The lower regions of Our Lady, Notre Dame, those regions inhabited by its celestial servants, its caretakers, resonate this day, for it is day, from the moment of sunrise unto this very moment, with music. The sweet voice of a luito, an ancient lute, plucked by expert hands, in complex, melodic strains that flow in and out in a dance with the other voice.
The voice that once belonged to the Angel of the Songs of Love...
Jeena kaisa Pyar bina
(What is life without Love)
Is Duniya Mein Aaye ho to...
(Now that you have come to this world)
Jeena kaisa Pyar bina,
Is duniya mein aaye ho to...
Ek Duje se pyar karo.
(Love each other, one another)
"Look in the eyes,
Of the face of love,
Look in her eyes,
Oh, there is peace...
No nothing dies within pure light..."
The strains are far older than any style of music, but one may detect within those chords, the refrains, a piece of Greece, a piece of Turkey, a piece of Europe and of Asia and of the middle regions that lie between them. The voice is the voice of the vessel, moved to do things that the previous owner would have thought impossible. It is throaty but honied, modulating as the former angel within it...wills it to do...
"Only one hour,
Of this pure love
To last a life of thirty years
Only one hour...
So come and go..."
He sings as he has promised, to the plants in a dark corner of the depths of this great cathedral. To the mold and to the fungus, to the mushrooms and to the night flowers and herbs, the tenderest shoots, to the succulents and their kind. But not just for them. Through the cracks between stones, his voice is given to the whole of the cathedral, to the other plants, in neighboring rooms and to those who tend them.
Jeena kaisa Pyar bina
(What is life without Love)
Is Duniya Mein Aaye ho to...
(Now that you have come to this world)
Jeena kaisa Pyar bina,
Is duniya mein aaye ho to...
Ek Duje se pyar karo.
(Love each other, one another)
"Look in the eyes,
Of the face of love,
Look in her eyes,
Oh, there is peace...
No nothing dies within pure light..."
A smooth head peers around a corner, tall eyes unblinking. An Elohim - see all, feel none - seems to stare. It does not stand on its own rudeness for too long. The Elohim comes into full view, watching (staring is such a presumptuous term when one cannot help but have large orbs for viewing) plainly. It does not interrupt, certainly assured that if you wished it to leave, you'd tell it so.
"Maygar," Etienne's voice follows, he coming from another corridor. With Maygar's attention to the musician, it is no surprise that the Elohim would start at the voice suddenly at its shoulder.
"I am sorry, Etienne," the Elohim says. It bobs its head, as if speaking to some superior. "I did not mean to stare," it says softly, bending its shiny head contritely.
"It is alright," Etienne says with a smile and a touch to the Elohim. A youngster, perhaps. Apparently angels are still created these days, generated in the midst of a war. "You should not stare. Come and introduce yourself," the gardener says, walking forward and encouraging his young friend to do the same. "It is always nice to make new friends," Etienne finishes, opening a palm to indicate the most recent arrival to the cathedral's lower sections.
The fingers of the zoologist do not falter, bidden by a greater force to move as they have never moved. Upon his lap, the swan-necked, full-bodied luito. To you both it is obvious what it is, an angelic instrument. Passing mortal eyes would likely see a blue guitar, one most recently seen in London.
The last place Andrealphus himself was seen...
The fretless instrument is a wonder, and its voice has only ever sung out in terms of Love. This, the first instrument of the Songs of Love. The luito upon which the very first ballad for Love was composed. And with it in his hands, playing it cross-legged on the floor, sitting as comfortably on stone as he once did the cushions in Love's own temple, Pharzuph in his earthly skin plays on, his head tipping back and brushing against the stone as his throat moves through the modulations of sound, the wordless sounds of Love, of Music, of Adoration...
It is a call to prayer in one land...
It is a call to Romance in another...
His voice softens to a hush and the song is only briefly halted, notes plucked in some other tune half-remembered, half-composed. It is only then that the zoologist (Pharzuph) begins to become aware of his surroundings once more, and to the presence of Others. He turns his head toward the quiet voices and, luito in hand, Pharzuph begins to rise. "I am sorry, I did not hear you," he smiles a little.
He beams a lot...
The two approach, but keep a respectable distance. Etienne cannot help it -- he glances around the space to see his charges -- then touches the Elohim again on its back to encourage it to speak its mind. Reassurance given.
"No, no, we should apologize to you, General," Etienne grins. He looks down to his companion, then to the singer. "We are interrupting your gift to us. The creatures in here are blessed by your voice, Pharzuph. We all are blessed." A turn. "This is my friend, Magyar. She has come recently to the cathedral, and like all of us, is taken by the sounds that have been away from us for so long, but now have back to us."
Say something.
Magyar looks up to his elder, his tiny Elohim frame stark and slim against the mortal features of the Cherubim of Flowers. "Excuse me," the slender angel says, "I am...your voice...your music...it is...." the angel is at a loss for words. It claps its hands together, shaking its head gently. "I have never heard anything like it. Not ever," it says. "So beautiful."
"Oh, I am called, well...Magyar. I didn't mean to stare, blessed one..."
A week ago, he would have been back in the corner and pleading for forgiveness. Today, he stands with his instrument in his hand, his clothing rumpled from sitting on the floor, but his manner in all other ways more settled. Even confident. He looks from Etienne to Magyar and he bows his head in return, the gangly mortal doing the gesture much more oddly than the Byzantine-garbed Pharzuph would do were he in his own shape and form. "Magyar, I am happy it found you, and pleased that you found it beautiful. It has been... a long time since I have played..."
Pharzuph smiles a little, taking Etienne in attention too, "I was worried for a moment that I would be so rusty that the little night plants would tuck in roots and seek an even more secluded shelter. But," he looks to the instrument, held in his hands, "... it is amazing what the ...soul will remember, and in turn will remind a form how to move, how to be." Staring? He did not see it. Blessed one? He is starting to recall that. He is starting to believe it. "I don't mind, please... I would enjoy the company. It is a pleasure to meet you, and always a pleasure to play for those who wish to hear..."
He begins to settle once more upon the floor, cross-legged, back to the stone wall. "I hope to play to the roses sometime..." out in the gardens. But he knows he must stay where he is. It is safer for Everyone if he does. For now, it is just a hope. A dream. He tilts his head, looking to the golden strings. When his fingers brush over them for a moment, thinking of another tune to play, the slight motion causes a shimmer of notes to sound: in it, all lutes, sitars, soft guitars.
Maygar nods again and says softly, "Thank you." It slides to a spot a little distance away, and sits, cross-legged as well. "I will not be a bother. Just a listen for a while," it half-asks. Seeming to stare once again, Maygar's large eyes fix onto the singer and his luito as she falls into silence.
Etienne's brows arch at the exchange, but then he grins. Once the young angel has taken up a perch nearby, he moves forward towards one of his boxes. From his pocket, he retrieves a spray bottle and a small trowel, then pulls out one of the rolling drawers to begin his tending.
The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things. I see myself in the temple, the basilica of Love, moving naked but for a flowing garment of gossamer light around me, walking through the rose petals that float upon the surface of the water in the great baths. I see my Archangel there, the Face of Love. I see him looking at me, bringing his hands together in joy for me. I see him ...
And I see my Ramariel, too...
The sweet-hearted chamberlain...
The one for whom I gathered the rose petals as I walked...
I play, then, the song I played when I first held this instrument. When it was first given to me by the Archangel of Love, who set it in my hands like a swaddled child...
The music that issues from the instrument is its song. The song of the Songs of Love. The sound of Love. Pharzuph closes his eyes, he does not look where his fingers land. They move, it seems, where the song would have them move, where the instrument recalls them being. He seems, and is, transported...
It has no vocal accompaniment, this song. It has the humming, whispering, lilting sound of a Lover, an ecstatic tone poem for the ear of the Almighty. Pharzuph bows his head, tilting it, his eyes still closed. His soul, overcome. Finally, his mouth parts, and it is angelic that he speaks:
Remember us as we were...
In our temples of Your Heart...
Recall our voices chanting, singing, laughing...
When we were young...
Remember?
We loved and we loved and we loved...
And I love you still...
Remember us as we will be...
In the forgiveness of Your Heart...
Hear the prayer that we sing, we sigh, we say...
When we were lost...
Remember...
We love and we love and we love...
And I love you still...
...It will be the best meal for a while. Julian knows it.
He sits against a stone wall and unfolds the sandwich that was so expertly wrapped at the store. Crossing his legs, he sets the food at the intersection of his ankles, and opens a bottle of water. His lavender eyes look up and he watches a few cars go by, then glances down at an elderly man trying to rest in a corner.
He's gotten used to the cars at all hours, and the occasional startle as he wakes from his sleep to make sure his backpack remains safely nearby. Julian picks up his dinner and begins to eat, exhaling as he watches the world pass by.
The bridge tremors only slightly. Canterbury's grown so much since he last visited. Mistake that. He should have visited the cathedral more often. After another drink of water, Julian wolfs down the last of his meal, then glances at his watch. He exhales and closes his eyes for an instant, allowing his dark hair to touch the wall behind him. A cleansing breath, a strengthening breath.
The traffic quiets and the man down the path beneath the bridge seems to sleep. Julian Kane runs his hands through his hair and reaches behind to pull his hood over his head for the night...
If only you could hear this, Ramariel...
I will close my eyes...
I will hope that you hear it...
Or maybe you will feel it... wherever you are...
Are you fighting? Are you trying to come with me? If only I were not helpless to help you. You should have come with me...
The words are new, the song ancient. It is borne out of a present love, a present longing and an urgent hope. Pharzuph keeps his eyes closed, he tips back his head until it rests against the stone, and he opens himself, he tries to open himself to let the music move through him and the wall, from the wall to the earth, across the earth and to the one he loves.
The shift of the tune is subtle. Though it does not officially end, one song has transformed into another. Moisture lingers in the corners of his eyes and his mouth parts, letting free a series of modulating notes, sweet and lush, without discernible lyric, not yet -- a stirring introduction, perhaps, to a greater song.
But it ends there...
It hovers for a moment...
But it softens, falling away, as if slowly covered by a lid. Pharzuph opens his eyes. He looks to his hands, his fingers stroking the neck of the instrument briefly, his other hand cradling it like a child. "There are so many others," he murmurs.
"There are," Etienne says, glancing over at his seated protege, who is fascinated by a potted geranium. Etienne rises from his drawer and turns opposite to see the visiting musician. "But they will be home soon, yes? Patience," he offers. "We all need patience. With it, all things," Etienne grins to Pharzuph, "...are possible, General. I know this," he winks, tapping his temple.
Etienne exhales, then looks towards the open archway.
"How about a walk?" Etienne thinks, setting his spray bottle down. "One can only be around non-speaking plants for so long..."
The young Elohim rises from his spot, large eyes blinking. "Another time for me, Sir," he says softly. "Sirs," he bobs his head to the General. "I am...honored," he bobs again to the arrival.
Colors scatter upon the stone, as candlelight reflects upon stained glass.
It is hard to be patient when others are suffering. O Lord, I will never know how You manage it...
Hugging his instrument to himself, Pharzuph rises, his crumpled clothes more crumpled for his spot upon the floor, his vessel's body stiffer than his last would have been from such a seat for such a time. He will go with Etienne. He will walk in the sheltered halls of Notre Dame. He will wonder where Ramariel is. Where Andrealphus is.
How to be patient...?
How to be patient when you are out there in the world, Ramariel. When Love Himself is in the lurch... somewhere. And I here... and there is nothing to be done.
Nothing but patience and faith.
How to be patient, You might say, when Your children have turned away from You. That... patient... must I be...
Pharzuph turns from his thoughts to the young Elohim. He tips his head in an awkward bow, he's not used to such compliments, and the instrument is held more closely. "And I," he says softly. "We are sure to meet again. Take care," he says to the young Elohim, and then Pharzuph turns brown and unremarkable eyes turn toward Etienne. "I will be patient. I will try."
Posted by rowan at August 14, 2004 02:47 PM
