Lovely Notes, from Shore to Shore (1)
“Vincent. Found something. Come see.” Mouse had surprised him, and he jumped when the words came to his ear, close, sudden. “Ha!” Mouse crowed. “Did it! Snuck up!”
“How did you manage that, Mouse?” Vincent asked with a patient fondness in his voice. He knew the answer – he had been lost in near meditation.
“Been practicing. Years, now,” Mouse replied. “Hard.”
“But, apparently, not impossible.” He could not ignore the giddy excitement and it made him smile. “What have you found? Is there a problem?”
“No. Good. Not bad. Neat.”
“Neat? Then I must see. Where is this ...”
“Shhh.” Mouse put his finger to his lips, though no one else was near. “Secret. Just us.”
“All right. Show me.”
Vincent had oiled the wooden handles of the hammers and chisels and picks, a necessary task, and one that granted him time private and separate from the group and camp. He put away his work, laying the tools out neatly for the crew to find the next morning, while Mouse, impatient, swayed from side to side. The moment he reached for his cloak, Mouse, carrying a torch, darted away, leaving him to light a lantern and to follow paces behind.
Half a mile from the work site, up a level on a circular stair, past the next junction and further north, a narrow side corridor opened. Easily missed, its mouth was a jagged sliver and entry, a tight squeeze through. A hundred feet down, iron bars blocked the passage, though Mouse had already discovered the key, a simple but hidden lever. Another fifty feet and the tunnel widened, but was a dead end. Mouse waited there for Vincent, even more impatient, hopping now from foot to foot.
“What took so long?” Mouse questioned, though Vincent was only seconds behind him.
“Mouse. Are we there? What have you discovered?” Vincent saw nothing unusual in the space, for the tunnels were rife with passages to nowhere.
“Ha!” Mouse crowed again. “Can you find it?”
“Find...what?”
“Secret door.” Mouse whirled round in the dust, arms out. “Really good one. Never seen anything like it.”
Vincent began a methodical search, by sight and by touch, but he found nothing. Turning to Mouse, he held his hands out in silent surrender. Mouse was quite obviously pleased with his find, pleased with the ability to best Vincent, and Vincent was happy to play his game.
“Listen,” Mouse instructed.
“Listen? I’ll find the door by listening?”
“Shhhh.” With some effort, Mouse stood still, closing his eyes in concentration. Vincent did the same and only seconds later, he heard it ... music ... a clear, haunting melody. A single instrument ... a flute?
He trained his senses on the sound, the notes a gentle rumble through the stone. “There." He walked to the chiseled wall and pressed his ear to it. Moving his fingers along the crevices, he searched for an opening, which he found under a lip of rock. There was an iron lever, which he first pressed and then pulled, and the stone face moved. Inside a crevice, exposed near the floor, he found a a two-part shackle, a rusted clevis pin holding the arms of it stationary. Vincent looked askance at Mouse, who squirmed in front of him to remove the pin. He rotated one side of the shackle, and the wall swung wide. The music, louder at once, called them into the darkness.
“Have you been down this passage, Mouse?”
“Noooo.”
“Ummm. If you do. Not on any map. Somebody at the end of it.”
He closed his eyes again. The melody, though changed, was still passionate and melancholy. “I think we must.” Mouse hung back and stayed close, but was his willing companion down the long-untraveled avenue.
______________
The two walked in the light of their lantern and torch, through a narrow, meandering, climbing tunnel. The melody changed as they neared the source, but the music remained mystical and mournful.
“Sad,” Mouse declared. “Pretty.”
“Very. And close now.” Vincent kept his voice low and soon they found the end of the tunnel. Another iron barrier was set into the rock, and by their lights and through the bars, they could see a steep stairway carved in stone.
“Can you find the latch, Mouse?” Vincent asked.
Mouse, wary and quiet, busied himself with the search. In just seconds, he grinned in triumph. Rotating one bar clockwise, the door released with only a soft click, revealing the stairs.
“Go up?” Mouse whispered.
Vincent shook his head and indicated they should sit at the base of the stairs. The notes, so low-pitched, so haunting and slow, so ancient, drifted over them as they rested there. For a little more than half an hour, the melodies alternated, somber and then quick, the meter in fours and then threes, always full of longing.
“It’s like a picture ... in a book,” Mouse whispered. “There’s a dark forest. And it’s cool. There’s a stream and there might be magic ... but you’re all alone.”
“Yes,” Vincent answered. He felt the aloneness ... the loss ... in the musician’s melodies. And then the player stopped his concert. Vincent and Mouse held themselves still, preparing to flee, but the musician began to speak. It was a man’s soft voice, Irish accented, and it was clear, after only a few moments, that he was speaking into the air, to someone lost to him. He spoke of a time of sweet possibilities and of his deep regret. It was almost a prayer.
“Ah, Lily. Lily, my beauty. My only love. How I miss ye, darlin’. All my heaven was once thy breast, Would it were mine again! 2 If only, Lily ... if only.”
A long silence followed, and Mouse and Vincent dared scarcely to breathe. Then the musician took up the flute again and began a haunting melody that grew louder and sped faster through its notes, stopping it suddenly to shout a plaintive lament to the skies, drawing out the words long and loud, almost angry ...
“Hear me out, Missy. I don’t think I’ll be gone anymore to the pubs, for behold, the goodness of God is like new wine ... and I believe something is soon to happen in my life ... so noooo, Missy, noooo ... I’ll not be gone to the pub.”
And the flute’s music again, in the rhythm of a quickened heartbeat, in a crescendo of sound and emotion, rose wild and free and then fell to an abrupt and utter silence. Minutes later, the scrape of a chair and the clicking shut of a case signaled the end of the concert. The musician's steps, a sort of shuffle along a stone floor, were lost finally, in the cushion of grasses and then to distance. They heard the creaking open and shut of a door and then only faint street noises and night birds and the sound of their own breath, finally let free.
“Neat.” Mouse said, in review. “Told you.”
Vincent could only nod his agreement.
Unwilling to leave, still stunned by the discovery and the music, the pair remained seated on the stairs. “You said this was not on our maps?” Vincent whispered his question to Mouse.
Mouse shook his head. “Safe to go up? Check it out?”
Vincent nodded, and Mouse scrambled up the many steep steps. Only minutes later, he returned to Vincent’s side.
“Trap door, open already. Door goes outside. Barred on this side though. Big padlock and a chain too. There’s cracks, but too dark, can’t see out. Smells good. Like the park.”
“Could it be an entry to a garden of some kind?”
“Okay, yeah! Flowers, bushes. Sweet!”
“What else did you see?”
“There’s another tunnel. Sort of. Between laid-up stones, like a wall, like two walls and a roof." Mouse hunched his shoulders. "Tight to walk. Really, really dark. Castle-y.”
“You mean it’s like a castle wall, a double-sided wall you can walk through?” Mouse nodded, his expression quizzical. “Those are called mural passages.” Vincent said. “They were secret ways built inside stone walls to allow movement without being seen.” He stared up the steep steps. “Where do you think we are, Mouse?”
Mouse shrugged. “Someplace up North. Should we seal this up?”
“Seal the passage? Probably. We have no idea who uses this or why. But maybe...not just yet. We can come back and chain the barrier doors from our side for now. Perhaps we can hear...one more concert before we close it off.”
“Double neat,” Mouse declared. “That last part...what’s it mean? About wine and a pub and something happening. Who’s Missy? Who’s Lily?”
“I don’t know, Mouse. It was all very mysterious.”
“Wish we knew. Wish we could ask.”
“Yes,” Vincent concurred.
They began the trek back to camp, closing the iron barriers and secret doors behind them. At the circular stair that would take them to the camp’s level, Mouse said, “Miss my chamber, Vincent. Miss my stuff. Wish I were home. Why isn’t Kanin happy to be home?”
“He carries shame in his heart. In time, surely, he will find his place with us again.”
“So mad, all the time. Hard to get along with.”
“We must continue to show him patience, but I know it's ... difficult. Try not to take his ... bark ... personally, Mouse. He's really angry only with himself.”
“Feel better, now. After the music.”
“So do I, Mouse.”
“Should we bring Kanin? Might help.”
“That is a possibility. For now, let’s keep this a secret between the two of us.”
“Secret. Sure. Love secrets,” Mouse asserted with enthusiasm. "Next time, bring a cushion."
______________
“What time is it, Joe?” Catherine leaned into her hands, her elbows on a desk covered with open reference books. “Can’t we go now?”
“I thought you were made of tougher stuff, Radcliffe. It’s only...9:30.”
“Are we making up in advance for the time tomorrow?”
“Right in one. But tomorrow, half a day and we’re outta here.”
“Half a day!” Catherine groaned. “Try a third of a day. Promise me we won’t come back after.”
“Deal. Let’s call it a night. I’ll walk you out.”
They rode down in the elevator in companionable silence. Joe cleared his throat at the fourth floor and asked in a careful voice , “Do you want to get a drink, maybe something to eat?”
She hesitated only a second. “Thanks, Joe, but ... it’s so late. Maybe another time.”
Joe changed his tone and patted his midsection, “I shouldn’t be having so many late night meals. Thanks for saving me from myself.” A few moments later, he added, “I’ll wait while you get a cab, Cathy.”
He closed the door for her, giving the window a single, gentle knock, and watched as the car pulled away. At the end of the block, at the traffic light, she looked back to see him still standing on the sidewalk, still watching after her. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets and, though the night was warm enough and pleasant, his shoulders were hunched in a vulnerable self defense. As the taxi cleared the intersection, she saw him straighten, the moment of introspection seeming to pass, and he hailed a cab of his own.
______________
“Hey, Lady, want some music?”
“Thanks for asking,” Catherine replied, thinking that most never did. “It kind of depends ...”
“You like jazz?”
“Sometimes.”
“Listen to this,” he said, as he started the player, and after a bit of scratchiness, she heard the mellow voice of Hoagy Carmichael singing The Nearness of You. “Beautiful, don’t ya think?” he asked her.
________________
There was a note on the floor inside her door, and for a moment her breath came fast. She carried it with her to her balcony, saved it, held to her heart, until she was sadly sure she was alone. She had only these words, four lines transcribed from distant taps by a discreet Pascal, delivered by a mysterious hand. She read them, once and then again, and she fell asleep with them, held fast.
Later, deep into the night and long into dreams, she felt a gentle kiss to her temple and the warmth of him settle against her back. His arm pulled her close, and she was sure ... sure she heard him whisper ...
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me. 3
(1) Matthew Arnold. To Marguerite - Continued, line 11. 1849.
(2) Charlotte Bronte. Regret. 1848.
(3) George Gordon, Lord Byron. There Be None of Beauty's Daughters. 1816.
1 comments:
Carole - I'm reading my way back through I/V from the beginning. I think I was a little hurried the first time, trying to catch up. I'm taking it slowly this time, allowing time to savor your wonderful writing.
I didn't remember the mention of "The Nearness of You" from my first reading. That was the music I used for my very first babt video. As Mouse would say, "Neat" :-)
Sandy
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