Butterfly Dreams
Chrysalis: Slipping Away
© Ilah, 2000The notes of the piano are like ripples upon the smooth surface of a reflection pool; artless as the random raindrop, splashing into the silence. I have been softly humming them all evening, for though they seem to be no more than the meditative movement of her hands upon the ivory keys there is, in fact, a tune - one popular in her youth, and so we alone recognize it. She plays snatches of it over and over, now in one octave, now another, slow and smooth or tripping lightly across the keys at a brisk pace, until it is to hear the song anew for the first time.
Her companion passed by earlier, glancing in. Sadeh pressed a surprisingly gentle hand to my shoulder, a gesture which startled me for we had surely not been the fastest of friends upon first meeting. I met her eyes, letting her know in that gaze that her sentiment was appreciated; but that it was, also, no longer her concern. She accepted the silent rebuke calmly, her skirts whispering softly as she left.
Through it all Anteia played, heedless of the looks. As heedless as she had been when I had brushed smooth the long strands of her hair, or slipped the soft cotton dress down around her figure, her dark eyes half closed and far distant as she had let me move her as I would. That look, all unseeing even as I stood before her, had made me shiver. Where ever she had gone, it was somewhere I could not follow.
Yet she was not completely oblivious. She walked and moved of her own, if one encouraged her. When we had passed the music room and she had spied the piano through the half open door she had pulled away from my guiding hand to go to it, sinking down gracefully onto the bench as her hands, as though with minds of their own, had folded back the cover to reveal the long stretch of keys upon which they might wander.
I had not even known she could play. It was not something I had ever seen her do.
Earlier, as the night wore on, she had risen from the piano to go to the glass doors leading to the balcony, throwing them open to let in the breeze from the ocean with its redolent scent of salt and sand. She had remained there for a small while, the wind playing with her hair, but after a time she returned to the piano. Hesitantly at first, then with greater ease, she had picked forth the tune she now played. Not until she had played it full through several times did I recognized it - a festival song, played in the summer heat beneath crystal blue skies upon the wail of a pipe. The mellow sounds of the piano strip the wildness from it, make it something quaint but beautiful and thoroughly unique.
And now, hours later, she plays it still. Variation after variation, beginning to end to middle and looped again, in no particular order of verse or chorus. Her head is cocked to one side, eyes closed, hair spilling across her shoulder and down her breast as her fingers tirelessly seek out the notes.
Sadeh comes and looks and goes away again. Only I have stayed through it all, through every repetition and experimented note, through the long hours of soft sound rippling through the individual moments. And so it is, I think, that only I know the truth of it. She is looking for something. Seeking something, not just in the tune sounded out beneath her fingertips but in the moment of the sound itself.
I wonder what plays itself out behind the lowered fringe of lashes that brush her pale cheeks. Is she remembering the dim ghost of the sun of her childhood, the scent of flowers and smoke and market delicacies as the festival wound through the streets? The taste of honey and wine and sweet pickled eggs, of fish done just so and the richness of fowl. The sound of her own language in a multitude of voices, of song and the laughter of children, the beat of drums.
She finds the beginning of the tune once more and her fingers slow until the notes weep into the cool night air, the hesitancy of them as they are brought forth a deliberate choice.
Maybe she mourns for what is lost. Maybe she seeks a moment of the familiar in the solace of a long forgotten tune. Her voice remains silent, as still as the distances between us, and so I may only guess. The others might find out but they do not understand what she is doing, seeing only her slow descent farther and farther from us.
I think, perhaps, we are seeing her slip not down, but sideways, in a manner which we, who consider ourselves whole, can not understand.
She pauses before beginning once again, this time in the final verses, one slender fingertip tapping silently against a key before drawing forth the sound. There is the faintest of creases between her brows as she listens, searching for that perfect note.
The hours are sliding inexorably towards morning and I wonder if she will find what she seeks before then. If the notes will, of a sudden, crystallize into the one perfect moment that she is looking for, piercing through the haze of the centuries to light upon the one spark that her memory searches for.
I rise to my feet from my chair beside the door, unsure whether I mean to leave her at last in the peace of solitude. I feel responsible, as though I should be there watching over her - ridiculous, and were she aware of it, she would turn to me with disdain in her eyes. Her words would be scathing and harsh. . . but a pleasure to hear for it would be her voice, the spark of life in her angry face, and then I would have no reason to watch.
I have lost so very much to the fire and the ages. I wonder, dimly, how it shall feel if she chooses that as the end of her search. It has been centuries and centuries again since we were more than names to one another - parent, child, lover; all have been abandoned long ago. And yet. . . she is still my first born. It somehow seems strange that the parent should outlive the child.
My feet carry me, unthinking, to her side. She makes way as I sit upon the bench, eyes unopened, uncaring so long as I do not obstruct her hands. She is beautiful still, a handsome woman in repose. Only her arms retain their breathtaking level of former beauty, their graceful motion across the keys bringing them back to the life which had first caught my eyes.
The tune rings forth once more, almost a march, militaristic in sound. I can recall the original only dimly, the ghost of a memory of flute and drum and voice. Wild and free, a celebration of life and spring and the joys of summer. In its notes lay the falling patter of raindrops, the heavy buzz of bees and the scent of flowers. She twists it as she plays, like a child making patterns with a string loop, until at times I can not hear it for what it is.
Reaching out, I hesitantly touch the cool ivory of the piano keys. She is playing it too slow, too deliberate, erasing the spirit of the original. I wait until she pauses, gathering herself for the next venture, before I bring my fingers down upon the keys in the first notes of the song.
She stops then, hands hovering but not touching. It is the only sign that she knows I am there at all. Bringing my other hand up, I pick out the tune, sacrificing accuracy for the bright tempo of the original song that I recall. My memory is faulty and I know my rendition to be no more correct than any of her, yet I set it before her, hoping perhaps that something in it will aid her search.
When the song ends and I would have withdrawn my hands she reaches out, her fingertips touching my wrist like a whisper of sensation. Seeing the request, I begin again, the lower octaves giving the tune a too serious demeanor even with the dancing tempo. She listens, head tilted down, perfectly still, until I reach the end once more. Only then does she move, that single hand reaching out to brush my wrist once more.
Again, and the notes flow easier now, letting me hit them as I ought. Through the first verse, the second, and then the light notes of the treble clef make me falter. I recover as quickly as I can, glancing sidelong to see that her hands have joined mine upon the keys, the same notes played at the same time two octaves different.
But that lasts only for another verse. The line between her brows has grown, pulling them down, an almost stubborn set to her chin. Her hands wander from the tune I set, the notes weaving amidst my own. It is something I don't know, with an almost sing song quality to it, light and lilting amidst the higher notes. She picks it forth quickly, fumbling a note once and again but heedless of the minor mishaps.
Finished, we begin again, unwilling to let the moment pass. Her hands have confidence now, threading the new tune against the old to make a seamless whole. It tugs at the dimness of memory, making me struggle to recall where I have heard it. Such a distant thing, and the years mask it like layers of grime that I can not wipe away.
She is whispering, soundless, her lips moving softly to the music even as she smiles. I do not know the words, nor what memory it has called forth for her, but it does not matter. It is enough that this, whatever it is, is what she sought. This brings a quiet joy to her face, and that alone makes it well worth it.
The song ends once more, and this time she lets her hands drop and I do likewise. Her fingertips caress the keys, the small smile still playing about her lips. I wait for long moments, but when silent moments become long minutes I let my breath fall soundlessly. It was a moment she wanted, I tell myself, and so it is enough. I reach out to brush the soft fall of her hair as I stand, but then drew my hand back, leaving her undisturbed.
It is only when I am nearly to the door, my back turned, that she speaks. Her voice is low and husky, as beautiful as she. It reaches out quietly from the dim room, stopping me in my tracks. "Thank you."
I turn, unsure of what I will find, but she has not moved. Even as I watch her hands settle once more upon the keys, her fingers unerringly picking out the primary parts of both songs. She plays it in the style I recall, no longer experimenting in her search. Her eyes are open now, watching her hands, yet they do not turn towards me no matter how I wait.
"You're welcome, Anteia," I say softly. She does not turn or acknowledge me, and in the end it is I who turn away and continue my path to the door. There are hours until dawn. I will return before then to make sure she is safe; in the meantime, she may have her moments, and I pray she finds comfort in them, whatever they may be.