But the thing was, the music was good; Theo had made something beautiful out of a schoolboy joke.
Benedict looked dispassionately at Christ on the cross, wondering again why Christ’s terrible wounds did not touch him. He had promised himself not to experiment, but tentatively he touched his own side. Nothing. Beyond the Close stood a monument to Bishop Hooper, burned to death in 1555. It was as terrible a death as any martyr’s could be. Mary Tudor’s incompetent executioners had needed to rebuild the fire three times. The saintly bishop’s lower half had been consumed while his body was untouched above the waist. Toward the end, the man’s arm had dropped off while he still lived, his other arm stuck to his chest. Yet still he had commended himself to God.
Theo said that clearly Hooper had been long dead by the time his arm fell off, but Benedict had been haunted by Hooper’s death. He often walked by the very spot where Hooper had crackled and blistered, his legs bone and ash, his hair eventually bright with fire like a halo. He could imagine the smell, the blood like dripping molasses, the blackened lips still moving. Could there be anything for which he would die so horribly, Benedict wondered? He doubted even that his own father, an earnest Devonshire vicar, would choose such a public spectacle to defend his beliefs. His father was very keen on private faith, modest worship.
Years ago, Benedict had tried to explain to his father the entwining of colors and music. That, for him, D major was golden brown, A-flat almost magenta; that musical performances were as he imagined the Northern Lights to be. He had known immediately that this revelation was a mistake; from the anxiety that radiated out from his father’s face, he knew there was something shameful about it. His father had busied himself filling and lighting his pipe before lifting his eyes, very briefly, to Benedict’s.
“A gift from God,” he’d said. “A gift from God, undoubtedly. But better not tell your mother.” Benedict had, however, told his sister, Lettie, who touched his arm gently and looked at him with sympathy. For Lettie, the youngest and only other surviving child of the family, everything he did was special.
Benedict looked at the window, the rainbow of music moving between him and the glass rows of saints. He heard copper, which resolved in arcs of silver-white as Theo brought in the odd modal melody with his left hand. Some notes didn’t trigger colors, never had, and none manifested themselves in red, never had; but as the blue returned, his eyes sought the window of St. Catherine and St. John: surely these experiences were God-given? When he had doubts, when he had to search to find any faith at all behind the rituals he had known since childhood, he held on to the beauty he had taken quite for granted as a boy.
He had tried to talk about it to Theo a year or more ago, thinking perhaps that it was not something his father could understand, but that musicians were so accustomed to it that they rarely spoke of it.
“Colored music?” Theo had looked amused and, Benedict sensed, a bit wary, as if his friend might suddenly be going embarrassingly mad. “Like a magic-lantern show?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Benedict had said, as if it was indeed a joke, feeling relieved that he hadn’t mentioned the other thing: the physical pain he felt from injuries that were not his.
“But it does. It obviously does to you,” Theo said, slowly, his eyes narrowing very slightly. “You looked almost matter-of-fact about it as you spoke, and yet now you’re somehow surprised at my reaction.” He paused. “But is this—this thing—this aura or whatever you call it—do you call it anything?—in your mind, or is it outside you?”
Benedict shook his head. “No. It’s real. Real to me,” he corrected. “It’s always been like that.” Was it possible to love someone, yet not trust them, he thought with fear?
“And does it work the other way around? If you saw chrome yellow, would you hear C-sharp or whatever? Would Van Gogh’s Sunflowers deliver you a riot of Chansons d’Auvergne?”
This time Benedict was able to smile. “Afraid not.”
“And it’s not like a fit?”
Benedict stiffened. “No. Nothing like it.”
Theo had put out his hand and squeezed his arm, leaving his hand there for a few seconds. “I’m not saying you’ve got some falling sickness,” he said, “or that you’re infected by some episcopal miasma from the crypt. In fact, it’s probably all very holy.” And then, and Benedict’s heart had sunk, “I won’t tell a soul. You’re a rum chap, but your secret’s safe with me.”
Benedict vowed never to mention it to anyone again. Perhaps it was from God; perhaps it was from the devil.