FanStory.com - Song of the Deadby Erika Whittle

Music – a melody that flows from the soul. It travels like the wind and impacts everything it touches. It soars like a bird, wild and free, untamed. And that’s why I play; my bow gliding across the fine strings, which form harmonies so breathtaking they cannot be contained. My reflection shining off my one companion, reminding me that I am its and it is mine. It is a part of me, and I lavish within my solitude the sweet amity of my violin.

My name is Amethyst. I am 18 years old and this is my story.

My mother was a tormented soul; she held the mysteries of a world unseen and the burden of a world that doesn’t understand. She was young and beautiful. From within her flowed music that reached past the depths of mankind and into the world unknown. She was quiet and kept to herself but when she did speak, she spoke with a knowledge that surpassed even the wisest of us. Her beauty was bewitching, and she was so set apart it captivated those who saw her. I remember laughing at a man who stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her with his mouth open. It was like she came from a place all her own. Her violin was her life, both her livelihood and the air she breathed. People stood in awe when she played her violin for there was nothing in the world more enchanting. And I, I was her pride and joy, her only child and only friend.

My mother’s name was Imperia. We lived in a quaint little house in the middle of a forest, which was a few miles away from a vast lake. The water there was crystal clear and mirrored both the beauties and the horrors of its surroundings. Across the shore resided a majestic cave that contained all the splendor and adventure any eight year old could ever dream or imagine. Here, where so many of my childhood joys lay, would eventually be my mother’s watery grave. My mother was my inspiration, and I decided that when I grew up, I was going to be just like her. Although she made my life a joy, and shared with the world compositions that spoke to both the heart and soul, even she could not escape the cruelty of mankind. In hushed tones people’s vile words would float through the town she played in. My mother had a gift, and not just the one that mankind took pleasure in. Her gift was one that man did not, and could not, understand. She saw things that were yet to come, both in our physical world, and the world upon which we cannot perceive. We lived in a time when people weren’t accepting of such gifts, and revealing it would surely mean death, but my mother was a woman of conviction and did what she thought was right. When the content of her visions got worse, she spoke up. This was the beginning of my mothers undoing, and the moment my life changed forever.

“Nooooooo!” I heard my mother scream from her bedroom across the hall. It was the third time that week, and each time it sent chills down my spine. My mother has had a hard time sleeping for the past month, and has been paranoid every waking moment of the day. However, that week the visions and dreams were more horrendous than the others. I didn’t have to run over there and see if she was okay, I knew she wasn’t, and I knew exactly what I would find; she’d be sitting up in her bed with tears streaming down her face and a horrified look in her eyes. I had seen that look before when I was five…two weeks later we found my father’s body. Now, three years since that tragedy, the same horrified expression graced my mother’s tired face. Something terrible was going to happen. We were running out of time.

“I have to tell them. It’s coming, I know its coming.” My mother searched my eyes as if they held the key to all of life’s problems. I was young but I was not naïve. My mother and I were like one, twined together. We never really fit in with the rest of the world, and since my father’s death, we only ever went to town so that she could earn a living enchanting the masses with her violin. Mother and I had a very open relationship, and we held no secrets from each other. I would tell her anything and everything I was thinking or feeling, and she would do the same. Whether that was because it was just the two of us or because I had my own unique gift, was up for grabs. I’d like to think it was a bit of both.

At any rate mother was really worked up about this. I sighed. I knew I should be worried, for everything mother saw eventually came to pass, but someone had to stay calm. My mother was my role model, a strong and steady woman, but sometimes the visions were a bit too much for her. I wish she could have a more forgiving gift like mine. I simply sensed things, like some higher power was guiding me in the right direction. My mother would see a problem, something terrible that was going to occur, and when faced with different paths, I would sense which direction we should take. My gift usually led us away from danger, but of course I can’t make anyone listen to me; they have to choose whether or not to follow. However, the lives of those who didn’t listen usually ended abruptly. Mother was like a prophet bringing bad news to those who refused to listen and I was like a guardian angel willing to lead them in the right direction; if they would only take heed and listen. I let out another sigh. Back to the task at hand…

“The people must be warned no matter the cost.” My mother said this with such anxiety, it was easy to tell she was trying to convince herself more than me.

“Mother, mother, calm down.” I finally broke in.

“But you didn’t see-“

“No, I did not see.” I said, cutting her off. “I did not see and I cannot sense until the time comes. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I know that,” she admitted weakly, “but still they must have time to leave this place before it’s too late. It’s only fair Amethyst. We have gifts to warn us about the danger but the others do not. It is our duty.”

“Yes we have gifts mother, but these gifts are often the reason we’re in danger. The one part of ourselves that should be our saving grace is to our own disadvantage.” I was quite argumentative for an eight year old. Having a gift requiring such responsibility demanded that I grow up quickly. I was not eight going on nine; I was eight going on thirty. After I said those words, my mother’s expression became serene. With a sigh she stood up, grabbed her violin, and began to play. She didn’t say anything; she knew what I said was true and so she drowned herself in the music, her one escape from life’s trials.

Night fell, and I was staring wide eyed at the ceiling in my room. After mother had finished playing it was plain to see she had come to a decision and there was no room for persuasion. I didn’t know when or how she was going to act but I knew that it would be soon (I also knew there was no way I could stop her. Once my mother makes up her mind there is no stopping her) and so I lay there, not moving but waiting for the moment mother would get up and make her move.

*************

“Hmmm…” I sighed in a happy bliss before waking up confused. I fell asleep, one of the most crucial moments in my life, and I fell asleep. When I rushed into the kitchen mother was making breakfast. Her boots and jacket were by the doorway sopping wet.

“Where did you go?” I asked, not able to hide my frustration.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters; I know you were planning on doing something. People are not very forgiving, you know!” I half screamed. It was an unusual reaction for me because I very rarely had a tantrum. Maybe it was because of the secrecy, we never had secrets before. I persisted to ask questions but my mother would say no more on the issue. That’s when I knew that this time was different. Our open relationship was one I always counted on and even when the visions were warnings about father, it had never suffered. This was bad.

We went into town that day so mother could play her violin for the people. She wanted to go alone but I threw a fit until she would let me tag along. Something in her expression scared me and there was no way I was letting her out of my sight again. So there I was, her little cling on, standing in the middle of the town square beside the only person I had left. The tune she played was one I had never heard before (It was an eerie melody that seemed to get darker and darker as the song progressed). It held the crowd at a standstill until the music drifted off into a sad and hopeless finish. Once the last note had diminished she spoke.

“This is the song of the dead,” she told them, voice grave. “It is your song.” There was a gasp and murmur throughout the crowd. She raised her hand and regained their attention. “It is your song if you do not listen. They are coming, the soldiers from the west, and they will destroy every inch of this town. You and your homes will be engulfed in the flames unless you take heed now and leave this place.”

Panic spread throughout the people and with it denial. “Lies, you lie!” screamed a man in the crowd.

“How would you know anyway,” barked some crabby old woman, who just so happened to be the biggest gossip in town, “You’re a loner in the middle of the forest. Nobody comes to visit you; your very existence is only recognized by the music that you play. You should be ashamed of yourself, telling stories like we were ignorant children. Your daughter is going to grow up to be a disgraceful outsider if all she has to learn from is you!”

At this I was about to make a full protest, and end with throwing something at that good-for-nothing old lady, but before I could act mother sent me a warning glance. I knew that if I wanted to see how this all played out I couldn’t do anything rash against the old hag. It was very disappointing.

The crowd roared in agreement with that wretched lady and all of mother’s former admirers were no where to be seen. This was a lesson that showed me just how fickle humans are. They love you when you serve their purpose and will turn against you once you say something they don’t like.

“People please, they’re coming! You must leave this place before it’s too late!”

My mother had a very nervous expression on her face and her eyes darted around until she found mine. I was no longer beside her. In all the excitement the crowd had pushed forward and I, little as I was, had been pushed back. We were no longer in the center of the small town, but instead were making our way outside it. This wasn’t going well, and I felt like something was weighing me down. I knew what was going to happen and suddenly I understood. I knew where my mom went that night and I knew why she didn’t want me to come along. And before long we were there, by the lake. I tried to squeeze through the angry mob but only got shoved back. A man grabbed me from behind. I recognized him as one of my father’s associates, and a frequent listener of my mother’s compositions. I was crying. I kicked, screamed and clawed but he wouldn’t let me go; in fact it seemed like his grasp was only getting tighter.

“Shhhh,” he said in between the occasional cry of pain. “There is nothing you can do; if you manage to squeeze up there, they’ll only get rid of you too.”

I knew he was right, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be with her; my mother, my best friend. I wanted to go with her and see daddy again, but the strong arms around me wouldn’t give way. When he finally let go, and I was free from his grasp, it was all over. The crowd had retreated in satisfaction.

I stepped forward numb. Somehow, in my comatose state, I managed to make my way towards the cave. The man followed, not too far behind me, but I didn’t notice. My eyes were on the figure floating face down in the water, surrounded by the rocky haven. The figure was lifeless, unmoving. In that moment I became a stranger to myself. When I saw that floating figure, the silhouette of one I once knew, my life drained away. My mother was dead and so was I. With that realization I drifted out of consciousness.