Phantom Song

This is a modern day re-write of Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, based around a couple of my music teachers and the situation we are currenlty in with crippling budget cuts to our arts programs.

1 – The Music Man

The night was cool and airy, the first of its kind at this time of March.  A few stars flickered in the cloudless sky overhead as the Administrator strode to his car.  The sound of voices followed him like a phantom pain, begging to be heard even hours after the meeting had ended.

Finally, he thought as he slid into the front seat and felt the engine vibrate into life, it’s all over.  One more year, over.

The voices grew louder as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road.  Crowds of people milled outside the darkened school, covering the parking lot and courtyard like a blanket of immeasurable color and sound.  News vans, three of them, sat parked amidst the crowd, broadcasting as they had been ever since this mess had started.

The public isn’t going to like this, the Administrator thought as he stopped at the next red light, waiting for it to wash the empty road ahead in green.  The hospital sat to his left, a hulk of darkened brick with a few windows still lit.  No, he thought as the light changed.  He headed up the hill, past the old, shadowy Catholic school and its empty football field.  Be careful for a while.  Don’t get on anyone’s nerves.  Be courteous to everyone.  Don’t give the crowd a reason to hate you.

He took a few more turns, worming deeper into the suburbs until he arrived at a secluded, tree-lined street.  A few seconds later the car was idling in his driveway as he gathered his things from the passenger seat.

Suddenly he looked up at the blackness around his car.  “Is someone there?” he asked, listening for the sound to come again.  Yet all he heard was the mysterious whispering of leaves.

Somewhere though, he could have sworn that he had heard the sound of a trumpet.

“You’re just hearing things,” he told himself, opening the door and stepping out into the nighttime chill.  For some reason it seemed much colder now than when he had stepped out of the school less than ten minutes before.  “Just hearing things.”

He walked a few steps towards his house, already fantasizing about the soft, comfy bed waiting for him upstairs.  It had been a long day, a long week, a long month for him and his entire staff.  Then, abruptly in the distance, he heard it again.

He was sure; it was the fanfare of a trumpet.

“Is anyone there?” he called out louder, his eyes searching the shadows for a silhouette.  “I’m not playing around.  If you want to protest, this is not the place.”

Silence.

He listened for another moment, and then shook his head.  Figments of your imagination, he thought as he slid the key into the lock.  Yet, as he stepped through the doorway into his darkened home, the swift rattle of a cymbal reached his ears.

Oh, so now you have an entire band in your head? he thought as he headed up the steps.  Wonderful.

 Several minutes later he had dropped off his cargo and changed into his nightclothes.  He sat down by his desk, regarding the sky outside the window with a kind of tired terseness unique to people with too much stress in their lives.

Then, from somewhere close, he heard the cymbal rattle again, followed by the distant tapping of a snare drum.  He spun around frantically, searching his room for any sign of an intruder.

There was absolutely no one there.

But this time the sound did not disappear.  It amplified, growing louder and longer until it filled the room with its phantom song.  The trumpet entered once again, followed by the deep bellows of tubas and trombones, then by the light beauty of flutes and clarinets.

The Administrator’s bedroom was filled with a nonexistent band.

It’s all in your head, he thought frantically, more scared now than frustrated.  You’re imagining this.  It’s all a dream.  This is NOT happening!  You’re not going crazy!

“No, of course you’re not,” a disembodied voice murmured from the shadows over his bed.  This time the Administrator let out something akin to a puppy’s yelp.  A moment later he was standing in a fighting stance, watching the air around him, his reflexes on hair-trigger alert.

“Relax, don’t you recognize me?” the voice came again, friendly and gentle.  “Don’t you recognize the sound of my band?”  And as the Administrator watched, something began to appear in the space over the bed.  “It’s only been three years; I didn’t think you would have forgotten so soon.”

“Ah,” the voice said a moment later as the Administrator continued to frantically flick his head around the room, “you do remember.  I knew you would.  You remember me too, don’t you my friend?  I think, a while ago, they might have called me the Music Man.”

Then he was there, an apparition floating in the empty space over the Administrator’s bed.  A man sitting on nothing, silvery knees crossed in what elementary school teachers called a pretzel.  His shock of long, dark hair fell around an older, inherently kind face, accompanied by his unmistakable mustache.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, a sad smile forming on his ghostly lips.  “I’m not here to harm you.  I’m here to show you.”

“Sh-show me what?”  The Administrator spat out, too unnerved to speak cleanly.

“Why, the music!” the ghost replied jovially, “What it has done!  What it is doing! And what, someday, it will do!”

“I’m not crazy,” the Administrator repeated to himself, and the Music Man laughed good-naturedly.

“Of course not, my friend!” he said, spreading his arms wide.  A conducting baton appeared suddenly in one hand, and the sound of the mega-band in the background began to cease, “Because, as a great man once said, we are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams!  Now dream, my friend, dream!”  He waved the baton once, and the world slowly began to vanish.

I’m not crazy, the Administrator thought as he fell back into his chair, not crazy… not crazy… not crazy… not crazy… not crazy…

2 – The Spirit of Music Past

“Rise and shine!” a friendly voice broke through the Administrator’s dank stupor.  Light and happy, it carried a humor all its own as it traveled through the night.

“Wha…” the Administrator gasped as he awoke.  The Music Man was gone, apparently disappeared just as quickly as he had come.  No, the Administrator thought abruptly, he was never here.  Never here.  It was all a bad dream, an undigested piece of steak or a bad piece of lettuce.

“Come on now,” the voice spoke again, “time’s a’ wasting!  And we have so much to see!”  Slowly, dreading what he might see, the Administrator turned in the direction of the voice.  What he saw sent a current of surprise through his body.

“What are you doing here?” he asked the extremely tall, lanky man standing in the doorway.  “I thought—”

“Now, we really don’t have much time,” the figure interrupted him, adjusting his black, slightly blocky glasses.  One of the lenses was a bit tinted, and the Administrator could not perfectly see the eye behind it.  He wore a dark grey sweater, the top unbuttoned over a sharp, purple, collared shirt.  His pants looked brand new, the creases perfect and material without wear.  They descended to a pair of shiny dress shoes, apparently newly polished.

“Well,” the man raised a dark, phantasmal eyebrow, “are you coming?”

“I—” the Administrator began to reply, but then he saw the creature sitting happily on the man’s shoulder.  It looked like a little silver chipmunk with a long fluffy tail, but there seemed to be a strange sort of… covering between its arms and legs.  “What is that thing?”

“Oh, my friend here?” the men pointed to the content creature with a long, pianistic finger.  “He’s a flying squirrel.  His name’s Charles, but I’ve heard some people call him Chad.  He’s a great little helper… watch.”  He looked down at the flying squirrel, who looked back up interestedly.  “Hey, we’ve got a guest!  Why don’t you go help him up?”

To the Administrator’s shock, the little animal seemed to nod in understanding.  Then, the next moment it was riding on his shoulder, its little arms and legs outstretched, its wings flapping in the sudden breeze.

“Don’t look down!” the man called gaily from across the room.  Except the room was no longer there.  It had been replaced by a sea of houses and lights, separated here and there by parks and trees.  “By the way,” the man said as they began to move through the strengthening wind, “I’m the Spirit of Music Past.”

All that the Administrator could do was stare.

“Now, let’s see…” the Spirit mused as he watched the world roll by below them.  “When shall we begin?  Ah!  I know the time!”

“Wait, what time?” the Administrator protested as the little flying squirrel adjusted its wings.  Somehow the little creature was carrying him through the air, strongly enough that he didn’t plummet down to his death.

“You seem a bit impatient,” the Spirit observed.  “Here, we’re almost there.  Just wait a moment and you’ll see.”  A few moments passed, “there!  See it, over on the horizon?”

“That light?” the Administrator asked, finally giving up on his attempts to explain the strangeness of the situation.  Bad dream, he resigned himself to thinking, just ride it out.

“Not light,” the Spirit replied jovially, “the Sound!”

And abruptly they were there, in the midst of a packed auditorium.

“What is this place?” the Administrator stumbled to the ground, staring at all of the people gathered around.

“Take a longer long,” the Spirit replied, “you’ll recognize it.”

Suddenly everyone began to clap and they both joined in, the Spirit genuinely and the Administrator rather reflexively.  He took a look down at the stage and saw a huge throng of kids, from elementary school all the way through high school, taking a bow.

“I would like to thank you all…” a woman’s voice emanated from the center of the stage, and the Administrator’s eyes widened.  She was a bit younger than he knew her, with more black left in her hair, but he would have known her anywhere.

“Which one is this?” he asked.

“The first of many,” the Spirit replied, clapping happily.  “Bravo!  Bravo!”

Then the scene dissipated into the night.

“Where are we now?” the Administrator asked as they alighted in a new place.

“Oh, the same place,” the Spirit replied as the auditorium reformed around them, “just a little closer in time.  Look down there,” he pointed down at the stage.  A man was standing on the podium, fiercely conducting a massive band in a rousing chorus of sound.  For a moment the Administrator watched, awestruck at the vast amount of sound pouring from the congregation below.  Then the audience began to clap, and he joined in.  The band launched into an encore, the conductor’s enthusiasm unbridled.  The Administrator had never seen anything like it.

“I believe you met him earlier tonight,” the Spirit said, a note of sadness in his voice.

“Was he…?”

“Yes,” the Spirit looked back over at him, “he devoted his life to bringing music to everyone.  And just look at this,” he gestured again at the mega-band below, “would you not say that he succeeded?”

The Administrator was silent.

“I thought so,” the Spirit said.  “Now come, we have one more time to visit.”

The Administrator felt the little animal alight once again on his shoulder.  And then he was being carried away once again on the winds of time.

The auditorium materialized around them for the third time, but the stage was no longer filled with kids.  Instead it showed a beautiful island scene, with a pair of students belting out a duet for their audience.

“A musical?” the Administrator asked.

“Why, of course!” the Spirit replied.  “This is the other side of music.  Just listen to them sing!  So incredible!”

“Just tell me,” the Administrator said tiredly, “what is the point of all this?”

“The point?” the Spirit raised his eyebrows.  “What is the point to music, my friend?!  What is the point to art?!  It brings people together, that is its purpose!  It unites everyone on the stage, whether many or few!  Look down there,” he gestured down to where others in flamboyant costumes had joined the two soloists, “music changes lives, my friend!”

Then, as a strange feeling of sorrow arose in the Administrator’s stomach, the world began to fade.

3 – The Spirit of Music Present

The Administrator sat up, shaking himself awake.  The auditorium had vanished for the last time.  The Spirit was gone, his light voice and elegant flamboyance disappeared.  The flying squirrel was gone too, much to his relief.  That little thing had really creeped him out.

“It’s not over yet!” a sudden voice called from by the bedroom door.  The Administrator jumped for what felt like the thousandth time that night and spun towards the sound.  There was another man standing where the first had once stood.  This one was a bit shorter, with a bald head and a narrow, energetic face.  Unlike the informal clothing of the first, he wore a full conductor’s attire, and carried a long white baton in his hand.

“Your night, my man!” the man’s voice was jolly and filled with gusto.  “It has just begun!  Now, we don’t have much time, so we need to get going, A. S. A. P!”

“And you are…?” the Administrator raised his eyebrows, more annoyed now than scared.

“The Spirit of Music Present!” the man roared, “I’d have thought that was obvious!  Now come on, there are sights to see!”  He raised the baton and gave it a quick flick, and the room around them faded into the darkness.

They emerged back into the familiar auditorium, but now they were standing on the stage.  A trumpet blasted only a few feet away from the Administrator’s ear, and on his other side a tuba was bellowing with satisfaction.  The Spirit was in his element, and before the Administrator’s surprised eyes he began to jump and bounce, waving his baton joyfully in the air in time with the music.

Then, behind them, the sound of voices joined in, and the Administrator suddenly saw the massive chorus gathered around the stage.  Everyone from fifth to twelfth grade intermingled and mixed, hundreds upon hundreds of students of every color imaginable.  For a moment the sound was low, but then it exploded outward with the force of an atomic bomb.  The Administrator was thrown backwards, tumbling over as the sounds of voices mixed with the sound of every instrument on the stage.

“Of course you remember this!” the Spirit roared from where he was enthusiastically conducting, oblivious to anyone who might have been watching.  “All of these people, all in one place, singing or playing to the same beat.  You can’t stop it, man!  It’s music!”

Then the colors began to melt together, the sharp lines governing them blurring into a million splatters of paint.  The sound-filled world of the auditorium disappeared as quickly as it had come.

They were standing in another auditorium now, this one empty and much different than the first.  Only a panel of judges sat in the seats, watching the stage below with rapt eyes.  The Spirit materialized right next to the Administrator, his baton still raised to conduct.

Then, from below, a drum began to sound.

“Get ready!” the Spirit said, his passion easily visible on his expressive face.

Then more drums entered in, beating out a powerful rhythmic masterpiece as a row of dancers began to twirl in the space before them.  A few moments passed, the Administrator watching intently, and then an eerie yet fitting narration kicked in.

“Fourth in the world!” the Spirit roared happily, conducting with his baton as if they could see him.  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

The Administrator could already feel himself nodding along to the sound of the music below, the beating of the drums one of the most entrancing and enthralling sounds he’d ever heard.  He was listening so strongly that he almost didn’t notice when the world morphed again around him.

“Quickly now, my time is running out!” the Spirit called from ahead in the annals of time.  “We only have one last place to go!”

A split second later the world began to form around them, except that this time they weren’t in an auditorium.  The architecture surrounding them was old and gothic, the inside of a massive cathedral.  Statues of Jesus stood in every possible nook, with alcoves and recesses filled with paintings and stained glass.  The path to the altar was lined with long wooden pews, a couple of them occupied by more judges and chaperones.  Before the marble altar stood a set of risers, and filling up the steps was a huge group of singers.

The Spirit alighted next to the Administrator, his baton now at his side.  The woman that the Administrator had first seen with the Spirit of Music Past was standing before the choir, and the Spirit himself was standing near the piano with a golden instrument raised to his lips.

“We don’t have very long,” the Spirit whispered as they began to sing, “but just listen.  I think you’ll understand.”

The Administrator relaxed back into a pew as the song began, softly at first but growing stronger as it progressed.  Some of the words sounded Latin, but nevertheless he felt chills race up and down his spine.

“Beautiful,” the Spirit said simply as the song came to a close.  There was a moment of silence as the conductor and pianist prepared, and then a new number began.  This time the choir launched their sound forward, filling up the massive church with a kind of soul that the Administrator had never heard before.  All of those voices in unison, belting out the lyrics, and then breaking into a chorus of massive proportions.

“If you believe… in music!” their sound was rich, joyful, vibrant.  The world was being moved, resonating to the sound of their voices.  Beside the Administrator, the Spirit was smiling.

And then, once more, it all began to fade.

4 – The Spirit of Music Future

But this time the bedroom did not appear.  A new world began to materialize before the Administrator’s eyes, and a queasy, ill feeling arose in his stomach.  Something wasn’t right.  He was moving in the wrong direction, in a direction that no human had ever been meant to move.

Suddenly a new figure appeared from the shadows at the edge of the still-solidifying world.  Its face was hidden by a darkened hood, its body by a long black coat.  All he could see was one long-fingered hand extending from a sleeve, clutching at a silver staff made in the shape of a half-note.

“I’ve seen Past and Present,” he said tiredly.  “You must be Future.  Pleased to meet you.”

The Spirit shook its covered head once in reply, and a wave of sadness washed over the Administrator.  He could tell, simply by the motion of its head, that this Spirit could not speak.

“Very well,” he said softly, “show me what you wish to show me.”

The Spirit raised its arms, the scepter flashed once, and the world hardened around them.

They were in an office filled with dank gray cubicles and dust.  Half-bald older men and tired-looking women trudged across the floor, carrying stacks and stacks of paperwork in their aching arms.  Even more sat before computer screens, their eyes drifting shut as they scrolled through pages and pages of useless memos.

“What’s the point of this?” the Administrator said exhaustedly, looking over at the Spirit’s silent figure.

Wait, a surreal voice spoke inside his head, you will see.

Suddenly a door burst open and a larger man in a suit stormed into the office, two aides trying doggedly to keep up.  He had fire in his eyes, and the Administrator could tell that his gut was perpetually raging with indigestion and heartburn.

“Where is that report, Watson?!” he roared at an unprepared worker.

“I-I-I don’t know, s-sir!” the employee stammered, his eyes downcast.

“It was supposed to be on my desk HOURS AGO!” the man roared, spraying his employee with spittle.

“I… I can g-g-get it to you within th-the h-h-hour,” Watson stammered, dashing off towards his desk.

“And YOU!” the man turned to another hapless worker.  “I saw you walk in at TEN-THIRTY this morning!  TEN-THIRTY!  What gives you the right to be THREE HOURS LATE?”

“I-I-I…” the terrified worker trailed off.

“I thought so,” the man growled, “you’re fired.  Get a temp in here, ASAP!”

This that you see before you is a world without music, the Spirit’s voice was that of an older woman, strong and firm yet melancholy and worn.  It was the voice of the Titan Atlas, strained after millennia of holding up the sky.

“I can see that.”

No, no I don’t think that you can, the Spirit’s voice was not reprimanding, only guiding.  Music teaches these children to be leaders, to stand out in a group and pull their own weight.  It teaches them to be on time for events, to never make excuses and to get everything done.  Yet it also shows them that respect for their teammates, their family, is paramount.  And this horrid place is a world where all of that is gone.

“What’s your point?” the Administrator shrugged, all of his energy gone.  “It’s over, done.  It’s not coming back.”

Come, the Spirit said simply, and the office collapsed around them.

They appeared in the middle of a crowded hallway, in a place the Administrator knew well.  It was the school he had seemingly just left, except that now it was full to the brim with students.  The corridor itself was stained with graffiti, and the air reeked of cheap cologne and sweat.  Most of the students scurried timidly along to their classes, staying away from the veritable wolf packs of larger kids that strolled up and down the hallway.

“This is…” the Administrator trailed off as one of the larger kids grabbed a smaller one and slammed him into a locker.  The smaller kid didn’t even try to defend himself.  He took a punch or two and then kept moving.  As he rounded the corner, the Administrator saw tears shining on his face.

This is our school without arts, the Spirit intoned inside his mind, without the kids that came here to study them.  This is our school without all of our special opportunities, without the possibility of the great education it could once give.  In other words, this is our school as it has been projected to the rest of the world.  Is that how you want us to be seen, much less how you want us to BE?

“Get me out of here,” the Administrator said shortly as another student was slammed into a wall, “I’ve seen enough.”

Very well, the Spirit nodded slowly, its half-note staff shining with light once again; we have one more world to visit.

For the penultimate time, the Administrator watched as the darkness bled through the walls around him.  And this time, he felt another twinge in his gut.  This is not the future, he thought, this can’t be the future.

Their final destination was, once again, the middle of an auditorium.  This time however, it felt different.  The seats were empty, the lights dark, it felt as if no one had entered its oaken doors in the longest time.

“Why are we here?” the Administrator asked wearily.

For you to see, the Spirit replied, how we may begin again.

Abruptly a spotlight turned on overhead.  Down on the stage, a few kids climbed up to the risers, finding their spots until they were all standing in some semblance of alignment.  Then, a woman emerged from the stage doorway.  She looked very young, with a full head of bright red hair and blocky black glasses.  The Administrator didn’t recognize her.

“Alright guys,” she said brightly to the twenty-some students gathered onstage.  “Let’s begin.”

“There’s not much you can count on,” the roughly-assembled chorus began, their tone a bit off and the rhythm not quite perfect, “there are few… who really care.”

So you see, the Spirit said softly, we are resilient.  We are like the phoenix, we are always there, ready to reemerge.  But a long time has passed since the Spirit of Music Present guided you through this very same auditorium and this very same song.  This is all we have left.  And this time, I am not sure if we can recover.

“If you believe… in music!” the chorus belted out onstage, the sound not perfect but beautiful nonetheless, “come take my hand, and lift your voice with mine!”

“Who are you?” the Administrator asked, looking over at the Spirit.  Though, truthfully, he already knew.

The Spirit raised her hands and removed her hood, revealing a statuesque face framed by a halo of regal white hair.  It was the same woman he had seen conducting this very same song, what felt like mere minutes before.

“Goodbye,” she said simply, her actual voice soft and cracking, a faint resemblance to what it had once been.  “And please, don’t take away our voices.”

Then, before the Administrator could say a single world, the world around him vanished for the final time.

5– The Call

The Administrator awoke in his own bed, looking up at the sun-dappled ceiling.  It was Saturday, the day after the meeting and the vote.

It’s over, he thought, mixed emotions gathering in the pit of his stomach.   It’s all over.  Done.  I never have to look at that crowd again.

Is that really what you want? Another voice asked, deep in the back of his brain.

For that, he didn’t have an answer.

A few hours later, after he had eaten breakfast and taken time to think, he picked up his phone and dialed a number.  The answering machine picked up after a few moments, informing him that no office staff was in today and that he could leave a message if he pleased.  He dialed an extension instead and waited until it picked up.

Another machine picked up, this one prerecorded with a voice he knew very well, informing him that the person he was trying to reach was unavailable, but that he could still leave a message if he pleased.

“Hey…” he trailed off as the machine recorded in the background.  “I… um… I just wanted to say…” he paused again, the silence stretching out into seconds, and then minutes.  “I wanted to say sorry,” he said finally, “and that—”

“You have reached the time limit for your message,” the answering machine cut back in; “your message has been recorded.  Thank you.”

The Administrator hung up soundlessly, and looked over at his kitchen window.  The sun had already risen into the sky, but was hanging there without warmth, as if winter still held the world in its icy grip.

Like a phoenix, he thought simply, watching as it climbed higher and higher until it stood high above the trees, enthralling the world with its cold glory.  He could still see that young woman in his mind’s eye, taking the ragtag bunch of students and beginning to groom them back into what could once have been.  Like a phoenix, he thought again, taking a sip of coffee.  Who knows?

Maybe it’s not over just yet.