The Rise of OLMAC

by Kevin Gordon

his legs within the cord-like flexible strands within the lower portion. His hands, and arms, slipped into two wooden ovular openings, where they rest among thicker, more substantial strands. He lowered his head, connecting his mind to the instrument and as he did so, Graid was able to sense some opening sensations he wished to communicate. His arms and legs then moved slowly, creating long, layered musical notes, echoing the sensations in the mind. Graid knew the melody—it was a variation on a chant in praise of the Kal-Durrell, a chant every schoolchild knew called the ‘Inundation of Exultation.’ He played it slowly, his hands rounding off the edges of notes as his limbs added depth and texture. Mentally, Graid felt a joy tinged with remembrance, like thinking on a child who died at an early age. Colors and shapes bended in his mind’s eye, cascading down with the notes played. Graid saw the patrons sitting around him looking wistfully at the old man and the viyus, each supplementing the feeling with memories of their own. The old man moved deliberately, every gesture slow, but in keeping with the tone of the piece.

  He is good enough, but why is he so slow? This is meant to be danced around, the notes taken quickly, and sprightly! It is meant to be a song of joy, not of sad remembrance. He plays it too heavily—I guess you can’t expect too much more from such an old man.

  He brought it to a close, and warm applause greeted his conclusion, as almost everyone in the bar nodded appreciatively at him. He stood, and took a low bow, seating himself at the bar, as many reached over to grasp his hand and thank him for his playing, casting to him of the memories his playing conjured in their minds, memories they thought long forgotten. He appeared to be the essence of generic, of medium build, average tone of skin, and eyes that seemed shuttered under grey, bushy eyebrows. He had a face Graid knew he wouldn’t be able to remember once he left. Graid ventured over, standing next to him.

  “You were quite good.”

  “Oh, I used to be even better,” the old man replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked flushed, and Graid could tell his adrenaline had been pumping, combating what must have been some anxiety about performing. “Old age does things to you, you know.”

  “I could imagine. My name’s . . . Aidlev.”

  “Well, it’s good to meet you, Aidlev,” he said, taking a deep breath, as the color settled on his face. “They call me Brel. What brings you to the outskirts of the mighty capital city?”

  Graid welcomed the conversation, and as the old man offered him to sit, he accepted. “Just going on a journey, and this was a good starting off point.”

  “Do you play the viyus?” asked Brel, leaning back against the bar.

  “Yes, I can, fairly well.”

  “Well, give us a demonstration,” he said with a friendly smile, gesturing to the chair in front of the viyus. Graid looked around at the people who could care less about him, at the bartender who doubted him.

  “Yes, I think I will.”

  Graid motioned to the bartender about the viyus, and the old man grudgingly nodded his head, used as he was to many amateurs taking their immature hands and mind at it. Graid sat down, arranging his hands and legs within the instrument, recalling the many lessons he took while he was quite young, before full immersion into the wonders of the Castiliad. Graid thought of the rain earlier, and chose a piece composed some three millennia before, a short collection on the fickleness of the weather. His small limbs danced within the viyus, his hands and fingers running up and down the translucent brown strands, bending and twisting notes, creating a thick mesh of harmony and dissonance within each phrase. He projected the fading yellow of the sun, and the greys and blues of the rainstorm, punctuated by lightning and thunder. He pushed himself to the limit, handling the instrument with a virtuosity rarely heard.

  Now we will see if they notice me.

  He finished, adding a difficult flourish to the end, and was met with polite applause. He rose, turned to face the audience, and saw the same disaffected faces he sat down to. No one rose to greet him, no one shook his hand. He went quickly back to his seat, near Brel, who clapped for him and gave him a polite bow.

  “That was very good. You have excellent technique.”

  “Thank you,” replied Graid, a little irritated. “They don’t seem to think so.”

  “This isn’t a group of musicians, who delight in the performance and skill of playing notes.” Brel patted Graid on his knee, like he was his own son who just lost a sporting match. “These are real people, Aidlev! They didn’t come to be dazzled by dexterity and adroitness. You had great complexity to your notes, but your thoughts were very shallow.”

  “What?” demanded Graid, surprised and a little angry.

  Brel laughed. “That wasn’t meant as an insult! What I mean is that no one could connect to your work. It was meant as show, as something to be admired, rather than related to,” he said, as Graid calmed a little. Brel wrinkled his face examining the young man, seeing all the emotions played out on the canvas of his face a little too obviously for a common man. “These people are here to be distracted from life, to experience something wonderful. At least, that is what an experienced viyus player can do. But that player also has to have something to say, something in common with the spectators. He needs to connect with them, relate to them. You said you were going on a journey?”

  “Yes. To connect with those very people.”

  “Well that’s good to hear. I admire you’re commitment to such a noble goal. We are a wonderful people, maybe a bit to grounded in our faith, but with those like Arciss, and the movement he started, balance will be restored. Stop back here, when you are finished your journey. I think you might have something truly wonderful to share! Just don’t forget what you are searching for, Graid. Or do you truly know?”

  Brel stood laughing gently to himself, walking out the door into the night. Graid turned, and looked in the mirror, wondering how he knew his true name.

  No, my face is totally different. Maybe he gleaned some errant thought—I’ve got to be more careful.

  As the sun was creeping over the horizon, dissipating the thick glacial clouds from whence they came, Graid started off down the hill, putting mighty Piros further and further behind him. He traveled on rustic side roads meant only for walking or pedaled machines, winding through fields and trees. He felt great temptation to cast to Arciss and Uonil, to update himself with current surveillance and analyses, but prevailed against it. He felt no fatigue, so he moved quickly, almost at a run, hoping to venture deeper and deeper into the Rell he only slightly knew. In the first roa he covered what others could only in a troa, passing by the outskirts of four towns along the way. He could sense the Trint-Averil had been through them, as joy and happiness reigned within their people. For some reason, he wanted to go where they had yet been.

  The wide fields quickly turned to hard ground, pocked with rough weeds and tough brown and grey bushes, as mountains loomed up ahead of him. An extension of the Drugghid that ran through Averil, they were as a great barrier, separating both halves of the province he was in. Small clusters of homes and villages could be found near the path he walked, their people tending small fields nearby, or heading towards the main paved road, venturing into their bigger cousins.

  He reluctantly spoke to those he passed by, knowing that if he were to become familiar with Rell, he would need to become more familiar with his people. Farmers and laborers, miners and those escaping the congestion of the city, they all seemed open at first. But as Graid spoke, they seemed small and petty to him, mean with short tongues. Graid would speak of the voyage he was on, how he wanted to see the world, and they would shrug, or murmur something in response. He developed a distaste for those people, in that first roa, growing tired of their dirty clothes, small houses and small minds. He quickened his pace, running into mountains cold and tall, happily seeing more animals than people.

  I don’t know, Arciss, I don’t know. It seems like these people don’t want to be known, certainly don’t want to know me. Under the multi
tude of stars he lay down, his hands on his small chest, wishing for something wonderful to happen. In his restless pre-sleep, his mind drifted on memories of Selva, the sweetness of her body, the glow of her smile. He spent many a night with her, but now, for some reason, her image didn’t keep him warm, or calm his mind. He was used to her, and he knew she was used to him. But in a place stripped of all the distractions Novan had to offer, Graid knew he would have little to cesct about with Selva.

  We never did cast much, and when we did, it was about sex, or pleasure. I never could cesct with her about my life, about my troubles. And she never seemed to want to know. He thought back through his past for a moment. Have I ever known someone I could be so open with, so candid? Someone who would lie with me, under these stars, and be content listening to me, as I would be listening to them. Then again, I wasn’t that kind of person then. It’s barely been a dcas, and I think I‘ve already changed. How amusing.

  He rolled over, and went to sleep.

  The next roas were spent covering ground, pushing through the great rocky chasms that framed the Drugghid, making his way through sudden streams and patches of dense forest on the other side. This range, the Clji, stretched for many tils in front of him, cut through by