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Sep. 5th, 2005 08:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theravenboyThe overture of Benjamin Britten's Suite for Harp is a very challenging piece, with irregular rhythms and surprising, otherworldly chords. His brow furrowed in concentration, Bran Davies plays it through once on John Rowlands' large floor harp, pausing occasionally to repeat some of the more difficult phrases.
"Very good," says John Rowlands when Bran is done, "but you must watch your counting, and your fingering is sometimes not what I would have chosen. Continue on the suite for next week. Now, what will you play from your repertoire?"
After some recent conversations, Bran knows exactly what he must play now. He bends his head over the instrument and starts into the patterned arpeggios of the first movement of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, transposed for harp. Eyes closed, he moves through the chord progressions in their mathematically proper order. The movement is a hymn to reason and logic, to Enlightenment conceptions of humanity holding and protecting its world.
When Bran finishes off the last C-major chord, the room is silent except for the fire crackling in the fireplace. John Rowlands says nothing, but a smile grows on his weathered face.
Bran looks up from the harp, shaking himself out of the song.
"You have done very well, bachgen," John says gently. "Come and have some tea and biscuits now."
The conversation in John Rowlands' neat kitchen moves easily from school politics to ancient tales and back again. Bran is starting his second cup of tea when he asks, without preamble, "Does my da have a temper?"
John's face crinkles in curiosity, and he looks piercingly at Bran. "Now, what brought that into your head, I wonder?" He finishes his own cup and pours a second, dark and cloudy with the dregs of the tea. "No, you don't have to tell me, Bran. It's all right." John swallows some of the bitter tea.
"Your da's temper is down deep, it is. Down under all the rules of behavior, under all the things your chapel says about what to do and what not to... yes, Owen Davies has a temper, and a wild one. Of course it is so controlled that it only comes up once in twenty years... but when it does, it is very, very dangerous."
"Oh." Bran processes this with the help of one of Jen Evans' shortbread pieces. "What happened, that once in twenty years?"
John thinks for a long time before answering. "I do not know how much of this story you have heard before, or from whom. It will not be easy to tell, or to listen to. Are you sure that you want me to tell you?"
"Yes." Firmly.
"It was when your mother was here," John says quietly. "Caradog Prichard tried to lay hands on her. Do you understand me?"
Bran sits rigidly in his chair, running the first few measures of the Well-Tempered Clavier in his mind. He has heard that much before, but it hurts to hear it spoken again. "Yes."
John acknowledges him with a nod. "Owen Davies came in and found them. He went mad, Bran. I found them soon after, and if I had not pushed your da off Caradog Prichard's throat, I do not think Prichard would have lived."
"Oh," Bran says again, very quietly. The muscles in his face relax in sudden, all-encompassing relief.
John Rowlands watches Bran, his eyes warm in sympathetic understanding. "All right there, boyo? Good. Take some shortbread home to your da for me."
"Diolch yn fawr," Bran says softly before helping John clear the table.
"Very good," says John Rowlands when Bran is done, "but you must watch your counting, and your fingering is sometimes not what I would have chosen. Continue on the suite for next week. Now, what will you play from your repertoire?"
After some recent conversations, Bran knows exactly what he must play now. He bends his head over the instrument and starts into the patterned arpeggios of the first movement of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, transposed for harp. Eyes closed, he moves through the chord progressions in their mathematically proper order. The movement is a hymn to reason and logic, to Enlightenment conceptions of humanity holding and protecting its world.
When Bran finishes off the last C-major chord, the room is silent except for the fire crackling in the fireplace. John Rowlands says nothing, but a smile grows on his weathered face.
Bran looks up from the harp, shaking himself out of the song.
"You have done very well, bachgen," John says gently. "Come and have some tea and biscuits now."
The conversation in John Rowlands' neat kitchen moves easily from school politics to ancient tales and back again. Bran is starting his second cup of tea when he asks, without preamble, "Does my da have a temper?"
John's face crinkles in curiosity, and he looks piercingly at Bran. "Now, what brought that into your head, I wonder?" He finishes his own cup and pours a second, dark and cloudy with the dregs of the tea. "No, you don't have to tell me, Bran. It's all right." John swallows some of the bitter tea.
"Your da's temper is down deep, it is. Down under all the rules of behavior, under all the things your chapel says about what to do and what not to... yes, Owen Davies has a temper, and a wild one. Of course it is so controlled that it only comes up once in twenty years... but when it does, it is very, very dangerous."
"Oh." Bran processes this with the help of one of Jen Evans' shortbread pieces. "What happened, that once in twenty years?"
John thinks for a long time before answering. "I do not know how much of this story you have heard before, or from whom. It will not be easy to tell, or to listen to. Are you sure that you want me to tell you?"
"Yes." Firmly.
"It was when your mother was here," John says quietly. "Caradog Prichard tried to lay hands on her. Do you understand me?"
Bran sits rigidly in his chair, running the first few measures of the Well-Tempered Clavier in his mind. He has heard that much before, but it hurts to hear it spoken again. "Yes."
John acknowledges him with a nod. "Owen Davies came in and found them. He went mad, Bran. I found them soon after, and if I had not pushed your da off Caradog Prichard's throat, I do not think Prichard would have lived."
"Oh," Bran says again, very quietly. The muscles in his face relax in sudden, all-encompassing relief.
John Rowlands watches Bran, his eyes warm in sympathetic understanding. "All right there, boyo? Good. Take some shortbread home to your da for me."
"Diolch yn fawr," Bran says softly before helping John clear the table.
