by Eric Flint
Susan looked up at Franz, to see him staring blankly at the wall across the room, slow tears trickling down his cheeks.
"I carried her out and placed her in the wagon bed, then brought Marla out to the carriage. Once we were settled, the wagon driver started off. Within steps, Gunther Achterhof had stepped in front of the wagon to lead the way, and Klaus and Reuel had come forward and taken the bridles of the wagon and carriage horses. I looked out, and I could see a few other Committeemen walking alongside. With the friends that had joined us at our house, we had become a procession. Despite our slow progress, it was not long before we reached the grave, where more friends were waiting for us."
"Was Byron able to make it?" Byron Chieske was the husband of Marla's sister Jonni, assigned to something with the military in Magdeburg.
"Yes, he was invited, of course. He came. He said nothing, only embraced us and shook his head."
"That's Byron, all right. Never one to say a word if he didn't have to."
Susan watched as Franz wiped his eyes and his face.
"So, if you didn't go to the Lutherans, who did the eulogy?"
"Herr Washaw."
"Which one? There's more than one of them around."
"Herr Lennon Washaw."
"Lennie-that's okay, then. He's a good man."
"Yes, he is. He started by saying that he was neither a preacher nor the son of one, but he was a deacon in the Methodist church and he had known Marla's family for years, so he counted it both his responsibility and his sad privilege to speak. He read from the Bible, Psalm 23 it was, and then he spoke for perhaps a quarter of an hour."
After a moment of silence, Susan asked, "So what did he say?"
Franz shook his head. "I do not remember much, but I do remember that it eased the hurt for a few moments. Then he prayed." The tears started trickling down Franz's face again. "And… and after the prayer…" He swallowed. "After the prayer I… took Alison's coffin in my arms and… and placed my child, our child in the earth." The tears were streaming now. "And then I turned and led my wife away. Leaving my heart behind."
Now the sobs began, great wracking, heaving sobs. Susan gathered Franz into her arms. He slumped against her, face hidden in his hands as a torrent of grief was loosed.
After a time, the tempest passed. Franz straightened, wiping his face first with his hands, then with his sleeves. "I am sorry, Aunt Susan. I should not have lost control like that."
Susan took his chin firmly in her hand and turned him to face her. "That's foolishness, Franz Sylwester. You've been storing that up for days now, haven't you? Trying to be strong for Marla, I reckon."
Franz nodded with a somewhat shame-faced expression on his face.
"You can't bottle that up inside of you, child. It will poison you. Grief is natural, it's a part of life on this earth, and the only way to deal with it is let it flow through you and then move on with the rest of your life."
Franz gave a very small smile, but Susan was glad to see it. "I think Herr Washaw said words much like that."
"Wouldn't surprise me. Lennie's a pretty wise man for his years, for all that he's no senior citizen yet. You could do a lot worse than to go to him when you need help with these feelings."
"I will keep that in mind."
"You do that." Susan sat back, and took a deep breath. "I imagine Marla took this hard."
Franz's expression twisted in pain. "Yes, she did. But I worry for her, Aunt Susan. After the first day, she will not cry."
Susan's heart sank.
"I thought I heard someone."
Susan's head snapped around, to see Marla standing in the doorway to the rest of the house. Her heart continued its fall, thudding to the floor between her feet.
Marla had always had an air, a quality about her, that had seemed to make her shine. No more. Hair that had always seemed to float, now just hung, limp and dark. Her face was drawn, almost as if skin had been stretched across a bare skull. And that skin, which had always glowed before, now was opaque and dull, like a thin parchment. But the worst was her eyes. What had once been shining blue beacons of life and liveliness were now lifeless chips of granite embedded in dark holes.
Susan felt the tears starting in her own eyes as she stood and walked over to her niece to enfold her in her arms. She tried to draw Marla's head down to her own shoulder, whispering, "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," but Marla would not bend.
Stepping back, Susan took Marla's hands, and said, "I know it hurts now, Marla, but you will get through it. It will be all right."
Dry-eyed, Marla shook her head slowly. "I don't think that anything will ever be all right, ever again.
Magdeburg, Late October, 1635
"Maestro Giacomo, it's like Marla has died." Andrea Abati spoke in Italian. "But her body doesn't know it yet. She looks and sounds like some failed attempt by Pygmalion, some kind of clockwork device, or perhaps a female golem devised by some Kabbalist. I don't understand it. I know that the loss of a baby in childbirth hurts, but it happens all the time."
"Ah, my friend." Giacomo Carissimi picked up his wine glass. "There you are slightly mistaken. It does not happen all the time, not to those from Grantville. More than nine out of every ten of their children survive their childhood." Andrea's eyebrows elevated. "Yes, they do. I learned that while I was teaching at the school. It amazed me.
"Their newborns are usually healthy, and usually arrive with few problems. So Marla's background would have told her she should have had every expectation of having a healthy baby girl. And consequently, when tragedy struck, she was even more devastated than one of our own generation would have been."
"I grant you that." Andrea waved a hand. "But still, should she not be recovering even somewhat?"
"Andrea, have you never seen a mother lose a child and grieve so severely she wasted away?"
"All right, I concede the point. And poor Franz is almost as bad, grieving for his child and then grieving almost as strongly for his wife." Andrea drummed his fingers on the table top so strongly the wine danced in his glass. "Surely this cannot happen. God cannot have given her that voice, only to see her waste away and not use it."
"I agree with you, my friend, but you will have to take that up with God. I have already spoken with Him about it. Perhaps He will listen to you."
"There has to be something we can do!" Andrea slammed his fist on the table, causing wine to slop out of his glass.
"What do you suggest?" Giacomo set his glass down and leaned forward.
"I don't…" Andrea sat bolt upright, thoughts racing. "Then again, maybe I do know." He drained his glass in one gulp. "Maestro, please be available to me tomorrow evening."
With that, Andrea was gone, leaving a bemused Giacomo to finish the bottle of wine by himself.
Magdeburg, the next evening
True to his word, Master Andrea returned the following evening. Giacomo opened the door at his knock, and stepped back to let an apparition through.
"My, Andrea, you do look… what was the phrase the Grantvillers use… oh, yes… you look a wreck."
Giacomo's mouth quirked as he sat across the table from Andrea. His friend was a sight. Normally very well-groomed and particular about his appearance, he was a definite exception to that rule tonight: hair disheveled, blood-shot eyes, definitely wearing the same rumpled clothes he had worn yesterday. A muscle tic'd under his cheekbone with some regularity. The hint of breath that wafted across the table made Giacomo glad they weren't sitting closer. "So, Andrea, what have you wrought?"
"Wrought, indeed, maestro. I have not slept since I left-coffee is wonderful stuff when you want to stay awake, drunk as the Grantville military prepares it-hot, strong and bitter. And because of it, I have this."
Andrea pulled a paper from his coat pocket. Giacomo set a glass of wine in front of him. Ignoring the wine, Andrea leaned forward, eyes intent, almost blazing. "Maestro, Signora Marla will not or cannot sing-it matters not which. Here…" He slid the paper across the table.
"Here are the words she would sing if she could."
Giacomo took the paper and began reading the text scribbled on it. His eyebrows climbed his forehead as he read. As he set the paper down, he looked to his friend with new respect. "Andrea, I did not know you were a poet… and in English, at that."
Abati waved a hand in disregard. "Maestro, I am no such thing. These words were given to me. Given to me for Marla. We must sing for her, maestro, sing for her soul struck dumb. Write the music, please. Write music that only I can sing, music that can burst her bonds, that the gates of her hell cannot prevail against."
Giacomo felt the burning gaze of his friend as if it were a physical force. Perhaps he caught some spark from him, for his heart quickened. "All right, Andrea. I will do my best."
A very tired smile crossed Andrea's face. "Good." He drained his glass of wine as Giacomo picked the paper back up and began intently studying the text.
After a moment, there was a clank. Giacomo looked up to see Andrea slumped over the table, mouth open and eyes closed, asleep. The cup was overturned beside his head. Shaking his head with a smile, Giacomo returned to the text.
Magdeburg, Early November, 1635
Franz sighed as he settled Marla into her seat. She stared straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.
When Master Andrea had contacted him about the recital that he was going to perform, he had insisted that Franz attend with Marla. When Franz demurred, Andrea grew more insistent, in the end all but demanding that they attend. Franz finally acquiesced, but now he wondered if the wiser course would have been to decline the invitation.
This was not a large public concert, for which he was thankful. It was a recital, with only the elite of the patrons in attendance; Mary Simpson's "music mafia" and their friends. Some few of them did stop and speak to Marla, which made Franz a little nervous. In her current frame of mind, he was never quite sure what his wife would say. Aware nonetheless of the pitying glances directed their direction from all around them, he sighed, wishing the evening was over.
The side door opened. Master Andrea strode into the room, followed by Hermann Katzberg. Wearing his customary short waisted jacket and long trousers in black velvet, Andrea made his usual flamboyant bow, then straightened and nodded regally to Hermann. With that, the recital began.
It looked like Andrea, il primiero gentilhuomo that he was, intended to follow Franz's philosophy for a concert. The first item on the programme was a cantata for soprano, Tra le fiamme, by Georg Friederich Handel. Despite his state of preoccupation, Franz found the musings of the poet about how he was "playing with fire" in his pursuit of love both witty and well done. Andrea, needless to say, more than did justice to the four arias and interlude recitatives. At the end, the performance was well-received by the elite audience.
The Handel work proved to be a warm up, for the next work on the programme was nothing less than Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen (The vengeance of Hell is in my heart), more usually known as The Queen of the Night Aria, from Die Zauberflote, by W. A. Mozart. The contrast of range and style between the earlier work and this most bravura of soprano arias was marked. Franz was caught up in it, forgetting for that moment the burden that was his constant companion. Once again he marveled how the body of a man, even though castrato, could produce a voice equal to Marla's.
Master Andrea drove the aria to its triumphant conclusion. The audience responded in kind, with loud extended applause.
For contrast, the next three songs were of a different style, composed some years later by Franz Schubert. The singer's composer, Marla called him. Three of his best followed the Mozart: the quiet, almost serene An die Musik (To Music); the introspective Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Only one who knows longing); and Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel), where Gretchen's dreams and longings for her lover Faust were set against an accompaniment that was almost more of an art work than the melody.
Again, Master Andrea sang with superlative skill. Nonetheless, Franz detected an air of… almost distraction in the master. He had worked too much with Marla and Andrea both not to notice when someone of that calibre was not totally focused, and Andrea was not.
None of the patrons seemed to notice, which did not surprise Franz. Their applause was again long and loud.
That was the end of the programme, but Franz was not surprised to hear members of the audience call for an encore. It also did not surprise him to see Master Andrea hold up his hands after a moment and motion for quiet.
"Thank you, thank you." Andrea bowed slightly and spread his hands. "As it happens, I do have one more song to sing." There was laughter in the room. "It is not an up-time song, however. It is a new song, one written by Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, who has agreed to play piano for me tonight. In addition, we will be joined by Johan Amsel on the viola."
There was a moment of moving bodies as Hermann left by the side door, Johan entered, and Maestro Giacomo arose from his seat in the audience to come to the piano. The maestro played a note; Johan plucked strings to verify his tuning was still sound, raised his viola and positioned the bow, then looked to Andrea.
"We present to you," Master Andrea said, looking directly at Franz, " Elegy for Lost Innocence. " A chill chased down Franz's spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
The piano began, quiet chords, and Andrea began. It was a lullaby, simple, like something Franz's mother would have sung to him. Soft and lyrical, Andrea's voice was like silk.
"Hush little baby,
Go to sleep.
While you're sleeping
Angels keep.
Hush little baby,
Child of love.
Jesus watches
From above."
They repeated the lullaby. Johan joined them the second time, playing a harmony that complemented Andrea's melody.
At the end of the lullaby, Andrea dropped out, and the piano and viola played a transition that, as it progressed, grew more dissonant and louder. Johan began attacking his strings, producing almost percussive sounds.
When Andrea entered again, it was with full voice.
"She's gone!
How could you take her?"
Full of passion, pure cutting edge of white-hot intensity, Andrea put voice to a bereaved mother's soul. As the text was presented by the song, a mother's heartbreak was bared, her anger and grief revealed. It built and built, spiraling higher, founded on the piano and entwined with the viola.
"She did nothing wrong!
She didn't deserve to die!"
As Andrea poured forth all his art, all his skill, Franz felt that never had he heard the gentilhuomo so much at one with his music, so nakedly baring his own soul.
A hand clutched his. He froze for a moment. Looking down, Franz saw Marla's hand in his. Heart in his throat, he looked to his wife. At the sight of slow tears trickling down her cheeks, his own eyes grew wet, but a tremor of joy was felt for the first time in weeks.
"Send her back,
Take me in her place!"
The song crested with Andrea on a note so high that Franz wondered if even Marla could reach it. Partnered by the moaning viola, Andrea keened.
The music stopped. For a brief moment only.
"Take me in her place."
Andrea's voice repeated the last line of the climax down an octave, quietly fading, as if the anger had burned out and the grief had worn thin.
There was another interlude of piano and viola, playing a hint of the lullaby. Andrea sang another verse.
"Lord Jesus, take her in your arms.
Lord Jesus, keep her safe and warm."
Marla's head bowed, and Franz could see her lips moving.
The piano and viola led the way back to the lullaby theme. After a time, Andrea rejoined them.
"Hush little baby,
Go to sleep.
While you're sleeping
Angels keep.
Sleep in the ar
ms
Of the Lord,
You'll always
Have my love."
The music faded away. The patrons applauded, but Franz was very aware of the many glances directed their way.
Marla looked up at him. She smiled-smiled! Oh, it was a small smile, and a sad one, but it was a smile! It was enough for his soul to want to burst out singing to rival Master Andrea.
"Hello, love," Franz managed to say.
"Hello, yourself." The smile grew a little wider, a hint of her old sparkle entered her eyes, and she squeezed his hand. They sat there, oblivious to their surroundings, simply gazing at each other, while the applause ceased and the patrons began to stir around and leave.
Just as Franz became conscious of all the motion, Marla stood. He followed her as she walked to the performers.
"Thank you." Marla spoke to them, simple and direct, then kissed each lightly. She smiled again when Johan blushed, then stepped back beside Franz and joined hands with him.
The four men were grinning widely. Their eyes were bright indeed-perhaps a hint of moisture, Franz thought. Then he noticed that there was a certain self-satisfied air to the two Italians. Suddenly a connection was made.
"You planned this," Franz accused. "You intentionally wrote that song and staged this recital for the purpose of drawing Marla out."
"Actually, it was a division of labor," Giacomo said. "The music is mine, yes; but you must look to Andrea for the words."
"Are you a poet, then, Master Andrea?" Marla asked. "Shall we add that to your list of many accomplishments."
"No!" Andrea was emphatic. "This once, I wrote words. This once, to bring my best student back to me." He adopted a mock sternness. "You have missed enough lessons. We have much work to do to make up for them."
Marla laughed, and the sound was balm to Franz's soul. The others must have felt the same, for they all fell silent. Franz looked to his wife-her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, there was a smile on her lips and she clutched his hand. The only evidence of the events of the last few weeks were the shadows beneath her eyes.
