The Fire and the Fog (2 page)

He didn’t bother to secure his boat as it
ground up on the shallow sand to the south of his home; he simply
jumped out into the foaming surf and took off running, bits of sand
flying as his feet dug into the shore. His feet slipped in the
loose, wet sand; lost purchase. He went to one knee, one hand
planting itself on the beach, curling into a fist around the small
grains. And then he was up, running towards his house on the hill
as the fog rolled ever closer.

He was halfway up the hill when the fog hit
the house. He half expected something to happen, but there was
nothing but silence; silence he broke as he started yelling for his
wife, for his son.

There was no answer even when he burst in the
front door. He could see the fog billowing out of the back room,
their bedroom. Why hadn’t his wife answered? Even if she were
asleep, she would have woken by now.

In a second he was at the fog, reaching up to
brush it away, to go to his wife and son. But before he even
touched it, it…jumped to him. Thin tendrils grabbed his arm, slowly
climbing up it. He yelled, backed away, waving his arm violently,
but the fog stuck, seemed to pull at him. He tripped and fell, felt
more tendrils of the fog grabbing at his legs, his waist, felt it
slowly moving its way over him. He was screaming, he knew, but then
the fog closed over his mouth; his eyes; and he knew nothing.

I

Music is difficult to describe in words; the
way it sounds and flows, the way it feels.  But if Gel had to
put what he thought or felt about the notes that came flying from
his fingers, each note in perfect sequence, each following the last
with no loss of tone or feeling, if he had to describe them, he
would call them yellow.  Not the pale, sickly, off-yellow of a
coward, or the disturbing almost-green yellow of disease, but the
light, bright, warm yellow of a lovely spring day.  A spring
day filled with sun and without a cloud in the sky.  Where the
ocean-blue soul of the heavens above would be reflected
side-by-side with the sun in the tiny ripples of a brook whose cool
waters bubbled as it wound refreshingly over smooth, time-worn
stones, and little tiny minnows darted in and out among the rocks
and reeds, engaging in whatever little fish games that little
brook-fish play on beautiful days. 

And Gel would, of course, be lying beside the
brook in a field of gold and white flowers, with his arms wrapped
gently around Mae as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

Or maybe it would be Sheane.  No, Sheane
was much too shy…maybe Faela?  Britt?   Whoever it
was, she would be pretty.  Long, golden hair just the colour
of the sun, and brilliant blue eyes just the colour of the
sky.  Really it didn’t matter who it was.  The day would
be perfect, she would be beautiful, and it would all be so very
yellow.

As Gel sat and continued to play, now focused
on trying to decide exactly what such a shade of yellow would be
called, a cloud slowly inched its way into his perfect world. 
The cloud was dark, as black as pitch, with no silver lining in
sight.  As the cloud slowly covered the sky over the pretty
little brook with its gorgeous flowers, the perfect spot for two,
the cloud moved with a fitful anger, jumping ahead with each
rhythmic, impatient tap of the foot.

Gel’s reverie was broken when his teacher’s
hands clapped angrily in front of his nose, ringed fingers jingling
wildly as she did so, and her stern old face came clearly into
focus. 

‘You are rushing, and you are adding
notes.  Play what is written, or do not play at all’

The old lady’s eyes narrowed, and her brow
furrowed as Gel cocked his head to respond.

‘But, ma’am, the song’s…the song’s off. 
It’s missing something.  I’m sure I could fix it if…’

Gel stopped as his teacher old Ms. Vaen stood
quickly, clearly angry looking at the scowl clouding her
face.  She wasn’t actually old, not really anyway, but Gel was
at an age where anyone older than him seemed old, so she
was. 

She towered over Gel as she glared down her
nose at him.  The disdain she felt was evident everywhere;
from the stiff-backed stance she had taken, to the way she
imperiously cleared her throat before beginning her
lecture. 

‘Listen, young man’ she started, somehow
managing to make “young man” sound as condescending and scathing,
as demeaning, as if she had called him “boy” or “thing”,
‘Enscepallius don Vole was a genius, one of the most prolific and
influential composers of all time.  By your age, he had
already written multiple compositions, concertos, and two plays,
and was both well-known and well-respected the world over.  By
Ragn, he played a concerto for the Eastern Alde when he was only a
year older than you!’ 

Gel could tell by the way her eyes had
pinched, almost to closing, and by her steadily reddening face
that, while certainly mad, lady Vaen was only getting warmed
up.  She was like a dragon, or a very bad storm.  A
dragon for the fire she could spit out in her anger; a storm
because if you sat, buckled in and weathered her anger, it too
would pass.

And so Gel bent his head in feigned dejection
and let lady Vaen’s tirade wash over him.  He nodded in the
appropriate places, and made short non-committing noises when she
paused for breath. For some time lady Vaen railed about Don Vole’s
life, and how important to music he had been, and how Gel would
never measure up to his standard if he did not apply himself. 
Gel had heard it before, about Don Vole as well as other composers;
from old lady Vaen and at least two of his previous
instructors.  He knew that these old, dead men were supposed
to be much better than he, he just couldn’t believe it; he couldn’t
hear it.

He thought their songs had no heart. 
They had character, they were well written, but the songs lacked,
as far as Gel could tell, feeling.  It was always hard for him
to explain what he felt the songs were missing, what he felt he had
to add.  It was like a chef, putting a final sprig of parsley
on a dish to add colour, or a woodworker adding delicate scrollwork
to an already working, finished piece.  It was always some
small little change that Gel knew he could, he should, make, to fix
the song.  If only he was ever allowed.

Even as he sat, nodding glumly as lady Vaen
enthused about the inherent intricacies of Don Vole’s tempo shifts
in the third stanza, and the major/minor co-harmony in the chord
progression of the final bars of the piece, Gel could see the notes
floating through his head.  He could see the notes, could hear
the sounds they would make when played, he could feel the places
where they were wrong, and had to be fixed.

The problem, Gel had realized, was that this
always happened.  In almost every song he heard he
found…mistakes.  The songs all had problems, and Gel had to
fix them.  Normally he was able to keep control; to fight the
urge to fix the songs while playing them in front of other
people.  Unfortunately, his daydreaming had distracted him,
and now he faced the wrath of the dragon.

But the wrath would not last long.  Lady
Vaen would tire, would run out of words, would run out of praise
for long-dead composers.  She would lose interest in the
subject, in Gel, and would let him go, and then the afternoon would
be his.

Lady Vaen’s tirade lost steam quickly, and as
her oration began to wind down, Gel started moving anxiously in his
seat, his anticipation rising. 

‘Oh what does it matter,’ Vaen said finally,
her hand going to her forehead and shading her eyes in exasperated
resignation.  ‘Off with you then.  But I expect you back
here on time, tomorrow, and no more nonsense.’ 

Gel’s lute was in its case, its clasps
latched tight, and Gel himself was bowing his way out of the house
before she managed to finish the sentence.

 
***

As soon as Gel’s feet hit the cobblestone
street outside his tutor’s elegant, narrow house, he was off at a
run, only slowing long enough to push the large wrought-iron gate
open and closed behind him.  He ran through the town, too
quickly to appreciate its beauty: the detail of the architecture,
the angular lines of the roofs and the contrast between the wooden
beams and colored panels.  Most people would consider the
small stone walkways flanked on either side by lovingly tended
gardens as things of grace, would know that the tall, narrow houses
lining each side of the cobblestone road were monuments to both
architecture and history.  And Gel too knew all these things,
and would readily have agreed had he been asked.  But, as boys
his age always do, he had more important things on his mind.

So the fine houses passed by without notice
as Gel raced down the street, free from the day’s duties.  His
shoes, fine though they were, had not been cobbled with running in
mind, and so the slaps of leather on cobblestone echoed off the
houses, following him out of the town, just a half-beat out of time
with the shocks that ran up and down his legs with each step he
took. 

***

Reaching his destination didn’t take
long.  The cobblestone street changed to a well-travelled dirt
road just outside of town, and then it was only a minute or two
before he moved into the tall grass along the side of the
road.  Gel listened to the bird-calls in the air as he walked,
tried humming along with them, but birds had always seemed to be
the most experienced musicians of all.  He had no luck fitting
a pattern to their sweeping calls, and so he let the birds chatter
back and forth, filling the air with their conversation, their
song.

Gel had been walking for a quarter of an hour
or so. The dull red roofs and dormant chimneys of the tall, narrow
houses were still clearly visible off to his right, when he started
to climb towards a solitary oak atop a low hill.  The lute
case in his hand beat against his leg with each step he took,
creating the rhythm section for a melody he had decided to compose
while he walked.  He may not be able to compete with the birds
around him, but he could still compose something that would make
Sheane or Mae smile.  Both if he did his job well
enough. 

As Gel looked towards the old oak, his
favorite spot to sit and play, he saw that two figures were already
waiting there for him.  Sheane sat on a blanket that had been
spread over the short grass beneath the tree, her skirts arranged
in a neat circle to cover her legs, and her hands folded patiently
in her lap.  Mae on the other hand, stood leaning against the
oak, one foot angled behind her and planted on the oak for support,
her arms crossed across her chest.  She was scowling, and from
the way her skirts hiked up around her calves from leaning against
the tree, Gel could clearly see that she was tapping her foot
impatiently.  He could also see that she had nice legs and,
while he knew that already, little reminders were always
nice. 

‘Gel.  You’re late.’ Mae pushed off the
tree and stood, arms still crossed, face furrowed into a
scowl.  Her skirts fell back to cover her legs once more, and
Gel couldn’t help a wry smile of disappointment. 

‘A thousand apologies, my Lady’ Gel bowed
mockingly, sweeping his lute case out to the side as if it were a
fancy hat to be flourished.  ‘I shall of course endeavor
to…’  Gel began, and was quickly cut off by an exasperated ‘Oh
shut it’ from Mae.

‘Now hurry up and sit down, stupid’ Mae
snapped as she herself sat down next to Sheane, leaning back on her
arms, her legs stretched out in front of her rather than tucked
underneath her skirts like her sisters.  ‘Sheane won’t give me
any tea till you sit down, so hurry up, stupid boy.’

Gel couldn’t help but grin as he sat down
across from the girls.  For twins, the two had certainly come
out differently.  Both were beautiful, of course. 
Neither girl could be called skinny, but their exteriors were well
rounded, and very well proportioned.  Flowing golden hair came
down to the mid-back on Sheane, while it barely covered Mae’s
shoulders, but in both cases the wavy golden locks framed faces
that must have been stolen from angels; or possibly cherubs,
whichever looked better.  Sheane had filled out more than Mae
so far too, but both had legs to die for, from the glimpses Gel had
managed to steal so far.  And he very much enjoyed stealing
glimpses.

Gel shook his head quickly as he sat down, to
stop his mind going down that path yet again.  Suffice to say,
the girls were gorgeous.  And somehow they were Gel’s best
friends.

‘It doesn’t work if you call me stupid twice
in a row, Mae’ Gel said, setting his lute case down gently beside
him as he crossed his legs. 

Mae stuck out her tongue while Sheane smiled
silently, and began to prepare the promised tea, her back straight,
her bearing demure.