The first of the bass notes come from
my throat. The are long and low, slow and strong. Building in
volume, I stand, the ring of light that is this city around me. I
let my eyes close and feel the simple throb that is the beginning of
the Song of Another.
These notes come and go, rising and
falling away slowly, powerfully. Many bells pass as I wander among
these deep notes, finding almost melodies. Then, they pass into a
silence of just breathing.
A burst of a higher note, mid-scale,
pure and brighter than those from before. I bring it up, then add a
second and third note on top of it. I have reached the chords, and
follow them from the depths to the heights. A laugh, in there,
somewhere, as I feel the Song begin to pull some part of me away,
that pain, that thrill of loss, of lessening.
And more notes. I let each of my three
voices diverge, each one seeking some pattern, some song of its own,
running, meandering, dancing about each other. Occasionally they
come together and make something new, other times seeming not even to
be my voices, but something simply flowing through me from somewhere
else.
I know my body is standing here, above
the city, swaying slightly from foot to foot as I pour all that I
have and all that I am into this most difficult of Songs. The pain
grows from a lurching separation into a dissolving flame, consuming
me, turning my body, my heart, my mind into music just short of
screaming.
And the bells pass. More and more of
them that I am barely aware of. The Song grows frantic at times, and
then peaceful. It is precise, loose, free and bound all together in
one and three voices. It breaks me apart and remakes me, looses me
upon the city and buries me in a single stone. I am flung forth into
the darkness and fall away from the light.
And finally, it is done. I wake, still
standing, still swaying. There is a new Singer out there, somewhere.
Because I have sung.
Hundreds of bells have passed, longer
than I have ever sung before. My throat burns and aches, both with
use and with thirst. My stomach tells me I have not eaten in so long
that it has forgotten to hurt, and can only shake my limbs with
weakness.
I turn and stumble down the stairs to
seek food, water, rest. I am lessened, and in that should find a
balancing moreness, but it is not there. It is never there. We are
made less by this, and I wonder if I shall ever be what I was when I
began, or if I shall fade away like notes on the wind.
471
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