This is the first time I am participating in this challenge, so we'll see if I have the stamina to complete the whole month !
I am also, very ambitiously, writing for the April NaNoWrite ! So the challenge is twofold !!
Hang on to your horse and enjoy the ride. And good luck to all my fellow participants.
if you would like to learn more about the A to Z Challenge
The Concert
The small chapel is set in an enclosed expanse of
greenery, somewhere in Brittany. Lichen ridden gravestones stud the
damp grass, the markings all but erased.
Sally and Patrick make their way towards the great oak
doors, gargoyles grinning down on them.
“What
a gorgeous place !”
She
turns towards Patrick.
“A
tat chilly and wet,”
he moans in response.
Splatters of mud ooze between the paving stones.
“Yes,
you're probably right. Oh damn, I've dirtied my shoes.”
“Well don't clean
them now, you'll lose your balance and be in more of a mess,”
Patrick offers a steadying hand.
Inside
the chapel, they are struck by a near rotting smell that seeps from
the walls and then by the stuffiness from overhanging calefactory
chandeliers
burning musty.
Patrick
grips his throat and clears his voice worrying that last week's chill
will impinge on his singing. The choir members and Steven, the choir
master, remove their coats and huddle towards the wood stove to warm
their hands.
Steven sniffs the air and frowns. The exposed chests of
his female singers might prove hazardous, he reflects.
“Gather
round in a circle and lets warm up”,
he starts.
“Breath
in deeply and stretch your arms above your heads. Relax and bend your
knees slightly. Now, let your head fall so that your chin touches
your sternum. Slowly drop your arms and chest towards the floor. Keep
breathing steadily. Swing from right to left, like a pendulum.
Finally unfold your back, your spine, gently, slowly,
vertebrae by vertebrae, yours arms still hanging and finish with your
neck and
head....”
A few groans, sighs and yawns later from the singers,
Patrick feels a tingling in his larynx and swallows. Sally turns her
head and catches his eye, darting him a concerned look. Patrick
reassures her with a smile and a flick of his hair.
Hands
on the keyboard, Steven sounds out a few crescendo notes.
“
Aah, Eeh, Oow, Youh.......”
The choir responds. The piano ascends half an octave.
The singers follow. The sopranos reach C major and the notes fall
diminuendo. Tenors and altos join in once more, the bass, last.
“
The same with ' Yum ', please ”
The combined heat from the radiators and sheer body
warmth has settled the atmosphere's temperature into a workable, even
pleasant, ambiance. Steven is appeased and begins to relax, likewise
the choir members. Patrick isn't bothered by his throat. Sally wipes
a spot of mud from off her heel and adjusts her décolleté.
The benches and pews are filling up rapidly: holiday
makers mostly. Some are in evening dress with thick shawls for the
women, light sweaters over their shirts for the men. Some are in
jeans and sneakers, some are children. All are glowing in
expectation: this is a sacred music concert, sung a Capella, in
Southern Brittany. A Cornish choir ensemble from Penzance, from
across the water: pixies and fairies.
A bass voice rises, rumbling like a wave on pebbles. A
few chords establish a carpet of rhythm. A low-key melody floats
above like a ship breaking the waves. The tenor and soprano carry the
tune like gulls surfing on the wind, calling and responding, swooping
and catching stray notes.
Steven sways and lifts the sound, higher, and higher,
with his dancing arms.
The music flies and floats like a magic rug above the
audience and then sinks into the chapel's stone columns. More
vibrations mount and circle, the sound finally draping the warm air.
Below the flying music, the audience is silent: heaven
incarnate, out of space and time. There are no coughs or scraping of
chairs: mesmerized. The air itself has reached another level of
reality. All consciousness has coalesced into a blur and then
solidifies into an universal harmony.
The roof, the tower, the walls and columns evaporate
and the sound continues to rise, up to the sky, the stars themselves
become listeners.
A wisp of air catches in the back of Patrick's throat.
The harsh tickle becomes unbearable. He coughs and the music
collapses. Notes like bombshells cascade to the stone slabs of the
chapel. Steven is impelled to stop, Patrick is by now bent over
double, groping for a handkerchief to press to his mouth. There, in
the white linen, are scarlet spots of blood. Patrick's eyes lift
towards Steven. From deep within them rises a pleading look of panic.
Sally rushes forward and clasps his shaking body. Patrick' knees give
way; his body buckles and and plummets to the floor.
A gasp explodes from the assistance and the singers
crowd around their companion.
“Someone call an ambulance,” shrieks a woman with a
violet scarf and black ruffled shirt.
Steven is already mouthing urgently into his cell.
Sally whispers comfortingly over Patrick who has regained
consciousness. She feels his pulse and glances up. Worry mixed with
panic flash from her eyes.
The paramedics, once arrived, place an oxygen mask on
Patrick's face and his eyes open again. They find Sally's face. And
he closes them again.
“Ça va aller”, the paramedic reassures Sally.
As Sally climbs up into the ambulance, she glances back
at the chapel. The gargoyles over the stone entrance grin at her once
more. Steven leads the way back inside and closes the cool evening
out with the thick oak doors.
Written
longhand October/November 2010 (typed up and edited October 2014,
April 2019)
©Susan
Baury Rouchard
