Symphony

 

 

  

SYMPHONY

By

Michael A. Wolf

 

 

 

            In the last days of Gelson there was a band. It had been there in the first days too, or just after, and it played music that made the people sway and weep and jump to their feet in adulation. Shiny brass and polished blackwood speaking notes in casual or thunderous conversation; melding emotions and stirring hearts. It made loving accompaniment to summer days and joyous celebrations, and was looked after by those who filled its ranks.

            Right up to the end the band played; a brave harmony on the deck of a Titanic pulled to the bottom of the bitter sea. Vincent DeLong knew the entire history. He was one of the first members of that company of music-makers, and he saw everything; even the end. The end of the music, the end of Gelson. 

            A small rain began in the first hours of the last day. A gentle mist then soft blanket that did little to dampen the spirits of those assembled in the park. Vincent and his band mates tuned, scaled and geared up to perform, and worried not about the light drizzle that coated their instruments in tiny beads of glisten. It would be a slow and lovely song to begin with; a tune about a young couple in love, riding a carousel. The audience sung the words and looked at one another in lyrical recognition. Then as the band played to the bridge, a loud crack of thunder shook the park and an increasing darkness overtook the bandstand. Vincent and the ensemble stopped playing as heads turned upward and people started pointing to the sky. A woman near the stage screamed and put her hands to her face. Vincent was caught by what he saw and turned toward the rest of the orchestra.

            “Fire!” he said, “Fire is falling!” And Vincent sat, frozen by the spectacle as audience members jumped from their seats in an effort to escape. Several in the crowd were hit by fireballs that consumed them almost instantly. The flame was indiscriminate, seeking women, children and anyone slow or unlucky enough to be in its path. The park around the bandstand began to burn and members of Vincent’s group moved in furious panic against the onslaught and their own obvious terror.

            Vincent stood and saw that any exit one might attempt was blocked by blaze and debris. He watched in horror as the people of Gelson were destroyed. It seemed to him the end was at hand, and although his thoughts should have been for his loved ones alone, he looked instead into the faces of those still huddling and trapped in the audience. Fireballs rained down around them, but now the danger appeared to be moving more toward the center of town. The concert-goers were captive creatures, just like the band, and Vincent knew only one thing to do at that moment. He put his clarinet to his lips and began to play. As he did, he stood and walked to the edge of the stage. A bit of fire smashed into the bandstand right next to where he stood, but Vincent didn’t shake his stance. His defiance was his music, and his joyous noise would calm those whose God had forsaken them even if it killed him in the process. From behind, Vincent could hear the rest of the band blending their harmony with his. Strings and brass and woodwinds alike in a song both bold and melancholy.

            The fire kept coming, and in the end almost all in Gelson were taken by the flames. Vincent’s band mates died as they played in affront to the descendant destruction, and those who survived, continued on, adding song after song to both dirge and comfort. The night came and the fire stopped. Vincent looked out at the assembled, burned frightened and drawn close to one another. Most still sobbed and shook in terror. But as the darkness arrived so did the silence. Vincent and the remaining musicians packed away their instruments and stepped from the stage in measured dignity to move amongst the people. They were embraced and kissed and patted on the back in thanks, one woman said, for standing fast and easing the fear. Her burns were not visible from where Vincent stood, but as she slumped to the ground, he could see that she too would be counted among the dead.

            Forty-eight days later he sat. The chairs weren’t new, but he’d borrowed them from the high school gymnasium and set them up in number order. Sixty-three people survived that day, and for the last month and a half had been living the best way they could. No one came from other towns; not Steadville or Paymar or even Green Valley. The last residents of Gelson tried to raise someone, anyone on radios and telephones and all they got in return was a recorded voice.

            We’re here, on six-o-six, please come to us. We can’t get out and…  Then it would repeat. Vincent and nine other men would set out that night in search of the voice and others, somewhere who might have survived; but tonight there would be a concert. Six musicians onstage and fifty-seven people in numbered chairs.