The Song at Twilight

A weird tale involving a man, sitting in his study, experiencing a singular episode involving his dead father, a spectral 'gong', and a trip to the True Twilight...where sound comes alive.

 I almost laughed after the operation. The look on the doctors’ faces was akin to bemused meerkats, as they studied my chart. ‘You shouldn’t be deaf,’ one said. I quickly assured them I was " at least in one ear. ‘This is impossible,’ bleated another, as he scratched his scabby head. Again, I assured them it wasn’t, only a botch from a group of physicians young enough to be my grandkids.

At that, they quickly lost sympathy, ushering me out of the ward as if I had the plague. There was little to do, after all, and I was free to lodge a suit if I wanted. But the truth was, I didn’t care. Age was grabbing me with rotting hands, throttling what little breath I had left, destined to leave me an empty shell.

There was no point in resisting time...it always won.

‘Poppycock, boy!’

I imagined Father waggling that bony finger at me, and for a moment I felt young again, back in my blurry youth. But then a cold breeze blew through the open window and I was back as a seventy-six year old, shivering in my armchair.

“Why am I up at this hour?” I asked the empty room.

A stuffed stag head stared accusingly at me above the mantel, beady eyes shining as tongues of fire licked up from my antique fireplace. I remembered killing the sucker, almost thirty-five years ago, back when I had a wife, brother, and a little niece to sit on my knee. Now, I had nothing but the stag, and even he was starting to moult.

“Janet...”

I wiped a tear from my eye, remembering my dear old wife. So quiet, thoughtful, she was a paragon of patience, a delight at dinner parties. And she had a lovely laugh...ah, how lovely it was. It could illuminate a room full of Richard Nixons.

On cue, my single, uncovered light bulb flickered " once, twice, and then finally going out with a ‘ping’. The fire followed suit, filling the room with smoke, and a strange impulse took me. Instead of stumbling to the kitchen for a torch, I sat, blinking at the darkness, wondering if this was what death felt like. Was the afterlife an armchair in a dark room? A place where light only crept in every thousand years, briefly illuminating memories? Or was it a harp-filled paradise that the Methodists down the road pictured, shining with angels’ piety?

I didn’t care to guess, only muse, as my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. Still I sat there, staring at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the moon through net curtains that swayed in the wind. It was a black night, but a little light crept in " tinted grey.

‘Should you turn the be-devilled light on, boy? You sit in darkness and you’re likely to imagine all sorts of fool things!’

Father’s voice was sharp but affectionate, and even twenty-odd years gone that he was, I still recalled his rumbling inflections. He was a robust man, but bowel cancer did for him at eighty-one, coming so suddenly that I barely had time to mourn. In his final days he was a sorry sight, but slowly, over the succeeding years, those ghastly images were replaced with happy ones, when he was hale, smiling and active.

I frowned. Did my life revolve around Father? Recently, things had turned strange " though I said nothing about it to the monkey doctors after my op.

I saw the old boy on occasion now, sitting across from me on a phantom armchair, steepling his fingers as if he had something important to say. There he would sit, for a minute or two, unmoving, and then slowly fade away.

Strangely, the only chilling thing about it was a bloody mark on the floor for an hour after, like a piece of furniture had been roughly removed. Then, eventually that would disappear too.

“I should go to bed.”

‘Nonsense, lad. The night is young. When did you last stay up this late?’

He was there again, sitting in his armchair, fingers steepled. His grey beard was trimmed, but his mouth never moved " a bland, black line splitting his face.

 For once, I didn’t just gawp. I felt curiously calm, as if a thin, spiritual veil had fallen, and I was actually face to face with Father.

“Not sure when I was up this late. Damn ear makes it hard to sleep.”

‘Wrong.”

“Wrong?” I was perplexed by that singular word. “Why wrong?”

‘Wrong, boy. Wrong reason!’

Reason for what? My ear was so bad that I slurred my speech, and once or twice I had lost balance, stumbling to my knees but thankfully avoiding injury. That had to be the reason I was still up past midnight; a time when all sounds dimmed, and the world hushed to a whisper.

“It is my ear,” I insisted. “It’s gone deaf, you know. And the wretched doctors botched it up.”

Father remained impassive, eyes lidded " unyielding.

‘Talking rot when you should be listening.’ He put heavy emphasis on the word ‘listening’, though I had no idea why. ‘You’re deaf to nothing, not truly.’

That was a strange phrase. Deaf to nothing? No I wasn’t, I was deaf to everything in one ear, and little better than adequate through the other. Everything was muffed, and I was a sorry old man, sitting in the dark...talking to his dead father.

“I am deaf!” I snapped, feeling a rising anger at the world. “I’ve lost everything " you, Jack, even little Elsie. They’re all gone! Even this house is falling apart.” I shook my head, ashamed. “I can’t afford a housekeeper. I don’t bathe often!”

‘Worldly woes!’

A long, sad sigh issued from across the room, and raising my head, I saw that Father was gone. At least his silhouette was. I sensed he was still watching nearby, hands steepled, beard neatly trimmed.

Unbidden, thoughts turned to my poor brother " another tragic tale. He had contracted leukaemia at thirty, divorced his wife at thirty-two, and died at forty. He was an inspiration through his illness, never giving up, forever smiling. I was the grim one " a trait that followed me to old age " spending many hours praying for his recovery. When that failed, I dismissed God, sneering at church-goers, or anyone bold enough to voice spirituality.

‘You think you’re alone in this world, boy?’

Father’s voice sounded above and below me at the same time.

“Look around me,” I replied. “You’ve all gone...I’m alone.”

My hand inadvertently brushed my knee, and I pictured Elsie sitting atop it, grinning from ear-to-ear. She was such a lovely child, completely guileless, with hair so shiny I nicknamed her Goldilocks. What happened to her was beyond shock " a calamity.

‘You are not alone in this world, boy.’

The worst thing about Elsie’s accident was that I wasn’t even around. It was all relayed to me by Jack, his emotionless voice sounding like a robot’s over the phone. A car had hit her. It was nobody’s fault, he said, just a culmination of bad luck that resulted in tragedy.

I always remember that phrase, so carelessly spoken by an obviously grieving father;

“...Just a culmination of bad luck that resulted in tragedy.”

The driver was under the limit, Elsie tripped into the road, and there was only one winner. The poor child was gone, life cut off, and our family forgot how to smile for a long, long time.

‘Not alone, lad.’

“I am!”

‘Far...far from it. Even now, sitting in your study, you are not truly alone.’

“Because I’m talking to you?”

There was a curious chuckle and I felt Father’s influence fade a little. I wanted to call him back, apologise for being obtuse, but I couldn’t penetrate his opaqueness. I was alone. Only the faded moon peeped in at the window. Everything else was still.

‘Wrong...you are approaching the time of night. Be alert, boy.’

My confusion grew like bacteria " fast and frenzied.

“Time of night? What, you mean like midnight or something? I’m already past that.”

‘Indeed, long gone...midnight is but the precursor " a number only. What I talk about is a time few appreciate, nay, even know about.’

“What’s that?”

‘The True Twilight.’

Now my puzzlement had mutated to near delirium. What was Father jabbering about? And why were we suddenly on such a strange subject anyway? Who cared what time of night it was; it didn’t change my loneliness " if anything, it worsened it.

I got out of my chair " which creaked loudly, sounding hideous in night’s confines " and moved over to the window.

At first, all I saw was my own reflection, and misty, indistinct shapes outside. There were very few street lamps where I lived, but a large, illuminated clock tower dominated the near-distance, always casting the area in a reddish glow. Tonight though, it was obscured by something, leaving only the moon " which was weak, being only a crescent.

“The moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas.”

Noyes’ poetry came to me in a torrent, and I found myself muttering the whole of ‘The Highwayman’, verse after verse, not missing a word. It seemed to last forever, but then it was suddenly done, the words running away into the night, leaving me curiously out of breath.

Looking again, I saw that the moon was indeed a ghostly galleon, rocking between two sheets of cloud, guarded by a brace of stars. One was purplish, twinkling, shining, determined to outshine its brethren through its throbbing radiance. However, I thought it looked feeble this far away, yet deep down I knew its magnificence " that it was a monstrous sun, pouring out energy. The thought made me shudder.

‘Pistol hilts a’ twinkle.’

Father’s voice was wistful, even fainter than before, and I knew time was short, that I had to further the episode.

“Wait!” I said, pulling my gaze away from the moon. “Father, what’s going on? Am I mad? I’m reciting poetry, for God’s sake!”

‘Ah...Twilight’s influence. This is good. You may yet be receptive.’

“Receptive to what?”

There was a pause, and I don’t know how, but I felt the whole room ‘turn’ towards me, gauging my reaction.

‘The Song, of course.’

Those four words dripped with grandeur, but I was blind to the meaning. All I could do was stare, nodding like a sage but understanding nothing.

“I see...”

‘You don’t, but you will, boy " at least a part.’

I didn’t have time to ask which ‘part’. Instead, an invisible hand touched my forehead, turning me back to the scene outside.

“It looks green,” I muttered.

Luna was there, gloriously silver, but patches of its surface were green, like meadows had magically appeared, sprouting out of the barren rock. It was an impossible scene, but I got the impression it was a deliberate attempt to open my mind " to guide the esoteric in.

What could I do to facilitate it? Did I want to? Father was disappearing, and my mind was tired, dulled by lack of sleep. Rest would come easier than abandonment.

‘Excuses. Hush. Look...and listen.’

Like a good son, I tried to do as I was told, staring out into the night, straining my ears for sound.

Distant cars mowing their way through the night were most recognisable, but other noises became apparent the more I listened. Far off laughter, something stealthy moving on a nearby roof-top, and the wind joined in, each blending with the other " easily missed if I didn’t concentrate, but starkly individual if I really strained.

Together they made a strangely melodious whole, though until now I hadn’t realised it " taking background noise for granted.

‘You hear it, lad?’

To my astonishment, I realised I did. My hearing was unimpaired, though I had felt no change.

“I hear a lot of subtle sounds, Father...nice in its way. My deafness seems a little better tonight.”

Again there was that disembodied sigh, high above, and I felt Father’s frustration leaking down towards me.

‘Stop being boneheaded!’

His familiar retort made me smile, as I heard the affection in it, but I also sensed his desperation. I needed to witness this ‘twilight phenomenon’ before he departed, or else I would never witness it at all. That much came to me, drifting around the study like incense.

So I focused, strained, immersed myself in the scene outside, with its green-tinged moon and mellow sounds. Buildings looked clearer and I idly wondered what the time was.

‘Focus, boy! Stop thinking and experience.’

A growling car prowled past, and a part of me lifted off, seeking the driver in his old banger, wondering what dark errand kept him on the road so late. Was he returning home from visiting relatives? Was he a drink driver? An insomniac? I found an image of a man, face shadowed, cigarette glowing in his hand, and thought ‘ah, he is the one. He is the prowler.’ But my description seemed harsh. This was a true night owl, relishing the early hours, alone with nature around him, unafraid of smothering silence.   

‘Now you start to see. Tell me, boy, who is he?’

I frowned, confused.

“I...can’t see. His face is blacked out.”

‘That’s right. He is the nobody of human civilisation " an outcast from the racket of achievement, culture, and toil.’

Father sounded both amused and bitter, but as I clung to the drifter’s image, the meaning of his words became clear. The man lived apart, in silence, unable to fathom society’s love for brazen noise, rudely constructed. He didn’t want to experience rush hour, nor to work to the bone for most of his life. Children were the true heralds of imagination, but he got to be one for only a small fraction of his life. The rest was dedicated to ‘rush’, and that held no appeal.

So he put on a mask, played his part to a minimum, and spent the rest of the time free, alone, and unburdened. Nature was the grail, open spaces his home, and all the time " over months and years " he trained himself to truly listen to the trees...to embrace the symphony of existence.

His profession was an obsolete one " he was a Listener to the Gods.

‘At last we come to it. Who is that man, you say? I name him the proper scientist of Earth, the magi of the past, a philosopher of the unknown.’

Father sounded like someone else, and it scared me.

“The past? The man you showed me is dead then?”

‘No, boy...he is alive! One of the few who still are!’ His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘The rest are dead.’

Elsie and Jack flashed through my mind, jabbing me with nostalgic daggers, and I staggered. Silence dropped like a sheet. A tree muttered outside. I felt the part of me with the drifter shrinking, coming back to the whole, and I felt sad. I wanted more " to be that person, alone with nature.

‘Patience, and you can be.’

Father’s promise lifted my heart, just as in youth when he occasionally promised something special for a birthday or Christmas. Anticipation was as sweet as nectar, and this time I knew the event would outshine the want...only I had to be proactive " open the third eye, as it were.

So I listened again to the world, this time with more knowledge.

The cars were still there, roaring, joined by my ticking mantel-clock, but I knew the key to unlocking the melody.

Nature.

The wind was everywhere, an easy starting point " a myriad of different voices. Each brush of a leaf, gust on a curtain, had a unique cadence, and they rose and fell according to ‘conditions’.

What conditions? Conditions constantly met by nature, or special formulae created through a web of possibility, strings plucked on a giant harp? The answer was unclear, and was meant to be so, as to bring clarity would be to ruin the song.

‘The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees.’

Noyes’ poetry never seemed so apt, as I listened with open heart to the wind rushing through the neighbourhood. I pictured mini-tornadoes, swirling here and there, great hurricanes from the seas, and a host of caressing, sympathetic breezes, constantly touching humans " annoyed at our reticence to acknowledge, but blessing us anyway.

Did I now acknowledge? Only a part, a fraction of the whole, but it was enough to sow the seeds of the rest.

As if time was suddenly accelerated, the sky lightened, the moon cowered back, and I saw something magnificent in the blink of an eye.

Differing winds were visible, and each was a different colour " no, colour was wrong...they were singular hues. Auras pulsed within and about them, and it was these that lent them their individuality. They gusted with song, throbbed with a rhythm, and I heard more than saw them; like sonar, each vibrated in my bones, giving me differing, intricate messages.

“That’s the east wind,” I heard myself saying. “It’s cool and calm.”

‘Yes.’

Father heard it too, from his lofty perch beyond the grave, and that revelation both pleased me and filled me with awe.

“Ah! Southern breeze. Yes, it’s warm and tropical.”

‘Indeed, boy.’

“Can you hear the northern gale? It roars in defiance.”

‘That it does. A power that can’t be tamed.’

“How far does this song of nature extend?”

I dreaded the answer, but it was one I sought, with longing like I’d never felt before. I was an old man with a second chance, and even bitter memories of my wife, Jack and Elsie were turning to golden hope " that somewhere beyond the veil they were amidst ‘this’, and enjoying it.

‘The True Twilight reveals the most, lad. Wait but a second.’

Far off, I heard distant chiming, like a church bell, pulled over and over. But this was colossal, like a titan was sat on Jupiter, shaking the whole planet from side to side in celestial hands. What we got was just the tip of the sound, but that was enough to instil a sense of anticipation. It was low, braying, the undercurrent of a larger tune " like the base note, imperative to all songs, around at the start and end, imperative to every melody.

For what seemed like years, I stood there, staring, wondering, as the bell grew progressively louder. It started shaking the ground, the house, everything, but not a blade of grass was disturbed.

Everything moved in time.

Then something peculiar occurred " my vision wavered, and my mind was taken elsewhere, to a visceral, yet familiar scene. At least part of me was, as I seemed to occupy two places at once, aware of my house, the bell and the moon, Father, but also temporarily ‘transferred’ to another place " like a figure trapped in a projector.

I found myself in a theatre.

Yes, a lavish, old-fashioned place filled to the rafters with people. I say lavish, but that was an understatement. It was the most awesome building I’d ever seen. And I was sitting in a pew, as if I belonged in this haven to the special.

The decor was all arches and red curtain, but the grandeur was in the details " every wall was a mosaic of delicious design, depicting mysterious scenes, peculiar beasts and cavorting humans. It reminded me of the walls of the Great Pyramid or Taj Mahal, though I had never witnessed either.

The comparison came easily...I just ‘knew’.

The wonder didn’t end there. In fact, the amphitheatre was just the stage, a vassal for events, and what events they were.

Actors bellowed lines, departed, came back, danced, sang, used golden props that glistened in the lights, and all the while I felt a rising sense of anticipation, that even this grand play was a precursor. I waited, and waited, letting their performance drift over me, and then realised what was missing.

Music. Sound.

The actors had sung, but their words were lost " silent mimicry only. Eerily, everything was silent "like a mime " the only sound the throbbing drum from my far-off, other world.

But it penetrated even here, and I realised it was meant to do so.

“By God.”

As if my muttered words were a signal, noise drifted into the stalls. Like a radio channel being tuned, I heard people laughing, clapping, and chatting around me. Smiling, I looked around, but the figures watching were silhouettes " features hidden, dark husks of spectators only. Cold raced through my blood, but the fear didn’t last. It couldn’t in this place. Awe was stronger.

Even the stock-still nature of the audience didn’t deter me. Like a flower amongst rocks, I rose, whistling for more...and the performers acquiesced, running off for ever more elaborate costumes. Jade masks now adorned each head, and at last I heard it " music, classic and pure!

An orchestra melted into view, led by a conductor resplendent in tux. Notes from ‘Pomp and Ceremony’ rang around the hall, mixing with the omnipresent bell-sound to create an unusual, but magnificent din. Huge trombones, cellos, violas, and other instruments moved back and forth, all polished, brass bodies like jiving lords, moving gracefully in the hands of their masters.

“Bravo!” I roared, but the sound was drowned out. “Bravo!”

Elgar changed to Brahms, Brahms to Mozart, Mahler, Prokofiev, and the transition was perfection. Amazingly, each piece " as different as they were " was apt for the theatrics. A solemn Schubert piece was in tune with a man dying, an upbeat Beethoven jingle signifying that same man’s rebirth.

All was amalgamated to minute exquisiteness, and it accelerated, driving the breath from me as I was treated to mankind’s greatest works, one after the other, only this time they sounded even ‘better’" fine-tuned.

The bell, rattling the theatre, was accentuating the symphony, driving forth imperfection and leaving glorious revelation. This was it! I was listening to the rhythm of nature...of the Earth.

But no. This wasn’t it. Even as brilliant as it seemed, it wasn’t the whole, merely a taster, and that knowledge finally overcame me. I fell to my knees " as the conductor waved his wand like Levine " put hands over my face, and wept.

How long I sobbed, I have no idea, I just knew that in those overwhelming moments, Father was with me, hands steepled but eyes glinting like garnets. My wife, Jack and Elsie were present too, and they gave me the strength to wipe my eyes, take stock, and find the courage to face the music.

Silence. The stage was dark, the performers gone, and I felt a cold wind rush through the auditorium, tickling my arms. I listened, but although the bell still chimed, it was subdued, retreating back to my other life " which was now no more than a hazy scene. Slightly unnerved, I turned around, hoping to see the audience, but they were gone too. The only light came from an open exit, but as my gaze drifted past, it alighted on a huddled shape, sitting way up in the gods.

At first I thought it was a coat or discarded hat, but then realised it was a man, leaning forward, staring intensely in my direction. His features were shadowed, but I felt intense power radiating from him as he appraised me, seemingly uncaring if I saw him or not.

“Hello?” I ventured, bringing no response. “I say, won’t you come down from there. Must be lonely sitting up by yourself in darkness?”

I grimaced, instantly regretting my words, but the man needed no second invitation. Lurching up, he flowed to the dress circle exit, and I heard his rattling footsteps coming down the stairs " by god, how quiet it had become around me. Thud, thud they went, and I felt the tension crank up, swirling into a sphere. It was tangible now the music had stopped, and I took a couple of steps backward, half-thinking about fleeing but unsure where to go.

A long shadow appeared in the open doorway, and I almost cried out before realising it was the man. He stood there for long seconds " merely a shade " with the unwavering patience of Job, but I heard his measured breathing, in stark contrast to my own.

“Come forward, good man,” I said, feeling as if I was speaking through a filter. “Let’s discuss such a wonderful show! You witnessed it, yes?”

Without me noticing, the figure was inside, striding up the aisle towards me, purposeful, sinister, but silent. Breath caught in my throat. What would he do? And why was his face still in shadow, even though I saw the rest of him so clearly?

“I did, sir.”

It took a moment for me to realise he was answering my last question, and then I relaxed a little " though he still advanced like a soldier. The man’s voice was deep, rich, and vaguely familiar, but however hard I looked, his features eluded me. Yes, that was the word " elude. It felt like I was staring at the sun, unable to properly focus, only catch glimpses of the whole. And this man’s persona was massive, I just knew, a quasi-deific aura that commanded respect.

For the first time in my life, I was lost for words.

Part of my other life impinged then, just for a moment, as the bell grew louder, insistent, filling my mind with its rhythm. I was staring at the moon, then back into my study, where objects vibrated like rice in a sieve. Father sat in his phantom armchair...smiling.

Gone.

I was back in the theatre, facing the shadowed man, and all was silent.

“What did you think?” I asked, somehow finding my voice.

“I think it was a triumph,” he answered, folding his arms. I noticed he wore an old, faded tweed jacket. “But then it has always been so, hasn’t it?”

“Er...yes.”

I had no idea his meaning, but my conscience whispered for me to play along, that ignorance would shatter the spell, sending me rocketing back to ‘the normal’.

“A symphony,” continued the man, his rumbling tone comparable to a tuba. “An endless song, a euphemism for emotion, aesthetics...everything shaped or sculpted.”

“Sculpted?”

“Indeed. Items are moulded according to the ‘tone’ inherent in them. Did you know that?” I sensed his pride; that we were on a subject close to his heart. “A note is a hand, moving and guiding. You love music, don’t you?”

His subject transferral surprised me, and I grabbed for an answer, feeling his piercing gaze beneath the darkness.

“I think music...music is far more important than we give it credit for,” I managed.

The man laughed " high like a piccolo.

“Well said...and an understatement.” He took me by the arm, and his touch made me shiver. “I want to show you something, but first I have something for you " a gift for you to take.”

“Gift? What sort of gift?”

All my old fears momentarily resurfaced, but the man’s easy laughter immediately diluted them.

“Just words, but important ones. Oh so important. You know the power of words, don’t you?” Again I had no answer, but he didn’t seem to mind. I thought he enjoyed the discourse, like he was a master reminiscing with a favourite " albeit limited " protégé. “The cadence, tone, pronunciation of words is all important, as much as the letters themselves...and of course, it’s all entwined with the song. Magicians use words for spells, feeble as they are, but there is one phrase I shall teach you, and you alone.”

We stopped walking at the top of the auditorium and sat down, side by side, facing the empty stage. It was so dark up here I could barely see, but I felt bathed in revelatory light, as if my soul was flying on red-tinged clouds, like the ones in gorgeous sunsets. I felt thirty years younger, my mind clicked opened like Pandora’s box, and it was all the man’s doing.

He was the progenitor of everything.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered in my ear. “Close them, and open the ears " they are far more important anyway.”

I did as I was bid, and he told me the words, committing them deep into memory so I wouldn’t forget. Then he tapped me on the arm, bid me farewell, and I was back in my house, looking at the moon.

‘Back, eh boy?’

Father was there with his steepled fingers, but something about him seemed different. I felt different too, as if I wasn’t really here, just passing through on my way to a better plane. The theatre, the music, the strange man were already fading away, but their effects would never be eradicated, I knew now. The words too " his gift " were tingling like un-mined diamonds in my subconscious, waiting to be dug.

“Thank you, Father.”

‘For what?’

“For opening the door.”

Father chuckled affectionately.

‘Didn’t he say he had something to show you?’

I blinked, glancing back into the room.

“Why yes...he did, but what?”

A cool breeze blew in through the window, bringing with it a long, musical sigh that wrapped my head like a turban. Something touched my arm " the man! " and was instantly gone, but his touch spread, invading my limbs, rocketing up to my face. Panicking, I tried to move, but couldn’t.

“Paralysed...why?” I wailed.

Father folded his arms, eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Don’t fear. I think the body is irrelevant to the true majesty. He whispered that to me, before he left, lad.’

“True majesty? You mean the True Twilight?”

‘Hush...listen.’

I didn’t know how, but my ‘inner ear’ suddenly opened, blossoming into a metaphysical flower, sending warmth coursing through my body. My deafness was gone, obliterated, and in its place was a maelstrom of music " a mixture of subtle and brash, percussion and lyre, each vying for position, yet none intruding on another. All were happy to coexist, weaving in and out, painting their own notes on a celestial piece of notation paper. I almost saw treble clefs, sharps, flats, dancing around me, attaching themselves to mundane objects, painting them in glory.

“I can hear! I can hear!”

‘Ah, how much?’

I stared at my fireplace, at the moon, my armchair, and ‘heard’ them all...instead of seeing them. Great swathes of sound surrounded each, and pulses of energy weaved their way through every item, shaping them into form. My old stag head was a cello suite, slightly brown, wearied but strong, and my fire contrasted it, golden notes from heavenly violins gilding its edges " sending flame licking here and there.

‘The moon is best, boy.’

Father was right. It was. A giant in the sky, it was alive with movement, a kaleidoscope of colour from dozens of different instruments. Alarmingly, there were shapes around it, hovering in space, and just like the man in the theatre, I found it difficult to focus on them, such was their aura. But I knew what they were.

Deities.

The figures conducted, swinging great batons with meticulous grace. And these batons were stars " rather, constellations " signs of the zodiac that were miniscule in their masters’ hands, but brilliant all the same. On and on they went, tirelessly creating music, and I wondered who they were. Greek gods perhaps? Planetary bodies? Or something as old as space itself " a neutral force designed only to create, oblivious to petty squabbles.

‘Don’t seek the answer; that is irritatingly human. Just listen, lad, and appreciate.’

I tried, by god I tried, but the swirling colour, the magnificent sound was too much.

“Father...I can’t. Too weak.”

Against my judgement, my eyes slammed shut, cutting out the moon, and a small, dead voice told me to sit down, that it was a dream.

Abhorrently, I listened.

Gone. It was all gone. Father too had disappeared, leaving me truly alone in my study, staring at the stag head in shock. My old clock said it was five o’clock, and it was getting light.

“A dream...truly?”

No-one answered, and suddenly I felt very tired, drained of all energy. Getting up, my limbs were like lead, and it took all my willpower to make it to bed. Something in my chest was tight; my left arm tingled, but these things were minor alarms. Father, Elsie, Jack and my wife would see me again soon, I knew, and I could discuss proper treasures with them, free from civilisation’s greyness.

Inside, my soul rejoiced. It hadn’t been a dream...I still heard the music after all.

Smiling, I delved into my mind, seeking the theatre man’s words, and found them sooner than expected.

Licking my lips, I recited them, and my old life was washed away.

 

THE END