1635: Music and Murder (34 page)

"That is why we are here, Master Heinrich. There are none. This is a wind ensemble, the only one of its kind here and now. And most of the instruments are of the future, outgrowths of what we know today. What you hear today will make that clear." Just then, Master Marcus stepped up on the podium. "Shh. Watch and listen."

Heinrich was very impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. He watched attentively as Master Marcus carefully tuned the instruments and sections, taking his time until he was satisfied. Again, Heinrich nodded in approval—it mattered not how well-written the music might be, if the performers were not in tune it would fail in performance.

"All right. Today we're working on
Finlandia
." There was a rustle all around the room as music was removed from folders and opened on the various stands. Heinrich watched as Marcus looked around the room, catching the eye of every musician, then raised his hands. The musicians brought their instruments to the ready position. Marcus held a stick in one hand, Heinrich noted, wondering as to its purpose. The stick seemed to twitch suddenly, then it was raised on high. When it descended, the music began.

Heinrich couldn't say that he was surprised by the loud swelling chords from the low brass that began the piece, but it was an unusual sound to his ears. It was almost like listening to a grave chorale done by brass instead of organ.

The sudden transition to soft woodwinds did catch him off guard. He quit trying to anticipate what would happen and opened his ears and mind to whatever occurred. The chorale sound developed, until the low brass rejoined it with a loud five note theme. Immediately thereafter the tempo sped up. The trumpets and other brass began sounding calls that echoed back and forth above the woodwinds. It almost sounded like a battle in music.

All the while, Master Marcus stood on the podium, waving his arms. Heinrich's attention was periodically caught by that. He wondered what Marcus was doing, but always, always he was drawn back into the music.

After a great swelling chord, the higher woodwinds began a section that was almost a hymn in its simplicity and purity, the theme of which was absolutely gorgeous. Heinrich lost himself in the sound of it. When lower woodwinds joined in, it simply added to the richness of the sonority of the piece.

Suddenly the low brass came bounding back in, restoring the martial flavor of the work. It went crashing on, to shortly culminate in a series of loud brassy chords. Master Marcus lowered his hands; the musicians relaxed.

Giacomo gestured for Heinrich to follow him. As they slipped out of the room, Heinrich heard Master Marcus say, "Trumpets, you're still not clean on those attacks . . . "

Outside the room, Heinrich realized how wrung out he felt, as if he had been performing for hours. It had only been minutes he had been listening—hadn't it?

"Well. What did you think?" Giacomo started walking.

Heinrich gathered his wits. "It was . . . impressive. Nothing even in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice ever sounded like that. And the youths—all of them—seemed to perform well. The sounds, and the capabilities of the instruments—so strong, so rich, nothing like I'm used to. My mind is drunk with the sonorities." He pondered for a moment. "But the harmonies seemed . . . very dissonant at times."

"Exactly so, Master Heinrich! Their music can be very powerful, like a strong brandy, but it can taste rather harsh at times, so one must develop a liking for it. But one returns to it, again and again, because there is nothing like it—nowhere else in the world." Carissimi's Latin was starting to sound very Italian.

They came to the main door of the school, the one by which Heinrich had entered what seemed a lifetime ago. Heinrich blinked as they stepped into the sunlight. It was as if he was awaking after a dream. "Again, I must say it was impressive. I have much to think about."

"I understand. The up-timers have an expression that I believe fits: 'Been there, done that.'" The words in English jarred a little after all the Latin, but after a moment Heinrich absorbed the meaning. Carissimi's mouth quirked, then turned to a smile. "Master Marcus asked me earlier today to make sure that you also attend tomorrow. He said that he has a surprise he wishes to present you."

"Tomorrow, then." Heinrich exchanged a handshake with Giacomo and began to walk. He wanted to walk today. Walking had always aided his thinking. This afternoon he had much to think about, including what the 'band director' wanted from him . . . or rather, wanted to give him.

****

Carissimi was waiting at the doors. "Good afternoon, Master Heinrich. How was your evening?"

"My evening was quiet. My head was full of the thoughts that were sown yesterday. Even my sleep was crowded, or so it felt." Heinrich smiled a little. "I have decided that it is a good thing that your younger mind has led the way down this road, as it is comforting to know that the things I feel and think have probably already passed through your mind."

The Italian laughed. "Oh, be sure of it, Master Heinrich, be sure of it. I was so bewildered, so awe-struck, at times so horrified, that I am amazed sometimes that I arrived at a level of understanding and acceptance. If I seem blasé about it all now, rest assured there were many nights where sleep fled as my mind wrestled with all of it—Grantville, the new music, the new instruments—until it seemed I would go mad. And yet here I am, no madder than before."

"Indeed." They walked a few steps, then Heinrich said, "One thing I would ask of you now."

"Ask."

"Why does Master Marcus stand before his musicians and wave his hands in the air?"

"Ah." Carissimi smiled. "That is an innovation that seems perhaps to be simple, but is indeed profound in its impact. You and I, if we wrote a piece of some complexity, we would rehearse the performers beforehand. But in the performance we would play the harpsichord or clavichord and would provide some manner of direction as we played the continuo part to ensure that the players remained in unity as they played.

"But, as you no doubt noted yesterday, there was no keyboard in that music. That is overwhelmingly true of much of the great music of the future. So, you would say, you would play the violin or viola and provide the direction from there. And that might serve if the ensemble is small. But remember the size of Master Marcus' wind ensemble. And the size of the orchestra they are attempting to shape in Magdeburg. Such would not be possible with them.

"No, in their history, those who came between now and the future of the up-timers found a need for one to be the musician for the entire ensemble, to play the orchestra as a virtuoso would play the violin. A conductor, in other words, or
dirigent
as it is rendered in German." Carissimi turned to face Heinrich, serious and intent. "Such is Master Marcus. It is one of the new arts of which he is the master. And such is my friend, Franz Sylwester, becoming as he works with many musicians to create the first true symphony orchestra of our times, to the everlasting glory of God."

Heinrich was somewhat taken back by his fervor and passion. "The glory of God?"

"Yes, Master Heinrich." Carissimi resumed walking. "The glory of God. The more I learn, the more I can use to raise praises to the God who let me live in these times, to see but the fragment of what was possible to these people in their future. Speaking of which, you must attend at St. Mary's church on Good Friday to hear the Passion of Saint Matthew I have crafted."

Carissimi opened the door to the band room and ushered Heinrich in. Today there were only five students in the room, with Master Marcus standing before them. Each of the musicians was holding a brass instrument, all of which had the new innovation of valves. Heinrich had been mightily impressed with their flexibility. From their shapes two were trumpets, one was a variety of horn, and two were larger instruments for which he had no names.

Marcus waved at two chairs that were set back from the arc of the quintet. "Please, masters, be seated." After they did so, he continued. "This is a piece I remembered after I heard you were coming, Master Heinrich. We have prepared it just for you." He nodded to the quintet, then took a chair to one side as they raised their instruments. The trumpet player at the end of the arc counted softly, "Two, three, four," and they began.

It was a lovely piece of work, Heinrich admitted to himself, one that was obviously of his time or nearly so. Contrapuntal in nature, the voices flowed nicely, themes passing from part to part. It almost reminded him of the music of Gabrieli, but it was different somehow.

All too soon the piece concluded. The players lowered their instruments to their laps. Everyone looked at Heinrich expectantly.

"Very nice," he said. "Who wrote it, please?"

The first indication that something was not right was when the players gaped at him. Master Marcus, obviously very nonplussed, said, "Why, you did, Master Heinrich."

Heinrich stared back.

"No, that is not one of mine. It was nicely done, but I have never heard it before."

Marcus picked up a folder and extracted a printed page.

"But the publisher says that it is an instrumental arrangement of your motet
So fahr ich hin
, published in your
Symphoniae sacrae
collection in . . . " His face went white, and he looked up with a stunned expression, " . . . in 1647."

Feeling as if he had been bludgeoned, Heinrich stood. "I never wrote that. It is not mine." He began walking jerkily back and forth. "I did not write it. Now that I have heard it, how can I write it? This . . . this is impossible! How can I hear something that I wrote before I write it? How can you play something I wrote before I write it?" His thoughts were whirling madly. "I . . . I . . . this cannot be!" Unable to think, unable to express his confusion, his pain, his anger, Heinrich turned and bolted from the room.

****

Marcus stared at the door, shocked. He turned to look at Giacomo, who was wearing an expression that he was sure mirrored his. "I wanted to surprise him, to honor him. I thought the piece was published in 1627, not 1647."

Giacomo nodded. "I think Grantville's future just grabbed Master Heinrich."

"But what . . . why . . . "

"Imagine you were a writer, a good one. Now, imagine someone hands you a book with your name on it and told you would write it twenty years from now. How would you feel?"

"Umf." Marcus frowned. "I think I see what you mean. Even if it's good, how can you take credit for it? It would be like being a woman awaking from a coma and being presented with a baby that you don't remember but everyone assures you is yours."

"
Si
, something perhaps like that." Giacomo pursed his lips. "I think Lukas I must talk to. Master Heinrich is not . . . ah . . . comfortable in his mind, I think. Lukas must watch for him."

"Over him."

"
Si
, whatever."

Magdeburg
April 1634

Marla's voice died away on the last note of
The Parting Glass
. There was a moment of quiet in the common room of The Green Horse. It was only a brief moment, then applause roared out from the crowd. Franz noted that the room seemed very full tonight. In addition to the regulars and the Committees of Correspondence crew who always seemed to find tables whenever Marla and her friends were singing, many of the musicians from the orchestra had come as well. They all needed a break from the intensity of the rehearsals. Tonight was indeed providing that.

As usual, the songs they did were from the Irish recordings that Marla's mother had collected. They'd led off with
Finnegan's Wake,
following it with
The Juice of the Barley
and
Nell Flaherty's Drake.

The middle part of the evening was marked by performing the sobering
The Wind That Shakes the Barley
and
Only Our Rivers Run Free,
those favorites of the CoC. Grim-faced men nodded as they were sung; fists pounded the tables when they were done.

The light-hearted tone was restored by
Mick McGuire, Courting in the Kitchen
and
The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.
The performance concluded with Isaac singing
Reilly's Daughter
, followed by Marla's sweet rendition of
The Parting Glass.

Franz placed his violin in its case, then wiped sweaty hair out of his face. The rehabilitation of his crippled left hand and retraining of his right hand to finger the neck of his violin had progressed to the point where he was able to play with most of the songs. It had been a long time since he had played that much in public. He was both exhilarated and winded.

"Well done, Franz, me lad." A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder, staggering him. He turned to look into the beaming face of Simon Bracegirdle, the Englishman who had come to Magdeburg as one of the musicians sent by Master Schütz. Simon played violin, and while he wasn't the best of the players, he was by no means the worst.

It was a frequent source of amusement to Franz to remember his statement so many weeks ago, that he would accept even an English musician if he would play in the orchestra. Simon had laughed robustly when he was told the story.

"Yes, Franz." Matthäus Amsel's face appeared behind Simon. "'Twas fine, indeed."

"My thanks to you both." Franz smiled. He looked at the two of them. After a moment, his expression sobered. "Since we are here, I am minded to ask you a question."

They looked to each other, then back at Franz.

"Say on," Simon said.

"How does the work progress? Are we indeed creating an orchestra as the Grantvillers would define it, or are we simply a mob of musicians all trying to play the same song?"

Simon started to speak, but Matthäus held up a hand and Simon gave way. "In truth, Franz, I know not how to answer. I have never seen this done before now. However, for what it is worth, I think the work progresses. The men all seem to understand what you and the others have been teaching. The violinists at least all seem to have adjusted to the new violins and bows."

"Aye," Simon interjected. "And this week I would say that we have finally caught the knack of following your conducting. At least I did." Matthäus nodded.