Forward the Mage

  "Don't know what to say? Excellent, excellent. It's a fine and proper thing for bold young women to be tongue-tied by the sagacity of their elders. A fine and proper thing."

  He took Gwendolyn by the elbow and moved her toward the horses. "Why don't you go up to the house? Hildegard's there. She can tell you about the whole thing."

  Gwendolyn leapt on her horse and took off toward the mansion at a gallop. I followed at a somewhat less precipitous pace. By the time I reached the front door, Gwendolyn had disappeared inside. I was in such a hurry to hear the news myself that I didn't take the time to examine the building. Only an impression of great size registered.

  I entered through a pair of double doors and found myself in a large foyer. There was no one present. Down a hallway to my left I heard voices—Gwendolyn's, and others. I followed the sounds, and found myself in a large room with high ceilings. My artist's eye was at once drawn to the marvelous paintings on the ceilings, which depicted scenes from various great operas.

  The room was sparsely furnished. A grand piano stood toward the far wall, a few chairs and music stands scattered about it. At the near end of the room were several large and comfortable looking sofas and easy chairs clumped around a couple of low tables. Most of the space in between was empty, exposing a beautiful parquet floor. The room was very brightly lit from an entire wall of windows. The other walls, covered in a pale apricot watered silk, were decorated with an extensive collection of antique musical instruments.

  Gwendolyn was standing by the piano, her back to me. A middle-aged woman, rather pretty, was sitting in a chair nearby. Another woman, elderly but very vigorous looking, was standing behind the piano. She was almost as tall as Gwendolyn. Her hair was white as snow, drawn back in a tight bun. A serene smile graced her face.

  "But, Gwendolyn, I insist!" she said. "You must hear this aria first."

  Without waiting for Gwendolyn's reply, the white-haired woman leaned over and began playing the piano. It was only then that I realized she wasn't standing behind the piano—she was sitting. She must have been well-nigh eight feet tall!

  A beautiful melody filled the room. Gwendolyn clenched her fist and raised it over the piano. Her whole body exuded anger and frustration. But the melody was too much. After a moment, her fist opened, her hand fell to her side. Slowly, the tension eased out of her shoulders. By the end, she was even humming along to the tune.

  The giant woman finished the melody with a flourish.

  "There! Isn't it just grand? It's from the Big Banjo's new opera. He's here, you know? He came two weeks ago, in order to put the finishing touches on the opera. It's called I Ladro. Such a dramatic libretto! It's about a highwayman who wins the love of the beautiful wife of an old miser while he's robbing them. Then, after the old man and his young wife get thrown in prison, the highwayman rescues them and then—"

  "Hildegard!"

  The old woman sighed with exasperation. "Gwendolyn, you are such a monomaniac. Very well, then. I suppose we'll have to discuss this Rap Sheet business first, or I won't get any peace. But when we're done, you must promise me to read the libretto. So dramatic! Everyone's dead at the end, of course. After the old miser slays the highwayman with his cane in a duel, his wife commits suicide and he—"

  "Hildegard!"

  "—dies of heartbreak after repenting his lifelong obsession—"

  "Hildegard!"

  "—with money. There, I got it out! All right, dear, I'll tell you all about the Rap Sheet. But first, who is this very handsome young man standing behind you?"

  I hadn't realized she'd noticed me. The old woman—Hildegard, apparently—had never looked in my direction once. Gwendolyn turned. Her face was set in its hawk look. But for just that one moment, when she first looked at me, a trace of softness came into her face.

  "Oh," said Hildegard. "I see."

  Gwendolyn turned back. "See what?" she demanded.

  Hildegard's only reply was a smile and a quick flurry of notes on the piano. Not a tune, really, just a sudden air of joy and happiness. Gwendolyn's face reddened a bit.

  The third woman in the room suddenly stood up and came over to me, her hands outstretched.

  "Welcome! Welcome! I am Madame Kutumoff."

  I took her hands in mine and bowed.

  "Enchanted, Madame. I am Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."

  "Which branch?" asked Madame Kutumoff.

  I began to explain where my immediate family line fit on the complex hereditary tree of the Sfondrati-Piccolomini clan, but before I got very far into it she began nodding her head.

  "Yes, yes, I know it. Two of your uncles—Ludovigo and Rodrigo, if memory serves me correctly—served with my husband some years ago." Still holding my hands, she looked at Gwendolyn and then back at me.

  "I predict you will have an adventurous life," said Madame Kutumoff.

  Hildegard laughed. Never, in all my life, had I heard more melodious laughter.

  Gwendolyn spoke. "If you two gossips are through chortling over my love life, can we get on with the business at hand?" But she was smiling.

  "Very well, dear." Hildegard placed her hands on top of the piano, fingers interlaced. "Last night—right at the stroke of midnight on Halloween—I had a vision, you see."

  "Where was this?"

  Hildegard frowned with puzzlement. "My vision? It was in my head, of course."

  "No, no. Where were you—when you had this vision?"

  Hildegard was still frowning. "Why, let me see. I believe I was sitting in that chair over there—the one against the wall. We were all here, discussing the Big Banjo's latest—"

  Gwendolyn threw up her hands with frustration. "Hildegard! What were you doing here? The last time I saw you was at the Abbey, when you told me you were being watched too closely to leave and you needed me to take your message to Zulkeh in Goimr. So what are you doing on the loose?"

  "But that was then. This is now. The past and the present are different, Gwendolyn. That's the one truth you can always be sure of. I keep trying to explain that to the Old Geister, but He's just so set in His ways. I'm afraid all that omnipotent nonsense has quite gone to His head. Why, do you know that in His latest tablet He claims—"

  "Hildegard, please! Never mind. You came here. Then you had a vision. Let's please stick to the Rap Sheet, if you don't mind. I've been charging all over central Grotum, warning everybody about it."

  "Well, I should hope so! Such horrible things, those Rap Sheets. But we won't have to worry about this one they sent to Grotum."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's been taken away from them, dear—from the horrid Ozarines." Hildegard looked at me, an apologetic expression in her face. "Please don't take that personally, Benvenuti."

  I waved it away.

  "How?" demanded Gwendolyn. "And how do you know that?"

  Hildegard looked confused. "Well, I don't actually know how it was done. But I imagine we'll find out from my nephew when he gets here. I expect him any day now."

  "Who? Wolfgang? He's in Prygg—at least, that's where he said he was going."

  "Oh, yes. He's just leaving there today."

  Gwendolyn sighed. "Hildegard, Prygg is hundreds of miles away—as the crow flies. It'll take Wolfgang weeks to get here."

  "Oh no, dear. Not Wolfgang."

  Gwendolyn sighed again. "Never mind. But if you don't know how it was taken, how do you know that it was taken at all?"

  "I told you—I had a vision. Last night, at midnight, I suddenly saw a monster. Two monsters, actually. There was a little monster inside a big monster, although the little monster was actually bigger than the big monster. And then there was another little monster and he was suddenly inside the big monster too, except that he wasn't bigger than the big monster the way the other little monster was. Oh no, not at all! Instead, the second little monster got smaller and smaller until he disappeared. And then I heard a great wailing in the sky, and a great singing in the earth, and I knew."

 
"Knew what?"

  Again, Hildegard looked confused. "Why—so many things. I knew the Rap Sheet was taken away from people who shouldn't have it, and I knew the time was here. Sooner than I'd expected. I had so hoped I could convince the Old Geister to set things right beforehand. But one has to look facts in the face. He refused to listen to me, and now things will be unpleasant. Very unpleasant, I'm afraid."

  Gwendolyn shook her head. She spoke between gritted teeth.

  "Hildegard, you are making no sense at all! What is this 'time is here' you're talking about?"

  Hildegard looked away. For a long moment, she stared out the window. When she turned back, the expression on her face was a strange mix of serenity and fatalism.

  "Joe's time, dear. He's coming back."

  Gwendolyn frowned. She started to say something, but Hildegard suddenly reached out and placed her fingertips on Gwendolyn's lips. If the gesture hadn't been done so gracefully, it would have been grotesque, so incredibly long was her arm.

  "Hush, Gwendolyn. I know you don't like to hear about Joe, but just this once, listen to me. Don't say anything, just listen. Because he is coming back, and whether you like it or not, you'll have to deal with it. We all will."

  She took her hand away. "Actually, it's not that simple. Joe—the old Joe, I mean—is gone forever. So he can't actually just come back. But he's—well, returning. Let's put it that way. It's perhaps a fine distinction, but it's important to me."

  Suddenly she laughed, that amazing musical laugh.

  "Of course, it's not an important distinction for some people! God's Own Tooth, for instance—not to mention that whole pack of Popes."

  Gwendolyn walked away a few steps. She radiated frustration and impatience. Hildegard stood up and went over to her. I could now see that she was almost as tall as Wolfgang. She stroked Gwendolyn's great mane of black hair.

  Gwendolyn smiled.

  "I don't know what is it about you, Hildegard. But I can never stay angry with you."

  "Well, I should hope not! I am, after all, the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility."

  A moment later they were both laughing. When they stopped, Gwendolyn looked up at Hildegard with a rueful expression.

  "Just tell me this, Abbess. I can't make sense of the rest of it—but are you sure the Rap Sheet's been taken from the Ozarines?"

  Hildegard looked shocked. Madame Kutumoff was scandalized.

  "Gwendolyn!" she cried. "How could you say such a thing? Hildegard's visions are infallible!"

  In desperation, Gwendolyn looked at me.

  "Does any of this make any sense, Benvenuti?"

  I pondered the question, reviewing my uncles' advice. Nothing seemed relevant to the question of the infallibility of the visions of a gigantic Abbess. So I applied common sense.

  "Gwendolyn, precious few things have made sense to me since I landed in Grotum. So why should this be any different? But the solution is obvious—we wait a few days for Wolfgang to show up and clarify everything with his twin powers of madness and amnesia." When the laughter settled down, I continued: "If he doesn't show up, we reexamine our situation. And in the meantime—" I turned to Madame Kutumoff. "Did you say that the Big Banjo was still here?"

  "Why, yes, he is."

  "I would take it as a great privilege if you would introduce me."

  "I shall be delighted, young man."

  I turned back to Gwendolyn. Suddenly, I was bathed in her smile.

  "Good!" cried Hildegard. "That's settled. And you, young lady, are going to sing. We haven't heard your voice in ages. The Big Banjo was complaining about it, just the other day."

  Madame Kutumoff was clapping her hands. "Oh, yes! That will be such a joy." She stuck two fingers in her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. A moment later, a very proper looking butler appeared in the doorway. Tall, spare, polished, groomed within an inch of his life. Aplomb personified.

  "Madame whistled?"

  "Yes, Andrew. Gwendolyn and her friend, Benvenuti, will be staying with us. Can you see to their rooms, please?"

  Gwendolyn took my hand. "We'll just need one room."

  Madame Kutumoff eyed us thoughtfully. "Such vigorous young people. Best make it the room at the far end of the second floor, Andrew."

  "My very thought, Madame," said the butler, nodding his head.

  Madame Kutumoff smiled at us. "You'll find the bed in that room is very comfortable. And those of us who are insomniacs will find it very comfortable, too. It doesn't squeak."

  * * *

  The next morning, following breakfast, I was introduced to the Big Banjo. It was a great moment in my life, although, truth to tell, the man didn't pay much attention to me. He was far too busy trying to convince Gwendolyn to be the prima donna for his next opera.

  No, I am not joking. It came as a surprise to me, I can assure you. I had come to adore Gwendolyn's unique voice, but the thought had never crossed my mind that she could sing—at least, by operatic standards. Yet here was the world's greatest opera composer—such, at least, was my opinion—intently waging a campaign to convince Gwendolyn to take the stage.

  "Not a chance," she said, over and again. But the Big Banjo was stubborn. He sat in his chair, his back ramrod straight, glaring at her down his long nose.

  "But it's such nonsense, Gwendolyn! The Rap Sheet's a thing of the past. There's no reason you can't forego agitation for a few months. And the part's perfect for you! No, not even that—the part requires you. I don't know another singer could fill the role."

  An innocent smile came onto Gwendolyn's face. "Oh, that can't be true! Why, I hear these new singers for the Gesamtkunstwerkgenie put everyone else to shame."

  The Big Banjo's eyes blazed. "That's not singing! Bellowing, grunting—call it what you like, but don't call it singing!"

  Gwendolyn's smile became angelic. "How you can say that? Why, the whole world's waiting with bated breath for the grand opening of his new opera house next year. He's a genius—no, that's not quite right. He's the genius of all time! Everyone says so." Her smile now radiated holy beatitude. "They even say you're learning a few tricks from him."

  The Big Banjo shot to his feet like a rocket. For a moment, he stood glaring down at Gwendolyn. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

  "Yes, yes, it's quite true. I've tried to keep it a secret, but it's no use. I am a child at the feet of the master. But I fear I shall die of old age before he finishes the first act."

  In the end, he was able to prevail upon Gwendolyn to sing an aria he had written for her part in the projected opera. No sooner had she agreed than Madame Kutumoff was bustling about rounding up a pack of musicians from various nooks and crannies of the huge mansion. It wasn't but ten minutes later that the first bars of the music started, and Gwendolyn began to sing.

  I was stunned. All the deep strength of her voice, put to that marvelous music, was like the soaring of a great heart. A heart with the power of the universe, unleashed, triumphant, filled with hope and glory. The Big Banjo had not been wrong. I could think of no other voice which could possibly have conveyed that music.

  When she finished, there was no applause. Applause would have been—trivial. After a moment's silence, Gwendolyn said: "It is wonderful. Where does this aria come? In the first act?"

  "No, Gwendolyn. It's the finale."

  "The finale? But—this is a song of—of joy, and victory. It's not at all tragic."

  The Big Banjo shrugged. "I am becoming weary of tragedy. Our people have had enough of it. I thought I would compose something different. And besides, I wrote it for you, and you're just not the tragic type."

  Gwendolyn grinned. "How can you say that? Haven't you been telling me for years that I'm doomed to an early grave?"

  The Big Banjo dismissed her words with a gesture. "Not the same thing, at all. Tragedy's when the young heroine dies on stage from a dainty stiletto, moaning, at the last, of her broken heart. Stage left, in good view. Whereas you will die in an alley from a hundred great
saber wounds. Howling defiance, like a wolf. And nobody will be able to see your body, because it will be buried under a dozen corpses of your foes."

  These grim words brought silence to the salon. Gwendolyn and the Big Banjo stared at each other. A contest of wills, I thought at first, until I recognized the respect. And the regret.

  The moment passed. The Big Banjo smiled ruefully, and said, "At least promise me this much. After the revolution, sing in the opera. I will have it ready by then."

  "I will." She laughed. "Who knows? I may sing before then—if the occasion is right."

  Actually, she sang quite a bit the rest of that day. Mostly compositions by Hildegard, who, I discovered, was a great composer in her own right. As I might have expected, the Abbess' music was not at all dramatic. But it conveyed an immense serenity, a calm acceptance of life which evoked not so much resignation as understanding.

  In the course of the afternoon, the Big Banjo told me some parts of Gwendolyn's life which I had not known.

  "I first met Gwendolyn at Hildegard's Abbey," he explained. "Just a girl she was then, hiding out from the police. Hildegard had started her singing, as a way to relax the child. But when the Abbess discovered that voice! She wrote to me, and I came right away. I was astonished. No, more!—I was consumed by the desire to set Gwendolyn's voice to music."

  He chuckled. "Still am consumed by the desire. But Gwendolyn wouldn't agree. 'After the revolution,' she said—hard as iron, even then. And she's never budged since."

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, after tea, Madame Kutumoff took me on a tour of the mansion. Quite an extraordinary place. As you can imagine, having grown up in Ozar apprenticed to my uncles, I had been inside many of the palatial homes of the idle rich. Grand salons, innumerable rooms, lavish gilding, elaborate bronze and marblework, paintings, sculpture—I had seen it all, and had found most of it tasteless and ostentatious, jumbled displays of sumptuous opulence intended more to impress and stupefy than to delight and uplift the soul. The Kutumoff mansion, however, was altogether different.

  When I made comment to that effect, Madame Kutumoff said: "Well, yes, I should think it would be different. It's because of the traditions of the Mutt, and the Kutumoffs. Do you know about that?"