Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The music was so beautiful. Vague, complex tones that were not really tones, rhythms that made your heart try to keep time. Peter sat at his piano, on a wooden platform in the clearing. The moonless forest encircled him under a halo of stars, but the brightest light came from Peter's hands. He felt great joy watching them now, much more than ever before, when weeks of practice might not yield a single magic moment.

The keyboard blossomed into a black and white kaleidoscope. He could see it with his fingers. His soul controlled those notes directly now. Holly had explained it to him, but the technical side had slipped right by. No matter. All Peter cared about was that it let him create this music, any time he wanted. He was good at it. His talent had been an uncut diamond. His hands moved so incredibly fast, there was hardly time to realize what would come out next.

The audience in silence sat around him. Every time he started to play, they came to circle his clearing, as a tribe might ring a fire on a cold night. Their faces reflected the light from his hands. Intent to catch each note he played, they gave him their attention, and in return he didn't ask for anything but a chance to give them music.

Leaving his hands playing, leaving his body altogether, Peter stood in the forest behind the backs of those who were his audience. Silently he moved among them, towards the light in the clearing. They paid no attention to his shadowy figure. Their profiles were turned to the musician on the stage.

Like a stooping beggar watches wealthy passers-by, or an old scientist observes a rabbit, Peter picked his way through the listeners, peering at them, those who were his people. Here a sudden breath, there a smile, or a mouth opened by concentration, all reactions to the twists and turns of his performance. Young girls, lips parted, feeling what he played, old men with sharp ears, measuring his talent, his technique, people finding peace from hearing him sweep on without a doubt or inhibition through the incredible passages of his improvisation.

The music was increasing in fervor, the rhythm steady, pulsing through the forest, people leaning and swaying to the music. Peter felt himself rolling back and forth, as if he were pushed by waves of sound, as if the branches had grabbed him by the shoulders, and were shaking him to his own music.

"Peter. Come on, Peter. Come out of it."

Mara had a firm hold on his arm, just above where the feeder was attached. She shook him again. He was so pale, and his breathing was barely there. His bony shoulders were weak and limp, his skin was cold. He jerked and muttered something. His eyes opened suddenly and his mouth hung open. Mara released her grip.

"Peter." His expression didn't change. "Peter, it's me, Mara." His eyes half blinked, then narrowed. "Do you know who I am?" Peter's face slacked, as if he were trying to remember. "Peter, it's me."

"Do you knowoo..." he struggled for a second and then gazed straight at her. "What are you doing here?"

His mouth slowly fell open again at the end of the sentence. He looked away, and his expression went completely blank.

"I think you can understand what I'm saying," Mara continued. With one hand she opened the little compartment in the side of the couch and inserted the circuit she had been carrying.

"You've got to try to listen. I'm leaving. I'm going to Backdoor. There's very little chance that I will ever return. There is something you should know. The people in the medium are created for you, conjured up to isolate you, to keep you controlled."

"You're leaving..." Perhaps he hadn't heard anything else.

"Yes, but that's not important," she continued. "There's only one thing that matters. You have to pull yourself out. Try to locate some of the people you think you know. Find out where they really live. Send for them. Bring them here. Sit with them. See them with your eyes. Touch them with your hands. If they really exist, so much the better. You can tell them what we've found out about the medium. Maybe it's not too late to start resisting.

"But more likely what you'll find is that they are not real. You've got to find out, Peter. It's your last chance."

The blurred face with the crystal center finally stopped making noises long enough for his mind to stop reeling.

"What about you?" he blurted. "Are you real?" He winced at the whine in his voice. The face went further out of focus. "You..." Words. He wanted them to flow out like a melody. "Get out of here!"

"Peter. It's important that you not tell anyone that I was here, or that I'm leaving for Backdoor. Will you do that for me?"

The jumbled voice sounded panicky, begging. Now she needed him. Well, he didn't need her any more. Even now the voice was fading. Goodbye, voice. The privacy of his forest surrounded him. His piano was before him in the dark. Those same hands, that keyboard which had no feelings for him. He struck out at the keys, one chord, those magic fingers that always seemed to know what notes to play. Again he hit the chord, like a cage slammed shut whose bars were fingers.

From the edge of the forest faces appeared. His audience stepped out into the clearing. Peter did not play. He stood up on his little wooden stage and looked around at the people he had chosen. They, too, were standing and seemed to come closer in a circle around him.

Who was that?

Their eyes were hollow, intent. Their voices in unison.

WHO WAS THAT?

"Mara. It was Mara. She came..." He was not to tell that she was leaving.

"She is leaving."

The circle was now of faces only, close to him, but distant too, through eyes that glowed and teeth that showed all through the night's reflection.

Where is she going?

WHERE IS SHE GOING?

"To Backdoor!" he screamed. "She's going to Backdoor." Peter fell down to his knees on the platform, breathing heavily, and closed his eyes.

"She is going to Backdoor."

He reached out an open hand towards the people around him. His people. He didn't want to look at them any more or hear their voices. He wanted to touch them. He wanted them to come to him and hold him in peace, in silence.

There were no voices anymore, no sounds at all except the forest night. Then a hand touched his, a single hand that knew his hand. Peter looked up to find just one person in his forest. Mara was kneeling by his side. She was smiling through tears, shivering, wise and radiant, and so young. He wrapped a blanket around them both. The stars were poking through the mist and they were alone together.

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