Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

Miranda frowned. The things he said were extraordinary and sometimes she barely understood what he was telling her. But he loved her, that much she knew. And she adored him more than life itself.

  “What were you doing playing music for dancing, Piers? Surely you would rather give concert performances? You are too accomplished to play in a dance orchestra.”

  Piers gazed at her taking in every detail of her face, dark brown eyes, clear, slightly olive toned skin, jet black hair, full red lips—a face with the hint of something exotic, something mysterious, foreign. So familiar.

  “It was destined that I should come here,” he said.

  “I think so too. I think…I feel I know you already, knew you before. But I didn’t, did I? We’d never met?” The smooth brow creased as she wrestled with such a thought, sought a reason for the strength and immediacy of the bond between them.

  “Not in the flesh but we met on a different plane. Spiritually.” How could he explain? She’d never understand his attempt, he hardly understood the force that had brought them together himself.

  Miranda smiled slowly and touched his cheek again with featherlight fingers. “My ghost man. But you will play music for me to dance to, won’t you?”

  “Your wish is my desire. You are my desire.” He grabbed her and rolled her over on the grass to make love once more.

  Miranda left the trees as the afternoon wore on. Twilight lasted hours in midsummer and it was difficult to judge the time when she was with Piers. She mustn’t be late for supper. She cut across the fields this time taking a more meandering path home away from the dust of the main road. Clouds were building up on the horizon but the storm if it ever arrived was still a long way off. Similar clouds had appeared yesterday afternoon as well but nothing had happened. The heat had continued relentless as ever. She reached the old, weathered stone church and went through the lych gate to visit her mother’s grave briefly.

  In loving memory of

  Amelia Miranda Sung Templeton

  Born May 29th 1852

  Died in childbirth October 15th 1874

  Always loved, never forgotten.

  “Hello Mama.” She knelt before the tombstone heedless of the dry grass and dust clinging to her skirt.

  Hoof beats on the road made her turn her head. Tyler sat on his tall bay gelding watching her over the low stone cemetery wall. She stood up and walked slowly across to him, closing the lych gate carefully.

  “Hello.” She rubbed Captain’s soft, brown, velvety nose. “Have you been visiting Laura?”

  “Earlier, yes. And you? Where have you been? Your dress is stained with grass and dirt.” Tyler looked down at her suspiciously, his heavy brows even more threatening as he frowned. Captain fidgeted at the harsh tone of his voice.

  “I went for a walk and sat down in the shade to rest and fell asleep,” she lied smoothly. “The road is so dusty I walked across the fields.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Of course. Who would I be with?”

  “Ethan called for you. He expected you to visit his mother this afternoon.”

  “Oh. I completely forgot.” Miranda put both hands to her mouth in horror. Tea with Mrs. Broome and the neighbouring ladies. She liked Ethan’s mother very much, had known her all her life. “This heat has addled my brains,” she said weakly.

  “You shouldn’t go walking out in the heat of the day. Of course you’ll addle your brains. Those you have.” Tyler pulled Captain’s head around. “Go straight home and write an apology to Mrs. Broome. I’ll ride up and tell them you’re found.”

  “Was there a search party?” She prayed no. Someone may have seen Piers.

  “No. Only me,” said Tyler. “And I’ve better things to do than run around the countryside after a silly young girl.”

  Thank goodness.

  Her brother delivered his parting shot. “You need to learn some decorum, Miranda, if ever you want to be a married woman.”

  Tyler was only three years older than she but sounded like a crotchety grandfather. Miranda bent her head and said nothing. Tyler’s words resonated in her brain. Time was she thought she’d be married to Ethan. Dependable, good-natured, kindly Ethan. The man she had loved since she turned thirteen and he was seventeen. The reason she had stopped being a tomboy and started taking pains with her dress and hair because she wanted him to notice her and instinctively knew he would disapprove of her wild, abandoned side.

  The side that rendezvoused and came alive with Piers.

  Miranda continued home alone, lost in her thoughts. Her future had changed irrevocably that night, the night of the Summer Ball. Ethan had proved not to be the man she thought he was and she’d changed, grown suddenly into a woman from the naïve girl she’d been until that night. Her position had become suddenly very clear. And then there was Piers.

  When she was with him she forgot everything. Nothing mattered save for the love and the pleasure they gave each other. She would die for him. Would follow him anywhere if he asked. If he asked…But he didn’t ask, instead he talked about eternity and strange cosmic music.

  And who was he, this man of whom she knew very little except he loved her and that he held very strange ideas? Though bold enough to sneak out to meet her lover, was she brave enough to throw her future into his hands? Brave enough to face her father and brother, the scorn of the Squire and Mrs. Broome, of Ethan, the local gentry, the disgust of the whole village? Did her midsummer madness stretch so far?

  Would Piers even offer marriage? Why did he insist on such secrecy? Why could he not come to the house and meet her father? He had every right. He was from a prosperous landowning family; he wasn’t a penniless itinerant musician. Why? Was he married? Was he toying with her? It would answer many questions if that were his purpose.

  Was he using her as men did any obliging girl? Was she a giddy fool in love and blinded by it? Perhaps she should salvage some remnants of decorum and cut the liaison. Save herself before the affair became known.

  Though it broke her heart Miranda missed the next meeting with Piers. And the next although by then she had succumbed to her burning desire to see him once more, had told herself she owed it to him to explain in person, tell him face to face she expected marriage to come from their affair.

  But the risk was far too great to continue the rendezvous. Tyler watched her too closely. She knew he suspected her of something but had no proof of deceit or wrongdoing. He was an exceedingly irritating watch dog. If only he were back at University where he belonged but his summer holidays had weeks left to run.

  She had no address for Piers, couldn’t contact him. Her heart yearned to reassure him of her love. He must understand it was impossible for her to continue with him the way they were. After all he had offered nothing more than love. She had given him her innocence. Ruined herself.

  She assisted her father with his surgery and helped Mrs. Bowden with some of the household chores her head filled with Piers, his voice, his touch, his scent. Her moods changed daily, hourly. She sang as she polished the dining table lost in the memory of their last meeting and then as she sat at table and ate with her father and Tyler, she looked at their beloved familiar faces and wondered how she could possibly think of defying them to run off with a stranger.

  A week after her abandonment of Piers, Miranda dreamed of him. He stood before her playing his violin exactly as he had when she first saw him except the music was strange and haunting. Tears sprang to her eyes. She called his name but he ignored her and continued playing. The scent of roses filled the air.

  She woke to find her pillow and cheeks wet with tears and a lingering perfume in the room.

  He came to her every night while she slept. The dreams were eerily familiar as though she’d dreamed them before but had no recollection of them prior to this time. She began to dread going to her bed, wishing to avoid the heartbreak and longing he renewed. Every time it was the same dream. Piers playing that melody on his violin, making it sob and sigh, pouring out his heart
break and sorrow, ignoring her, even though she called his name with ever increasing despair.

  Then one night as she lay wide-eyed and exhausted, Piers stood by her bed looking down at her with an expression of such love, she held out her arms to him knocking a book from her bedside table in the haste of movement. He disappeared.

  The clunk of the book on the floor shocked her. Had Piers been real? Was she dreaming? Heart pounding, hands clammy with fright she retrieved the book. It couldn’t have been him, couldn’t have been his ghost, he was still alive. Surely they would have heard if he had been killed somehow. What was it?

  Next morning she went to see Maggie Blackstone. The old witch lady would know. Maggie lived in a cottage just outside the village, on the far side from the church and the direction Miranda took to meet Piers. Like all the other gardens hers was tinder dry as they still had had no rain apart from a few miserable drops one night after another massive buildup of storm clouds. Miranda tapped on the door and heard Maggie shuffling about inside.

  The door creaked open.

  “Come in, young missy. What took you so long?” Maggie peered out with bright, startlingly blue eyes part obscured by wispy grey hair escaping from a loosely pinned roll. Her grey dress had a stained and dirty hem, sleeves partially rolled up showing pale but sinewy strong forearms.

  “What do you mean?” Miranda hesitated but reassured by the old lady’s sudden smile stooped to enter the dim, shadowy room cluttered with all manner of furniture and bric-a-brac. A strange, pungent smell almost made her gag.

  “Everybody comes to Maggie when they’re in trouble.” A bony finger pointed to a chair at the small wooden dining table. “Sit ye down, missy.”

  Miranda perched on the edge of the chair. “I’m not in trouble.” Perspiration prickled her skin, her stomach turned over, uncomfortable and queasy in the cloying air.

  “Why are ye here, then, eh?” Maggie chuckled softly. She sat opposite and laid a surprisingly well shaped hand on Miranda’s arm. “ ʼTis a lover.” She nodded confidently. “And not Mister Ethan Broome.”

  Miranda gasped. “Why do you say that?”

  “Why?” chortled Maggie. “Because it’s the truth. No use to deny the truth. No use denying the future. Or the past.”

  “Is the future already written?”

  “Maybe the map is there. Maybe folks don’t always follow it.” She peered into Miranda’s eyes then shook her head. “Be careful. The one you love is very powerful. He can be dangerous.”

  She took Miranda’s hands and studied the palms, gently rubbing her thumb across the soft mounds below the fingers. She pursed her mouth but said nothing, released her grip.

  “I have dreams,” said Miranda softly. “The same dream every night. He plays his violin. The same melody. So sad I wake up crying. He ignores me.”

  Maggie nodded. “He loves you.”

  “Yes.” Miranda hesitated. “He came to me last night but not in a dream. He stood by my bed and watched me.”

  “A ghost?”

  “No, he’s not dead. At least I don’t think he is. No, I know he’s not,” she said firmly.

  Maggie fixed Miranda with two penetrating blue eyes. “He is a very powerful magician. He can change his shape. He can dissolve his body and fly through the vapours to another place.”

  Miranda stood up on legs gone shaky. “That’s impossible!”

  “He has done it.”

  “Can I stop him?”

  “Go to him. He wants you to be with him. You want to be with him. You belong together. Perhaps you have always been together. To go against this is to go against your destiny.”

  “But I can’t do that,” cried Miranda.

  “You will go against your destiny. You will be tempting fate.”

  “What should I do?”

  “You must decide.”

  Maggie held out her hand.

  Miranda fumbled in her pocket for a few coins and pressed them into the old woman’s palm. She stumbled into the glare of daylight, breathing deeply of the hot air which now seemed refreshing after the suffocating atmosphere of the cottage. Maggie’s black and white cat rubbed against her ankles leaving hairs on the bottom of her skirt. She looked down at it, then quickly bent and ran her hand over its head and down its back.

  The perfume from Maggie’s blood-red roses sat heavy in the air as she walked down the brick path to the cottage gate. A vivid image of her first meeting with Piers sprang to mind. That shock of recognition. Could Maggie be right? Could it be that they had always known each other, were destined to be together? How was it then, that Piers knew it so clearly and she didn’t?

  Miranda walked on slowly, absorbed in her thoughts, bewildered by the talk of changing shape and flying through the vapours. Maggie said Piers was a magician. Perhaps he was. He’d told her strange things certainly enough, about his music and wanting to tap into some sort of cosmic power.

  One thing alone had become clear. She loved him to distraction and the decision to part from him was like trying to build a straw house in the wind. Hopeless and impossible.

  Maggie said it would be going against destiny. What were the opinions of her father and Tyler and society against one’s destiny? This was her life, not theirs. Miranda stuck her chin in the air defiantly and marched on with a firm tread.

  The rattle of carriage wheels and horsesʼ hooves sounded behind her. Miranda stepped aside to allow the driver room to pass. Instead, the carriage slowed and Mrs. Broome leant out. “Miranda, my dear. Whatever are you doing, walking in this heat? Let me drive you home.”

  Miranda stood mute, her mind scrambling for something to say. Her two worlds jarred together.

  “Help Miss Templeton up, please, Joseph,” Mrs. Broome said and Miranda gathered her wits and smiled as Joseph jumped down and opened the carriage door, offering his hand.

  Chapter Nine

  Sydney, 1998

  As soon as they arrived home Nina dumped her bag and strode away to fetch her violin and move the music stand into the living room the better to hear the recorded cello part. Martin slumped on the couch and watched her silently as she set up and prepared her violin. Why wasn’t he getting his flute ready? She placed the music on the stand without a word then turned to him. “Are you going to help with this or not?”

  “All right.” A deeply reluctant, deeply infuriating sigh. What was his problem?

  He disappeared into the spare room, emerging a few minutes later with the flute case in his hand. He dropped back down on the couch and slowly assembled the silver instrument bit by bit. Nina waited, slapping her bow against her leg. His whole body yelled reluctance. Why couldn’t he understand how important it was that they follow through on this? Piers was desperate for their help and he’d chosen them, specifically. They were honour-bound to do as he wished.

  Martin had come halfway around the world in pursuit of this phantom thing how could he even consider dropping it all now? Had he forgotten already the compulsion which had consumed his life for eight months? Didn’t he want it to end?

  To her fury he placed his flute on the coffee table, stood up and headed into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  A tap ran. He reappeared with a glass in his hand, eyes narrowed, jaw set. “Drink of water. That all right?”

  The cassette was ready in the stereo system. He pressed “Play.”

  “Tune up,” he said and switched the recording off after a couple of notes. Nina made a couple of adjustments to the strings and waited while he wandered about the room with his flute to his lips blowing single long tones.

  “That’s enough,” she snapped. “Come on.”

  Martin shot her a thunderous look but she clenched her jaw and tucked her violin under her chin. Her count in sounded on the recording and eyes closed, she stroked the first note. The effect was immediate and electrifying.

  The voices poured into the room, flooding her like the sea over a drowning swimmer but strangely one who i
s content to let herself be submerged by the tide. Her molten anger melted to nothing. She surfed on a wave of sound and exhilarating emotion, aware of nothing physical or concrete around her. Martin and the room faded away. There was only music—and the voices.

  Words were indistinguishable. They were chanting in a tongue completely foreign to her. The cadence followed the pulse of their playing in an eerie way growing in strength with hypnotic force. Suddenly the voices stopped when they still had half a page of the slow section to go. Piers spoke, his voice soft and seductive in her ear, and an immense surge of the yearning she had experienced in her dreams overcame her.

  “It’s nearly complete. One more piece and it will be ready. You have done well, my darling, very well. Do this for me. For us. I will come to you. Tonight. Wait for me. The usual place. Our place.” Piers spoke alone, to her. The others were silent but she sensed their presence and the tension surrounding them, a palpable force. They listened. And disapproved.

  Piers voice grew stronger. “You cannot stop now. You must complete the circle. The harmony is crucial, the harmony of the spheres and the universe. It must be complete. We are so close.”

  Then Jasper’s voice crashed in—angry and fearful. “We can’t do this, Piers! I can’t continue. It’s madness, man. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Again. We must try again.” Piers, no longer addressing her, speaking to his friends desperately determined, ignoring Jasper as thought he hadn’t spoken.

  Then Michael’s gentle Irish voice cut in, “Piers man, Miranda has gone. You can’t do anything now. Let the poor child rest in peace.”

  “Try again, again. Mira…” Piers voice trailed off in a cry of anguish so heartfelt and despairing that tears coursed down Nina’s cheeks and the music blurred so that she couldn’t read the notes. Dimly she realised Martin had stopped playing, and the room was silent. She lowered her violin, stunned and speechless while tears splashed unchecked down her face.

  “Nina?”

  Piers had gone. She sank back into darkness. Nothing.

  Martin took the violin and bow from her nerveless fingers and laid them on the dining table, as a silent scream resounded in his head. They shouldn’t have played. He should have stopped her, should have refused point blank and risked her anger. But he didn’t, and if she was harmed it was his fault. He knew it was dangerous, he was supposed to be protecting her.