Play “Prelude in C for Guitar" by BACH

  

  RYST

  “Alright, come on. I want to show you something.” Nayth instructed and led me out to the living area. One of the wooden walls had a sliding door—or rather, most of the wall was a sliding wood panel and behind it was shelves of instrument cases.

  “Woah, Nayth, how many instruments do you play?”

  Pulling out a guitar and tuning it, he replied, “Hmmm. Maybe ten? But that’s just enough to get by on Floria, Mom’s home world. I can passably play a couple dozen. But guitar is really my best. Violin or fiddle too. And keyboards, a bit.”

  He began playing something lovely. A strumming melody that broke my heart open and set my soul free. I closed my eyes. I could feel it. The song was that feeling. The feeling of golden light. Warmth. The warmth that Nayth was to me. The way that golden light made me feel. Peaceful. Content. All was right with the world. I saw a forest of golden ginkgo and maple. There were red maple leaves falling down, and down, and down. Was I dreaming? Was I awake?

  A single note from a guitar string faded. My eyes opened.

  “What did you see?” Nayth whispered.

  “A memory of a dream. The best dream. What is it? What is that song?”

  “The first song I wrote for a competition. I was fourteen. I knew I had to write it. I knew I’d enter it in the competition. I knew I wouldn’t win, but that I’d do it anyway. Have you heard this song?”

  He started playing something fast with a bouncing beat. I shook my head. He commanded his auto to play that same song over the speakers and started dancing. He grabbed me up by the hips and started through a series of dance steps. There was the clapping and stomping of a line dance. Twirls and backwards and forwards.

  When the song ended, he began again, “The guy who wrote that dance song won the contest, not me. Not with that song, though. There’s a lot of songs like that in mom’s world; it’s a typical Floria flower festival dance. People write songs and make up line dances that are super-easy for tourists to learn. Anyone can learn that dance in a minute and then walk out into the street for a festival and feel like they’re a part of the fun. Anyway, that’s not the song that won the contest. Here’s the winner.”

  The guitar became more than a guitar. It was a drum. It was ten guitars strumming. It was arpeggios then staccatos and fingers flying. It was cresting crescendos then all forte. It was furious.

  It was more sound than should have ever come out of one instrument. His eyes were closed and his head was back as music poured out of instrument and man. Man and sound and guitar were one being.

  I realized I was standing up with my left arm raised and my right hand patting my hip as the pounding beats stopped, and the music turned softer— coaxing and gentle. Then it was soft like a lullaby or a waltz or a breeze. His eyes opened and focused on the strings.

  It turned into something like a whisper against the ear. Like a sigh at the end of passion. Like a gasp just before a needle stick. Like a slow burn that left the room.

  A strum of a cord lingered. The sound died. I opened my eyes and saw his hooded eyes looking at mine.

  “I never had a chance of winning that contest at fourteen. Took me a year to learn how to play this song. It’s called ‘Tempest’ by Miguel Lauton. Do you like it?”

  “Ah? Ha?” It was kind of a chortle and a gasp at once. “That isn’t really a song, is it? It’s every hurricane of desire you’ve ever felt and the denouement without climax, isn’t it?”

  “No, the perfect storm,” he said softly, “two storms in one. . . an extended denouement.” Man and song were still one, and the words were layer upon layer of entendre.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I floated on the memory of the music, carried out on a current. I’d been taken to the edge and left waiting. The sound and the feeling held me like a dream.

  "Dancing to this type of music? That’s the heart of Floreno, the dance of my mother’s people, though this piece is particulary complex,” Nayth continued.

  “Wait, but what about your song?” I asked. "It wasn’t ‘Tempest,' I know, but it’s so beautiful. It’s like it’s quintessentially you. It’s like I’ve been listening to it for years, even though I’ve never heard it before. As though it’s always been there in my dreams.”

  He nodded. “And that’s how my whole life feels sometimes. That song is called ‘Before Dusk.’ It’s not really something anyone would dance to. Well, maybe you could just sort of slow dance and sway to it, but it’s more wistful. Like a lover just went out over the sea. Or you’re thinking of someone no longer here. Not really a lullaby, but something you’d want to hum if you missed someone. That’s more like Dad’s home world—Sturm. Not mom’s wild, passionate world of dance— Floria."

  "Hmm,” he chuckled. “It’s a song born of two worlds. So, I guess that is quintessentially me. Two worlds in one. But—“ he strummed forcefully on the guitar strings.

  “This sound!” he declared dramatically, slightly mocking. “The declarations of sound of the Floreno dance! The true heart of the dance of the Florians!”

  “Floreno? But that wasn’t a song, it was a storm! How do you dance to a storm? It’s as though you’d need, what, a, a— tap dance? And a two step, a fox trot, and—and ten other things all blended together?”

  Nayth nodded, “In a way, yes, flurries of all different forms of dance. When you’re good at Floreno and good at the martial art of Flauta, you can do pretty much anything you want to with your body.”

  Challenge accepted. I dropped forward into a plank, rolled to my back and rolled backwards through a somersault, pushing into a handstand. Then I folded my legs into a lotus, tucked my neck and rolled forward. I came up onto my knees, legs still tucked into my lotus and with my palms on the floor, rolled my right side onto a bent right elbow, lifting my knees off the floor. I balanced on my hands alone, with my legs in a sideways lotus.

  “You mean like this? Is this part of Flauta martial arts?” I looked up at Nayth whose mouth was agape.

  He backed up, with his hands in front of him. “Woahhhh. Things are starting to make a lot more sense… Madrano. Madrano. Woahhh. Do you and Peydran spar like this?”

  I collapsed onto the floor in a puddle of giggling pretzeled limbs. “What!? Like this? Peydran and I don’t spar much, really. And not in a lotus ever. That’s, uh, more for lovers. Though I should probably tell you about merging with him at the Moreland’s dining— ”

  I broke off at the wary look in Nayth’s eyes. “What?” I asked again, probing. His expression shuttered, and he stilled. “You’re hiding something from me, Nayth Carmidee.”

  I could feel him within me. Inside, he was chuckling. “This is like at dinner. You’re all soft smiles and warm kindness, but there’s something wicked in there that has a joke I don’t know. You think something’s funny, and you don’t want me to know about it.”

  In Nayth’s mind, I caught a glimpse of his hands around Peydran’s neck. Peydran, half naked and wearing only black tights. Nayth grinned with his hands around Peydran’s throat.

  “Are you a closeted homosexual strangler, Nayth Carmidee? Do you get off on strangling naked gay dancers?!” I accused, laughing hysterically.

  All humor left Nayth’s face. My laugh died instantly. Something was in the room that I didn’t understand.

  Nayth’s shoulders fell, and he hung his head, muttering, “I should’ve known. I doubt I can keep anything from you.” Then he looked straight at me.

  “I thought there was a choice?” he questioned, pointing at his head. “I thought we could choose what went between us?”

  I blinked and stepped back. “What? I— You want to keep something from me? I’m sorr— I’m sorry, Nayth. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy. I really didn’t— that’s not what—“ I shook my head. “No— that’s not what I want, if there’s something you want to keep private, keep it. I’m not going to—“

  “Stop, Ryst, stop. Okay? I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think you forced something out of my head, okay? Look at me, Ryst Nova.”

  I opened my eyes and realized he had come over to me and taken my wrists down from my face so he could look in my eyes. “I think we’re just figuring this out okay, love? And I think that part of me still wants to hide. It’s the violence thing. No, I am not a closeted homosexual. No, I am not a strangler, not for fun in bed, and not as a murderous side gig.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t actually want to kill Peydran. I love him possibly as much as you do. And I don’t think I could kill him, even if I tried.” He said it emphatically. Like it was a fact.

  Nayth had 6 inches and over forty pounds on Peydran and was a dual Niner in Flauta and Strith— the martial arts of Floria and Sturm. I pulled back from him and searched his face. Looking over his hard body which was honed like a sword. Or like a dancer. Or like a sword in a dancer’s hand.

  I remembered the image of Nayth’s hands around Peydran’s throat. Peydran in tights. Peydran dancing. “Irony—it happens.” Peydran dancing like flowing water.

  “You watched Peydran dancing to techno didn’t you?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Dancing, you call it? Really, Methela?”

  Peydran was an incredible dancer. Honed. Flowing. Watching it was watching liquid grace. You forgot one of his arms ended in metal. Peydran was a Blacker. Peydran was 100% muscle. He’d had to be. He had to train after cybernetic surgery. He’d been focused. . . he’d been driven. . . he’d had to be. . . All humor left me as well.

  Four years ago. His accident. The surgery. The hospital. The endless questions. “Ryst, why were you in a coma?” A flat look and the questions had stopped.

  Eyes narrowing, I opened a video call.