Glassmage Oblivion

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Twenty-nine

Gabrielle stared into Oanu’s complex, hazel eyes. Breathless, she waited, the rest of the world falling away.

“I’m from your world, Gabrielle. My parents lived in California when I was born.”

The Glassmage spoke with a sad smile, drawing Gabrielle in...

*     *     *

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. They grew up as best friends and were eventually high school sweethearts. Can you imagine that? They went to college together at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Father wrote music and Mother played the cello.

They enjoyed a carefree life due to Father’s success as a composer. For several years, they traveled around the world, Father conducting his own successfully reviewed classical pieces and Mother playing in the orchestra.

Eventually, they built a house near Laguna Niguel in Southern California and started a family. My sister, Sora, was born on a summer morning and brought a new kind of music into their lives. Wanting to stay close to his family, Father stopped touring and wrote music for film in his home studio.

Sora grew into a beautiful young girl. Rather than music, she showed an early talent for art. They, of course, encouraged this gift and her paintings covered the walls in every room. My parents had no other family, so they poured every bit of love into their own. It was as close to perfect as anyone could ever hope to get.

And that, as is usually the case, is when tragedy struck.

They lived only a mile from Kell Elementary School and Sora, then in the fifth grade, usually walked home with her best friend, Lily. Mother stood, as she always did, at the end of their long driveway to greet Sora and walk her up to the house.

On the nineteenth of November, Sora never made it home. While in a crosswalk just outside her school, a teen driver swerved out of control, seriously injuring Lily and killing Sora. The young driver then crashed into the brick and stone Kell Elementary sign, ending the second life of the afternoon.

The loss was devastating. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, letting go became more and more unbearable. One evening, nearly a year after Sora’s death, my parents heeded the words of their doctor and decided to open their hearts again to music. After a sleepless night of talk and deep introspection, they decided they would say goodbye on their own terms. They would share with the world the beauty and love they were given for ten, fragile years. They would do this through music.

They worked together for weeks, Father scribbling madly on large manuscript sheets and Mother playing what he wrote. When it was complete, Father called his agent and everything was set up.

On the evening of October 17th, Sora’s sonata was performed at the Kell Grande Pavilion. The soft susurration of the Pacific Ocean, only a hundred feet from the pavilion, acted as prelude to the sound of their hearts. The moon above cast its glow, gently coaxing all to bear witness. Extra seating had been created with enough room for over a thousand people. The piece was written for nineteen cellos to match the date Sora had been taken from them. Mother, of course, was part of this chamber orchestra.

You might be wondering about my place in all of this. To understand, you must imagine the nature and texture of the music being played. Father called it the Nox Sonata. Night Music. There were, of course, no words. The music spoke for them in its own haunting manner. It told of their loss, yes, but it was so much more than that. It begged. It pleaded. It implored that their daughter, Sora, be given back to them.

Although the Sonata was pure beauty, it was oddly painful to listen to. Those who sat there that evening were forever changed, retaining some part or phrase of the music in the loneliest rooms of their hearts.

Father conducted and Mother played. She pulled her bow back and forth across the cello’s strings, spraying the finest coating of rosin dust across the polished wood, speaking to whatever powers were listening.

She had no idea that her own hidden powers had then taken over, calling out to the primordial energy of the ocean. The beach. The sand. My mother’s powers as a Glassmage were astonishing and formidable. She did not simply silicast, nor did she command the transformation. Instead, Mother poured her very soul into each note, beseeching the universe to return her daughter. With every turn of phrase, she died inside to give life.

And with every note, I was born beneath the light of the full moon.

I remember this as a dream, of awakening, hearing the eons old thrum of the surf, the engine of eternity. This was my heartbeat. Not fifty feet from the pavilion, hidden in the cleft of a dune, shielded by sea grass, my body took form, rising from the sand. As hundreds of people sat captivated by the music, I took my first breath. Yes, I had lungs with which to breathe. My heart was a true heart. My eyes, when they finally opened, saw the truth. Using my new arms, I pulled myself slowly up from the hot singularity of transmuted sand.

As the sonata moved from recapitulation to coda, I took my first step, marveling at the feel of the sand. What had Mother done? My mind, already formed, asked a torrent of questions only partially answered by the sound of the cellos.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. The speed of my birth left me scared and unbalanced. I felt as if I were falling with speed downward, though I stared as the motionless beach beneath my feet.

The final note echoed down the beach, absorbed into the rocking water.

There was no applause. This was not intended as insult to Father, however, as the audience stood as one in silent appreciation. Father turned to them and held his chin high for a moment. Was he saying goodbye? Was he cursing the heavens? Was he making his final request for oblivion, a failed parent who has outlived his own child?

Yes and yes and yes. My dear father.

I put my back to the Pacific. I was not Sora, although I was made in her image. I would learn much about my sister and parents in the days to come, but an overwhelming urge to go to them took over. I needed to confront them! Tell them of the miracle they’d performed, Father with his music and Mother as a primal Glassmage.

So I ran up the beach, feeling the sand spray behind my feet. Falling often, I soon gained better control of my legs. And then I stopped, realizing without embarrassment or shame that I wore no clothes. I was nearly upon the crowd of people, but their attention was not on me. I stared at a young woman near the edge of the pavilion. She wore a long, dark purple dress and sandals. Without expending the least bit of energy, I made the change and was wearing an identical outfit. The alteration of my form was done with no more thought than taking a breath or blinking an eye.

Heart beating feverishly in my chest, I took long strides to the rear of the pavilion, opposite the area where the seating had been arranged. Walking up the long, flat steps, I scanned the crowd, searching for my parents. Many had converged around chairs where the sonata had been played, talking in hushed tones.

Moving between and among these people was a strange and wonderful experience. I was like them, yet nothing like them at all. But where were my parents?

Finally, I spoke.

“Where is the composer? His wife?” I asked total strangers.

An older woman, wearing ropes of pearls and smelling like roses, took my arms and confided, “They’re gone, my beauty. She collapsed and he took her home, which is where they ought to be right now.”

I left the pavilion, walking slowly toward the large parking area. Some people were getting into their vehicles, yet most just stood around, speaking about what they’d just heard as if woken from a dream.

I looked past them all to the east and the knowledge came like a well-worn memory; I knew at once where they lived.

“I’m coming, Mother,” I said, the moon sentinel witness above me.

“I’m coming, Father.”