b2mem | G-59 - Erulisse - The Performance (Reply)

B2MeM Challenge: G-59 – Maglor in History 1 – The Battle of Hastings
Format: Short Story
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: None
Word Count: 1969

Summary: Maglor, feeling the need for a change of venue, accepts a position as a visiting music instructor at Battle Abbey School. This leads to a spontaneous performance that will long be remembered by those lucky enough to hear it.

The Performance

It was 1962 and I was depressed - again. Depression is not unusual for me, sometimes I feel that I have had more tragedy than joy in my life, but I was finding it harder and harder to put forth the energy to pull myself out of my dark spiral. It seemed to be impossible to turn my thoughts from Denis, my long lost love. I had last seen him standing on the deck of the RMS Titanic almost 50 years before.

The newspapers and television news programs were filled with two main stories right now; the escalating aggression in the Southeast Asian country of Vietnam, and the upcoming 50th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. I felt bombarded and suddenly craved a nearby cave in which to hide.

I was living in the United States in the state of Ohio. For the previous seven years I had been teaching music at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, a highly respected general college with a strong emphasis on music. I had been teaching Advanced Musical Theory, Composition, and giving private lessons on the harp and the lute to several gifted pupils. It was work that I really enjoyed. But I felt that it was time for a change. I didn’t want to return to France or Italy yet, but I needed to run away from my memories again and go to a different part of the world.

I had decided, rather than renew my contract, to leave my position when the first semester ended. This meant that I began 1962 as an unemployed musician, certainly not the first time I was between jobs during the long years of my life.

As I returned to my small rental house from a long and aimless walk that Wednesday night, I picked up my mail from the box, putting it onto the entryway table when I entered the house. After a small dinner I gathered the envelopes to sort through them, knowing that most of the mail was usually trash.

Sometimes I would get letters from friends or from my property managers in Europe, but not today. My French contact and I had been corresponding regularly since I had been approached about selling my Chateau near Champagne, France. I had told him to pass along the message that I was unwilling to sell. Even though I could not currently bear to live there since I was still seeing Denis around every corner as I walked across the grounds or down the hallways of the house, I also could not bear to sell it and leave it permanently. Denis' death had only happened fifty years before, a mere blink of an eye for an immortal, and the memories that we had made at the Chateau were too precious for me to leave it for long.

I noticed an official-looking envelope nestled in the stack of advertisements and settled down in my overstuffed chair near the hearth to read it.

‘Battle Abbey School, East Sussex, England, UK; what do they want?’ I opened the envelope and began to read the letter.

“Dear Mr. Finner –

“My name is R. Chatsworth Mason and I am the President of the Battle Abbey School. It has come to my attention that you recently decided to leave your current position as an Instructor of Music at the Oberlin Music Conservatory. Please forgive my contacting you in this fashion, but I hope that what I have to offer may be of interest to you.

“Battle Abbey School, located in East Sussex has been the recipient of a Legacy Bequest, allowing us to fund a Chair in our Music Department for a one-year Visiting Faculty Member. As an acknowledged Master of the Celtic Harp and Lute, we feel that your unique skills would offer our students an opportunity to explore musical instruments which are rarely taught in this day and age. The school is housed in a building that dates back almost to the time of William the Conqueror. I and my Senior Staff feel that a course in Ancient Music and Instruments would be a perfect fit for us. I would like to offer you this position beginning with the Fall, 1962 term.

“If you think that this would be of interest to you, I ask that you please contact me at your earliest convenience. The position would include a small separate residence which is on the school grounds and a generous stipend. The requirements for the position are on the attached sheet.

“I look forward to hearing from you and arranging to meet you in person for a formal interview soon.

Yours truly,
R Chatsworth Mason, Esq.
President, Battle Abbey School”

I glanced over the requirements listed on the second page. The list said that I would be required to tutor at least two Fifth or Sixth Form students for each of the two listed instruments. I would also be required to participate in two general concerts sharing the stage with some of the other music teachers. I would also have to give one solo concert for the students and faculty. All concerts would be open to the general public as well as academic attendees. None of the requirements seemed particularly onerous or out of the ordinary for the position.

I sat in my chair holding the letter in my hand. I had wanted to make a change, to go somewhere else that offered new challenges so that I wouldn’t get too maudlin and depressed. Here was an opportunity. I decided to phone R Chatsworth Mason the next morning and accept the position.

-0-0-0-0-

Landing in London on the morning of the 11th of April, I was startled at how much larger it had grown since the last time I had visited. I was met at the airport by a driver and car that had been sent by the college.

“Mr. Finner?” a tall blonde walked towards me, arm outstretched ready to shake my hand. “I’m Robert Aubrey, Assistant to the Dean of the College of Music. Welcome to England.”

“Thank you. I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago. London has grown huge.”

“Oh yes, London is like a weed, always growing and spreading out. Let me have your luggage, the car is right around here.” He led the way down a corridor and through a doorway into a parking lot.

We had a pleasant drive south towards the East Sussex town of Battle. It was a short drive through the town to approach the outbuildings of what was called Battle Abbey.

I remembered the abbey itself, built on the site where Harold II had fallen, killed by an arrow through his eye. His death had cleared the way for Duke William II of Normandy to become the King of England. But the battlefield casualties had been extremely high and the Pope had ordered William to make restitution for those deaths by offering penance. William had done this by building an Abbey dedicated to St Michael of Battle, and over time it became commonly known as Battle Abbey.

I had watched the Abbey rise, stone by stone, since William had put me in charge of one of the work gangs almost one thousand years earlier. I had spent more than eight years laboring there. By the time the Abbey was finally finished in 1094, William was dead and his successor, William Rufus, was on the throne. I had left the service of the King, blending into the countryside of England, shortly after that, and had stayed away from politics for several hundred years.

Mister Aubrey showed me to an apartment on the upper floor of the main building, and told that I was scheduled to meet with the President of the school the next morning at 9:00 am. After handing me an introductory packet of information, I was left alone to acclimate as I saw fit.

I looked out over the grounds from my window. I felt a need to return to the site where so many had died and honor my memories of William II and the battle that had taken place here. I unpacked my harp and taking it with me, walked out of the building and onto the grassy sward. Finding the plaque that marked the site where the altar had originally been placed, I sat down, closed my eyes, and I began to play.

I have no idea how long I made music. I played to honor the memory of all of the men who had fallen here. I played to remember those warriors I had known through my life, starting with my grandfather, and father, and moving through to those who were currently fighting in various wars throughout the world. And I played for the memory of Denis and those who had joined him in a watery death on this, the eve of that tragic anniversary. I allowed my fingers to describe my sorrows and hopes, my loves and fears, and my loneliness.

I finally stopped, placing my bleeding fingers on the strings to silence their hum. Opening my eyes, I realized that the sun had set long ago and only Varda's stars lit the grassy field. Then I became aware of the people, many people. They were sitting silently around me, many were weeping quietly.

One man stood up, walked towards me, bowed and quietly said “Thank you.” A young couple from the other side then stood and repeated the actions of the first. One by one each member of what had become a large audience who had joined me in my mourning came up to me, said a few words, and left, walking into the darkness. The last three who came to me were Robert Aubrey, and two others he introduced as the President of the School and the Dean of the Music Department. The President merely said, “I think we will consider this concert a most successful job interview. I look forward to our discussion tomorrow morning.” He bowed and stepped back. The Dean and Robert bowed but said nothing. Then the three turned and walked off, leaving me sitting next to the plaque in the ground.

I sat there in the darkness, my cheeks wet from tears I had shed and I felt drained, empty, and so very alone. I stood up, grasped my harp, and walked towards my dark and empty room. That night I dreamed once again of Denis and awoke feeling drowned in sorrow. I was too familiar with that feeling of loss and loneliness. It was the 12th of April, and 50 years earlier my love had died in the knife-like cold waters of the North Sea.

Arising before dawn I walked the short distance to the River Brede. I stood on a bridge that crossed the water and dropped flower petals into the lazy water. It was time to let him go and admit that he would never be by my side again. I finally felt as if I could begin to move on. I would never forget him, but I could begin to cherish the memories of the good times instead of focusing on the pain of his death. I had been offered a job to do something that I truly loved, teaching, and I could concentrate on music which was always my primary means of emotional expression. I could regain my life.

I breathed a small prayer of thanks that I had been allowed to share Denis' life and walked back towards Battle Abbey. I had to start focusing on the positive. I felt that my music and this beautiful location would go far towards helping me rediscover joy. By the time I was in front of the President's door, I was smiling slightly. Yes, I could do this.