Alfie stared at the swirling portal of colour and sound, his heart thumping louder than any drum he'd ever played. Harmony bobbed beside him, currently shaped like a bouncing musical note with googly eyes.
"We must hurry!" Harmony squeaked, their voice rippling with worry. "The Jazz Kingdom is just beyond the Bebop Bridge, but the Silence spreads faster when the sun sets in Rhythmia."
Alfie looked down at his drumsticks—the same battered sticks he'd had since his sixth birthday. They seemed so ordinary. "I don't know why you think I can help," he mumbled. "I'm not even good at drums. My teacher says I rush the beat."
"Rushing the beat just means you're excited!" Harmony transformed into a tiny trumpet shape, honking encouragingly. "Now come ON!"
They crossed the Bebop Bridge—a wobbly structure made entirely of saxophone keys that played little boop-boop-boops with every step. Below them, a river of liquid melody flowed in swirls of purple and gold. Alfie couldn't help but smile, even though his tummy was full of butterflies.
The Jazz Kingdom appeared through the mist, and Alfie gasped. It was a city of brass instruments twisted into buildings, with lampposts that looked like clarinets and streets paved with piano keys. But something was terribly wrong. Half the city had turned grey and silent, like someone had spilled cement over a rainbow.
"The Silence," Harmony whispered, shrinking into a tiny, scared triangle. "It's worse than yesterday."
In the centre of the kingdom's square stood a figure Alfie recognised from his dad's old record covers—Louis Armstrong himself, though he looked tired and faded, like a photograph left too long in the sun.
"Well, well," Louis said, his famous gravelly voice barely above a whisper. "They sent me a little cat with drumsticks. You here to bring back the swing, young man?"
"I—I don't know how," Alfie admitted, gripping his sticks tightly. "I'm just a kid who bangs on things when he's upset."
Louis Armstrong smiled, and even faded, it was the warmest smile Alfie had ever seen. "That's how all the best music starts, little drummer. With feeling." He pointed a shaky finger at Alfie's drumsticks. "Those sticks of yours—they got magic in 'em. But it only wakes up when you play from the heart, with the right rhythm."
"Magic?" Alfie looked at his drumsticks. They looked exactly the same as always—a bit chewed at the ends where he'd nervously nibbled them during school concerts.
"Try it," Louis urged. "Play me something jazzy. Something with swing. One-two, one-two-THREE-four. Emphasis on the three, nice and lazy-like."
Alfie's hands trembled. He thought about all the times he'd messed up, all the times he'd been too loud or too fast or too much. But then Harmony transformed into a gentle bass note and hummed encouragingly, and Louis nodded with patient, kind eyes.
Alfie took a breath and tapped his sticks together.
One-two, one-two-THREE-four.
Nothing happened.
"Again," Louis said softly. "But this time, don't think about being perfect. Think about how music makes you feel."
Alfie closed his eyes. He thought about dancing in the kitchen with his mum. About car journeys with his dad's jazz playing. About how drumming made all his angry, sad feelings turn into something beautiful.
One-two, one-two-THREE-four.
His drumsticks exploded with golden light.
"WHOA!" Alfie nearly dropped them, but the magic had already begun. Wherever the golden light touched, colour flooded back into the grey buildings. Musical notes—actual, living notes with little legs—came dancing out of hiding, cheering in tiny voices.
"You did it!" Harmony transformed into a jubilant starburst. "You found your groove!"
But Louis Armstrong's smile had faded. He was pointing toward the horizon, where a massive wall of grey silence was rolling toward them like a thundercloud.
"That little burst woke something up, young drummer," Louis said grimly. "The Silence knows you're here now. And it's coming for you."