Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Free Prequel

  Acknowldegements

  by Steve Moretti

  Song for a Lost Kingdom

  Book I

  Copyright © 2018 Steve Moretti

  All rights reserved.

  Front Cover Artwork:

  Prabath Wijayantha

  Cover Design:

  Diren Yardimli

  Published by DWA Media

  OTTAWA • CANADA

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  DWA Media

  PO 493

  Richmond, Ontario

  K0A 2Z0

  stevemoretti.ca

  For Pam and Keera

  Prologue

  SCOTLAND, 1746

  KATHARINE’S ONLY CONCERN was for the new life taking hold in her womb. Only yesterday she had felt its first wondrous kick and now it stirred again, as his dirty fingers penetrated her roughly.

  “Ahh,” the drunken Redcoat grunted. “Ye want it, don’t ya bitch?”

  Katharine struggled to break free of his choking hold around her neck. But he only gripped tighter and pushed his thick fingers into her deeper. She felt another tiny kick in her belly as if in response to the gross violation.

  “Stop!” she cried. “You’re hurting the baby!”

  The soldier laughed and withdrew his fingers. “Yer traitor’s bastard?”

  He kept one hand around her throat as he raised the other, showing her the filthy fingers that he had used so horribly inside of her. He brought them to her lips and her stomach wrenched.

  “My brother’s coming.” She gathered all her strength into a warning glare.

  He ignored the threat and shoved two foul fingers into her mouth, feeling around her tongue. “The Captain knows what you’ve done. And with who.” He paused a moment before retracting his fingers to her bottom lip, peeling it down as if he were examining an animal.

  “Yer a strong wench. But I’ll no marry you, like he asked me to.” He let go of her and stood up. “I like your music, and I just want to ride you. My mate wants a turn too.” He started to unbutton his tunic and she knew she had to do something. Her mind was racing.

  Her tone softened. “Can I undress first?”

  He grinned, exposing his jagged brown teeth. “Yeah. Like ta see what I’m getting.” He sat down on the bed and began to remove his boots.

  Katharine looked around to see where she had left her violoncello. She had brought it upstairs after tonight’s performance in the main hall of the Inn. Now it sat in the corner of the room and the bow lay on the table beside it, near a candle that provided the only light. She began to undress, a plan forming in her mind.

  “Come over here wench,” the Redcoat called to her. He lay flat on the bed, his engorged organ standing at attention. “Get on me.”

  She blew out the candle, gathered herself and walked slowly towards the man who waved his organ like a sword, grunting for her. The room was dark with only a faint moon outlining her shape. She came to the bedside, sickening herself with a faltering smile, displaying her bare breasts and crotch to him. As he reached to pull her on top of him, she took the bow from behind her back and in one swift movement, drove the end of it into his right eye.

  He screamed in agony as she jumped away.

  Katharine grabbed her dress off the floor, bolted out the door, down the stairs and out of Culloden House into the cold Scottish night.

  1

  OTTAWA, 2018

  ADEENA STUART TRIED to adjust her eyes against the blinding spotlights. She sat alone with her cello on the main stage of Southam Hall, a monstrous space meant to accommodate the entire National Arts Centre Orchestra. The burning white lights felt like they were searing her corneas. Beads of sweat slithered down her forehead.

  Adeena had thought of nothing else but this audition since she began practicing four months ago. Now she was about to perform, almost blinded and drenched in her own perspiration. How could she possibly handle the two contrasting movements from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 4 in E-flat major if she had to look at the surface of the sun the whole time she was performing? How would she even hold the bow if her hand was dripping wet?

  The curtain in front of her was meant to ensure she would be judged only by her music. But the six-foot high wall of opaque black cloth seemed like its real intention was to separate her from her lifelong ambition of joining the orchestra.

  “How you doing Adeena?”

  The familiar voice jolted her.

  It came from the silhouetted shape of the tall man who walked toward her on stage. Walter Leo was her dad’s oldest and dearest friend. He had arranged this audition for a rare opening in the cello section of the orchestra where he had worked his way up to principal cellist over the past decade.

  “I can’t see anything with those lights!” Adeena whispered, not wanting to be heard by anyone on the other side of the curtain.

  Walter moved closer and touched her shoulder. “Just turn your chair a little and look at me over at the side,” he said softly. “Take a deep breath and play the way we practiced. You’ll be fine Pumpkin, really!”

  Pumpkin. Walter’s nickname for her. Even at twenty-nine it felt good. Maybe it was because her father was the only other person who called her that. She associated it with the classical music that had filled her home as a child, especially when Walter and her father spent spirited evenings deconstructing the tiniest biographic details of renowned composers and their world-shattering compositions.

  Adeena knew the history of the Cello Suites and the theory that Bach’s wife, Anna Magdalena, composed whole sections of it. Walter was certain that Anna was more than just a simple transcriber. This inspired Adeena’s own dreams of composing, which seemed to her to be principally the domain of old dead men. Okay – old, dead and very gifted men.

  “Are you ready?”

  The disembodied request came from the other side of the curtain. Although she could not see his face, she knew it was Friedrich Lang, the orchestra’s temperamental music director and conductor.

  “Yes, I am Sir,” Adeena replied, hoping to project a calm professionalism that would mask the terror she felt inside. “Thank you for this opportunity. I’m very honoured.”

  Her eyes turned to Walter, watching from the side of the stage. He gave her a thumbs-up and a reassuring ‘You can do this!’ smile. She nodded and tried to relax as she realized months of preparation were over.

  It was time to perform.

  More than thirty cellists from around the world, were competing for this one opening with the NAC Orchestra. This was something Adeena dreamt about since she was a kid. Nothing had the potent
ial to alter her life more wondrously, or more devastatingly, than how she performed in the next forty-five minutes.

  “Wait! Just hold on,” the conductor called out from behind the curtain. Adeena was alarmed when she saw two men walk on stage. They lifted the curtain wall up and carried it away, revealing an acre of empty red velvet seats. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I hate that thing,” the tall, sour-faced conductor announced. She knew Lang had a reputation as being unpredictable. The curtain provided anonymity to the candidates, but the music director had final say if it was to be used.

  Was he testing her?

  “It’s fine,” Adeena replied. “Shall I begin?”

  “Please do,” Lang said, looking at his watch.

  Adeena felt her heart thumping softly in her ears, like a personal metronome, as she positioned the cello between her stockinged legs. She presented a fetching sight on stage. Her copper tinged hair cascaded down to her aching shoulder blades, with one curl falling rebelliously over the side of her forehead.

  But this was not about how she looked. It was about the music. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling her heartbeat finally reach a steady rhythm, as if signalling her to begin.

  Very slowly at first, she drew the bow across the strings of her cello, drawing out the first heroic notes of Bach’s grand prelude taking the perfect form she had laboured over with Walter. A pair of E-flat notes, two octaves apart, filled Southam Hall with the rich rumbling timbre of her cello, setting the tone for a continuous flow of warm eighth-note arpeggios that resonated triumphantly. She extended her left hand gracefully as she played in the demanding E-flat key.

  Adeena handled the allemande section with careful pacing in duple rhythm - four beats to a measure. She knew her playing was technically perfect, remembering Walter’s advice. ‘Practice the way you want to perform and perform the way you practice.’ She handled the difficult flowing quaver movement followed by the cadenza with precision and absolute accuracy.

  As Adeena progressed through the series of notes, keeping her elbow raised high to reach the C-string, checking her rhythm and tempo, getting ready for the next thumb position and all of her fingering combinations, she realized she had stopped breathing, something her tutors had warned her not to do when playing a difficult piece.

  Was she that tense? Was she focusing too much on technique?

  Adeena heard Walter again. ‘Feel the cello. Let the sound flow through you.’

  She felt a wave of panic wash over her, before she finally let her breath out completely. She was almost at the end of the prelude now, and the final four-note E-Flat major chord. She finished with a flourish and let her bow drop dramatically to her side.

  Adeena looked up at Walter who seemed pleased, then over to Friedrich Lang, the man who would decide her fate. He showed no expression. Was she hoping he would start clapping with effusive praise and encouragement?

  Nope.

  Lang simply looked again at his watch, and then at the program of selections she was to cover. It was almost time for lunch and he looked like he was hoping this would soon be over.

  AFTERWARD, ONLY WALTER gave her any feedback.

  “Adeena, you belong with us on the stage,” he said, beaming as she packed her cello into its weathered black case. “I almost felt like Anna Magdalena was there, composing through your fingertips. Your playing was flawless!”

  “Really?” she scowled. “Is that why Lang left before I got to my Mozart solo?”

  “The music director . . . he’s hard to read,” Walter said softly. “I’ve known him for a few years now, and I still don’t know what makes that man tick. But I do know this. You can’t let one old conductor stop you from reaching your dreams.”

  She finished packing her cello, bow and sheet music into the old case. She fastened the lid and hoisted it up. “Walter, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just too hard and I don’t have it. Dreams are great for little girls, but I’m almost thirty. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  He leaned in and embraced her. “Don’t talk like that. I’ve watched you since you could barely hold a bow. You’ve always had talent. But you know what matters even more than that, Adeena?”

  He let her go and stepped back. She stared at him with a blank deflated expression.

  “Your playing. It comes from a place deep inside of you, a place most people don’t even have. Don’t give up. Music is who you are.”

  She started to walk away, but he wasn’t done.

  “And you know it.”

  THE BACK OF Tara Kormos’ new Audi A4 convertible was the ideal spot for Adeena’s cello. With the top down, the sporty cabriolet seemed tailor-made for carrying the bulky instrument, the old black case snugly filling most of the beige leather back seats.

  Tara, her boss at the National Gallery, was also her closest friend and advisor on matters of the heart. As Adeena collapsed onto the front seat of the ice silver metallic Audi, she was glad Tara had insisted they keep their hot yoga session, though Adeena had come to work dressed for the audition in high heels and a black chiffon dress. She would be glad to ditch that for her yoga pants and tank top.

  “S-oooooo?” Tara inquired curiously as Adeena settled into the front seat. The brilliant late August sun sparkled off the Rideau Canal behind the National Arts Centre.

  “Drive,” Adeena replied, putting on dark sunglasses to block out the bright sunlight and hopefully, Tara’s impending interrogation.

  AFTER AN INTENSE workout, Adeena finally felt relaxed enough to re-join the human race. She had sweated out all the tension and anxiety from the audition, detoxing the demons of self-doubt with fifty-minutes of high-energy yoga that felt almost metaphysical.

  Following a quick shower, and a change into Capri pants and a summery blouse, she sat with Tara at one of the outdoor cafés in Little Italy. After their sweat fest, the women had no appetite, but they eagerly downed glasses of iced chai tea.

  “So how do you know he doesn’t want you?” Tara finally asked after she emptied her glass.

  “Because Friedrich Lang is an eeeevil man, Miss Tara,” Adeena droned in her best Bela Lugosi voice. “He lives in a dark room and is afraid of the light!”

  “Very funny, Miss Professional Musician Born to Suffer,” Tara responded. They played this game whenever Tara tried to get her to be serious about her career or her love life, or anything else Adeena didn’t want to talk about.

  Adeena looked down at her sandaled toes. She took a long sip of her iced-tea. “I practiced four damn months for a one forty-five minute audition,” Adeena finally said. “You think maybe he could have at least stayed until the end?”

  “Maybe he decided you passed the audition, and he just wanted to get lunch.”

  “Yup. His blood meal, in the basement!” Adeena snorted and shook her head, looking up to the sky and closing her eyes. Tara would never understand the part of Adeena that suffered for the music that felt like it was trapped inside of her, longing for release. Only Walter seemed to have any sense at all of her creative passion that yearned for an outlet.

  Adeena looked at Tara, stylish as usual in her Yves Saint Laurent tortoise shell sunglasses. They were both the same age and had gone to most of the same schools, yet they were worlds apart. Tara’s Greek father Mikos and her Indian mother Pia had given their daughter not only classic beauty – a smooth olive complexion, high cheekbones, long straight black hair and piercing blue eyes – but also a driving work ethos.

  In high school, while Adeena was hanging out with the wrong crowd, starting an avant-garde rock band with her bad-boy boyfriend Kurt, and generally being a jerk, Tara was leading student council, organizing the prom and making sure she graduated as an Ontario Scholar with a 93 percent average. As if that weren’t enough, whenever Adeena fell apart, Tara was always there to pick up the pieces.

  “Dee - you give up too easily,” Tara began with a tone somewhere between motivational lecturer and couns
ellor of the mentally deranged. “You’ve played the cello since, well, since . . . as long as I can remember. I never understood why, but I actually admired how insanely . . . insane you were.”

  “Gee, that’s sweet Tar,” Adeena said, taking a lemon slice from the table to squirt her therapist in the face. Tara ducked, and seemed unfazed.

  “So what’s the deal? You’re giving up because some old guy went for lunch? Is this what you want to do with your life or not Dee?” Tara liked to cut to the chase quickly.

  “I think so, but . . .” Adeena sighed, struggling to finish her thought. “You probably won’t understand this Tar, but - I didn’t choose the cello. It chose me.”

  Tara’s furrowed brow was obvious, even through her giant sunglasses.

  “When I was five I went to my first symphony concert. My parents took me to Montréal and after I watched Maya Beiser’s solo on the cello, I bawled my eyes out for two days.”

  “What?” Tara looked confused. “Um, why?”

  “Because I wanted to be her. That was supposed to be me on stage at Place-des-Arts. And I was only a little kid.”

  Adeena realized she had never told this story to Tara before.

  “My mom was great. She put me in Suzuki music school right after that. But my parents never made me practice. They didn’t need to. My dad would tell me stories about the history of the cello and the composers. When I would start to play a new piece, he would give me the whole story of the composition - the composer, what he went through to write it, when it was first performed, what people said about it, that kind of stuff. I was a junkie for those stories.”

  “And here I thought you were just a snob back then, or maybe really weird at least,” Tara mused. “You always said it was your parents who made you practice. Liar!”