Silence Between

Following is a scene derived from my creative writing exercise that will hopefully make it into my novel:


The morning after he left, when raindrops fell like melodramatic tears from a clichéd grey sky, I decided to take a walk. Water, after all, symbolizes purification, cleansing, and – most importantly – healing. The cool rain sounded like a percussive symphony of whimpers, calling him back, begging his sympathy. It begged my mourning, too, but that would not come for many weeks. The newest batch of spell-flowers were in bloom, a raucous cacophony of fiery red, ponderous blue, mellow purple, and a whole litany of other colors. Each flower would produce a new spell, a new magic, and even in his absence, research would continue.

The raindrops became cymbals to a weary mind, and the horrendous memories came flowing back. A rotted body: alive and well only two hours previous. The potion, insidiously clever and maliciously effective, had killed him at some undetermined time after consumption. He could have drank it a week earlier, or been fed it at birth for all that was certain about its dormancy rate. A team of twenty high-ranking mages had investigated the murder, and no results had come forth. For once, the music that guided everything had stopped, had been silent, and the crushing pain was a solitary one.

The memories slip away as the surrounding gardens awaken. A snake slithers into its warm hole, avoiding the rain curtain soaking the ground. Two animals race up a tree to hide in its branches, away from the cold water’s death-like reach. It’s amazing to realize that every creature instinctively runs from the rain. Like the animals of this garden, the mages are running from the truth that falls on their faces even now; they continue to tell themselves that it must have been an accident, that it must have been a mistake. After all, who would kill him? But they knew the answer to that question. They knew it all too well, like a violin concerto that haunts the soul, there could only be one answer to that question.

Even the fortifications of this castle of endless wonders couldn’t keep that greatest enemy away. Envy causes countless murders every day, why not his? Just because these beautiful flowers, these symbols of sheer brilliance and unbound creativity, were created by the castle inhabitants, are the castle inhabitants necessarily free from guilt? He himself had envied, on more than one occasion, the work of others. Of course, ethics and reason kept him from stealing their work or killing them, but still he envied. Mages may be the world’s solution to catastrophe, but no one here is flawless, just the same.

A pool is forming in the corner, around the place where he fell off the wall, just last season, after deciding that he had gone far too long without being childish. If something comes along – and who knows what force could actually achieve this – and threatens this community of scholar artists, who will save them? Music saves man from insanity, but if music is in danger, who saves it? If the notes stop coming and the strings stretch and snap, will someone play in the cello’s place? Or is the cello doomed to insignificance and the world doomed to silence? If no one attends his funeral, has magic become irrelevant to the world?

The branches above, as if in disagreement, shake, and a deluge falls from their fingers. The rain soaks to the bone, but it feels good. Like something new has been planted that will someday blossom and bloom. The rain deposits life where, only moments ago, there was only blankness. Today will not be the end.