Since 1750 the sonata became a three or four movement work for solo instrument or solo instrument with piano accompaniment.
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This is the introduction to a series of pieces that I have written. Oddly enough, there are four of them, and each one deals with one of the Four Horsemen. These are intended as short character studies. Each is complete in and of itself, but when read together, they present an interesting set.
A musical movement identifies all but one of the pieces. These introductions set the tone for the piece. The one exception to the rule remains defined within the musical sphere.
I hope you enjoy reading them, as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Nocturne:
A night piece. In the eighteenth century this was a composition close to a serenade. In the romantic period it was a short lyrical piece in one movement.
~~~~~~~~~~~~The darkness whispered softly to the empty spaces of his soul. Words hovered just beyond comprehension; but words were not required. This darkness echoed with communion; of the senses, the spirit, with the vast emptiness. Nature abhors a vacuum, and the darkness rushed to fill it, both inside and out.
He did not remember a time when the darkness had not been part of him. Sometimes it cowered in a far corner of his mind, fearful of the vicious kicks and slurs levelled at it by anger. Other times, the darkness held sway; it sent anger off and employed viciousness as its own tool. Those were the times when the heat of the desert sun could not warm him, body or soul.
But, ah, the rewards of submitting to the darkness. The others thought he measured his rewards in goods, and women, and skulls. They did not realize that those things were mere trifles; outward signs of inner fulfillment. The true reward was the humming pleasure sensed in the darkness.
Methos, he knew, likened him to an animal; one of the senseless brutes that Silas worked so hard to tame. And some days, that was correct; he ate, he killed, he took whatever, or whoever, suited his needs, and then he slept. But other times, he had to feed the darkness. Those were the days that pleased Caspian the most; those were the days that resounded through the dissonance of his long immortal memory. Those were the days that mortals had learned to fear.
Suddenly, the darkness spoke. “Fear,” it said, and “Pain,” and “Blood.” Lifting his head like a lion scenting the breeze for prey, Caspian tuned his soul to the darkness. With a feral grin, he rose to answer its clarion call.
Pastorale:
1) An instrumental movement with long baritone notes giving a drone-like
effect.
2) Obsolete term for a stage entertainment based on a legendary or rustic
subject.
The axe fell repeatedly, its rhythmic swish and thunk the only sound that disturbed the silence of the forest; its noise never truly disturbed the peaceful scene. There was a sense of appropriateness to the sound that a listener, had one been around, would have noted immediately. The pace of the axe measured the ebb and flow of the life around it.
The wind sighed through the trees, rustling the shirt hanging over a branch in a manner that seemed more intrusive than the whistle of a sharp blade before it cleaved hardwood. Each time the homespun cotton whispered against the lonely leaves that fall had not swept from the branch, the forest stiffened, almost as if in shock. The seasons were changing, as they always did, but the foreign sounds created by the shirt seemed to forcefully remind the trees that the time for rest was near.
Swinging his axe steadily, the owner of the shirt seemed an organic part of the forest around him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and on his broad shoulders, but he seemed not to notice it. Instead, he maintained his steady pace, never slowing or changing his grip, providing a metronomic counterpoint to the symphony of life he could sense surrounding him. This was his space, a place out of time, away from the pressures of a modern life that he often didn’t understand.
Letting his muscles control an action they knew so well after thousands of years, Silas allowed his senses and mind to wander. He could hear the birds in the trees, and the skittering of small creatures in the long grass at the edge of a nearby meadow. The larger animals were moving cautiously toward a nearby stream. Dusk was falling as he identified three types of raptor simply by the brief calls heard on the wind. The kites were hunting, and his soul thrilled to the thought of the hunt.
Silas lowered his axe and sat slowly on the pile of firewood stacked haphazardly around the small clear cut he had created. He dug into his nearby pack for a loaf of black bread, some salty butter, and a small brick of well-aged cheese, all made by his own hand. Two raccoons, well accustomed to the habits of the large creature who visited them, scampered forward to receive the treats they knew were awaiting them. Silas shared his food with the amiable fellows and laughed watching them wash the butter from their faces with water stolen from the bucket he had placed nearby. The kites cried again, and all three diners turned their eyes to the sky, the raccoons in fear, Silas in longing.
Although he was comfortable in the forest, the role of gentle giant, friend of the woodland creatures, was not the only one suited to his particular talents. Listening to the sounds of the hunt, Silas laid his axe across his knees. Memories played slowly across his face; memories of blood and destruction, of power and brotherhood. Sitting in the cool forest, Silas could feel the hot desert breeze stroke his upturned face. He heard clearly the clash of steel on steel, and smelled the distinct scent of horseflesh lathered by hard riding. His deep breath expanded lungs and chest to the limits, and still he hungered for more.
Throwing back his head, Silas loosed a powerful roar, one to rival the majesty of the great bear, which also captured the searching cry of the raptors overhead. His face reflected a longing that belied the placid woodcutter’s expression that had graced it earlier. His eyes were turned inward, reviewing scenes of death and destruction, and they shone with a febrile pleasure. The screams echoed in his ears and filled his head, mixing with the laughter of brothers and the hollow melody of a flute.
The raccoons, startled to stillness by the uncharacteristic behaviour of their companion, looked on in bewilderment. The tableau remained unbroken for long minutes, Silas trapped in a mournful, silent lament for times long passed. Finally sensing his audience, he turned to reassure them.
“Ah, my friends. I have frightened you. I’m sorry. I would never hurt you.” The voice was soothing and gentle, calming the now skittish animals. “This new world is good. I like your faces, and your funny ways. But soon, I must return to my home. My brothers must be able to find me, for one day, we will ride again.” Shouldering his pack, Silas walked quietly into the falling darkness.
Obbligato:
An obbligato part is one which has an important and unusual special role and cannot be dispensed with, as opposed to an optional part.
Nachtanz:
A quick dance used to follow a slow one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man strode quickly through the lab, his compact body eating up distance rapidly and filling more space than seemed physically possible. It wasn’t just the flapping of his white coat, like wings fluttering in a strong breeze; it was the sense of purpose that emanated from him, even in stillness.
Lab assistants parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. He chuckled as the metaphor occurred to him, and heads lifted at the uncommon sound. The newest assistant, a sweet little, blonde bit of nothing stared at his scar, then darted her eyes away as she noticed his return stare. Kronos made a mental note to ask her for drinks later, she might prove amusing.
Donning the protective clothing required for access to the lab’s Category 4 viruses, he tuned half an ear to the whispered conversation beyond the nearest table. “Dr. Korensky … brilliant scientist … horrible disaster … lost his whole family, threw himself into his work … Centre for Disease Control exchange program.” Pulling the hood down tight, he cut out the sound of the blonde’s response, promising himself he would hear it in person later.
Had Kronos been able to hear it through the hood, he would have grinned at the slight sucking sound the door to the virus chamber made as he opened it. The thought of negative pressurized rooms had caught his fancy when he first learned of them while pursuing his degree in biochemistry, but the first time he had heard one of the doors, his love of the idea and the practice had been cemented. His mentor had been disturbed, to say the least, when young Dr. Korensky had compared the sound to that of a head toppling from a neck sliced through by a sword.
The vial looked unassuming, settled in its metal drawer. Part of Kronos longed for an altar to display it upon, a temple in which to worship its destructive power. “And we shall rule as its High Priests,” he murmured to himself within his suit. In a moment of profound stillness, the Horseman known as Pestilence reached a hand toward the instrument of his destiny. “And I shall visit a plague upon you …”
Moving with purpose again, Kronos quickly toured the virus room. All his preparations would be for nothing if he could not remove this deadly tool from its cushioned bed. Satisfied that the changes he had slowly introduced to lab practice would stand him in good stead, Kronos closed the drawer and moved toward the door with as quick a stride as the bulky contamination suit would allow.
“Please, let me help you, Dr. Korensky.”
“Why, thank you,” Kronos removed his hood fully and turned a charming smile on the blonde he had noticed earlier. “Have we been introduced?”
“My name is Emma,” she confessed with a slight blush to her peaches and cream complexion. “Evan was telling me a bit about you. I hope you don’t mind. You see,” Emma’s blush deepened, “I lost a family member to Ebola, that’s why I’m in virology.”
“Well, Emma, I do understand your pain. Thankfully, I still have my brothers; we shall be together soon. Perhaps I could tell you of them over a drink?”
Fugue:
A contrapuntal composition for two or more voices or parts built around a theme, which is successfully imitated by entries of each voice at the beginning and developed throughout the piece.
~~~~~~~~~~~~“We make a great team. Like Mulder and Scully, Sipowicz and Simone, Caligula and Incitatus …” the cultured voice trailed off into a cultured sigh. “I’m not sure why you put up with me, Joseph Dawson, but I am sorely glad you do.” Adam Pierson, grad student, former Watcher, and five thousand year old man, slowed his pace and leaned over the stone railing of the Parisian bridge he found himself on.
Watching the fog roll across the Seine, Pierson let himself sink into thoughts of friendship. The sound of glasses clinking rose from a dinner cruise passing almost silently beneath the bridge, and a rueful smile crossed the old man’s face. Always one to remember with all his senses, he waited for the olfactory rush of cigarette smoke, strong whiskey, cheap beer and the quiet wail of a soulful guitar.
The Pierson façade sat firmly on his shoulders as his mind drifted through images of Watcher poker games in the back of a Paris book store. Joe Dawson’s voice crossed the miles of memory to speak obliquely of that ‘one good immortal’ that they all hoped for. Adam nodded his head in time with the ones in his mind, that Midwestern growl echoing louder in memory than the whistle of a nearby gendarme.
Banter lapped at the shores of his soul, reaching a little deeper with each shared joke, each challenge met. Shoulders twitching lightly, the man chuckled at a private remembrance, ignoring the startled glare of a disturbed gull pacing the rail beside him. Only the sudden flutter of wings caught his attention, and as the bird lifted from the rail in uncommon silence, the chuckle died, and with the bird went Adam Pierson, leaving Methos on the bridge in his stead.
“You are too important to lose.”
Those words, delivered to the last stirring of humanity peeking over the sharpened blade of a sword, could be said to provide the most fitting epitaph for a friendship ever delivered. Or so thought Methos as he leaned against the bridge rail. Watching the gull carry away his thoughts of Joe Dawson, and his own faux mortality, Methos unconsciously echoed his earlier sigh.
“MacLeod!” The name tolled in his mind like the rolling bells of the cathedral, pealing through the darkness to bring hope and light, and maybe even peace. With each peal, Methos’ mind focused on a different aspect of his restless relationship with the Scot. As the bell tolled for painting, and beer, and lies, and salvation, Methos became both more and less than, the last vestiges of Adam Pierson dropping with a small smile to float away on the tidal vagaries of the Seine.
Silence, a rare commodity in a city that claims to never sleep, settled over him like a cloak as Methos pondered the state of his friendship with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Pain, never rare in his five thousand years of existence, flavoured his ponderings with a piquant seasoning that only enhanced the sweetness that flowed beneath it.
While MacLeod might claim not to know who or what Methos was, at least he still claimed him as friend. Another chuckle worked its way out of Methos’ throat as he realized that he and MacLeod were balanced, neither completely black nor white when they were together, but a glorious celebration of grey. With a siren crying out its distress from the far banks of the Seine, Methos inhaled deeply and tasted the smoke the siren spoke of.
“I just passed through my angry adolescence a little quicker than you, Kronos.” The statement whispered through Methos’ memory, followed by his later, anguished, cry, “Don’t you understand? I’m not like that anymore. I’ve changed.” And with the memory rush, the smoke continued to sigh through his soul, smudging it with defeat.
Shoulders that had pushed out and up in the transformation from Pierson to Methos, seemed to fold in on themselves yet harden more in the slide to Death. The gendarme who had whistled the earlier tune of caution paused in his approach to the tall man on the bridge. He did not so much stand in shadow, as make it, and the gendarme responded to his own siren call of safety, moving quickly and quietly away from the nameless danger the man posed to life and sanity.
Death stalked the bridge in the late Parisian dark, blurring the edges of the man he had become. Resolve hovered just beyond his reach, with regret sniffing around like a dog looking for scraps but wary of receiving a kick instead. Baring his teeth in a rictus of a grin, he shuffled through the various responses of Death/Methos/Pierson, settling for none in the end.
Drawing a deep breath, the man almost visibly pulled himself together. Without the accompaniment of glassware, birds or bells, he reached into the silence and found himself. There, in the unbroken quiet of a brief moment, he reclaimed who he was in the eyes of three friends, and measured it against his own view. Moving away from the bridge rail, he resettled his coat on his shoulders and reassured himself that his sword was still safely tucked within its folds. As he finished crossing the bridge, he step got faster and lighter, and a chuckle swelled into a laugh as it rose from his chest to his lips. Head up, he moved forward with the strength of what was behind to guide him.