shoulder. She was twenty-nine, a young carillonneur with strong forearms, a mess of blonde braids and a battered leather satchel of sheet music. This was her first week at the tower.

"I'm fine."

"You're holding the rope."

"The rope is very reassuring."

He was thirty-three, the keeper's grandson, a gentle bearded man in a woolly jumper who had inherited the key to the tower and a ferocious fear of heights. He'd been told he had to show the new player how things worked.

At the top, the wind whistled through the stone arches. Ghent lay spread beneath them, rooftops and canals and spires in the pale light. Bells hung overhead in a great bronze cage, their voices sleeping.

"Open your eyes," said Lotte, softly.

He did. He swayed. She caught his arm.

"I've got you."

"Oh no."

"Look at the bells. Not down."

He looked at the bells, huge and green with age. His breath steadied.

"Now," said Lotte. She sat at the carillon console, a rack of wooden batons, and struck a fist down. A single great note rang out across the city, deep and golden, shivering the air.

Pieter-Jan's mouth fell open. "My grandfather played that."

"I know. I learned from his recordings."

"He'd have loved you."

She played for half an hour, a slow old folk song, the notes drifting out over the canals. He sat on the stone ledge beside her with his eyes closed, listening, tears on his cheeks.

"Can I ask you something?" said Lotte.

"Yes."

"Will you come up again? For the evening concert?"

"I'll be terrified."

"I know. Green?"

"Green," said Pieter-Jan, shakily. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Evening Concert.