Novice Concealed: An Excerpt
He probably got lost on the way to his next class, but he didn’t even know what class it was. He stumbled across the room by accident, but some unseen force lured him in, made him walk down the long, dimly lit hall past the rows and rows of seats, made him ascend the stairs to the stage, made him sit down half-consciously on the sturdy oak bench. His fingers automatically reached out and felt the cool soft touch of the smooth white keys. He closed his eyes, wandered in his mind. He was back to somewhere familiar, but he couldn’t see just what yet.
He thought of Swan Lake. He picked out the melody, slowly, one note at a time. Notes morphed gradually to chords, the fingers on his left hand began to wander down the scale, add depth, he gathered speed, gathered intensity. The energy beat to the rhythm around him. He played heart and soul. He could hear the violin harmonizing in the background even though it wasn’t there.
Then he found himself lapsing into just the harmony while the violin emerged, playing the dramatic tune, hauntingly beautiful, sounding more and more real every rendition. He could see the lake, could feel the tension in the air as the poor cursed princess fell in, once again a swan, and the prince called desperately for her to return. He never felt more alive. Before he could so much as draw breath, he finished. His hands jerked from the keys as if they had electrocuted him, and he breathed heavily. That was awesome. He became aware of a strange stinging sensation in his eyes, one he hadn’t consciously felt for years. He hadn’t played piano since before he ruined his mother. It felt good to be free again. And the violin had sounded so real, like her….
He jerked around, startled. The violin was not in his head. It was as real as the girl from dodgeball standing beside him, who held a tiny stringed instrument in her hand looking very much like one.
“It’s called a pochette or kit violin,” she said softly, staring at the ground, “I take it with me everywhere so I can play whenever I need to.”
Silence fell. Oriole continued to stare, still mostly delirious from last night’s panic attacks.
“You play well,” she continued, “I remember when you used to do it before, but it was always joyful then. Now I hear only your pain.”
After a long while, Oriole opened his mouth and said flatly, “You knew me before?”
The girl looked at him, not shocked, but pitying. “Ori,” she said quietly, “It’s me. I was there when it happened.”
The memories swirled faintly back. A knot formed in his stomach—that was a time he wished never happened.
She went on, barely audible, “At your 8th birthday party.”
More silence, then she spoke again, even more gently, if that were possible, “Ori, look at me.”
He didn’t know why he obeyed. He felt inexplicably compelled to. As soon as he did, it registered. He began shivering all over. She was right. He did know her. It was a long time ago, in the life before now. She was from the life he wanted to forget ever existed. She was the best part of that life.
“Harpie?” He breathed in astonishment.
The girl nodded, smiling. “That’s right, Ori. It’s me.”
* * *
Harpie…Harper Collins…the girl next door in Spring Hill, Kansas…the girl who sat entranced in the window sill while he and his mother played sonatas…she, the angel on her grandmother’s violin…he on their dark maple and rosewood piano…“The combination of maple and rosewood is magical,” she had said…she was right…Swan Lake was her favorite….
All these thoughts and more whizzed through Oriole’s head in that one split second of recognition, much like a subway whizzing through a tunnel, each car bringing on the connection that lead to the next. So each thought brought on another, a torrent of memories long, long forgotten that seemed all the more precious for being so.
He couldn’t stay. He must have ran from the dark, stifling room as he wished to flee from his dark, stifling mind, for the next thing he knew, he was blinking in the sunlight, vigorously walking laps around the track. No one was out. It was just him, the sun, and his cascading fruit basket of emotions.