Post by Mlle Bienvenu on Jun 6, 2011 3:42:31 GMT -5
You Should Have Paid the Piper. (A few words from the Pied Piper)
Music permeated the crisp night air, it was my music. Listen! It was the most beautiful music I’d ever played; It seeped into the the inky darkness, coloring it, energizing it making the air around it crackle and snap. I chose each note with the utmost care. Oh! The care I took! I poured my soul into the music. That song. It was to be my masterpiece. My magnum opus. Children, listen! Shhh! Listen!
Enticing and barely audible at first, Oh, not much louder, listen! Listen it said, it summoned, it insisted. No more than a whisper of breath echoed through the twisted shape of my flute. That knotted wooden flute blended and disappeared seamlessly into the ink-black air and became a part of it; invisible to human eyes, yet irresistible to human ears. Low. Low played I. Low and soft. Feeling the sounds with my ears, slow and low. Soft and slow.
And then, they began to stir. The children. My dancers. They came from their houses, the soft, low shuffling of many bare little feet. The scraping of knees and hands, crawling in the dusty earth, babies who could not yet walk, they would learn to dance. All ages. My dancers. Oh, it would be a dance to remember!
The music mingled among them, summoned them, directed. Whispered in their ear. Insisted they listen. Demanded their attentions. It wafted among the growing host of little dancers, moving, suggesting, insisting they dance.
The clouds broke then, and a silvery light played against the growing multitude. The mass moved in a slow undulating dance, like a school of fish or a flock of birds. It was my music. It was then a thrill seemed to travel up my spine. The sight of the crowd, bending to the music, swaying, conforming to it’s time. My music. Oh! It was bliss. My dancers! The song became faster, more insistent, slightly louder. Oh, not much louder. Only just.
A new, different sound shattered the air, a garish light blazed abruptly. A small child opened a front door, the ugly light spilling out onto the street. The silhouettes of two others could be seen grabbing at the child, preventing the child from joining the dance. Bleary eyed parents, barely awake, somewhere between dream and wakefulness they plucked at the child’s clothing. Preventing him. The child became more insistent, as the music enticed and promised and summoned. I wanted to change my tune, persuade the parents to let the child dance. But, alas, that would have been folly. After all, what is one child when the multitude dances?
It was a moment before the silhouettes standing in the threshold comprehended what their bleary eyes saw. I wanted to make them listen, make them understand and dance too, but my tune was meant for little ears. The strange, wonderful music cutting through the dark was not designed to make them dance. It held no magic for them.
They didn’t see me, of course, standing between shadow and night, I was hidden. I had no fear of being discovered, uncovered. But I could clearly see them, their outlines, stark against the garish unnatural light emanating from the house, plucking at the fighting child whose only thought was on the dance. On joining the others. The parents watched, mystified at the sight before their eyes. Surely it was dream, they thought, it seemed impossible, just what were all these children doing? Dancing. All the city’s first born children, dancing in unison, like so many birds, or fish. They were dancing to my music. Mine.
The music grew faster, slightly louder, more insistent, more commanding. Imperious. They began to pour out of homes. Had they all heard by now? Were they all here? Was it time to leave? Another light came on, then another. Silent. Except for the music, that was everywhere now. And then, the tune changed, yes it was time to leave. The assembled little dancing ones shifted simultaneously, turned to face me. The music moving their little legs and arms, like invisible marionette strings. The music compelled them. My music.
And then, I started to walk, slowly, quietly, in step with the music with it’s smooth, yet mismatched rhythm. Walk away from the city, walk away from the parents. The silent dancing crowd of children. Scuffling along. They followed, like moths to flame. Followed the music, my music. Followed me.
My heart pounded to the uneven time of the music. Thump tha tha, thump tha tha thump tha thump tha. . .Thump tha tha, thump tha tha, thump tha, thump tha. My fingers flew across the well-worn holes, was I even playing anymore? Or was the music playing itself?
The slivery, slippery, smoky moonlight guided us away from the glass buildings that curled right up out of the desert floor. Away from civilization through the fresh dry crisp cold night desert air, like the rats, they followed, blissfully unaware of the chill air or the dust or the moonlight. They were only aware of the sound. The music. My music.
On and on and up and out until the flat desert gave way to sloping mountains. The desert spread out below the tiny little feet of tiny little dancers. Onward and upward traveled we, the music never ceasing, never stopping, still controlling. My fingers were as blistered as the oblivious dancer’s feet. The sun broke the unbroken blackness and hit the face of mountain and my dancers were never seen again.
A song. My song, hung in the dewy air for a moment or two. And then, nothing.
My name is Camduine. It is not a name you will forget easily.
I clearly remember the first time I saw him. He was hooded, for he was riding horseback, but I could feel his power and grace and energy; even then I knew it was him.
Of course, he wouldn’t notice me. Why should he? I was just a scruffy insignificant boy; a mere amateur. A street magician. Oh, but he would notice me. I swore, on that day. I would make him notice.
In the years to come, I put everything I had into my craft. My blood, my sweat, my tears, my soul; they all became property of the magic. And the magic, in turn, gave itself to me, in that, I became it’s master and it’s slave all at once.
Never again would they call me a sleight, fair lad.
The second time we met, he did notice me. It was only a swift flicker of green eyes, but it was enough.
“Follow me.” He muttered imperiously, not even bothering to address me proper. That was fine. I obeyed. He continued, “When you enter, you are to kowtow before the Firebird. You will not speak until you are spoken to, you will not look at him unless asked, and if he asks you to do something, you will not ask questions.”
I nodded, nerves racing. Of course, he couldn’t see that. His back was towards me. We walked swiftly up the stone steps to an impressively heavy stone archway carved in the shape of two trees.
Sharply, he turned to face me, and he drew out of his feathered cloak what looked like to me, in the dim lighting, to be some sort of wand made of gnarled wood.
“I was told to give you this.” He said simply and unceremoniously shoved the article in my hands. I knew straight away my future was bound to it.
Upon closer inspection, I realized it was not, in fact, a wand. It was much better. It was a double pipe made of a fine, black wood. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It was a moment before I realized he was speaking to me again.
His eyes turned to poison green slits. His look was derisive, “I asked you a question, boy!”
“I- I’m sorry sir.” I could feel my face turn hot, it was lucky the lighting was poor in the corridor before the stone trees, although I was not entirely certain the dark would have impaired his vision at all.
“I asked if you owned another focus.”
I did. It was a palm-sized sphere of clouded glass I had once found. Amazing, what people throw away. . .
“I do.” I said, simultaneously pulling the thing out of my pocket.
“Give it here,” said he, spreading his palm expectantly. I reluctantly gave up the object. That life was over now, I told myself, a new life was beginning. It seemed fitting to start anew.
Music permeated the crisp night air, it was my music. Listen! It was the most beautiful music I’d ever played; It seeped into the the inky darkness, coloring it, energizing it making the air around it crackle and snap. I chose each note with the utmost care. Oh! The care I took! I poured my soul into the music. That song. It was to be my masterpiece. My magnum opus. Children, listen! Shhh! Listen!
Enticing and barely audible at first, Oh, not much louder, listen! Listen it said, it summoned, it insisted. No more than a whisper of breath echoed through the twisted shape of my flute. That knotted wooden flute blended and disappeared seamlessly into the ink-black air and became a part of it; invisible to human eyes, yet irresistible to human ears. Low. Low played I. Low and soft. Feeling the sounds with my ears, slow and low. Soft and slow.
And then, they began to stir. The children. My dancers. They came from their houses, the soft, low shuffling of many bare little feet. The scraping of knees and hands, crawling in the dusty earth, babies who could not yet walk, they would learn to dance. All ages. My dancers. Oh, it would be a dance to remember!
The music mingled among them, summoned them, directed. Whispered in their ear. Insisted they listen. Demanded their attentions. It wafted among the growing host of little dancers, moving, suggesting, insisting they dance.
The clouds broke then, and a silvery light played against the growing multitude. The mass moved in a slow undulating dance, like a school of fish or a flock of birds. It was my music. It was then a thrill seemed to travel up my spine. The sight of the crowd, bending to the music, swaying, conforming to it’s time. My music. Oh! It was bliss. My dancers! The song became faster, more insistent, slightly louder. Oh, not much louder. Only just.
A new, different sound shattered the air, a garish light blazed abruptly. A small child opened a front door, the ugly light spilling out onto the street. The silhouettes of two others could be seen grabbing at the child, preventing the child from joining the dance. Bleary eyed parents, barely awake, somewhere between dream and wakefulness they plucked at the child’s clothing. Preventing him. The child became more insistent, as the music enticed and promised and summoned. I wanted to change my tune, persuade the parents to let the child dance. But, alas, that would have been folly. After all, what is one child when the multitude dances?
It was a moment before the silhouettes standing in the threshold comprehended what their bleary eyes saw. I wanted to make them listen, make them understand and dance too, but my tune was meant for little ears. The strange, wonderful music cutting through the dark was not designed to make them dance. It held no magic for them.
They didn’t see me, of course, standing between shadow and night, I was hidden. I had no fear of being discovered, uncovered. But I could clearly see them, their outlines, stark against the garish unnatural light emanating from the house, plucking at the fighting child whose only thought was on the dance. On joining the others. The parents watched, mystified at the sight before their eyes. Surely it was dream, they thought, it seemed impossible, just what were all these children doing? Dancing. All the city’s first born children, dancing in unison, like so many birds, or fish. They were dancing to my music. Mine.
The music grew faster, slightly louder, more insistent, more commanding. Imperious. They began to pour out of homes. Had they all heard by now? Were they all here? Was it time to leave? Another light came on, then another. Silent. Except for the music, that was everywhere now. And then, the tune changed, yes it was time to leave. The assembled little dancing ones shifted simultaneously, turned to face me. The music moving their little legs and arms, like invisible marionette strings. The music compelled them. My music.
And then, I started to walk, slowly, quietly, in step with the music with it’s smooth, yet mismatched rhythm. Walk away from the city, walk away from the parents. The silent dancing crowd of children. Scuffling along. They followed, like moths to flame. Followed the music, my music. Followed me.
My heart pounded to the uneven time of the music. Thump tha tha, thump tha tha thump tha thump tha. . .Thump tha tha, thump tha tha, thump tha, thump tha. My fingers flew across the well-worn holes, was I even playing anymore? Or was the music playing itself?
The slivery, slippery, smoky moonlight guided us away from the glass buildings that curled right up out of the desert floor. Away from civilization through the fresh dry crisp cold night desert air, like the rats, they followed, blissfully unaware of the chill air or the dust or the moonlight. They were only aware of the sound. The music. My music.
On and on and up and out until the flat desert gave way to sloping mountains. The desert spread out below the tiny little feet of tiny little dancers. Onward and upward traveled we, the music never ceasing, never stopping, still controlling. My fingers were as blistered as the oblivious dancer’s feet. The sun broke the unbroken blackness and hit the face of mountain and my dancers were never seen again.
A song. My song, hung in the dewy air for a moment or two. And then, nothing.
My name is Camduine. It is not a name you will forget easily.
I clearly remember the first time I saw him. He was hooded, for he was riding horseback, but I could feel his power and grace and energy; even then I knew it was him.
Of course, he wouldn’t notice me. Why should he? I was just a scruffy insignificant boy; a mere amateur. A street magician. Oh, but he would notice me. I swore, on that day. I would make him notice.
In the years to come, I put everything I had into my craft. My blood, my sweat, my tears, my soul; they all became property of the magic. And the magic, in turn, gave itself to me, in that, I became it’s master and it’s slave all at once.
Never again would they call me a sleight, fair lad.
The second time we met, he did notice me. It was only a swift flicker of green eyes, but it was enough.
“Follow me.” He muttered imperiously, not even bothering to address me proper. That was fine. I obeyed. He continued, “When you enter, you are to kowtow before the Firebird. You will not speak until you are spoken to, you will not look at him unless asked, and if he asks you to do something, you will not ask questions.”
I nodded, nerves racing. Of course, he couldn’t see that. His back was towards me. We walked swiftly up the stone steps to an impressively heavy stone archway carved in the shape of two trees.
Sharply, he turned to face me, and he drew out of his feathered cloak what looked like to me, in the dim lighting, to be some sort of wand made of gnarled wood.
“I was told to give you this.” He said simply and unceremoniously shoved the article in my hands. I knew straight away my future was bound to it.
Upon closer inspection, I realized it was not, in fact, a wand. It was much better. It was a double pipe made of a fine, black wood. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It was a moment before I realized he was speaking to me again.
His eyes turned to poison green slits. His look was derisive, “I asked you a question, boy!”
“I- I’m sorry sir.” I could feel my face turn hot, it was lucky the lighting was poor in the corridor before the stone trees, although I was not entirely certain the dark would have impaired his vision at all.
“I asked if you owned another focus.”
I did. It was a palm-sized sphere of clouded glass I had once found. Amazing, what people throw away. . .
“I do.” I said, simultaneously pulling the thing out of my pocket.
“Give it here,” said he, spreading his palm expectantly. I reluctantly gave up the object. That life was over now, I told myself, a new life was beginning. It seemed fitting to start anew.
