Modern Tales of Fantasy
Page 4
suspicious as she felt.
“Please. Indulge me for a moment, and all will be made clear.”
Layne walked to her file cabinet, and pulled two sheets of manuscript paper from a disheveled stack. She placed the pages atop her desk, stepping away from Bartholomew as quickly as possible.
“You have always questioned whether the orbs of Taliesin were real or merely speculation,” he said, fishing deep into the small bag. “I have proof that the orbs do in fact exist.”
She found it difficult to believe the man in front of her, no matter how much she wanted to. Both she and Lamar had searched for years and, so far, there was no tangible proof, only random elisions in forgotten books.
“Really? And what proof could you possibly have?”
Bartholomew opened his hand revealing three small spheres, each the size golf ball. The balls were an aged white and covered with black scribbles. It took merely seconds for Layne to realize the scribbles were actually musical notation. Extending his hand toward her, Layne reached out, taking what he offered.
“These aren't...they can't possibly...how did you...” she stammered before becoming so overjoyed with exuberance, she began to laugh hysterically.
“Blow on them.”
His words sobered her. “Excuse me?”
“Think of your strongest emotion. Joy. Sorrow. Love. Hate. Think of what you love the most, or what makes you saddest. Keep the feeling in your heart and mind, and when you are ready blow upon the orbs, then place them upon the paper.”
Layne turned the orbs over in her hands.
“If you do not wish to know the true power of the orbs, then I will take them to someone who does,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“No.” Layne clenched her hands tightly about them, cradling them against her chest. “I just...this just seems so odd.”
“Odd it may be. However, you will never know the truth, unless you try.”
Layne opened her hands, enjoying the feel of the cool smoothness of the small artifacts sliding across her fingertips. She felt foolish and embarrassed by the thought of what she was contemplating. She ran the risk of disappointment and failure, and neither were emotions she cared to feel.
Closing her eyes, she calmed her breathing, and searched for the strongest emotion possible to latch onto. The sound of the rain brought back memories of her childhood.
She thought of her grandparent's home and its tin roof. She remembered lying on the front porch swing, wrapped in a quilt, and falling asleep. She could see her grandparents sitting on that porch, rocking back and forth in the cool of a fall evening. While lightning bugs flickered on and off, signaling their mates. She felt the peace and love of home.
Without opening her eyes, Layne blew upon the orbs, and with Bartholomew's help placed them upon the paper.
“Now,” he said. “Open your eyes and behold.”
Layne waited for what seemed an eternity. She was about to abandon hope when one of the orbs began to quake. It rocked back and forth with more and more fervor, until it rolled over, bumping into the others. Soon all three swirled about the paper, leaving a trail of notes and symbols. Within minutes, the orbs dance was complete and they came to rest at the bottom of the page.
“This is impossible,” she whispered picking up the completed manuscript, and rushing to the piano, she sat down to play.
She was timid at first, fearful as to whether or not she could play what was written upon the page, but slowly, a song emerged as she continued to play. So overcome with emotion, the beginning of tears stung the back of her eyes, making it almost impossible to see the page. This was her song. Her memories, her childhood being relived with each note, rest and phrase of the composition.
The ring of the last note faded before she gracefully lifted her hands. “Oh, Lamar,” she whispered. “They do exist.”
“Yes.” Bartholomew stepped behind her. “They exist.”
“But, how is that possible? I mean, how do they work and how do you come to have them?”
“The orbs were a gift from the great bard.”
“Taliesin actually existed?”
“Yes. He actually existed,” Bartholomew said. “At a young age, he was gifted with words and poetry. Supposedly he lived for more than a hundred years, serving many kings, even King Arthur. As the story goes, when he died...”
Layne jumped in. “When he died, the poetry and music died with him.”
“Precisely. Soon the gods realized that to lose music, was to lose a part of the soul of the world. They took three notes from the songs of the stars and forged each one into a small sphere. Then they would pick one human to give the spheres to with the strict instructions, not to divulge the secret of their compositions to anyone.”
“But how do they work?”
Bartholomew smiled. “Magic.”
Layne squinted up at him. “That is not a good answer.”
“Maybe so, but it is the only answer I have.”
She picked up the three spheres again and turned them over in her hands. “But, music changes from time period to time period. How is that possible?”
“Again my only answer is magic. When something is created by the gods, one does not question.”
“But why show me? Why did you not show Lamar?”
Bartholomew snatched the orbs from her hand. “I did.” He shoved them into the leather pouch. “There is a huge downside to having the music of the stars at your fingertips.”
“And that is?”
“Humans cannot handle that much power and beauty without it affecting them.”
“Affecting them? How?”
“It is different for each one. Migraines, deafness, dementia. Some even took their own lives. None have held them and not been touched in some way.”
Panic wrapped around Layne's heart. “And I ask again, why did you bring this to me?”
“I come to offer you the same choice that has been offered to many over the centuries. The orbs are yours to use, for as long as you wish, but you can tell no one, and all of your research must be destroyed.”
Layne leaned against the corner of her desk. “Or?”
“Or, your memory will be completely erased. It will be as if you never saw me, or the orbs.”
Layne went to the window. Only a few people were left, determined to battle the rain. If she had not held the orbs in her hand, if she had not seen what they were capable of, she would never have been the wiser, but she had.
Incredible. She was being offered a gift of the gods. With one word, Layne Wade could leave her mark on the world of music. She could claim her place alongside her heroes.
“You said you offered those to Lamar.”
“I did.”
“And did he accept?”
“He did.”
“Then his dementia?”
Bartholomew shrugged. “I cannot be certain, but it is very likely.”
Disillusions of a once brilliant mind.She remembered her colleagues words. Would it be better to have use her faculties and have her memory erased, or have the world and slowly lose her mind?
“There is not much time. I need your decision,” Bartholomew stepped closer.
Layne twisted her fingers together. This was it. The beginning. The world or her mind. She had watched as Lamar slowly developed Alzheimer’s, and she was with him as he drew his last breath. It had been a painful process for both of them.
But to be a composer. Something she had always longed to be, but never had the ability. There was so much music in her. So much that longed to be free, and now she could do that with only a thought.
Her decision made, Layne stared deep into Bartholomew's eyes.
“You have made your choice?” he asked.
“I have.” She nodded.
“Very well”
Her heart skipped a beat as Bartholomew leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. He stroked her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as he brought their bodies closer together. His lips hov
ered above hers. “You have made the right choice,” he said before taking her mouth with his.
Layne closed her eyes, delighting in the feel of his body against hers, and she deepened their kiss with the hunger of a long, lost lover.
Thunder shook the building, causing Layne to bolt upright in her chair. Rain always had a tendency to lull her to sleep. She loved the rhythmic sounds and patterns it made, but she had never fallen asleep at her desk before. Forcing herself to wake, Layne caught sight of the clock. It was after four o'clock, and once again, her student had not shown.
As Layne grabbed her belongings, she began to remember snippets of the dream she had. She remembered something about Mozart and magic orbs that zipped across the paper and wrote the music for him.
Layne huffed. Magic orbs that wrote music. Who would ever believe such a thing?
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Ascension