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Dec. 18th, 2004 11:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theravenboy“You have not practiced, bachgen.” John Rowlands’ dark eyes are solemn, piercing.
Bran’s fingers jerk on the harp; it lets out a discordant noise before Bran lifts them hastily.
“I would say nothing,” Rowlands continues, “except that weeks it has been, and you still do not want the music.” After a slow, meditative pause, he adds, “And your father says the house has never been cleaner, these last few weeks.”
The silence grows, punctuated only by logs crackling in the fireplace. At last Bran raises his eyes to John’s. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
Rowlands casts another shrewd look at Bran. “Mrs Evans sent me some excellent biscuits, yesterday, and there’s water boiling on the stove. The lesson can wait.”
The kitchen is warm and well-lit. Bran accepts a biscuit and tea, and eats slowly, to avoid having to speak.
“A strange thing, music,” Rowlands says when Bran’s mouth is full. “Frightening, sometimes. Gwion Bach stopped a war with a song, once.”
Bran chokes on the biscuit.
Rowlands appears to ignore his consternation. “Of course, it could also be used to start wars, I suppose.”
Bran swallows and speaks rapidly. “How can you deal with that power?”
Rowlands sips tea before responding. “You watch the place in you where the music comes from. You remember the love, and the hatred, and all the things in you that pour into the music, and you take care that they emerge only when you are ready.” He pauses. “And you keep playing, Bran bach, that’s all.”
Bran drinks the rest of his cup and stands up at last. “Back to the lesson, then?”
In the firelit music room, Bran plays through the Bach movement he’s been supposed to practice: carefully, this time, attentively.
A smile cracks Rowlands’ lined face. “Now, bachgen, play what it is you’ve been wanting to play, but afraid to.”
Bran jumps. “How did you… not fair, the things you know.”
“Play, bachgen.”
Bran takes a deep breath and begins the high, strange melody that carries him to Milliways.
Bran’s fingers jerk on the harp; it lets out a discordant noise before Bran lifts them hastily.
“I would say nothing,” Rowlands continues, “except that weeks it has been, and you still do not want the music.” After a slow, meditative pause, he adds, “And your father says the house has never been cleaner, these last few weeks.”
The silence grows, punctuated only by logs crackling in the fireplace. At last Bran raises his eyes to John’s. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
Rowlands casts another shrewd look at Bran. “Mrs Evans sent me some excellent biscuits, yesterday, and there’s water boiling on the stove. The lesson can wait.”
The kitchen is warm and well-lit. Bran accepts a biscuit and tea, and eats slowly, to avoid having to speak.
“A strange thing, music,” Rowlands says when Bran’s mouth is full. “Frightening, sometimes. Gwion Bach stopped a war with a song, once.”
Bran chokes on the biscuit.
Rowlands appears to ignore his consternation. “Of course, it could also be used to start wars, I suppose.”
Bran swallows and speaks rapidly. “How can you deal with that power?”
Rowlands sips tea before responding. “You watch the place in you where the music comes from. You remember the love, and the hatred, and all the things in you that pour into the music, and you take care that they emerge only when you are ready.” He pauses. “And you keep playing, Bran bach, that’s all.”
Bran drinks the rest of his cup and stands up at last. “Back to the lesson, then?”
In the firelit music room, Bran plays through the Bach movement he’s been supposed to practice: carefully, this time, attentively.
A smile cracks Rowlands’ lined face. “Now, bachgen, play what it is you’ve been wanting to play, but afraid to.”
Bran jumps. “How did you… not fair, the things you know.”
“Play, bachgen.”
Bran takes a deep breath and begins the high, strange melody that carries him to Milliways.
