The next day I am in my usual practice room. I sit with my violin on my lap, awaiting the old man. I stare out the window. It’s autumn. What I hate most about the turn to winter was the way the sun hung so low it always got into your eyes.
Without a knock on the door Mikail strides in. “Father,” he says, and then notices he isn’t there. He looks a bit shaky, until he sees me. “Oh. You,” he says to me.
The girls talk about him often. How good looking he is. How tall and handsome, how his sandy blond hair just shines in the light and how they love his radiant smile. I see none of what they see. He is older than me by a few years. He is twenty years old now. His last birthday was celebrated with a huge loud party thrown by the late king. I was not allowed to go back up to my room until well past midnight the next day. Parties were made mandatory to me. Master said it was for me to socialise. Socialise. He should know better.
“Why if it isn’t Heston. Practicing again? What’s the point? As if you will ever be good enough. You’ll never get to play on stage you know,” he snorted.
I know.
Mikail sees a fly buzzing around. He looks around the room and notices the water table station with a water pitcher and cup. There is one set up in most rooms of the castle. He takes the empty glass cup and in a singular motion, swiftly catches the fly and places the cup upside down on the table, fly imprisoned. The fly immediately begins to bash itself into the sides of the glass, attempting escape.
“Do you think,” he says. Then pauses, trying to figure out an insult suitable enough. “Do you think insects understand what glass is? Do they not understand that a barrier blocks their way? Or do they acknowledge its existence and try to break free without knowing if it will ever break, if they will ever be free?”
We both watch the fly crash into the glass, again and again and again.
“How does it feel being the smallest thing in the world?” He says looking at me.
At that moment, Mortimer walks into the room, a music score in his hand. “You two. I’m not sure what are up to. But stop.” He looks at his son. “Mikail, don’t bully the boy.”
“I wasn’t talking to him,” Mikail scoffs and turns back to the fly. He overturns the glass and lets the fly go, and then he crushes it with a single hand. He looks down at the dead fly in his palm. “I guess I’ll have to wash my hands now.” He turns to his father. “Father, I need to talk to you.”
Mortimer sighs a long sigh then looks at his son. “Mikail, does it have to be right now? You know it is time now for practice. You know it is important that he learns.” Important that I learn? That’s the first I’ve ever heard him say that. I am a little bit pleased but I don’t let it show on my face. Mikail looks at me furiously. After a momentary pause he asks his father again. “Why can we not speak now? He wouldn’t mind surely.” “Mikail,” his father’s tone is serious. A warning. “What is it about then?” “Not with him in the room,” Mikail spits. I am curious, but I hold my tongue, and try to still my thoughts.
“Later. We must talk later,” he says and after glaring at me he walks out of the room.
“Ahh…” the old man sighs again then turns to me. “You must forgive him. You are a nice boy. And you know how he is. I wish he would stop acting out but …. after…”
After Sue, his wife, died. He does not finish the sentence. He repeats sentences like this often, and never finishes them. Mortimer always perks up after a concert. Acts more alive. Before a concert he gets colder and colder. He refuses drink and eat a week before a concert. He shuts himself up in his room more. He misses my teaching sessions and only ventures out when a group practice is held or to go talk to his son. Then he stops talking altogether on the day of a concert. Afterwards though, he opens up again. He drops more sentences into conversations, provides me with new pieces to learn, new exercises to do. The day after a concert is my most favourite of days.
“Anyway, I was up all night composing and writing,” Mortimer tells me. “I was thinking of a new composition. I think this one will be about the lanterns of the Finders.”
They say that the Finder’s lanterns were made by a very famous lantern maker. Before being exiled the three brothers commissioned lanterns that would help them find their path to a new home. Legend has it that the different lanterns are hidden in each of the castles and that each brother decreed that whoever found all three would be legible to rule all three kingdoms, regardless of being born of royal blood or not. If no one finds the lanterns then their descendants would continue to rule. No one knows if the lanterns are actually hidden in the castles, but the brothers promised that they hid them, no trickery involved.
All the kings after Soldinus opened the castle’s music hall for a concert at least once a month. A few generations back the castle was opened for the whole day for anyone to waltz into to look for the lantern. All rooms are free to roam, except for the third floor, which all of the kings, from Soldinus to Artimer, promised that no lantern hid. They wanted some privacy sometimes, they stated. Regardless, the tradition continues to today. Many have tried and failed to find the lantern hidden in the walls of the Summerhold Castle. But it still made for a fun family day out.
“I think a piece about someone who goes hunting for the lanterns and finds it. I think... I think.” He looks up at me. “But also, there’s this one other composition I’m thinking of. An ambassador from the Marshlands is here and just yesterday I was having this wonderful chat with him after the concert. He told me about this… this hero that they have… or was it had? I didn’t really understand what he was saying. Kalen. I think his name was. Made from the stuff legends are made off, flowing white hair and everything, as per all heroes. I must ask him more about this hero of his. Before he has to leave. Which might be very soon. I should probably go after him today.” The paused for a while before asking, “Have you been practicing your scales?”
“Every morning, every night,” I reply. “Good, good.” He says. “Of course, I would know if you weren’t practicing.”
He asks that all the time, although I’m not sure how he would know if I was not practicing. He is always cooped up in his room and he has never checked on me once to see if I was practicing them when I awaken. When I was a little boy and first given the violin to practice with, I was scared that he would know and find out if I never played. I would wake up in a sweat and quickly rush to play. Every morning and every night. A major, B major, C major, B major, A major in the morning. B minor, G minor, F minor, C minor, at night. Always the same scales. He never gave me any new ones to practice since I first learnt these. I used to think that maybe he would one day break me from my mundane task, but he never has, and I never dared ask for change. I still don’t. So for years I’ve been playing them over and over again.
“Well, regardless of if I meet the Ambassador, this new piece that I’m writing, I’m going to see if I can finish it for next week’s performance,” he looks into the distance, suddenly distracted. I know this look; his composition is playing out in his head. Best not to disturb him.
Next week’s performance. This month we would have two concerts. Yesterday’s was the new king’s inaugural. Next week is going to be the concert we hold every month. On the 20th day of every month.
“This will be our new king’s first true concert,” Mortimer says suddenly snapping from his reverie. “He asked me to write a new piece just for him, as I did for his father when he first became king. I was young then… so young. Being the court composer is not an easy task.” He smiles at me. A joke he tries to say with his expression, but his smile still does not reflect in his eyes. When directed at me, I don’t think it ever has.
A sudden knock sounds on the door. King Artimer pops his head in, his blue eyes glistening. He has the expression of a naughty child running around the castle. I’ve heard many stories about him. He was a mischievous boy growing up, always going places he was not supposed to. Most royalty have their quirks, and so does this king, but everyone in the castle loves him. “Ah, Mortimer. I thought you would be here, I wasn’t sure if you were teaching or not, I must apologise, but do you mind if we have a little chat?”
“Ah, my liege, certainly, certainly,” he stands quickly and goes to the door. “I told you not to call me that, liege indeed! You know I hate that old friend.” “My apologies,” Mortimer chuckles, as he closes the door behind him. He doesn’t shut the door completely before beginning their talk. The king and Mortimer are the same age. Mortimer came to the castle at fourteen as a violin apprentice and grew up with Artimer. The King at the time was Artimer’s grandfather, and there were hardly any other children in the castle. Behind the king stands his sister. Why would she be here? She is hardly seen around the castle, let alone in the musician’s wing. I keep gazing at them, until she turns her cold blue eyes to face me, then I look away blushing slightly, and stare at the floor.
I remember her, staring at me once, when I was much younger. Mortimer was teaching me. She came into the room wordless, and sat by the door, fan on her lap. I didn’t play well that day; I could hardly play at all. There was something very unnerving about her. I glanced at her several times during that session. She was beautiful and young. It surprised me how young she seemed. Not a single blemish on her face. Her eyes are deep blue, and her hair, as with the rest of the royals in this household, a light blonde. It was easy to see why she had so many suitors. She was much younger than the king was, born eighteen years later in fact. Their queen mother died birthing her.
There were many false pregnancies and miscarriages before Princess Marybell was born. The queen was too old for childbirth. However, she knew the consequences. She still wanted the child. And so she would have the child, but the child would grow up, without her mother. There were many rumours surrounding Princess Marybell. Her eccentricities, they say, are one of the worse amongst all known royalty. Worse than that one queen who used to always demand to have her emotional support pigeon nearby. She kept its foot tied on a string attached to her wrist. Often it would nest in her hair. It also defecated all around the castle. There are records of her rule and her diaries in the library for all to read. Most entries were covered in bird droppings.
Martha, the head of the kitchen staff, once told me a story of Princess Marybell and a doll that Mortimer’s wife made for her. “It was an enchanted doll, it was. It could dance when you sang it a song. Sing it a different song and it would dance a different dance! Made by a special wood that Lady Sue found in her travels. Used to travel all over the place, she did, until she stopped to bring up her son. Made a few things out of it too, this special wood, all around the castle. Not that I leave the kitchen much to see any of these contraptions. I hear she made a boy and a cat along with the girl doll, and a chair that keeps growing longer or shorter to fit however many family members the royal family has. Rumours of course, you know how they are. Don’t know if she made any of that. Except the doll. Everyone was talking about the doll for days. So, the lady gave the dancing girl to Marybell for a birthday, the twelfth one I think. There was a big party. You know the royal children can’t leave the castle until they are twelve. Marybell hated it though. Said she was too old for dolls! Said it looked too human, scared her. But between you and me, I think most likely Marybell did not like Lady Sue very much. Bless her departed soul. Always had a scowl for her that one, though she doted on Mortimer. One day Marybell took the doll to the highest room in the castle, and threw the doll out of the window. Broke, it was, never to dance to another song again.”
Of all the stories I heard of Princess Marybell, this one stood out most. I was a little boy myself when I heard it. I didn’t understand how a young girl could do something like that. Why would you throw away anything? Much less a present. I didn’t understand. Until she sat there watching me, unmoving, expressionless. I was glad when I was allowed to leave. Since then, whenever I saw her around in the castle I avoid her. She was, and is still, unnerving.
I can hear murmurs of their conversation. I garner that they were talking about getting old, about the upcoming concert. Would everything be ready on time? Would everybody else be able to play something at such short notice? I hear the princess mumble something as well. The King's voice raises slightly and the princess's murmurings stop. What could she want?
I clutch my instrument and sit still, waiting for Mortimer to come back in.
“Alright then, where were we?” he says, as walks through the door. I glance behind him. The king and his sister are gone. “Ah yes. Of course. Practice. Necessary and important. So very important.” He stares in the distance again, lost in thought. “Ah, practice. What time is it? Oh. Well I need you, to play last night’s performance,” the old man says. “That one piece, the middle song. The solo. You know, da da da la da…” he sings.
“Ah. Okay.” The same song again and again. He always made me play this song. It was his favourite piece I suppose, or son’s favourite piece. Either or. One and the same. I take up my violin to my chin, stretch out my fingers over the strings and bring my bow down. I begin to play.
In the distance I hear cheerful noises and applause. Someone else is playing the violin. It’s Mikail, I know it is him. I hear people talk about his impromptu performances after I leave practice sometimes. He is probably playing the same song that I am, playing it better than I am. In the distance, surrounded by a crowd, garnering attention and praise.
Sometimes while I play, I close my eyes and pretend it is me.
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