Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  There was also a gaggle of local and national politicians, including the mayor of Ottawa, a proud Scot apparently, who arrived in full Highland attire, towing a group of TV cameraman and newspaper photographers behind him. Perfect! Tara thought. A photo of him and the Duncan Cello would hopefully grace the front page of the morning papers, maybe show up on the late-night TV newscasts as well, and course make for great social media feeds.

  Tara looked around to see if the NAC conductor, Friedrich Lang, had arrived. He had accepted her invitation and she was curious to see if Adeena’s description of him as fire-breathing dragon was accurate. She noticed a stern-looking, grey-haired man making his way through the group toward her. She studied him carefully. Maybe Adeena was right to be afraid of this old German. Where did he get his training? The KGB?

  “Ladies and Gentleman, I would like to present the star of the show,” André called out, directing everyone to focus their attention towards him. He stood beside the Duncan Cello, shimmering in the spotlights, and floating in mid-air above a stone podium, as if held aloft by unseen forces. The tiny black piano wires that created the illusion of the cello floating in mid-air, were completely invisible, and Tara again admired the effect.

  “The cello you see here, has never been exhibited outside of Scotland,” André continued. “It was built by Robert Duncan of Abeerdeen, more than two-hundred-and-seventy years ago in his workshop. He learned his craft from an Italian, some of you may have heard of before, the young Antonnio Stradiveri.”

  There was a murmur as everyone tried to move a little closer toward the cello suspended before them.

  “I would ask that you not touch the instrument please. We’ve come up with a unique way of presenting it but do keep in mind what your mother told you: ‘If you break it, you bought it.’ And I’m not sure if you have five-million dollars available on your credit card!” he joked with a grin.

  There was some laughter and a female news photographer moved in, looking for a dramatic angle to best capture the instrument that seemed to levitate before her. As Tara admired the proceedings, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Nice work mademoiselle!” It was Philippe, dressed for the occasion in a crisp black suit and sky blue tie.

  “Hey! You made it!” she exclaimed, turning to him. He leaned in to give her a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

  “Bien-sûr!” he responded. “You pulled out all the stops. Quite a gathering of Bytown snobs!”

  “But of course,” Tara smiled. “Dee does her thing, and I do mine. We’re not just pretty faces you know!”

  “And what’s wrong with a pretty face?” Philippe grinned.

  Tara felt a flush warming her cheeks. Before she could respond, Friedrich Lang approached them.

  “Ms. Kormos,” he began stiffly. “Thank-you for the invitation. Remarkable display.”

  “Thank-you maestro,” Tara responded. She pointed to Philippe standing beside her. “Do you know Philippe Lévesque, from the Ottawa Citizen?

  Philippe, extended his hand. “Mr. Lang,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me? I interviewed you when you first came to Ottawa.”

  The conductor did not appear to remember. His expression was somewhat puzzled as he gingerly shook Philippe’s hand. “Oh? Really?” He paused a moment. “Very nice to meet you, again.”

  “Thank you. My girlfriend, Adeena Stuart, is excited to be working with you,” Philippe responded. Tara watched to see how Lang would respond to this. Again, a puzzled look washed over him.

  “Adeena?” Lang asked. “Your girlfriend?” He paused, looking at the Duncan Cello with interest. He continued without taking his eyes off the instrument, speaking in a distracted manner. “She’s a very talented young lady. I believe she may go far, performing with the . . . the symphony.”

  His words trailed off as he seemed captured by the Duncan Cello. He studied it carefully. Another photo-op flashed through Tara’s mind. “Maestro, let’s take a closer look!”

  FRIEDRICH LANG HAD an odd feeling as he moved towards the Duncan Cello.

  There was a sense he had, adjusting his glasses, that there was something wrong. The object the shallow Canadian bourgeoisie gathered here were fawning over, in their typical stupidity, somehow did not seem to be the same one he had seen in his studio.

  He inspected it carefully, removing his glasses and taking a closer look, shaking his head the entire time.

  The young lady who had introduced herself to him when he arrived as Tara Kormos from the National Gallery and who also happened to be the boss of his new cellist, Adeena Stuart, stepped up beside him.

  “I sometimes wonder about all the musicians who have played this instrument over the years,” she said to him, interrupting his forensic inspection. She moved closer, together with the annoying journalist. “Don’t you think it must have quite a story to tell?”

  “Yes, indeed it certainly would,” he replied. He noticed that Tara had dragged along a photographer and a TV cameraman with her. She knows how to play the game, he thought. He had an idea.

  “It would make a very good picture if you would let me, Ms. Kormos, play something on this instrument,” he suggested. “Just for the cameras of course, something very short.”

  He watched to see how she would react. He could tell she was a sly administrator from the way her eyebrows raised at his suggestion, while she maintained a smile and considered his offer.

  “That would make good TV,” she responded. “Wait here for a minute. Let me get it down for you.”

  WHEN FRIEDRICH FINALLY got his hands on the precious instrument a few minutes later, his suspicions were all but confirmed. It seemed highly unlikely this was the Duncan Cello.

  It was partly the wood grain. From what he could see it just seemed wrong. And also the schnecke, or the ‘scroll’ as his English-speaking colleagues referred to it, made him look twice and then a third time. The scroll was the delicate carving at the end of the neck of the cello. Its main purpose was simply decorative, but this one too perfect. When Adeena had passed out in his office a week ago, he had studied the old instrument she had brought with her. He wanted to see for himself what made it so valuable. He had traced his fingers over the scroll and examined it closely, noticing the scar and nicks, the way the varnish had weathered, with a little black blob of it stuck inside one of its grooves.

  Now as he stood smiling beside Miss Kormos, holding the bow she had brought him, thoughts raced through his mind. The scroll of this instrument, lacked the blobs of varnish, like someone had wanted to remove these blemishes, but he knew that would be almost impossible unless the scroll had been replaced.

  He brought his bow across the strings and swept across them slowly. The sound was not even close. It lacked depth, tone and the haunting, sombre richness that moved him so deeply in his studio.

  As his short recital proceeded, captured by the cameras, he realized this was good publicity for his own work. But was he right? Was the real Duncan Cello somewhere else? After he finished and took a short bow, he turned to thank the Gallery administrator.

  “You are absolutely correct Ms. Kormos. Indeed, the Duncan Cello would have had a grand history,” Lang said coyly.

  “Would have?” she repeated.

  Friedrich wasn’t sure what was happening here. He was almost certain though, the instrument he just played was not the Duncan Cello.

  “Excuse me, madam,” he smiled. “Sometimes my English, is, well - it’s not my first language.”

  “Oh maestro, your English is great!” she responded. “I have heard so much about you from Adeena. You know, she did all the research for the exhibit before she left.” She paused for a moment and then added, “She’s trying so hard to impress you!”

  Friedrich looked at her blankly. “Left? What do you mean?”

  “She’s gone up to her parent’s cottage to practice. I’ve known Adeena since we were kids. She’s dreamed of playing with the NAC since, well since, forever. And now you’ve given her a
chance to live her dream, ” Ms. Kormos beamed like she was Adeena’s mother.

  Lang smiled, nodding his head. He suddenly had an idea where the real Duncan Cello might be. “How far away is her cottage, from the city?”

  “Uh… I don’t know, maybe an hour or so?” she responded. “Adeena packed up, took her cello and said she needed to be alone to practice. She really wants to be ready for you!”

  Friedrich nodded his head and looked down again at the imposter cello.

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re. . . not that impressed with the star of our show?” she asked.

  He considered his words carefully and nodded. “I think you might ….”

  But before he could finish more, the man who had been talking previously, called out to her. “Tara? Can you come over here?” the man called out. Lang recognized him from the introduction. He was the Director of the Gallery.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lang, I have to go. I’ll try to find you later.” She turned and hurried away, leaving him alone. A staffer from the gallery took the cello from him. He watched as it was raised again to a place of honour under the lights.

  He was about to leave when the annoying journalist from the newspaper stepped up beside him. “I hear you have a new work,” the man said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Yes, that is true,” Lang responded. “Adeena told you about it?”

  “She did indeed,” the young journalist replied coldly. He paused and moved in close. “And I know for a fact that you stole the music from her.”

  Who the fuck is this asshole? Lang wondered. “I stole it? That’s quite an accusation . . .” He looked at the man’s name tag. “Mr. . . . Lévesque.”

  The din of conversation around them created a bubble that provided a sense of privacy, even in such an open public space. Friedrich sneered at the brash reporter that stood before him. “Voyage of Destiny is my work.”

  “Too bad we have copies of the original score,” Lévesque replied.

  “A photocopy proves nothing,” Lang responded. “I am giving Adeena a chance to perform with the National Arts Centre Orchestra. But if you would rather pursue this, I could easily dismiss her. And . . .” he paused, making sure he had the asshole reporter’s full attention, “make sure she never performs with another symphony orchestra, anywhere in the world again.”

  Friedrich studied the reporter’s reaction. He was a cool customer. He didn’t seem fazed. Perhaps another approach would be more effective. “You know, my composition isn’t the story you should be investigating.”

  “Really? And why is that Mr. Lang?”

  Lang moved his head closer to Phillip and whispered, “Go ask Adeena. I’m sure the Gallery would love to know what she’s done with the real Duncan Cello.”

  16

  ADEENA OPENED HER eyes slowly.

  Her head was jackhammering pounding pain, worse than any other time she had played the Duncan. It was so bad that she wasn’t sure she could even stand up. She had fallen to the floor and lay on her back, frozen on the wool carpet in the great room of the cottage, with her cello lying beside her. Her face was turned toward the fireplace, where the roaring fire she built was reduced to a single, incinerated log over a glowing heap of embers.

  She stared into the glow from the fireplace, closed her eyes and thought of Katharine.

  Are we the same person?

  Only her grandmother would have believed any of this - that a person could be caught between two places in two different times, unsure of who they really were.

  Adeena tried to turn her head. The movement made the pain in her skull worse, but she managed to turn slightly toward the wall of windows. She saw the moonlight reflected on strands of wispy clouds and could just make out stars in the night sky, though the amber moonlight washed most of them away.

  Her mind was spinning. Do time and space matter? Is there something that transcends them and guides a soul between two incarnations, regardless of where and when they exist? Adeena sighed with a sense of frustration, a feeling of anger.

  It’s just a dream, a very real dream that I’m making up inside my own fucked-up head.

  The fire began to crackle and a tiny flame erupted, as the centre of the remaining log finally succumbed. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks. She let them fall to her lips, the salty sting adding to her despair. She sobbed, trying to release all the frustration and anger inside her.

  After a while the tears stopped. Adeena remained on the floor, breathing deeply, her eyes closed. She was not of this world. But, she was not of that other world either.

  Is this what happened to my grandmother, Margaret Rose? Everyone said she was ‘disturbed.’ Is that my fate? Am I to become like her?

  She lay on the floor thinking for a few minutes. And then gradually, ever so slowly, she began to feel a calmness settling over her. Strength from somewhere, deep within, began to take hold. She pushed herself back up into a sitting position. And then with an even greater effort and a loud groan, she heaved herself onto her feet. Her wobbly legs wavered for a moment before she could find her balance.

  There was a determination growing within her. She would never give up. She would not surrender to pity. She wasn’t going to blame someone else for her problems. For too long her self-doubt had been a vise grip of despair, an unrelenting demon of negativity.

  Adeena reached for the Duncan Cello and prepared to play the score once more. She remembered something Margaret Rose had once told her.

  Fear is for those who are afraid to live.

  And Adeena suddenly felt she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  THE MUSIC POURED once again from the Duncan Cello, an hypnotic elixir intoxicating the ladies and gentlemen assembled around Adeena. The other musicians followed her lead, adding harmonic counterpoints. The violins and violas picked up her cello lines in tidal waves of musical power.

  Adeena looked across the gathered men, dressed in tartan colours, many in elaborate Highland garb. The ladies, in white silk gowns with fine embroidery, seemed to be as completely absorbed with her music as the men. Most wore white roses or white ribbons. She knew she was playing for what must be the grand ball at Drummond Castle. This room was twice the size of the one she had performed in at Kinnaird. A row of pewter torches and suspended wheels of hanging chandeliers with hundreds of burning candles on each one, gave the hall a glowing radiance full of fire, and life.

  Adeena stood up, setting the cello aside. She closed her eyes and began to sing words that had come to her as a bewildered teenager, but that now found their purpose. Her voice resonated throughout the room finding every ear that longed to be found.

  Gone is my heart without you

  Now I am lost once again.

  Praying for life that grows within

  All I can ask is when?

  When will the sword meet the sky?

  To show where I belong?

  Forever I will wait for you

  Even after I’m gone.

  Now as you raise the flame of hope

  Sailing into the darkest sea

  The black night is all around

  You light the way for me.

  When will you turn night to day?

  So hope may greet the dawn?

  Forever I will wait for you

  Even after I’m gone.

  As the music rose behind her, and she swelled with a kind of confidence she had never experienced, Adeena opened her eyes. James Drummond, standing near the front of the room, draped in a dark flowing plaid and a starched white tunic, stared sternly into her eyes. Unblinking, unmoving. She felt the power of his gaze looking directly inside of her.

  He didn’t seem to just listen to her music and to her aching words. It was more like he absorbed them in every cell of his rugged frame and trembled in response.

  When the song was over, there was a brief moment of silence. Only a crackling from two blazing fires at both ends of the room could be heard. Then the men and women erupted into cheering and
applause with an outburst of chanting and shouting that threatened to wake both the living and the dead from across the whole of Perthshire.

  A tall, nobly-dressed young man with fine delicate features moved forward, and the crowd acknowledged him with more chanting. He made a dashing image in his Highland coat of silk tartan, red velvet breeches and a blue bonnet trimmed in gold, topped with a large jewel and St Andrew’s cross. He wore a green sash and carried himself with a regal, yet energetic step step toward Adeena.

  She was unsure of the protocol here. She knew that very likely this was the Prince, ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ as history knew him, but much more of a natural leader than she had expected. The stilted paintings of him always made him look like a royal fashion model, rather than a soldier prince leading his army into battle. The sight of him moved Adeena. She bowed her head and attempted an awkward curtsy, then dropped to her knee.

  “Lady Katharine,” he said to her in a commanding voice. “You honour my father, King James, and the Kingdom of his ancestors. All of Scotland is inspired by your music. Rise!” He offered his hand to her and she held it for a second. Their eyes met and he smiled, displaying a countenance as royal as anyone she had ever imagined could be.

  Adeena stood and Prince Charles bowed his head to her. The assembly roared their approval as she stood smiling before them, waves of cheering filling her with the satisfaction that came from releasing the music within her to people who wanted it, as surely as they needed air to fill their lungs.

  “Lady Katharine!” the crowd chanted. She bowed and felt her face flush, again.

  The Prince stood beside her and when she raised her head, he turned to her and whispered, “You have captured their hearts. Hold them carefully.” He paused a moment to acknowledge the chanting and then left her, walking to the side of the room to speak to two men who seemed the only ones in the room who remained serious and stern. The chanting continued and then James, who had been standing at the very front of the room, stepped forward almost touching her.