A Glimpse Within

The items into which we will be looking this week are 1) one of my techniques of writing, and 2) a scene from the sequel to The Feasts and Follies of the Animal Court, which I am finally in full speed of producing for your future reading pleasure. 

Something that I have the tendency of doing is linking my stories. By that I mean, I'll write books with plots or characters that intersect, which could stand alone, but are also enhanced if all of the stories are read. I do this because, like life, everyone that we meet has a story, no matter how minor their roll in our day-to-day experiences. In the sequel that is currently in the works, there are a number of separate stories to which are either alluded within the pages or which have integral pieces to the plot. For example, two major characters in two other stories enter the life of Queen Gertrude in her sequel, and yet their parts in this tale are minimal. Hopefully, this will breed familiarity with the characters and their parts in this world of my creation.

The short that follows is exactly that. It is a minor scene in the book that I am developing, which takes place in an evening of multiple performances before the royal court. In the story, this scene is told from the perspective of the royal box, not from the musicians, as it will be told below. Every perspective is different and every one deserves a chance to tell their tale. So I hope that you enjoy this short, "A Song for their King and Queen."

~*~*~

"Now, you will be performing for the king and the queen," the white haired stage director, the organizer of the event reminded, though no one in the small chamber orchestra needed the point. As painted ballerinas, stage hands, actors, assistants zoomed around them in streaks of coordinated chaos, the three musicians looked to each other for strength. They were masters at their craft in the country, but here in the city, they were out of their element. This was more than they could have ever dreamed for, what they had wondered about their whole lives, and here it was at their feet ready for them to grab. And they were terrified. "Oh, and don't forget this as well," the short man pointed a stern finger in their faces. "Those damn reps from Ruishland are out there. You're representin' the whole o' Vitenka to the likes of them. Don't blow it! Last we need is to give them any reason to laugh at us."

The violinist gave a look to the viola player like they were in way over their heads. Standing in the concert hall of the royal city was overwhelming enough, but now that they would be the sole featured musicians playing their craft to a nation that hated their people was enough to make a stomach turn from nerves.

No pressure.

The cellist stood proud. This was the opportunity that they had been preparing for their whole lives. It could not be more grand.

The white haired organizer told them to wait one moment while the last performance finished. He trotted off to ensure that the stage hands would know what to do for the upcoming act.

Peaking from the shadows through the curtains on stage left, the viola player looked to the rows and rows of filled seats facing the stage. They had never performed in anything this big. They were from the country, from a town not so far from that where the queen had been born and raised. The vitality of their music had been called to her attention personally from her mother, a woman of great esteem. Their songs were composed from the sorrow endured and the uplifting experiences, which had come to save the nation. But those were not the songs that they had been approved to play. The white haired man told them that they were to perform classics, songs that people knew. This did not settle well with the musicians, but they had been so thrilled to be representing their county that the excitement overthrew their principles. But this was something for which the cellist would no longer stand.

 The cellist spun around to his colleagues to quietly, but firmly announce, "Let's play 'The Nation's Concerto."

The violinist and the viola stared at him flabbergasted at the thought of straying away from the mandate of playing classics, to play the song that defined the patriotism of the country that for so long had been lost. Indeed, it was a song that everyone knew, but the implications of playing it were beyond the imaginings of the three. The king and queen had been doing everything in their power to re-instill in the people the patriotism that existed prior to the reign of King Breyton's father, but the scars were still too deep. Eighteen years into their rule, Gertrude and Breyton were still the king and queen, not their king and queen.

This song was known by all, though it was rarely played. To play it at an event like this certainly would make a statement, but what would happen if they were to play a song that's notes sang of oppression, struggle, reflection, the beauty of revival and the strength of a nation united by the ancient symbols, the white dragon and the black bear?

"C'mon, lads," the cellist insisted. "This is our chance. You know as well as I how hard Her Ladyship fought for our people, for our class. That's not something she's abandoned. This is our chance to sing to our lady our love song. What d' you say? Are you with me?"

The claps in the audience told them that the current act was done. The curtain folded over the last act and the stage hands rushed to bring out three chairs for the center of the stage. The musicians would be taking the stage momentarily.

The white haired stage director came hurriedly over toward them.

The violinist's forehead was already shining with perspiration, it seemed only natural that they be remembered in history as the bold musicians, rather than the timid fools from the country. "Let's do it." He agreed, though inside he was trembling. "Let's play this song for our king and queen."

The viola nodded. They had known this song all of their lives, and it would easily rise from their memories. His face was aglow. This was the greatest feeling that he had ever known.

"Alright, lads, come along," the stage director hurried them onto the stage.

This was it.

The nervous feeling was replaced by one of excitement. The three men from the country took their positions with their dark-wood and well played instruments. They checked their strings briefly to ensure that all was in tune, ready to adjust themselves if otherwise.Then, with only a quick point to them from stage right of the director, the long, red-velvet curtains opened.

The flash of the lights at the edge of the stage hit the standing musicians with their intense heat. It was very warm in the auditorium and that was of little wonder. It was packed. The glowing chandeliers that dangled above the heads of the audience did little to help the heat with their hundreds of candles in glass jars aflame. The welcoming claps from the audience gently welcomed the musicians into their positions on their chairs, save for the cellist who remained standing between his seated friends. It had been earlier decided that he would introduce them. Clearing his throat, the cellist stood tall, holding his beautiful, full bodied instrument as though it were a shield bearing the crest of his countrymen. When the hush settled over the audience, the cellist began: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Your majesties." As they entered the stage, he had been scanning the audience to find the royal box. Even though he had been explicitly instructed not to address them, talking to the majesties was now his only intent. He looked directly at the people whom he knew were the king and queen, though he had never before seen either of them personally, as he spoke, "We've come from very far to be here tonight to play this song from our hearts to you. This, my king and my queen, this song is for you."

The stage director on the side was already feeling very nervous. Those were not the words that had been approved.

The cellist sat, adjusted himself properly and looked to his mates to ensure that they were ready.

The pair nodded. With his toe the violinist tapped the beat on the wooden floor. The song started on one so he counted off on the beat of three, "One, two, three."

And the first long, powerful chord of the song rang throughout the auditorium.

Immediately, every single soul in the auditorium knew what it was that the chamber had begun to play.

The stage director stood furious, for he knew that it would be his head on the plate to pay for this, but there was nothing that could be done. As it had been said a million times before, the show must go on.

The king and the queen instantly froze from the fear of what these three mad musicians would bring upon them all with the people of Ruishland seated to their left. But then, as the majesty and the glory of the song built from those three men, the power of it consumed the king and queen. No one threw eggs at the stage, most certainly no one booed. The entire audience was gripped with the silent words the three sole musicians were screaming beautifully to them.

This was the song that defined the history of their people and it was infectious.

Breyton looked to his wife and she to him. This song was being played for them. Both were deeply moved. Nothing in their nearly two decades of rule had been done to honor their efforts to save their nation. And they had brought it back from the brink.

The song came to its powerful conclusion. It's long, bold notes rang throughout the hall as though an entire orchestra was playing and not just three wooden pieces.

For the faintest of moments, the musicians, hearts pounding and instruments still vibrating from the reverberations of their tunes, thought that the walls would fall on them from their bold move.

Instead, the hall erupted into nearly deafening applauds. The queen was the first to stand. She proudly did not hide the tears running from her eyes. To praise the small chamber by rising to their feet, the audience followed the lead of the woman who was their queen. Even the Ruishlanders, however reluctantly, stood to acknowledge the beauty of what they had heard, but the political implications of this song would not die for them here.

~*~*~

Inspirational Side Note
Last Monday, I listened to and met Nobel Peace Laureate Leymah Gbowee who told the audience at Columbia University the following: You cannot go to a region with a pre-designed plan to "save" the people. You cannot "save" Africa. When you go to regions with the intent of doing good, you must go there to learn, because only when your eyes are open will you see what truly needs to be addressed from the people themselves, and then, only then, will you be able to help and thus to serve.