Christmas at the Music Hall

A Chapter by Jesse W.

He had two great passions in life: his family and his music.

He'd been raised in Georgia, lived out his earliest days in constant fear from the Union. He'd witnessed the destruction of Sherman's march, lived through the riots until his mother could get him out of Atlanta. Much of those early years had brought him nothing but hardship, but it did give him one invaluable gift.

He was born with music in his soul. When he first picked up a fiddle they'd found in the rubble, it was like his arm was complete for the first time in his short life. It flowed naturally to him, striking up a romance that would last for the remainder of his days. When the opportunity to learn rose, he leaped for it. His mother and uncle were so very proud of their little Johnny.

Now, some twenty-five years after he first picked up a fiddle, John Shields was every bit the family man his father would have wanted. He provided for them, taught his daughter to read, both words and music. His wife was a good Christian woman, through and through. He was not ashamed to admit that she was much stronger in Christ than he himself. He admired her for it, but found it a challenge himself.

Not because he didn't believe.

No, he found it a challenge because he believed too much.

Had seen too much.

Twenty-five years was a long patch of time to pass without living a life, and the family man musician John Shields had most certainly lived a life. Now, that life had brought him to one of the most prestigious halls in the great city of New York: Music Hall, built by William Burnet Tuthill and funded by Andrew Carnegie. Not even a year in, the building had housed some amazing acts. Choirs, traveling operas, and now, on Christmas Eve, it would host the greatest fiddler of the age.

He sat patiently in the back, waiting for the attendant to come and collect him. He felt a little awkward in his expensive suit, but he'd known well that wearing his usual plaid shirt and pants would not go well in such opulence. In spite of his great wealth, John had never been much for the frock and charm of the elite. He still worked the fields, still worked the wood making furniture. He'd grown up hard and had to fend for himself, and it was a skill he refused to let wither away.

Still, he was pampered in his own way. His wife was dutiful to him, even when he wasn't. He would be known to occasionally step out of his marriage with an appreciative woman, once even with a man just to satisfy his curiosity. He'd never given them his heart, though. That precious item belonged to his Mary, and always would.

"Mr. Shields."

The call served to shake him from his musings, and the musician stood erect, stretching his limbs. He retrieved his case and made to follow the attendant down the darkened corridors of Music Hall.

"Mr. Carnegie is delighted to have you performing with us this night," the attendant stated, "The choir is prepared with all your selected works, but the management has requested that you include as much Christmas music as you can."

"Compliments of the season," John agreed, "These people paid their hard earned dollars to see me play on Christmas Eve, so they will get their Christmas in full."

The attendant blathered on about some other nonsense which John disregarded, his mind already shaping into performance form. He took his place, which he practiced all morning, and closed his eyes. He reminded himself of his cues, flexing his fingers in preparation, and when the master of ceremonies called for him, he opened them and stepped through the opened curtains, smiling and gently waving to the clapping crowd.

As he marched forward and took his place, he was reminded that these were not his people. His people occupied the shanty clubs, the crossroad bars, the low places. They were raucous and would cause an uproar at his presence.

They were alive!

These souls were not, be it from the unusual chill in the air or from the monumental act of being away from their opulent domiciles for Christmas Eve. That was something he would have to change.

He had a stand set up with his music ready. He set his case against the stand and opened it, blinking slightly as he always did. He could feel the eyes already lingering on his case, but he was used to it. His instrument drew as much attention as he did. The color of wealth, something all his patronage this evening would appreciate, a golden hue that reflected well even in the dim light. Most would assume it was highly polished wood, but anyone who came close would recognize it immediately as being legitimate gold. Anyone who handled it would feel the weight of it. The strings themselves were crafted from gold, as was the bow.

It was, perhaps, the key to his success; his golden fiddle.

"A wonderful Christmas Eve to all you fine folk!" John called out to the crowd, who politely acknowledged his greetings, "My name is John Shields and I'm from Atlanta, Georgia. It's a pleasure to be in such a fine city as this on Christmas Eve, and to play for you fine folk. Tell me, who hear knows the story of Orpheus?"

A good many nodded, to his delight. If there was one thing the North had over the South, more people were educated in the classics.

"In ancient Greek lore, there was a man named Orpheus. He traveled the land with his lyre, singing and playing for the people, and they loved him for it. You might say we had common interests, he and I."

Many people chuckled at that. Good, he thought, Should help wake them up.

"Orpheus's story was a tragedy, something which I hope to avoid myself. You see, this poor soul lost his lovely bride to a viper's den. He was so distraught that he sang for ages a song of mourning, one which made cities weep and wars stop just to hear his pain. He finally worked up the nerve to step into the land of Hades, domain of death, all for his lady love. He said to himself, 'my dear love will be returned to me, even if I must snatch her from Death himself!'"

He deliberately kept her name ambiguous. He could see already many women placing themselves in her place, wondering if their husband would brave Hades for them.

"Brave Orpheus marched through Hades, playing his lyre and singing his sweet melodies, and nary a soul stopped him. He came before the lord and lady of the underworld and issued his request, and they were so moved that they agreed. But that old, crafty Death added a condition: should he look back so much as once while guiding his love through Hades, he would lose her...forever!"

A few gasped at his story, as well they should.

"Can you imagine it, walking forward, never knowing if the love of your life was really following you? I confess, I'm as iron of soul as any Southern man can be, but I'd be more nervous than a cow in a slaughterhouse on that one! But Orpheus, he was made of sterner stuff. He lead her through Hades, singing and playing as he did, and not once during the trip did he look back. Not once!

"But every man is prone to anxiety, and Orpheus is none different. As can happen, his nerve began to bend and, at the very last moment, just as he cleared that last doorway into the living world, he turned and saw her, his beloved and" he clapped his hands, shocking the crowd, "she blew away in the wind."

He let the crowd settle on that for a moment before continuing, "And now, dear friends, on this most joyous Christmas Eve, let us remember Orpheus and the lesson that he teaches us. We all must traverse this great unknown of God's Earth, with our anxieties and fears gnawing away at us. But we must always look forward, never back, lest we lose all we love. So I say we look forward by decking this great music hall with Christmas music!"

He lifted his fiddle to his shoulder and felt the hall stiffen slightly as he brought his bow across the strings, and then, as though a gust of wind had refreshed them all, he felt them relax as he lead the musical number Deck The Halls. He played slow at first, letting the audience warm up, but soon he upped the pace, forcing both choir and audience to keep up. He poured his very being into the song, and he saw the audience begin to clap and sing in time.

This was why he did this. He broke down those barriers that people kept within themselves, brought out the joys and sorrows of men and women alike. Before the end of the night, he would have them up on their feet, singing joyously as he played his golden fiddle. The power music had over people was truly his greatest gift, and he was pleased to know he could bring that gift to others.

Later, after his performance, John found himself in Paddy's, one of the newer Irish pubs in New York. He had picked it out at random earlier in the day and decided this was where he would have his real performance. As much as he delighted in having the posh and prim of New York City on their feet and dancing with abandon, this was where his people were. The poor, working class and, unlike the elite, they would not pay a single dime for the privilege of his music.

The bar was packed that night, one of the few places that had chosen to open its doors to the weary that night. Sailors, dockers, barmaids and ne'er-do-wells, folks with nowhere else to go. The lowest of the low.

His people.

He had a few sailors make some room in a corner for him, pulled out his fiddle and held it high as he screamed, "Merry Christmas, you glorious sons of b*****s!!"

A good many cheered, but not the whole bar. He'd fix that soon.

He drew the bow across the strings, earning everyone's attention with a single note. He played a soothing sound for his new friends before pausing, looking everyone in the eye at once.

"...What would you do with a drunken sailor?"

He sang and played and before long, the bar was with him, singing and drinking and carrying on. Christmas was all about family, and when you had none with you, you had to make your own.

It was midnight when he finally left the bar. He would have stayed longer, but he had a train to catch if he wanted to be home in Atlanta before the end of Christmas day. Even though there'd been a pretty girl or two who'd shown an interest, he would keep his wedding vows this night.

He stood outside the bar, rubbing his hands together to get them warm. Though it was warmer than yesterday in Manhattan, the night had chilled considerably. He looked around the mostly empty street, noting idly that the bar was situated at a crossroad as he spotted a carriage. He made to raise a hand to wave it down, but stopped as he saw someone step into the crossroad and begin to walk his way.

He felt his heart race as the man stepped his way. In the night, with so few lights to illuminate the dark, he recognized the face before him. He reached into his pocket, placed a hand on a vial he kept on his person at all times. The salt and dirt would mean nothing should this be the man he expected, but he'd mistaken someone else for Mr. Scratch before. And even so, should this be the day, he'd be disgraced to not put up a fight.

The wind picked up, blowing dust into his eyes. He blinked, but refused to rub them, never fully taking his eyes off the man coming his way. When they cleared, the man was nearly on him and John withdrew the vial completely, ready to throw it.

"Merry Christmas, Sir," the man greeted him with a tip of the hat, marching on past him with ease.

John took a deep breath even as he kept his eyes on the man, allowing the vial to settle back in his pocket. It had been another man entirely, not Old Scratch. It was a curse of having survived a contest with Lucifer himself that you would always be on guard, for the Morning Star was not one to let a debt remain unpaid.

"Sir?"

John twisted in shock, his hand already in his pocket again, only to pause as he saw the carriage had come up behind him.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

"Fine, quite fine," John reassured him, "Would you be so kind as to take me to the train station?"

"Of course, step inside, Sir. Get out of the cold."

John took the advice, finding himself feeling better the moment he was isolated from the wind. He allowed himself to relax in the comfort, but kept his eyes on the street as they rode forward.

He observed the same man continue in his path, pausing just for a moment to turn and face him.

The man smiled.

© 2016 Jesse W.

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ZJC

Dude, I like it. Being a history nerd, I do like how the setting takes place after Civil War. The writing pulled me in as I kept wanting to know what this man's secret was. Love the contest with the Devil, as you kept hinting something like that had taken place. My advice would be to go back and read it a few times and edit small things. Otherwise, I thought it was a great story, original and well written