The Humiliation of Quirk

by Achaian

2: Voice

Voice

There was one voice, and it was Harmony.

It swept him up in the notes; the chords carried him; the melody amazed him; what he felt was quite unlike anything gone before. The movements of sound-waves through the variable elements of air and water and life diminished none of its beauty: the perfect perception of his ears was immutably wonderful. It trembled mightily; it was rendered perfectly, gracefully, a soft and somehow minute vibrato that exuded simple gentleness. He had never been more in awe until that moment, and it only magnified as time passed. He reached out- almost as if he could touch it, feel it and be touched and inspired in turn, and then-

Gasping, he awoke in the grass; he stood up in realization and a soon-sinking disappointment.

It had all been a dream, a miserably wonderful dream, and he would never hear the voice again. There could not be such a pure thing, and certainly not for him. The urge to weep overwhelming, he staggered back onto the ground and stared at the pond.

Gradually, his gaze wandered from the far bank to the nearest one, the new image on the very closest edge, and he saw for an instant a blue-green reflection-

Mourning sorrow boiled over into rage as quick as lightning, and he struck the water and shattered the reflections; he threatened to scream and had to clench his mouth shut not to do so. Agonizing fury! He was filled with the inexpressible rage of a titan, but the volatile feeling could not remain so in him for long. With another instant’s passing, the rage condensed into the more familiar and pathetic if not poetic feeling of loss and shameful guilt. It had been nothing but a dream and a construct of the unconscious mind’s impetuousness, nothing more but proof of the self-hatred.

A minute of grieving passed; choked tears silently shed into the cool dark earth. Perhaps he could- he had heard it, after all.

No, he growled mentally, verbally a guttural uttering, hardening himself with what little lingering mental fortitude he had not exhausted. Never again.

He was very miserable, and he was therefore incensed for a long time. His grief was borne out onto the earth in the most original fashion: like bloody offerings his tears soiled the earth; the deliverance of pain onto him demanded release. Then- for a second- he thought he had heard the divine voice again.

He began to plead with his mind not to drive him madder than he could bear, but the sound would not stop. However, appealing to his mind could provide no relief: his ears were the ones supplying the gloriously maddening melody, and his ears did not lie. He was reluctant to believe, almost to the point of deaf denial; although once he understood he immediately sprung off the ground in impassioned panic, determined to find apparition of harmony in sound. For even in that pain he was able to recognize the truth and healing, even if it was beyond his understanding. His misery came to the forefront and it was swept aside by a small hope, and even that small hope was magnanimous enough to delay and destroy the onslaught of agony. To hope is to live; his life was small now, but it was existent and its fading would not come, indeed, not yet.

He started walking and the notes hinted at a form in the air, cascading like a brook out of the trees into his ears. It seemed to come from everywhere at once and inside himself. With great restraint, he circumambulated the pool with attention to detail the highest priority, but he gained no clue to the voice falling in rhythm onto him. He was at the edge of the glade now, the seeping blackness of the forest beyond ominously opaque.

But the voice was calling him; the song was clearer in the dark…

He rushed into the shadows; the silent woods were now organs of the sound delivered to him. It was drawing out a word now, words now; through every note it vibrated agonizingly slow:

Hic sum te vocare…

Frenzy gripped him, energy coursing like magma in his veins; a fantastical primal feeling innervated him; it was electrifying. The tempo changed; it was headed to a heady drumming now, ever-quicker on-and-on, or perhaps it was his heart beating. Trees whirling and the leaves rasping, he was lost- No, not again! He could not lose the voice; it was paramount to hope itself! Death was lurking in every shadow, waiting to devour his being if he stopped, if he could not find that magnificent paragon. He was whipped by unseen plants and branches as he ran through the vaporous night, yet no stupor could seize him in his running while the song seized him.

Eius paci vocatus es…

Hints of luster beguiled the searching eyes, the voice was close- mortally close- and he was ever within its bind! He could have been running in circles for all he knew, but the pool had been left behind for certain. Crashing through invisible shrubbery, the Indian-ink doused air obscured his vision until all sensation could only be derived through the weight of the earth and the coarseness of the plants brushing and the fresh smell of life in night-bloom and the taste of purity in the air, but most- most of all- the sound, the indefatigable chords convulsing his being!

Pro te est vocare…

It rang, amplified; it danced in the woods and in his mind; building through crescendo- or perhaps it was his perception- and the climax was near. There was no light in the forest, and he stumbled as he ran slipshod through innumerable obstacles and gloomy voids; the voice had stopped- halted! But it was only for a moment, as it was nearing the very end. And if he could not find it before the finale… It was closing- it was now!- There could be nothing afterwards save for grieving despair if he did not find it-

Et se invenies.

He burst back into the glade on the opposite bank of the pool he had occupied, and she- the mistress of sound, harmony’s bearer incarnate- stood his former station nobly; engulfed in moonlight she stood proud yet modest, a silhouette of grace. The last note faded with awe into columns of beaming light, and as it did she noticed him. Her gaze shied from him, but she could not hide herself.

He could not speak the words to describe it. He could not find his voice.