Ring of Fire II Page 28

  "I'm not afraid," Marla finally explained. "I'm angry. No, I'm beyond anger—I'm furious." She pulled away from him, crossed her arms, and stared at the floor for long moments. She finally looked up with a crooked smile. "You might as well know, I guess. You would have found out sooner or later. When I was fourteen, I was nearly raped in the back seat of a school bus. If my brother hadn't missed me and come looking for me . . . well, it wouldn't have been good. He kicked the guy out of the bus, and then beat him to a pulp." She brooded for a time, staring at the floor. Franz didn't know what to say, so he decided that the course of wisdom was to say nothing and wait. Finally, Marla heaved a sigh. "Afterwards, I swore I wouldn't let that happen again, and learned a few things from Dan Frost and Frank Jackson. I hoped I would never need it, but . . ." another sigh, ". . . as Reverend Jones keeps saying, nowhere in the Bible does it say that life is fair." She turned to Franz with a fierce expression. "I wanted to hurt him. I wanted very much to hurt him very badly." Her voice took on a plaintive tone. "But, he hadn't actually hurt me, and he was ignorant. And what would it have accomplished, except to change the way you looked at me? I wouldn't chance that," her voice broke.

  Franz once more took Marla in his arms. There were no words that he could say; all he could offer was the comfort of his presence. As his arms encircled her, her arms in turn went around him and delivered a ferocious hug. They stood thus for some time, sheltered by their friends.

  They all turned as the rear door opened again.

  Gunther found Marla and Franz standing near the door in a semi-circle of their friends. She had her hands in her jeans pockets, and his arm was around her shoulder. Her expression was calm . . . remote, even, but the fire in Franz's eyes was a match for that in Gunther's. Franz dropped his arm and took a step forward, saying with an understandable bitterness, "Is this how you protect her?"

  Gunther felt a twist in his gut. He took a deep breath as Marla laid her hand on Franz's shoulder. "The fool was no one, an idiot who had just arrived in Magdeburg and had never seen American women. There was no real danger to Fraulein Linder. I regret that what happened, happened, but it will not happen again."

  "You . . ." Franz began.

  "Franz, enough," Marla interrupted. He turned his hot gaze on her, but she simply repeated, "Enough." Gunther watched as the anger drained, as the fire died away in Franz's eyes, leaving only a young man with worry and nascent grief on his face. She reached up to brush his hair back; he caught her hand and held it against his cheek for a moment.

  "I couldn't stand it . . ." Franz murmured.

  "I know."

  They stood in a silent tableau for a moment, then Marla dropped her hand and turned to Gunther. She eyed him expectantly. "I won't see him again, will I." It wasn't a question.

  Gunther smiled thinly. "No. He is being escorted out of town, alive and unmarked," he held up both hands, "but chastened, and with a clear understanding that he is no longer welcome in Magdeburg."

  "Thank you," Marla said quietly.

  Gunther hesitated, then finally asked the question that had been in the front of his mind ever since the whole scenario had begun. "Fraulein Linder, what . . . what did you do to him?"

  She stepped up to him. "This." Swift as a serpent, her hand flashed to his throat. His eyes widened as he felt her thumb and middle finger snap into the little hollows on each side of his larynx and begin to squeeze. The strength in those fingers was undeniable. He couldn't talk; he struggled to breathe, he felt the cartilage begin to creak. Just as a flutter of panic began to make itself felt, she released her hold and stepped back.

  Gunther rubbed his throat, coughed experimentally and decided that things were where they belonged. "Fraulein Linder . . ." he said as she started to turn away.

  "Call me Marla, Gunther."

  He wondered why the brief smile flashed across Franz's face, but continued on with, "Would you sing the song for us?"

  Franz was almost astounded at the nerve of Gunther Achterhof. To ask Marla to sing after such a thing happening! He opened his mouth to let the man know that, regardless of who he was, he had no right to ask Marla to sing for him or anyone else right now. Before he could speak, he heard Marla say, "Yes."

  "Marla!" Now Franz was truly shocked.

  "It's okay, Franz," she said. "Tonight I need it just as much as they do." The level stare from her blue eyes and the firm tone told him that it would be fruitless to argue further, so he sighed and followed her and their friends back to their table.

  During the summer, as their circle of friends had performed the Irish music at the Gardens and elsewhere, they noticed that the members of the Committee of Correspondence quickly developed a real affinity for the Irish songs of rebellion. "The Rising of the Moon" became one of their favorites, and they would roar the words right along with Marla or Isaac as they sang. But there was another song that they asked for, over and over again. It got to the point that they just began asking for "The Song." It was one of those for which Marla had adapted the lyrics. It wasn't one of the bouncy, catchy ones; in fact, it was rather grim. They would never sing along with it, but every time they heard it, the CoC people seemed to condense and become almost all edge. Now, as Marla, Isaac and Rudolf readied themselves, the people of Magdeburg were about to hear for the first time what seemed to have become the CoC's anthem.

  Isaac led off with a haunting line on his violin, almost a quiet wail. The room grew deathly still. Marla opened her mouth, and began to sing.

  I sat within the valley green,

  I sat me with my true love.

  My sad heart strove the two between,

  The old love and the new love.

  The old for her, the new

  That made me think on Deutschland dearly.

  While soft the wind blew down the glade

  And shook the golden barley.

  Despite the softness of her tone, Marla's voice was very intense. It reached throughout the room, filling every nook and cranny, and it seemed to cast a spell. All were still. No one moved. No one did more than barely breathe. All in the room were focused on the tall young woman singing with the flute, violin and harp underlying her voice, pouring her heart and her talent and all of her emotions into the song.

  'Twas hard the woeful words to frame

  To break the ties that bound us.

  But harder still to bear the shame

  of foreign chains around us.

  And so I said, the mountain glen

  I'll meet at morning early.

  I'll join the bold united men,

  While soft winds shook the barley.

  Earlier in the evening, Marla's voice had been warm, even inviting. Now, as she sang "The Song," it was just almost serene, with a purity of tone that was almost angelic, yet raising neck hairs all over the room. Franz shivered a little, knowing what was coming next.

  'Twas sad I kissed away her tears,

  My fond arms round her flinging,

  When a foeman's shot burst on our ears

  From out the wild woods ringing.

  A bullet pierced my true love's side

  In life's young spring so early.

  And on my breast in blood she died,

  While soft winds shook the barley.

  A note of loss and grief had crept into Marla's voice, and almost they could hear the keening for the dead. By the end of the verse she sounded so forlorn that, despite himself, despite knowing the song intimately, Franz felt tears welling up in response.

  The first two lines of the last stanza were snarled, and several of the hearers jumped.

  But blood for blood without remorse

  I've taken at Oulart Hollow.

  The second two lines were sung quietly again, almost meditatively, but again with a forlorn note.

  I've lain my true love's clay cold corpse

  Where I full soon must follow.

  Marla was giving the finest performance of this song that Franz had ever heard; far surpassing the recorded version
she had learned it from. The final lines were so poignant, and Marla invested them with so much grief, that his heart ached within him.

  Around her grave I've wandered drear,

  Noon, night, and morning early,

  With breaking heart whene'er I hear

  The wind that shakes the barley.

  No one stirred. No applause was given. Finally, through the moisture in his eyes, Franz saw Gunther give Marla a salute and slip out of the tavern.

  Friday, October 21, 1633

  Marla hammered out the final chords of the "Revolutionary Etude," bringing it to a driving finish. She held the final chord for a long moment, then released the keys and sat back on the bench, smiling. "Well," she said to herself—or so she thought—"that wasn't too bad."

  "I agree."

  Gasping, she sat bolt upright and twisted on the bench, only to recognize Mary Simpson seated in a chair some distance behind her in the great room. "You startled me!"

  Mary laughed. "Marla, my dear, I could have come in the door with clashing cymbals and you wouldn't have heard me. I don't think I've ever seen anyone focus like you do when you play."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Let's see . . . I believe I came in during the middle of the Waltz in C# Minor, and after that I heard the 'Moonlight Sonata' and the 'Revolutionary Etude.' All of which, I might add, were performed very well."

  Marla blushed a little. "Thank you."

  The other woman stood, walked over to the piano and leaned against it. "So," she said, "have you decided on your program yet?"

  "I think so . . . the instrumental part of it, anyway."

  "And what are you considering?"

  Marla began ticking off her fingers, beginning with the thumb. "For the flute, the first movement of the Spring concerto of Vivaldi's The Seasons."

  "Good," Mary nodded.

  "For the piano, Bach—either the Little Fugue in G or 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.' "

  "Umm, I think maybe the Jesu would be the better choice, but I wouldn't argue with either one. What's next?"

  "Piano, Mozart—first movement of 'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,' " ticking off the index finger.

  "The transcription I heard the other day? Excellent! Next?"

  The middle finger was ticked for "Piano, Beethoven—first movement of the 'Moonlight Sonata.' "

  Mary frowned. That frown caused Marla to tense a little. "I agree the program needs Beethoven," Mary said slowly, "but I'm not sure that's the best piece to use. It's beautiful, of course, and you did an excellent job of playing earlier, but I'm afraid it's too still, too placid for the audience you're going to have. You risk losing their attention with that one. Hmmm, do you know 'Für Elise'?"

  "I have the music for it, but I haven't played it in quite some time." Marla attempted to hide her reluctance, but Mary noticed.

  "Marla, I'm really not trying to be patronizing. You are the artist, not me, and you know best at this point what you can play." Mary straightened to her full height. "But, I know these people, and I'm telling you that 'Moonlight Sonata' would be a mistake for this program. Later, after you've raised their understanding of music, they will appreciate the elegance of it. Now, they would just consider it simple, and would tune it out. You would lose them, and probably not regain their attention. For your first recital, and the first program of the music we—sorry, not we, but you—have to offer, you really can't risk that. If you don't like 'Für Elise,' then find something comparable that you like that you can work up quickly."

  The older woman stared steadily at Marla as she worked through everything that Mary had just told her. She didn't like anyone telling her what she could play, but Mary was right . . . she didn't know these people. And, truth to tell, since she had never performed a recital like this at all, she really didn't have any experience of her own to guide her. It took several moments before Marla came to the conclusion that Mary was the closest thing to a mentor she had right now. Mary's experience in the world of music and the arts, although not that of a performer, was so much wider than her own, particularly in the area of production. It would be at best foolish, and at worst suicidal to ignore her advice at this stage of her career.

  Decision made, Marla gave one firm nod. "I can polish up 'Für Elise' fairly quickly."

  Mary smiled. "Good. You won't be sorry for the change."

  "For the final piano piece," Marla resumed her program list, "I considered something by Mendelssohn, one of the 'Songs Without Words,' perhaps, but I finally decided to do one of the Chopin pieces."

  "Do you have a preference?"

  Marla grinned. " 'Revolutionary Etude,' of course."

  "Good choice," Mary replied, her own smile broadening.

  Marla set her hands back on the keys and began doodling a little, feeling good about what they had just worked out, and likewise feeling good about how her relationship with Mary seemed to be developing. When she first arrived several days ago, she was somewhat uncertain about how to react to Mary Simpson. She had heard all the stories about the Simpsons, and even though they seemed to have changed, those stories had worried her a little. Too, arriving the way she did hadn't done anything to bolster her self-confidence, either. But Mary seemed willing to give her room and not dictate her every move. She could live with that, she decided.

  Looking up, she said, "Tell me something . . ."

  Mary raised her eyebrows. "All right."

  "Why is the piano here? In the Weaver guild hall, I mean."

  "Basically, politics," Mary responded with a laugh.

  "Politics?" Even to her own ear, Marla sounded as confused as she felt.

  "Not national politics, dear. Community politics, the kind I used to see in Pittsburgh all the time."

  "Umm . . ."

  "What happened," Mary explained, "was that word got around that I was bringing you and the piano to Magdeburg, and that you would be giving a concert. Well, that immediately started a spirited competition to see who would get to host you. Several of the guilds and even a couple of the wealthy burgomeisters made offers."

  "So how did the weavers win?"

  Mary grinned wickedly. "First of all, they had the nicest room. That gave them an advantage . . . although I didn't tell them that, of course. Second, they trumped everyone else by offering to pay for all the costs to relocate the piano and to support you and the others for six months. I didn't even have to prompt them; they gave that offer on their own initiative. Of course, I didn't tell them how much they overbid the others, either."

  "Of course," Marla murmured, continuing with her doodling.

  "It's a fair trade. We got what we needed to get you here and get you established, and they get a major prestige boost of the finest kind." Mary sat up straight, as if something had jabbed her. "Oh, by the way, dear, you may be sharing the billing. I've been trying to get Maestro Frescobaldi to come here from Florence."

  "Italy?" Marla was astounded.

  "Of course, Italy, dear. If we can bring him here and introduce him to our modern music, he could be an influential force in spreading the information and the techniques."

  "Um, wow." Marla had moved from astounded to stunned. "I'm, uh . . . are you sure about that? I mean, about me being in the same recital as someone like Frescobaldi?"

  "Of course, dear. You have the talent, and you have music that no one else can play or sing. Besides, it's not even definite yet that he can or will come. The Medicis may very well refuse him permission to leave their court."

  Marla decided she had too much to do to worry about Frescobaldi right now. She began playing through part of the Jesu piece. After a few measures, she asked, "How long do I have to finish drawing up the vocal part of the program?"

  "I'm leaving for Grantville soon, and I'll be gone for a while. I'd say until about November fifteenth. We have to have time to write and print the programs, if nothing else. Among other things, I'm working with Elizabeth Matowski to fund a performance of The Nutcracker."

  "Elizabe
th Matow . . ." Marla began, confused, but suddenly the light dawned. "Oh, you mean Bitty!"

  "Bitty?" Mary was now confused in her own right.

  "Oh, nobody calls her by her name. She's gone by Bitty for years."

  "Is that short for Elizabeth?"

  Marla laughed. "Nobody knows what it stands for. She won't say. But, she's pretty attached to that name. Somebody called her 'Bitsy' one day, and she tore into him and chewed him up one side and down the other.