Read 1635: Music and Murder Online
Authors: David Carrico
1635: Music and Murder (2 page)
"Sit down, sit down." She looked at him closely, and said, "Mainz. Are you Catholic?"
"Well, enough so that I could play in the bishop's chapel. But my best friends are Lutheran, albeit quietly so in Mainz."
She quirked her mouth a little, and said, "From the looks of you, you haven't had much luck lately, have you?"
"No. A one-handed musician has no . . . no means to support himself."
"Have you thought about learning something else?" She interrupted him as he started to reply, "I mean, learning to play something one-handed, like a trumpet?"
"The thought, yes, but . . . there is something to violin, something about shaping the music . . . molding it . . . that trumpeters cannot do, that only strings can do. If I cannot do that . . . " He shrugged.
"Hmm," she said, "I think I know what you mean, but you might be surprised." Someone called her name and beckoned toward her from the platform. "My turn. I have an idea for you. Wait here and we'll talk again after I'm done."
Her name was Marla. She talked with me for a short time, and then she went to the platform and sat down behind one of the flat cabinets. I steeled myself for more discord and chaos, and was surprised when a much more harmonious sound was heard. She sang several songs in something like a ballad style. They were nothing like our songs: tempi were very loose and meters seemed to meld from one to another smoothly; harmonies were still dissonant, albeit not nearly so much as "the world's greatest rock-and-roll, blues and country and western band." Not at all structured like anything I had ever heard before, yet somehow intriguing.
Some of the songs were pleasing, like the lullaby she sang to a sweet baby named James. Others were disturbing, like the one where she was imploring someone about killing her softly with a song. The last song had me wondering what language she was singing in, there were so many words in it that sounded like English yet made no sense. Even the title was confusing: "I dig rock and roll music," yet it had not one mention of a shovel in it at all.
In some strange way, the cabinet she sat behind was some kind of instrument, but it could not have been because it was so flat and narrow that there simply was not room for any kind of works within it. Nonetheless, it produced a most unusual sound. In timbre it was somewhat bell-like, perhaps like bells struck with soft mallets. That does not do it justice; suffice it to say that it was a sound I have never heard before.
I took some comfort in the fact that if the Kappellmeister had been present he would have been gibbering; partly over the strangeness of what was being called music, and partly over a woman singing unaccompanied, albeit only in a tavern. In fact, that thought quite warmed my heart, and I was smiling when Marla returned to my table, claimed me and led me out into the evening.
Friedrich, she found me shelter, and a place to work to earn my keep. But oh so much more importantly, she took me to people who showed me a new world, a world of music that I thought I had been barred from. First she took me to the school. It is not a gymnasium—they call it a High School, and all the children of the residents attend and learn arts and sciences. There is a professor there, a professor of music. Herr Wendell is a master in command of his art. He teaches these students, these youths, to play music, and to play it with passion. These youth, they play all manner of reeds and horns and drums. Everyone calls them a band. (They are not, however, to be mistaken for the "rock-and-roll" band.) Except that sometimes Master Wendell calls them a symphonic wind ensemble. He does not lead from a clavier, Friedrich. Instead, he stands on a platform in their midst, and by his gestures he shapes them as a potter shapes the clay. He was the one who showed me how our polyphony is changing slowly even now to a new style of music he called homophony, and began teaching me how to understand its forms.
Friedrich, you will not believe what they can do, the flutes and reeds and horns they have! Especially the horns! They have finely made sackbuts—except they call them trombones, which I find to be an odd name. And they have trumpets and other horns of all sizes, all made with great artifice with an innovation called valves that allow them to play diatonic tones in all registers. They can even play chromatic tones in all registers! They are incredible! But most astounding of all is what they use in place of the harpsichord. Oh, Friedrich, there is an instrument called a piano, that is to a clavier what the finest flute is to the crudest willow whistle! All of this Master Wendell revealed to me over several evenings.
Marla also introduced me to her friend, Herr Ingram Bledsoe, a maker of instruments, who makes some small instruments; some, as he says, "from scratch," meaning they are crafted totally by himself, and some from "kits". This is another changed word in the Grantville dialect of English that Herr Bledsoe had to explain to me. His "kits" are not baby foxes. He showed me boxes of instrument parts that had already been cut out from the wood and metal, and explained that he was able to buy these from other people and then assemble them into the instruments himself. He had several harp "kits", and some guitarras also. It seems to me that using these "kits" would rob you of the pleasure of searching out and selecting the wood, and bringing out of it the very shape you wanted. In their old world, however, it seems that the ability to accomplish things quickly was important, and there is no doubt that putting together the parts that someone else has crafted would quickly give you a finished instrument.
He also repairs many of the instruments they brought from the future.
This next part is for Anna. I was in Herr Bledsoe's workshop one day when I made the mistake of saying that women had no strength for music.
Memory again.
Marla looked at him, eyes narrowed, and said quietly, "Is that so?"
He knew her well enough now to recognize the warning signs, and said, "Well, so my masters taught me."
"Your masters were fools, but I don't expect you'll take my word for it. Tomorrow is the town Christmas Party. There will be a concert in the Methodist church. You be there," and she turned and stalked out. He turned and looked at Ingram. "Did I say something wrong?"
Ingram just laughed, and said, "Yep, you did. I'd be there tomorrow, if I were you."
Knowing what was good for him, he went to the concert. Once again, Grantville shocked him, and he spent most of the concert in a daze. First of all, over half of the choir of almost sixty people was women. And Marla was among them. Second, the player at the piano was another woman. Third, they were good. The women's voices had a range and a power and a timbre that the boys' voices he was used to hearing on soprano and alto simply could not possess. And the pianist was extremely accomplished, demonstrating to him the power of that instrument as well.
There came a point where Marla stepped out from the choir, and nodded to the pianist, who began a quiet introduction. The epiphany came when Marla began to sing.
"Ave, Maria . . . "
As she sang that beautiful melody, he was transported to another realm, lifting on the effortless soaring of what seemed to be the voice of a very angel from God. He closed his eyes, drinking in the splendor with his ears, seeming to rise out of his body while she sang. When the beautiful song came to a close, he was the first one on his feet, clapping with all his might, tears pouring down his face.
Anna, you were right all along. Women can be musicians, professional musicians, and can be just as good as any man. Marla is the proof of it. I grovel at your feet, as I groveled abjectly at hers after the concert.
Friedrich, there is more knowledge of music in Grantville than there is in all the courts and chapels of Europe combined! Knowledge of our music and its past and what music had grown into in their time. Master Wendell and Marla have shown me that within our generation the center of music moved north from Italy to Germany, and that Germany remained the center of the greatest music for almost two hundred years. They have devices that play music with no musicians (they say it is not magic, just superior mechanical arts), and I have heard the music of Bach, Brahms, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, and so many others. I know those names mean nothing to you now, but they are giants, Friedrich, giants. There is so much here, so much to feed on. But it rests on such a slender reed.
One last memory unrolled. Marla turned off the device that had just finished playing
Die Kunst der Fuge
by Johann Sebastian Bach, and waited with Marcus Wendell while he returned from the heights that the order, structure and innovation of the masterwork had transported him to.
"I seem to spend much time crying around you," he muttered, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Very unmanly."
She shook her head, and said quietly, "To me it's a mark of how great a heart you have for music, that you can be so touched by the greatest."
"This Bach, this master of contrapuntal art, he was born when?"
"He was . . . will be . . . that is, 1685, I think. He's the beginning of the German era of great musicians."
He sat with brow furrowed, thinking intently, and finally looked up. "Marla, this butterfly effect you explained to me . . . how because you exist here, now, that ripples of change have begun and that the future you knew will never happen, people will never be born . . . "
"Yes?"
"Is that true of Johann Sebastian Bach?"
Sudden sucking of air, twin expressions of horror on Marla's and Marcus's faces, twin exclamations of "Ohmigawd! I never thought of that!"
Friedrich, we need you. We need you and Leopold Gruenwald and Thomas Schwarzberg to join us here, you three and as many of the others as you can convince to come. For you, Herr Bledsoe will teach you of how pianos are made, and how to repair and maintain them, and of guitars. For Leopold, Master Wendell will show him all the wind instruments that he has, horns of all shapes and sizes, flutes and reeds, and new forms such as the saxophones. We desperately need Thomas to help copy down all the music that is available on their devices before they wear out. We must preserve and spread our German heritage, our legacy that has come from a future that will never be. And last but not least, bring Anna, so that she can learn from Marla and the others and become the musician she so wants to be.
Oh, come, Friedrich! Come for the joy of it, come to become the renowned master the Lord means you to be, come because I love you and need you. Send word as soon as you can.
Franz set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. Marla wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, and said, "Will they come?"
"Oh, yes. Friedrich at least will come, and Leopold should. Once Thomas learns of all the new music he can learn, no one will be able to hold him back. If they come, others will come with them or follow soon after. And of them all, Thomas is probably the one we need most. He can notate any music that he hears, so he is the solution to preserving so much of what you have on the CDs and . . . records." He tilted his head up and she leaned down to kiss him. "Yes, they will come, and together we will learn and save your music." Remembering the "movie" she had shown him the day before, he grinned and said, "And the Grantville hills will be alive with the sound of music."
Heavy Metal Music
or
Revolution in Three Flats
Grantville, March, 1633
Franz hissed in pain as his crippled hand was flexed, twisted and pulled by Dr. Nichols' strong fingers. Sweat beaded his forehead as he endured the testing manipulation. He sighed in relief when the doctor finally released it.
"Sorry," Dr. Nichols said. "I know that hurt, but I had to see what the condition was." He made some notes in a folder, then looked up. "Well, as the old joke goes, I have bad news and good news. Which do you want first?"
Franz swallowed as Marla took his claw in both her hands. "The bad first, if you please," he replied.
Dr. Nichols looked at them both seriously. "I can't help you surgically. I'm sorry. The damage is severe, but I probably could have saved it if I could have seen it right after it happened. Maybe not, with the knuckles smashed in the last two fingers, but we would have had a good chance. Now . . . Frankly, it healed wrong. I'm not faulting those who tended you—fact is, they did as good a job as any down-timer could have done."
He glanced down at his notes, then back up, and continued, "I have—had, rather—a good friend back up-time who could have fixed it, even now, but he was a fully trained specialized orthopedic surgeon with all the appropriate tools and technology at his fingertips. All modesty aside, I'm a good surgeon, but orthopedics, especially with the small bones like in the hand, requires not only the training but the tools, and I don't have either one. Even if I did, I'm not sure I could justify expending them for what is, to be honest, a relatively minor injury. Our resources are so limited right now that they have to be reserved for truly major problems."
Franz looked down at where Marla's hands clasped tightly around the hand in question, sighed, and said, "I understand."
He raised his eyes back up to look into the doctor's, and a small quirky smile played around his mouth. "I truly did not believe you could do anything, but Marla insisted we come to you. Perhaps in my heart of hearts I wanted to believe that you Grantvillers could work just one more miracle"—he chuckled—"as if enough miracles have not been worked on my behalf already." He smiled at Marla, and his good hand rested on top of hers.
"Well, it is sorry I am that we have wasted your time, Herr Doctor." Franz started to stand up.
"Just a minute, young man. I said I had good news also. Don't you want to hear that?"
Marla pulled him back down, and spoke for the first time. "What do you mean, Dr. Nichols?"
"Well, we may not be able to restore the hand to its pre-injury condition, but there are some things we can do to make it somewhat better than it is. Granted, the little finger and ring finger are total write-offs."
Marla saw his confusion, and said, "He means nothing can be done for them, Franz."
The doctor blinked at the interruption, then continued, "Er, yes, they can't be helped. Your wrist and thumb, on the other hand, seem to have totally escaped injury."
"A mark of the malice of Heydrich," Franz said quietly. "To a violinist, the left hand thumb is just a resting place for the neck of the violin. The fingers are everything."
There was a pause, then Dr. Nichols said carefully, "You're saying he not only attacked you, he knew precisely what to do to cause you the most damage."
"Precisely."
The doctor's tone was glacial. "I think Herr Heydrich would be well advised to avoid our territory. I believe I would want to have words with him if I saw him."
"You'd have to stand in line, Doc," Marla snarled. "You're a surgeon, so with your hands you might understand better than most just what this cost a musician, but even you can't understand the grief and madness this caused. I do."
A swirl of appreciation for the woman at his side filled Franz, driving out the old cold ache. The doctor's expression eased to a warm smile.
"Far be it from me to get in the way of mama lion defending her cub. I would be proud to hold your coat, young lady, and see to sweeping up the leftovers if you ever get the chance."
They all laughed, and he continued, "Getting back to your hand, your index and middle fingers are not as hopeless as they appear to be. Granted, they're very stiff right now, but the knuckles escaped injury and the broken bones, although not perfectly straight, healed well enough. What you mainly have is stiffened and inflamed muscles and tendons, with some atrophy because you didn't exercise it while it was healing. The good news is there are some things you can do to help rehabilitate it. If you'll talk to Irene Musgrove, she will describe the procedures you should follow, but basically massages with oil, alternating hot and cold soaks and some exercises with a stiff rubber ball will help bring them back. It will take a while, and I'm not going to lie to you, they won't be as good as they were before the injuries, but you can have more use out of them than you do now."
"Any improvement is more than I have, Doctor. I will do as you say."
"Good. Let Irene know if you can't find a rubber ball, and we'll see if we can requisition one from some kid's toy box." They all laughed again, and the couple stood and left on that note.
Outside the office in the evening twilight, they snugged their coats up against the chill spring breeze and walked slowly down the sidewalk together. After a block or so, Franz sighed, and said, "Well, now we know." He looked over at Marla, walking head down and hands in pockets, and saw tears coursing down her cheeks. Stopping her with his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him and gently wiped them from her face. She threw her arms about him, and began to sob convulsively.
"It's . . . not . . . fair," she said brokenly.
"Sshh, sshh," Franz murmured as his cheek rested against her hair. "The good doctor did not take anything from me except false hope. I lost my hand; I gained you and the music of Grantville. I consider it a fair trade."
"But," she said, her voice muffled against his chest, "I wanted to hear you play. It's not fair," sniff, "that you love the music so," sniff, "and can't play it now." Snuffle. Her arms tightened around him again.
Franz took her by the shoulders again and moved her out to arm's length, then lifted her chin and stared at the brimming eyes. "Marla, I have not lost the music, I have only lost the source of my sinful pride and arrogance. As long as I have you, I have the music. Now, dry your eyes, and tell me where we will find this . . . What did Dr. Nichols call it? Oh, yes, this rubber ball. And why would a child have one?"
She smiled at him, wiping her eyes, and hand in hand they walked on down the sidewalk as she explained the nature of a child's toy from up-time and why it would help him regain partial use of his hand. It being Friday evening, they turned at the corner by unspoken consent and walked toward the Gardens.
"Is anyone playing tonight?" Franz asked as they drew near.
"Not that I know of. Couple of the guys in Mountaintop are out of town, so they haven't been doing anything lately."
Franz sniffed. "That is not a bad thing."
"Oh, now, you listened to them just fine the last time they played. You even clapped a couple of times."
"Do not mistake tolerance and politeness for acceptance," he said with a deadpan expression.
"You!" She poked him in the ribs. He poked back, and they scuffled together for a few moments until they separated laughing. She grabbed his left arm with both hands and leaned against him as they walked on. After a few quiet moments, she said, "You know, Franz, I'm awfully glad you came to Grantville."
"As am I."
"No, I'm talking about more than just our friendship." They walked a few more steps before she continued. "You know, I had my life all planned out before the Ring of Fire hit. I was set to graduate in a few weeks. I knew that I wouldn't be the valedictorian or salutatorian, but I knew that I would be like number three or four in our class. I was going to college in the fall. I already had scholarship offers from University of Virginia and Belmont, and there were hints from University of North Texas that they were going to offer me a good package, too. I was going to double major in voice and piano, and with a little luck I could be the band drum major as well. I even had hopes for Eastman School of Music, although the odds were longer there. Then I was going to do the master's degree, and then the doctor's degree. I was going to be Doctor Kristen Marlena Linder by the time I was thirty, show my family and everyone in this one-horse town that I had what it took to be something other than the little girl that sang in church and at the county fair, and everyone said, 'Doesn't she sound good?' and patted me on the head or someplace else."
Their pace had picked up a little. Franz waited a few more steps, then said, "Marla?"
"Huh?"
"You are . . . steaming, I think Ingram called it."
She slowed down abruptly, sighed, and said, "You're right. I can't help it. Every time I think about what happened, I just get furious . . . with the universe, with God, with Grantville. My life got screwed up royally. Everyone's did; I know that, but
my life . . .
"
She stopped, rubbed her hands across her face and brushed her long hair back. "Sorry." She took his arm again, and they started walking slowly.
"I was so angry. Aunt Susan can tell you that when we found out what happened and that Mom and Dad and Paul were left up-time, after I got over the shock I wasn't fit to be around. She said I was like an old sow bear just woke up from hibernation with a bad case of PMS. It was literally months before I could talk to anyone without snarling at them, and probably over a year before I actually smiled again."
Franz placed his hand over hers. "I find that hard to believe."
"No, seriously, I can't describe what I was like without getting pretty vulgar." He snorted and she slapped his arm. "I mean it! I was awful!"
"If you say so."
"I was! And I was a long time getting over it. Aunt Susan finally talked me into going into the teacher training program. Since I have no mechanical aptitude, I get sick at the sight of blood and I can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, that was about the only thing that I could do to pay my own way in our brave new world." Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"It is a new world, at least for me."
Marla flushed, looked up at him quickly and then down again. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was rude."
A few more quiet steps, and she said, "Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I feel different since you came. I can talk music with you, and daydream about somehow starting a music school. I feel . . . happy."
She stopped and twirled once on the sidewalk, holding out her arms. "You are good for me, Franz Sylwester."
"You just say that because you love me," he joked.
She stopped and looked at him in all seriousness. "I do love you, Franz."
He stared back in amazement. "Are you . . . I mean . . . you mean . . . "
His head was spinning. Yes, they had kissed, and cuddled, but she had not allowed any more than that. They had joked about having a future together, he had dreamed it, but now in cold honesty he saw that he had never truly thought he had a chance at a lifetime with her, crippled and destitute as he was. Jokes and fantasies had all of a sudden become a reality, and he was totally speechless.
With a smile, she reached out and took both of his hands—whole and crippled—in hers, and said, "I love you, Franz Sylwester, I believe you love me, too, and I'm tired of waiting for you to say something about it."
He continued to stare at her, and she laughed. "Close your mouth, silly."
He did. "Well, say something."
He just looked at her, saying nothing. After a few moments, her smile faded away. "Franz?" in a small voice.
He pulled his hands from hers, and turned away, pushing his hands in his coat pockets and ducking his head. "I can't," he choked.
"Why not?"
He started to walk away.
"Franz Sylwester, you stop right there!" A sternness in her voice that he had never heard before stopped him without thought. Her steps sounded as she walked around in front of him, and he looked away.
"Franz, look at me." He did, seeing the tears trickling down her face again, and looked away again quickly. "No, look at me." He did, swallowing.
"You look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't love me, and I'll walk away. But until you do that, we're going to stand right here."
Despite her command, he looked down at his feet. "I . . . love you," he whispered.
"Then why—?" she started exasperatedly.
He snatched his left hand from his pocket and thrust it in her face. She stepped back, startled, as he snarled, "Because of this! Because I am crippled! I cannot hope for you or anyone to marry me. Your family would not allow it. I cannot support you. I cannot provide for a family, when all I can do is translate for one person here today, another person there on Thursday, or write two letters for someone next Monday. I cannot give you what you deserve, a husband sound in mind
and body
. I cannot protect you from the ridicule that people will heap on you for marrying a cripple! I love you more than my life, Marla, and because of that I cannot do this!"
She smiled, and said, "Oh, is that all?"
Franz was taken aback. "Is that
all
? Is that not enough?"
"No," she laughed. "I was afraid there was something seriously wrong."
She took his crippled hand in both of hers, and said, "Franz, you're still wrestling with the trauma—"
He looked at her quizzically.
"Okay, you don't know that word. You're still wrestling with the damaging mental effects from when your hand was shattered. You're dealing with anger, and grief, and bitterness, and finding out that bargaining with God doesn't work, and you're not able to see some things realistically because of that. Believe me, we in Grantville know all about this, me in particular. Trust me, no one whose opinion matters considers you less than a man, less than a whole person, because of what happened to you. In fact, a lot of people, me included, admire your courage."
