Whirling motes of dust twist in the wagon’s wake. The midday sun robs the land of shadow and the beige flatness writhes as if leaping from the pages of a book. The cart driver doesn’t notice the subtleties of their passing, looks only ahead, and the boy Elliah sleeps comfortably among burlap sacks of seed, manure and compost as only a farmer’s child can. The bard cannot sleep, cannot sit still even, and so a yew and mithril violin is lifted from a black leather case and tucked under chin. Sucking in a measured breath, he listens to the world around him.
At first the sounds are as they are, the thup of hooves and insect buzzing mingling with wind and the whispering of trees. Slowly…as he listens, as he lets it wash over him and tunes to his heart’s ear, there is more – the realization that what he’s feeling isn’t entirely him, that the sounds he’s hearing radiate ever-shifting emotions. He feels it as music; others, he understands, might see it in the wild colors of the world or the intertwining dance of creatures, but for him, the feeling is sound. The music of life.
And now a new sound wraps around his heart, a violin so soaked in him it’s become a twin, a child. As the first notes drift from Amati, the weathered, out-of-work driver glances over and cracks a rare smile which holds on his stubbled face no longer than a double-stop trill. It’s the first expression the bard has seen on the man since they left Mariner’s Hold.
“You know the Swayback Canter?”
“Hum a few bars, I can fake it.” The driver allots him a second thin smile but does not hum; the bard starts to play anyway. Watching the driver’s…what was his name? Rupert? Watching his brief and swiftly banished enjoyment unleashes a tumble of thoughts.
Why does he do this? Why does he play for others, so often, so…insistently? Why does he need this? For need it he does, he can’t lie to himself about that. Amati’s A string, the diva of the four, rolls under his ring finger and the sweetness of the tone sounds like love’s own voice…why, why does he need an audience?
“Not too shabby. Play a waltz.”
Everything, even the dour man next to him who has taken this job out of an ill-hidden desperation to provide for family and feel useful, is somewhere in the world song. He shifts to three-quarters time in G major and with a stroke he’s off in a fluid rendition of the Kartherian Waltz, which has always amused him to play – if even half the people who asked for it knew what the slowly building passages were meant to represent…the driver sits back, relaxes the reins so the mare can set her own pace, even taps his right foot ever so minutely in time. The entertainer sees this and feeds on the doffing of a cloak of tension. His own mood lifts in response and the enjoyment cycles back into his fingers, Amati’s strings. For the next however long two beings share a common sense of wellbeing.
And that, Tashe, is why.
It’s more than wanting to banish bad moods, or make people like him, although that is part. It’s more than wanting to exert some control over his environment, although that too is part. It’s wanting to connect and to share that moment that he first found love, that he first gave his heart to his Goddess, those moments that he’s stared at the tightly grained wood lining the bottom of the proverbial barrel. It’s wanting to slip on other’s emotions as he would a velvet jacket, to understand their experiences and perspective. And to know when he should not as well, or be able to have some sense of it. That part, the knowing when and when not, has been a struggle for him. A voice from long ago seems to carry on the wind, a halfling’s voice light as the keys on her skirts and bells around her ankles, reminding him with a centuries-old smile that you can’t understand others by looking in a mirror. With a shift of fingers Amati sings in a burst of A sharp – thank you…
“That's what friends are for, Andrew. You should know that by now.” Not Gypsy Belle’s voice this time, but another’s. She is not here but she is, for he holds this violin, and were it not for her Amati would sit, stringless, in a stand. For Ilia, a fast pizzicato which rushes from his fingertips as water down a stream, and more of her words and the Conductor’s, and abruptly there is something – something, some thought, tickling, wanting out -
“Play that other one again.” The waltz has meandered into an impromptu caprice. With a head shake and a bit of humming he turns his bowing back to Katherian’s famous ball – he laughs, he can’t help it – dance. Technically simple, the complexity is in how the artist creates the tension and the inexorable crescendo. He prefers double stops and vibrato.
“You’re stalling.”
He’s stalling and there it is again, that bubble of epiphany trying to rise to the surface. Closng his eyes, he rests his bow and instead listens to the Heartsong. She’d mentioned the Resonance, when they spoke of his pain at being unable to complete Amati. What had she said? After Raina left and she went blind – “Kaldar and I withdrew from the Resonance of Being because I no longer thought I could travel there. It wouldn't be the same.”
If she withdrew, and assuming she had not returned because before he’d first visited them, Raina had not returned home…and the Conductor had sent him to them knowing that…who was helping whom? By Ilsare. Edgar’s face is as clear as day, listening to his discomfort at his progress and his fears. “The Sunstriders, yes, I think you’ll do well with them.” But they had withdrawn. They were technically not…and yet… The Conductor listened to his words and heard his heart. The bard is student and ambassador both.
“Hey.” A glance from Rupert. “Why’d you quit playing?”
“Apologies, I just had a moment is all.” He makes to play again then pauses. You can’t understand others by looking in a mirror. “Do you know that feeling when something rings true that perhaps you’d overlooked? That….’AHA’ feeling?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Well, that.” The older man nods; he continues. “It’s so strange, the things we think we know.”
“Sure is. Just the other day I was talking to my wife…” And he’s off. Somewhere in the music, the mood, and the heat of the day the ice has melted – just enough – and the bard sets his various musings aside to focus on this man and his world and his joys and sorrows. He’ll ponder Ilia and Kaldar, Raina, and his own journey in augmentation later.
Author
Topic: Andrew Reid - Letters Home (Read 7288 times)
