I headed toward the field with my bagpipes, since that was about all I could legally do on detention. I’d had enough. It was all too much. First I’d become an employment orphan, and then I’d gotten thrown in with these maniacs. Living for a whole weekend with Brookie was bad enough without a mystery to solve on top of it. I needed some space. That’s what bagpipes are really good for. People give you lots and lots of space as soon as you start playing.
I walked quietly out on the lawn where bagpipe playing was allowed and opened my case. The familiar feel of the instrument already made me feel better. I put the three wooden drones over my shoulder and bared my teeth as I clamped them on the blowpipe stem. I inhaled to the bottom of my lungs and shut my lips as I filled the corduroy-covered bag with every speck of air I could muster. All three of the drones filled the air with their harmony. Then I began to finger a melancholy melody over the humming of the drones. I pushed the air into the chanter, with my arm on the bag to keep the steady sound going, and it filled my head and the air around me with the music that had been consoling miserable people for centuries. Some of their grievances were with the same things that were annoying me. As I played, I realized I was just one of many people through the ages who were fed up, worried, and confused. Playing this mournful tune didn’t solve my problem, but it helped me know I’d survive, just like they did.