Flux and Fire

Sebastian Scott was the sort of man that nobody wished to deal with. He was the sort of man that bottles his dreams like he bottles his brandy; in a dusty box deep in the cellar, never to be glanced at nor touched. He was cold, dark, unfamiliar, and lonely. He was the sort of man that never left the house, never answered his letters, and left his piano just as untouched as the alcohol.

But he wasn’t always this way. There was a time when the blind old man had laughed, and sang, and composed the most beautiful music anyone had ever heard. He painted the world around him, with the orchestra as his great, aural brush, and everyone from miles around would come and visit him there.

He had loved unlike anyone had loved, and that is what ended him.

The year was 1834, and Scott was at the prime age of twenty-five. He had been blind for his entire life, but he never told me why, simply that “it was an accident”. I couldn’t have been older than nine or ten years myself, but still I was enthralled by his ingenious way of bringing his world to our ears.

And oh, how in love was he. He had a wonderfully beautiful girl by the name of Cassandra, whom he always had time to throw a smile towards, and he dedicated all of his music to. I would see the two of them together, smiling, holding hands, wandering about the marketplace with no particular destination in mind. Such a sight never failed to cheer me up.

I met him when I was seven. He taught me how to play the violin and even said that one day, when I was older, he would let me play on his orchestra. He was like a father to me, but I only ever addressed him as Mr. Scott, or sometimes Maestro. I’d never learned more about music than when I was his pupil. One of his favourite exercises was to have me wear a blindfold and play for him what something feels like; the first snowfall, the rising sun, a bustling city. I adored every moment.

It was when Cassandra joined us in our lessons when things were particularly enjoyable; Scott would be in an even better mood than usual (which typically seemed almost impossible), and she would sing with my violin as I played. Often, Mr. Scott himself would dig out some random instrument (usually, he would use the piano, but on special occasions he would play the cello or trumpet) and would join in as we made the Northern Lights dance through our imaginations.

I was always saddened when the lessons came to an end, but my spirits rose once more whenever I took my violin from my case and allowed myself to be pulled into a land far, far away. He had taught me escapism; the art of whisking oneself to another world through the vision of sound.

It wasn’t until several years later, however, when everything fell apart. It was mid-July (I only remember this because it was my birthday), and my lesson was being carried on extra-long, as Mr. Scott had a plan for when Cassandra arrived, and he needed me to be there.

“Now, remember what I told you,” he had said, “When she enters the room, I want you to play the piece. Alright?”

I nodded, excited to be a part of such a momentous occasion.

When Cassandra did enter, several minutes later, I did as Mr. Scott had asked and played my impression of the night sky; one of Mr. Scott’s absolute favourites, and one that I had written several months before.

Cassandra’s face lit up upon the sound of the lilting, warm tune, and then smiled even wider when she saw Mr. Scott, down on one knee, presenting her with a ring.

And so it was that they were to be wed.

Everything was wonderful, for a time. The happiest couple in all of Upper Canada became even happier, and everyone around them happier as well. Cassandra seemed to become even more beautiful, and Scott’s orchestra played with a fervor that they had never before possessed. It was a good year.