Short Story: Song of the Heart

I was going to post a regular post tonight. Actually, I was going to post a bifurcated post, a post in two halves. A humorous half and a serious half. I was going to tell you of my events this weekend and discuss an anxiety I had upcoming.

But I went for a walk just now, and an idea came into my head that more or less demanded that I commit it to words. And I am happy to oblige. I only hope that I can truly capture the essence of it in my head and put it to paper, or to text, whatever...that I can do it justice.

It's the first in my "Protector of the Universe" series, about a man who acquires godlike power, and his dealings with this world. If you're thinking "Great, another Marty Stu epic," don't. The power is only a storytelling device. Just read, and I hope you feel the majesty that I felt when I had this tale well up inside me.
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I stepped off of the crowded subway car. People spilled out behind me, running every which way. They reminded me of ants, sometimes, swarming in and out of tunnels, always in a hurry. I took a few steps off the yellow-striped danger area, and glanced around. Yes, this appeared to be my stop. Good thing, too - I had missed it last week, and had to catch the next subway heading back the way I had come.

I normally got around with...shall we say...more unconventional means of transport, but this was my first time in New York City. I mean to say, my first time on the ground in New York City. I had certainly buzzed the skyline once or twice during some of my mad flights, back when the power was new and fresh. I wanted to experience the subway, and I had. It was pretty much how everyone described it - dank, smelly, and full of people who you should never ever look in the eye.

I was about to head for the staircase to the street when I heard something. A few notes, haltingly played. A squeak. A fast ascension. My music sense told me that this was clearly a violin limbering up. I don't need my powers to tell me everything. I could just barely hear it over the crowd, but I set off in its direction.

At the source was an old black man. He had on a weather-beaten jacket, scraggly at the edges. His pants had holes and bare patches. His feet were shoeless, but he had thin, stained socks. His green woolly cap was a bit threadbare. His eyes were milky and unfocused...he was blind, I realized. A white cane, slightly splintered, lay next to his instrument case. A dented tin cup stood before him, a few small coins looking pitiful and alone at the bottom.

He held in his hands a violin. Now, I've seen some magnificent instruments in my time. Real works of art. Let me tell you, this was absolutely nothing like any of them. Part of the body looked like rats had nibbled on it. The strings were beginning to fray. A water stain covered half the front part. His bow had split strings dangling. Life had not been easy to this man, and it had spared none of its hardships for his instrument, either.

Having limbered up, he began to play.

At the first note, the breath caught in my throat.

...How shall I describe it? How can I describe it? The English language has no words that can...

...well, let me try.

I have listened to the great operas of our time, the finest Stradivari and Amati playing the most exquisite of notes.

I have gone back in time, to hear the great masters showcase their work firsthand. I have sat in the front row and watched Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Haydn, Tchaikovsky, and heard their mellifluous tones shine into the world for the first time.

I have visited other worlds, and heard music I could not dream of, on instruments unlike any designed by men. I have seen the finest that galaxies have to offer, interstellar divas offering melodies that ring out among entire systems.

I have spoken with stars, and heard their language...they speak in a song of light. I have heard the harmony of the spheres, and the grand majesty of an endless burning spirit.

So why is it that the few simple notes that the man began with seemed to resonate in my very soul? Why did I freeze, unable to do anything but let the music pour into my being and fill it with light?

Why could I, who has seen the miracles of existence, only stare at the man with the awe of a newborn child?

The music was a song of wonder. A song of fire. A song which took the very thread of my being and caressed it like a harp-string.

It was like if joy and sadness and amazement and elegance had become nothing but pure sound, the sound that hummed from the man's worn strings, the sound that had become my entire existence.

The notes washed over me like a tide. Words like "brilliant" and "beautiful" and "astonishing" would shame this music to describe it. How could I use those words which have been used to describe other forms of art - other songs - which are but discordant twangs compared to the marvel of this music?

It was incomparable. It was sheer Music, untarnished by fumble-fingered alteration by those who supposed themselves to be masters.

It was the very paragon of artistic excellence.

It was perfection.

I was overcome. I could not remain standing. I fell to my knees, in the middle of the grimy station with busy pedestrians milling all around me, as the old man played a song which burned like a fire in my spirit - a blazing pyre that immolated me like nothing before or since ever has.

With a final descension, it ended.

I realized I was weeping. In joy, to hear such a treasure - or in sorrow, to have it vanish so soon? No power in the universe could recall that music. My best attempts would have crushed me with shame at my imperfect imitation. I could not allow myself to take such purity and destroy it with my attempt at realization.

With a jerk, I came back to myself. The old man was just placing his violin inside his battered case - more carefully than a woman laying down her own child. He had just closed the lid when I found my voice.

"Wait!" I yelped. I swallowed, my throat had gone dry. "Wait," I said in a more normal tone. The man raised his head to acknowledge me, but did not move.

"Would you...please...play that, just...one more time?" I stammered. A few coins materialized in my hand, and I dropped them with a clink into his cup.

The old man smiled. His smile was playful, almost as if he and I had just shared a secret. "Why, certainly, young man," he said softly. He reopened his case, retrieved his violin, and carefully set it against his chin. He tightened his bowstring a tiny bit. He raised his bow, in preparation to play.

I raised my hand.

Nobody else in the station seemed to have heard the man play. Blind fools, I cursed silently - did they not know art when they heard it? They were all very busy, rushing in and out of cars and stairways, bumping into each other, crushing against each other, hurrying everywhere they went.

They never slowed down. They never looked up. They never heard.

I would make them hear.

I could not be so selfish as to keep this marvelous gift to myself. I would share it with all those that would hear, and more.

Above and around, sound gently faded. The honking of car horns outside diminished to a murmur, the rumble of the subway dwindled to a purr, the trampling of feet waned to a whisper.
Silence reigned.

In the vast, soundless void, the old man began to play.

As the first few measures started, I heard a great sigh, as if ten million people or more were overcome as one. They were.

Across the world, all that was to be heard was the old man's music.

In every building in the great cities of the world, at the top of eighty stories of concrete and steel. In small homes, row by row, all the same. In the mountains and the lakesides, in small settlements and single tents. In secret areas where young people went to be alone. In areas of war and strife, where all that was ever heard was gunshots, and explosions, and suffering. In prison cells, cut off from light and warmth. In the endless plains and the vast forests and the wind-swept deserts. In the deepest, darkest places of the world, where no sound ever penetrated, where no man yet was present to hear, echoing in the very bones of the earth.

Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. That was all it lasted. Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world stood still, and the world listened. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world was at peace.

As the old man's last note faded, sound began again. Once more, the world resumed - and a faint whoosh, as if the world drew breath all at once. As if everyone, everywhere, had not dared to interrupt by doing anything so base as breathing.

None would remember the song. I made sure of that. It would be impossible to explain. None would remember the music that drew fiery trails across their souls. All they would remember was a single note...and the peace that they felt. They would carry that with them forever, in a small corner of their minds...a few minutes of pure, unsullied peace.

The old man packed away his instrument. His dirty fingers picked up the coins I had put into his cup, and placed them inside his pocket. Taking his case in one hand, and his cane in the other, he rose and began to tap the ground softly, walking away slowly.

"Wait!" I cried. He stopped and turned slightly. I rose as well. "I could help you," I said quietly. "I am a very rich man." (It's a good cover story. People think that the rich are all-powerful. Only one is.) "I can help you," I continued, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "I could get you a better instrument, some new clothes...you could get out of this filthy subway and play in concert halls." He turned around fully to face me. I moved in close. "I can help you more than you know," I murmured.

He grinned, and chuckled. "Thanks all the same, young fella," he said. "But I like it down here. There's no pressure to perform. I can just play whatever I feel like playing." I nodded at the wisdom of his words, realizing even as I did so of the futility of my gesture.

"Here, though," I said. Taking a money clip from my pocket that had not existed ten seconds previous, I held out twenty $100 bills. "At least buy yourself something nice to eat...and some shoes," I mumbled.

He looked at me, or vaguely near me, for several seconds. At last, he reached out a crabbed hand and took the money I was offering. "Thank you very much," he said, smiling. "I'll do just that. My feet've been starting to hurt. These floors are mighty cold." Turning back around, tapping his cane, he walked away. I stood still, watching him go. A few seconds later, I turned around myself to leave.

"Oh, young man?" I turned my head to see the old man facing me once more. He was looking directly at me, meeting my eyes perfectly.

"Thanks...for the audience."

I blinked several times, in wonder. When I looked back, I was not at all surprised to see that he had disappeared into the crowd.
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It turned out...well, not as good as I would have hoped, but I like it. Tell me what y'all think. I'll post what I was going to post on Tuesday night.

I'll reply to comments tomorrow. I need to meet my professor in...oh...four hours and forty-five minutes. I should have gone to bed sooner, and in fact I was planning to, but you know how writing is. Sometimes, you just have to commit it to paper. I would never forgive myself for losing this story.

[EDIT: Made minor edits. Will post replies very soon.]

Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is this freakiness from a kinetic sculptor called Theo Jansen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMqftVhOuTw You...er...really have to see these to believe them. They're wind-powered, and move like animals. I know that if I saw something like that headed towards me, I'd probably wet myself and flee. And this guy wants to build herds of them. Sigh.

REPLIES.

Vic: Good to see you commenting again, and gratz on getting the 'puter back faster than you thought you would. I was listening to Brian, and we had a conversation on the phone, where he took the stance I wrote down.

I'm Kevin. The play plans to have Mallory playing Joe (rewritten to be a girl) and another guy named Adam playing the closeted girl (rewritten to be a guy). It's complex, and I think my character is gay now. But them's the breaks. You will need to get a ticket, but they sell them at the door right up until it starts. It'll probably be $5.

Steve: I like sleeping. So sue me. I may not need meat, but I sure as hell want meat. That's my story.

Jake: I'm continually making edits. I rolled up all the soldiers. Did you know that a 6th-level fighter can get four attacks per round, using only core rulebooks and no prestige nonsense? Good luck at Subway.

Steve, again: I'm going to spend a good long while on this. I already have, in fact. Don't go on at me about organics vs. non-organics. I'll eat whatever won't kill me and whatever tastes good. But I'm working on eating better. I've been masticating my way through all that healthy food you made me buy, but I still haven't tried the pumpkin-flavored flax. For some reason, it terrifies me.

Mom: I'm excited, too. You buy your tickets at the door. Actually, the captains will be the best and the brightest. If you were to run into lieutenant mooks, then they'd be dumber than mud, but the captains in this army are the best and strongest warriors, and dumb people don't generally ascend that high. And there will almost certainly be sympathetic NPCs hiding in the castle with you. I don't really eat red meat daily, just, y'know, when I can.

Bye.