My first story is kind of long, but I am hope I can get some constructive feedback from all you wonderful people on YWS.
Cheers,
Tejas
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For a moment, he shut his trembling eyelids and concentrated all his efforts on that singular action. Maybe this time his desperation would conquer his fear. He breathed in The Air of the river valley that extended for miles around him. Slowly, he opened his mouth one last time to sing his favourite Note, Sol. That fifth Note had always enchanted him. On countless evenings at this same place, he had heard the sound of his Voice being carried loftily across the green slopes; the Air transforming into an ocean of smoky ether. But today the attempt was futile. No Note emanated from his throat. Nothing, except the gnawing silence. Tears began to appear on the brink of his eyes. By the time they would roll and strike the grass of that verdant vale, he’d have accepted defeat. So they had been right, his people, he thought.
In that flash of realisation, he felt searing physical pain in his chest. Pain as if his heart had been wrenched out of his body, battered into a million minute pieces and then smashed against those mighty hills lining the river’s course. His damp eyes turned upwards, staring at the clouds dotting the twilight sky. Even his piercing gaze could not search beyond that vast impenetrable cover of grey. There was no way his Voice would ever reach there, the place his people called the Haven. The Music, he resigned, had indeed left him. Forever.
When that last glimmer of hope begins to fade away, life becomes burdensome. His knees buckled under the weight of his sorrow as he crumbled into a miserable heap. Time left him untouched in his bereavement. Eventually, after hours of lying motionless, he rose. He searched the dark sky. The milky orb smiling at him through fluffy clouds indicated that the lunar month of Carnival had begun. For him, there would be no merriment.
Carnival was the period of celebration for his people. He’d been born into a small tribe, the Amhránaithe as they were called by other folk, which travelled the vast lands and worshipped the forces of nature. All his life, he’d been taught that the Voice was divine and that the journey of the Soul was incomplete without the offerings one’s Voice in the form of sung prayers. His people had descended from pagan worshippers whose passion for singing had led to disbandment from their mother faith. Singing had been termed a ludicrous form of worship by intolerant elders. His tribe had been robbed of their riches, their lands and even their homes by other puritan clans. The Amhránaithe were peace-loving people and had refused to take up arms in defense. They reasoned, pleaded and begged for mercy, but history has a knack of tormenting outcasts. Left with nothing except their Voices and devotion for the Holy Nature, the Amhránaithe had taken up nomadic existence. They crossed mountains, plains and valleys with their families and caravans in tow; stopping for a few weeks, perhaps a few months, before moving to a new place to call home. What remained constant in their peripatetic life was the undeterred offering of hymns, prayers and songs to the Elements. A child born into the world of the Amhránaithe was expected to be trained in the nuances of singing by the age of seven. Call it miraculous or hereditary - every Amhránaithe youth was blessed with a Voice sweeter than those deep brown delights, seacláid, that they shared during Carnival.
Sitting alone now at the edge of the cliff, he tried to remember the day his people had moved to this river valley. He had been eleven and already touted as the best of the Voices to have resonated through the tribe in five decades. Or so, the elders reminded him. He was eighteen now and many ominous events had occurred since then. Perhaps, he should have listened to the elders, to his parents. To everyone who’d advised him.
He recounted those vivid memories - happenings which had led to this day. As an adolescent on the brink of his virility, a concoction of new emotions had stirred within him. His Voice, as he’d been lectured repeatedly, was a Gift. A Gift of Nature, to be employed only in the pious and pristine acts of prayer and devotion. The Amhránaithe held the strong belief that their banishment from their mother faith had been in error, and that through their unstinting submission in the form of worship, Holy Nature would redeem them. This dogma had gradually taken the form of fanatical fervour over the years. In truth, the elders were convinced that through the disciplined training of their Voices, the Amhránaithe could attain salvation. Thus, anyone who indulged in singing purely from a passionate motive, for pleasure or recreation, was branded a blasphemer, a violator of the laws of Nature and a sinner worthy of expulsion. Despite their rigidity, the Amhránaithe did not believe in violent punishment for those who wavered from their faith. They only propagated a simple, yet powerful, prophesy that anyone who surrendered to the temptation of singing out of passionate sin would suffer eternally, and that Holy Nature, would unforgivably withdraw from him the Gift of the Voice and Music. It was no surprise that none had breached the golden rule of the tribe in its long history. No one, except him.
He could not recall the origins of those new feelings that fomented his young heart, but they had seemed fresh, uncharted and adventurous. Growing up, his parents had tried to cultivate a deep sense of morality in him; respect and deference towards the elders and the spirit of the Amhránaithe. His father, Chief of the Amhránaithe, had gone as far as attempting to secure his loyalty through material offers. He tried to enforce discipline in his son by suggesting, on more than one occasion, that one day he was to replace him as the Chief, a coveted and honourable position. Those suggestive early remarks had hinted that someone else had already preordained his life’s course. Mixed with his indomitable character, a tiny spark of rebellion burned with him. Soon he was consumed by an incendiary opposition against all the rules, stigmas and conventions that were inflicted against his will. He was simply an eleven year old boy who wanted to sing, dance, play and explore the world as he wished. A deep sense of dissonance erupted in him. Stifling his aspirations under the burden of a heretic birth became unacceptable. A faint, insidious voice goaded him gently until the note of discord had bubbled far too long within him. And thus, it began.
First stealthily and later unabashedly, he would walk amidst the caravans of his people, stroll alone into the woods and along the knolls that lined the valley, always humming his favourite songs. He sang to his heart’s content, unafraid and oblivious of stares and gasps. The elders were repulsed by his obvious disdain for the traditions and the impending wrath of Nature. His father tried everything - loud arguments to silent importuning - to protect his son from the fate that awaited such impulsiveness, such unforgivable sin. But nothing can extinguish that solipsistic flame of self-discovery once it is struck. It grows eternally, producing a warm placid feeling of realising one’s self and becoming one with who each one of us is truly meant to be. And so it was for him too; he revelled in the joy of his own songs, of being able to break free and cherish the wonders of Nature without any tangible boundaries. At last, he was living freely, and he would remain unfazed.
In the years that followed he felt uplifted, a bird with stretched wings buoyant on an endless sky of cool breeze. He experienced true happiness, something his pedantic childhood lifestyle had never allowed him to imagine. His favourite place to be with himself was at the edge of the valley, atop giant green cliffs. He would lose all memory of time and space there, transfixed in the magic of his voice meandering amidst the purple rays of a setting sun. The light sparkled and jumped at every bend of the river, dancing to his rhythm in its reflection. In solitude he was removed from threats of an irrational prophesy being fulfilled and unconcerned about the taunts he had grown to accept.Those evenings on the valley’s crown became his sanctuary. But then, something happened that he’d never expected. Something he should have foreseen.
Last year, when he’d turned seventeen, his Voice began to show signs of musical atrophy, of losing its haunting charm. Initially, he chose to ignore the signs, partly out of fear that the prophesy had been vindicated, and partly because his passion overruled any scope for doubt. He would practise, like he had when he was a child, and the Gift would be restored. To his chagrin, there had been little cause to remain complacent. Through the year, his people had begun to notice his reticence. His infrequent walks, his impeded banter, his sullen spirit were all too apparent. His heart was gripped with unimaginable terror and as months rolled past, he slowly became cognizant of the truth. His Voice was dying; the Gift of Nature was wilting like the snow-covered flowers lining the hills during frigid winters. He strained and tormented his Voice and Soul with indefatigable practice, hours at stretch. But nothing could bring back that which was slowly escaping from within him – his Life was his Music and, now, it was being snatched away from him. Why, he wondered, why was he being punished for listening to his heart?
No answers come to such begging questions. Life is unfair, and there is no justification. Tonight, he knew the celebrations of his people would initiate the Carnival. That seemed to ache him even more, the knowledge that if only he’d not been led astray by those unnatural, inflammatory feelings, his people would have accepted him kindly. But he’d thrown caution to the wind and followed his own unbending will. Now, he had been impeached by divine justice and found guilty. And the Music had left him, forever.
Staring into the blankness of a moonlit night, his steps tottered slowly towards the edge of the cliff. Maybe this was his fate, his punishment and his end. Nothing can describe the agony of a failing heart. Luckily, there is no sound when a heart breaks, for else the valley would resonate with a boom of mourning shards – all his hopes and dreams shattered irrevocably. He did not want to say final goodbyes, and he did not want to see the glowing sun light play on his window the next morning. Everything seemed lost to him; no one to turn to and nothing to grant him his happiness. His spirit had been broken and bashed. His face was sodden with his own tears; he couldn’t remember how long he’d been crying. It had to end, this agonising torment which tore at his heart and his very being. Teetering at the edge of the steep precipice, he felt the biting chill of The Air sweep past him, ruffling his hair one last time. It was befitting, he mused; this was the place that had given him the most happiness in his life. And when it was all over, he would drown in his guilt here, his body torn asunder by the jagged rocks of the riverbed. He looked up, one last time, to the Haven and sighed. This was it, death as his only redemption.
He knew his first step forward would be his last. Determined, he shuffled before stepping into the nothingness beyond the terminus of firm, flat slopes. But then, he heard a strange noise that snapped him out of his reverie. Heard in the silence, it sounded like a ghostly wail of sirens - yet nothing like any Voice he had ever heard before. He remained rooted until the sound grew louder and closer. A strong gush of wind of would’ve sufficed to knock him like a doll over the edge, but his body seemed to have petrified. The chiming noise that surrounded him in the dead of the night drew nearer. What was it?
He retraced his steps, carefully inching closer to the dark woods facing him. The moonlight struggled to illuminate his path through the many branches of old oaks. He cocked his ear, treading cautiously through dry bramble on the forest floor, trying to identify the epicenter of the sounds serenading that macabre night. Just when he’d reached a clearing, the sound stopped. His footfalls had alarmed the source or creator of those plaintive notes. Picking up a rock from the ground, he moved into the clearing. What caught his sight bewildered him completely, forcing him to drop his defensive rock.
On a wooden bench sat a young maiden, washed by white light pouring through the circle of tree-tops. Her hair seemed to be made of the milk that coloured the moonlight. Her eyes glinted in his direction, and she had a look of fear in them. His curiosity, however, was piqued by what sat beside her on the bench. A large metallic triangular frame, lined with vertical silver threads, shining just like her own ethereal hair.
She stood up slowly, speaking in a tongue he did not understand, “Who are you? Please don’t hurt me. I was just..I am going to leave now. I was just lost and couldn’t find my way. Please, let me go.” Besides the tone of pleading, he could not interpret the flurry of words.
“I don’t understand your language”, he gesticulated while speaking his native tongue.
It took them a while to establish a crude means of communicating through hand signals, and a few common words. She conveyed to him that her tribe was camping nearby tonight, and she’d wandered into the woods and lost her way. He was quick to reassure her that he meant no harm. She, on the other hand, did not miss the look of grief in his eyes and the pain in his demeanour. Something seemed to be troubling this boy, she thought, perhaps he too was lost in the forest like her. But when she asked him so, he shook his head vigorously. Clearly, he was here by choice. Maybe he lived in the nearby village. She also noticed that his eyes kept shifting to the harp she had been playing.
“Amhránaithe”, he said pointing a finger to his chest.
“Oh, you are one of the Gifted ones? I have heard about your tribe”, she said nodding with a smile. “You must be an excellent singer then. Did you like my Music?” she said jabbing a finger in the air, towards her harp.
Something about her question made his eyes sparkle, returning a faint glimmer of light that had remained subdued so far. He almost smiled. “I can teach you if you like. If you promise to help me return home”, she said. He understood perfectly, and hinted at his eagerness to touch the instrument.
“It’s not very difficult", she said. "Certainly, not for someone like you.”
The distance that separated them dissolved seamlessly in that moment. The breeze arising from the valley turned warmer, as if to give them the luxury of a comfortable meeting. They sat together on the roughly hewn bench, looking at each other. His mind was clouded by the worry that she might ask him to sing any moment. After all, she recognised his identity through his tribe. His failure could evoke a sense of insecurity and doubt in her. Maybe even terror. A strange feeling gripped him, a feeling of not wanting to release this one person who did not judge him. Deep in his bludgeoned heart, he knew he wanted a friend, more than anything; a comforting solace, a shoulder to lean on. Was Holy Nature sending him a chance of redeeming himself?
But friendships don’t begin on an edifice of lies. Before she could utter another word, he spoke to her - using words and hands - describing his tale of misfortune. His eyes welled up again towards the end of his description, and he began to weep. For her, it appeared that this boy had lost his faith in himself and his ability to sing. She could not fathom why or how, wishing that they spoke a common language. She didn’t realize it, but she was to be his saviour.
Innocently, she began to play the harp again. At least that would soothe his mourning. It worked, he turned suddenly to look at her again as she strummed her fingers across the strings of her harp. Her people belonged to a group of minstrels, entertainers, artistes and musicians. They had recently moved into the valley to regale the villagers during the Carnival celebrations. Her father had taught her how to play many musical instruments, but it was her mother who’d gifted her harp before her death. And as a memory of her mother, she learnt to love and treasure the music of her harp.
Time moved ever so slowly, leaving those two gentle souls alone in that mystic forest, their common music enveloping them like a new morn’s mist. Under the changing colours of the dawn sky, she taught him how to play the harp. Surprisingly, he was very quick to learn. Quicker than a normal person could possibly learn; but he was a Gifted one, she thought. Neither of them realised how long they had been sitting amids those wise trees; oblivious to the worries of the world they remained enraptured. Music and an old magic of the woods seemed to grind the wheels of time to a languid pace. They were living a prophesy themselves, entombed in a capsule of music, magic and friendship. She taught and he learnt. Days passed at length, and neither felt the urge to stop or leave. They slowly began to understand each other without the need for gestures. Music had severed the boundaries that divided them.
The waters of the river turned icy cold as the months of winter approached. Heard in the silence of the valley’s calm nights was the haunting music of two people on a musical journey. Had it not been for her brother’s search party, the whispering woods would’ve never let the spell break. But break it did, and suddenly she realised that it was morning. The bench turned cold and, out of nowhere, a shower of sparkling snowflakes began to descend on them. She looked at him, recognising the familiar sense of embarrassment. Had they breached the line that two strangers should not overlook? No, they had just not been themselves. Someone, something had made them do this - brought them together and then lose themselves in each other’s company, in the pure simple joy of making music.
For him it felt like a new birth, as if the spell had changed the fabric of his being. His eyes gazed around in novel amazement, waking up from the darkness of despair into the bright light of a snow-covered forest. She would have to go with her brother, she said. They both had mutely accepted that far too much time had been afforded to them through some old magic. Carnival had given way to the chilly winter; seasons had laboured quietly past them. His heart sank, but he thanked her for the Gift she had given him. She had bestowed him with the one thing he thought had lost forever - Music. And yes, hope too. Music has no boundaries. In that endless silent night, he had found his redemption; answers to his many pleading questions and a means to reunite his passion with his heart. He was not being punished. No. He would enjoy his songs through instruments; teach himself to play the harp and many others . His people had tried to tie him down; to force him to love Music the way they did. But not once had he realized that Music, like so many things in life, was his to cherish – free from the expectations and judgments of others. Holy Nature had evinced to him an undying truth - there is no rule, no law, no person who could restrain his love for life, besides himself. Sure, his Voice may never return and his people may never accept him. But she had shown him that Music is not slave to any one master. In life, there were to be no unfair judges, no discrimination and no prophesies to fear. Nothing that others said mattered as long as he believed in the power of hope; believed that an ageless spell works in his favour if he chooses to wield it.
She had shown him, that everything he needed was right there - within him.
She had shown him that sometimes, the best notes are not those that others want you to hear, but the ones heard in the silence …
THE END
