In a round little valley tucked between two hills shaped like sleeping cats, there stood a village called Brindlewick.

Brindlewick was not famous for its apples, though its apples were very shiny. It was not famous for its hats, though nearly everyone wore a hat, even the chickens. And it was not famous for its clock tower, though the clock tower told the time in three different ways, depending on whether you asked politely.

Brindlewick was famous for sneezes.

In Brindlewick, every time someone sneezed, a musical instrument appeared.

Not just any instrument, either.

A tiny sneeze like, “Hup-choo!” might produce a silver triangle that went ting!

A rumbling grown-up sneeze like, “HURRUMP-CHOO!” might produce a bass drum with fluffy blue mallets.

A kitten sneeze sometimes made a piccolo.

A cow sneeze made tubas.

And once, when Mayor Bostan sneezed after smelling a jar of pepper, an entire golden harp popped into existence on top of the town fountain.

Nobody minded very much. The harp was lovely, and the fountain water sounded especially sparkly as it trickled through the strings.

Every home in Brindlewick had an instrument cupboard.

There were cupboards full of trumpets, cupboards full of flutes, cupboards full of instruments nobody knew how to play. There were bouncy drums, bendy horns, fiddles with polka-dot bows, and one enormous xylophone which had been made by the sneeze of a baker named Sahana after she accidentally sniffed a cinnamon bun.

The baker’s xylophone was so large that it was used as a bridge over a narrow stream.

When people crossed it, they had to hop from wooden bar to wooden bar. Plonk. Plink. Plunk. Pong.

It was a very musical way to get to the post office.

Now, every year on the first evening of autumn, Brindlewick held the Grand Sneeze Symphony.

The whole village gathered in the meadow behind the clock tower. Lanterns shaped like pears hung from tree branches. The moon looked down like a pale round button. Everyone brought their newest instruments, their oldest instruments, their silliest instruments, and any instruments they had found under the sofa.

Then the village orchestra played a concert.

Or, at least, it tried to.

The trouble was that Brindlewick’s orchestra was the most unpredictable orchestra in the whole world.

No one knew who would sneeze.

No one knew what instrument would appear.

No one knew whether the clarinets would turn into accordions halfway through a song, which happened if someone nearby hiccupped while holding a daisy.

And nobody, nobody at all, knew why the cymbals sometimes floated away whenever the music got too loud.

Each year, the conductor had a very difficult job.

One year, old Mrs. Kamal conducted while seven ducklings sneezed in a row, producing seven tiny banjos.

Another year, Mayor Bostan tried conducting, but he sneezed so hard that he made a giant gong, which rolled down the meadow and knocked over the lemonade stand.

This year, everyone expected the conductor to be Maestro Oren, the village music teacher.

Maestro Oren had a curly white mustache, shiny black shoes, and a baton carved from the feather of a very polite goose. He knew every musical note, including the ones that hid behind other notes.

But on the morning of the Grand Sneeze Symphony, Maestro Oren woke with a red nose.

He sniffled.

He blinked.

He sat up in bed.

“Huh,” he said.

Then he sneezed.

“AH-CHOO!”

A set of sixteen bagpipes appeared on his blanket.

The bagpipes began playing by themselves.

“HONKLE-WHONKLE-WHEEEE!”

Maestro Oren clapped his hands over his ears. Unfortunately, this made him sneeze again.

“AH-CHOO!”

This time, a huge brass trombone appeared in his bedroom. It slid right through the window and knocked three flowerpots into the garden.

Maestro Oren sent a note to the village immediately.

It said:

Dear Brindlewick,
I have caught the Musical Sniffles.
I am unable to conduct because every time I lift my baton, I sneeze.
Please do not worry.
Someone clever must lead the orchestra tonight.
Warmly,
Maestro Oren

The note was delivered by a pigeon wearing a tiny mailbag.

Everyone worried anyway.

At the village square, people gathered beneath the clock tower.

“We need someone very serious,” said Mayor Bostan.

“We need someone who understands tempo,” said Mrs. Kamal.

“We need someone who can tell a tuba when to stop being a tuba,” said Sahana the baker.

Just then, a child named Natsuki stepped out from behind the apple cart.

Natsuki was seven years old and had soft brown hair that always looked as though she had just run through a friendly wind. She loved music, but she could not play any instrument for very long.

When she tried the violin, the cat fell asleep on it.

When she tried the trumpet, her cheeks puffed up so much that her little brother called her Moonface.

When she tried the drums, she got distracted by the rhythm and started dancing.

But Natsuki was very good at listening.

She listened to rain tapping on windows.

She listened to spoons clinking in cups.

She listened to the different sounds made by shoes on different paths.

She knew that Mr. Zeki’s boots went clomp-clomp, while Auntie Fari’s sandals went flap-swish, and the mayor’s shoes went squeak because he had once stepped in jam.

“I could try,” said Natsuki.

The village became very quiet.

Even the clock tower paused between ticks.

“You?” asked Mayor Bostan, gently.

Natsuki nodded.

“I do not know all the rules,” she said. “But perhaps the orchestra does not want rules. Perhaps it wants someone to hear what it is trying to say.”

Mayor Bostan scratched his chin.

Mrs. Kamal adjusted her hat.

Sahana the baker smiled.

“That,” said Sahana, “sounds exactly like something a conductor should say.”

So Natsuki was given Maestro Oren’s goose-feather baton.

It was longer than her arm and smelled faintly of lavender biscuits.

All afternoon, Natsuki prepared.

She stood in front of a mirror and practiced serious conductor eyebrows.

She practiced swishing the baton left and right.

She practiced making a grand stop with both hands.

“Stop,” she said to a teapot.

The teapot kept bubbling.

“Stop,” she said more firmly.

The teapot whistled.

Natsuki sighed. Conducting might be harder than she thought.

At sunset, everyone gathered in the meadow.

The orchestra sat in a big half-circle.

There were flutes, horns, drums, fiddles, cellos, bells, banjos, pipes, chimes, rattles, and one instrument shaped like a watering can.

Behind them sat the people of Brindlewick on blankets and hay bales.

The air smelled of fallen leaves, cinnamon, and the lemony soap from the fountain.

Natsuki climbed onto a wooden crate in front of the orchestra.

Her knees felt wobbly.

The moon peeped over the hill.

The clock tower struck seven.

Dong.

And at once, Mr. Zeki, who was allergic to the meadow grass, sneezed.

“AAAH-CHOO!”

A long purple saxophone appeared in his lap.

Before anyone could blink, three children near the front sniffled together.

“Hup-choo! Hup-choo! Hup-choo!”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Three bright yellow tambourines bounced across the grass.

Then Sahana sneezed into her apron.

“Chuff-choo!”

A small piano appeared, with keys made of sugared almonds.

The orchestra stared.

Natsuki raised her baton.

She gave a tiny wave toward the fiddles.

The fiddles began: dee-dum, dee-dum, dee-dum.

She pointed to the flutes.

The flutes joined: whee-woo, whee-woo.

She tapped the air toward the drums.

Boom. Ba-boom. Boom.

For a few beautiful moments, it worked.

The melody curled over the meadow like a ribbon.

The village smiled.

Then Mayor Bostan sniffed.

“Oh dear,” he said.

“AHHHH-CHOO!”

A gigantic set of kettle drums appeared beside him.

BOOOOM!

Every lantern in the pear trees shook.

The cymbals floated up into the air and drifted toward the moon.

A goat sneezed.

“Blee-choo!”

A tiny trumpet appeared between its horns, and the goat immediately began to play it.

Parp! Parp! PAAAAARP!

The orchestra tumbled into a noisy jumble.

The flutes squeaked.

The drums boomed.

The almond piano played a tune that sounded like a cake falling down the stairs.

One of the bagpipes from Maestro Oren’s house somehow came rolling into the meadow, honking terribly.

“HONKLE-WHONKLE-WHEEEE!”

Natsuki waved her baton.

Nothing stopped.

She waved faster.

The music got faster.

She waved slower.

A trombone stretched itself so long that it reached the lemonade stand.

Natsuki’s face felt hot. Everyone was looking at her.

Then she remembered something.

Not a rule.

Not a trick.

A sound.

Earlier that day, she had heard the rain begin. First it had been a soft patter. Then a little quicker. Then slower again. And somehow, even though every raindrop landed in a different place, together they made a sound that felt right.

Natsuki lowered her baton.

She listened.

Under the booming and honking and parping, she heard patterns.

The kettle drums were slow and round.

The goat’s trumpet was bouncy and bright.

The bagpipes made long, windy notes.

The tiny tambourines shook in a happy little rhythm.

They were not making a mess.

They were each telling their own piece of a story.

Natsuki took a deep breath.

Then she did not try to make them stop.

She pointed to the kettle drums and moved her baton in big, gentle circles.

“Boom,” said the drums.

She pointed to the tambourines and made small flicks with her wrist.

“Shicka-shicka,” they answered.

She leaned toward the goat and gave it a nod.

“Parp! Parp!” said the trumpet.

Then Natsuki lifted both arms high toward the floating cymbals.

The cymbals paused in the sky.

They twinkled in the moonlight.

With one slow sweep of her baton, Natsuki invited them down.

Crashhhhh.

The sound was not too loud.

It was like silver rain.

The whole orchestra changed.

The bagpipes became the wind.

The fiddles became the leaves.

The drums became the footsteps of giants walking carefully through the hills.

The almond piano became stars blinking awake.

Even the goat’s trumpet became part of it, though the goat did still add one extra parp whenever it felt especially proud.

The music grew and curled and sparkled.

It became a song nobody had ever heard before, because it could only have been made that night, by that strange collection of sneezes, instruments, people, a goat, and one very listening child.

At the end, Natsuki held her breath and slowly closed her fist around the baton.

The last fiddle note floated into the dark.

The final tambourine gave one soft shake.

The goat whispered, “Parp.”

Then there was silence.

For one second.

Two seconds.

And then Brindlewick cheered so loudly that the clock tower got embarrassed and struck eight, even though it was only seven-thirty.

Maestro Oren, listening from his window beneath a mountain of bagpipes, smiled.

The next morning, when his sniffles were gone, he came to see Natsuki.

“You conducted the world’s most unpredictable orchestra,” he said.

Natsuki looked at the goose-feather baton.

“I did not really control it,” she said.

Maestro Oren’s mustache twitched into a smile.

“The best conductors rarely do,” he told her. “They listen until everyone finds a place.”

From then on, Natsuki became Brindlewick’s youngest conductor.

She conducted the Grand Sneeze Symphony every autumn.

Some years brought a hundred tiny violins.

Some years brought drums that bounced.

One year, a sleepy hedgehog sneezed and produced an instrument that sounded exactly like toast popping.

And every time the orchestra began to tumble into wildness, Natsuki would stand beneath the pear-shaped lanterns, raise her lavender-biscuit baton, and listen.

Because sometimes the most wonderful music is not the music you plan.

Sometimes it is the music that arrives with a sneeze.

And far away in the warm little valley, beneath the moon and the sleepy cat-shaped hills, Brindlewick hummed itself gently into night.