Wintersong(36)

Everything was opulent, sumptuous, and excessive. I moved unnoticed among the partygoers, each fitted with a mask shaped like a human face. There was something sad and melancholy about this ghoulish gathering of goblins, playacting like they were humans in the world above. Each mask was modeled after the same face—the men incredibly handsome, the women incredibly beautiful. All the men looked like Hans; all the women looked like Käthe, their faces frozen into bland, personable smiles.

The goblin musicians started another minuet, their twisted hands gripping the oboe, the fife, the violoncello, and the violin awkwardly. The minuet, while adequately performed, sounded stiff and rote. None of the attendees danced, the music too dull to be much inspiration.

It was all wrong. Music of the rational, human mind with its rules and structure was all wrong in the hands of the goblins. It was lifeless, joyless, constrained. It did not breathe, take flight, or live. If only I could have taken their stacks of sheet music, I would have changed the tempo, the key, or else do away with the notes and paper altogether and let the music flow.

My skin prickled, my fingers twitched. I itched to join the musicians, but could not scrub away the hesitation of painful inadequacy that clung to me. I was unheard, uneducated, unpublished. Papa would say I was overreaching myself.

And yet … Papa was not here. Master Antonius was not here. Not even Josef was here. No one would judge me if I walked to the first chair, took his violin, and began to play.

As though sensing my intent, the violinist lifted his head and glanced at me. The goblin musicians were not masked; their queer, puckish faces were made uglier by concentration.

“What, maiden?” the violinist leered. “Think you could do better than me?”

“Yes.” The certainty of my reply surprised me.

My reply certainly surprised the musicians, who immediately stopped playing. I plucked the bow and violin from the first chair’s hands and tucked the instrument beneath my chin. The others gaped at me, but I ignored them. Instead, I touched my bow to the strings and began a simple country air.

A Ländler, instantly recognizable to all assembled in the goblin ballroom. The musicians picked up the beat and the dancers picked up their feet. Once we were comfortable in the music, I began to embroider and expand the piece, adding a harmonic line to the melody. This was a game Josef and I had played when we were children: taking songs we knew and adding harmonies. The harmonies were usually simple thirds, but sometimes they were perfect fifths. This was how my little brother began to teach me the rudiments of theory.

The musicians looked to me once we finished the Ländler. As though they expected me to lead. As though I were the Konzertmeister. I swallowed hard. I had hidden for so long in my brother’s shadow that the light of their regard was almost too much to bear. Then I brought my bow to the strings and picked another song from my childhood, this time a simple canon. I began, then nodded to the flautist, the oboist, and the violoncellist as we played the melody as a round. The goblin musicians were enchanted by the web of sound, their unmasked, puckish faces made uglier with glee.

As we grew accustomed to each other, the musicians and I began to improvise, taking the sounds and turning them inside out, upside down. A game. Music was just a game. Somehow, I had forgotten.

A seed began to unfurl deep within me. Long ago, I had planted my music in the dark places of my soul, away from the light. There was Josef, the gardener of my heart, but not even his gentle encouragement had been enough to coax that little seed into life. I could not let it grow. Not in the world I lived in. Not in the world above. That world needed Liesl, dutiful daughter and protective sister. To let that seed bloom would encourage a weed to grow, choking out the other lives that needed my care.

But now I was free. The music inside grew into a weed, a wildflower, a meadow, a forest. I spread my roots out, feeling the rush in my limbs. My breathing was erratic, my bowing languid.

A bright laugh shattered my concentration. My bow stuttered and stumbled over the string. At once everyone paused, heads turning one by one toward the ballroom entrance. There, atop the great staircase that seemed both carved and grown at once, stood the Goblin King.

With my sister Käthe on his arm.





EYES OPEN

“Liesl!”

My sister found me straightaway. If we had been in the world above, I would have marveled at how quickly she discovered me in this sea of faces. But in the Underground, I understood. I was mortal, and so was she, and here among the goblins, our lives pulsed with intensity. I had sensed Käthe before I saw her.

But even without the telltale beat of our hearts that marked us human, I would have sensed my sister’s presence. Her beauty was polished like a gem, every facet of her sparkling appearance enhanced by the dress she wore, and the aura of glamour about her. Unlike the rest of the ballgoers, dressed in earthen shades and jewel tones, my sister was in summery pastels. She wore a sky-blue gown that shimmered with gold where the light hit it, and her own sunshine curls were piled high atop her head, dressed with pale pink roses and other spring flowers. Her face was powdered and rouged, and she looked like a painting, a portrait, a porcelain china doll.