Bravo by Calliopes Stylus

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Time means little to Atar; when there is inspiration, any length of time might pass without him ever raising his head. We are alike in this, and so I am not surprised, as I approach his study, to hear the rapid scratching of a quill, as if the pen is moving as swiftly as his mind.

I open the door and slip inside, knowing that he might not hear if I shout his name. This is a risky move, as Atar hates to be disturbed, and has moved many a naïve servant to tears. I also see that he is writing with both hands at once, a skill he says he only employs when one hand is not fast enough to record his thoughts.

I am prepared to stand for an hour, but he looks up as soon as I come in.

"What now?"

Only one who has lived with Atar all his life can understand that this is a token of affection: anybody else would be severely censured, and Atar has the sharpest tongue I have ever heard—I would rather have a dozen whippings than suffer one of his reprimands. But he is nearly always willing to speak with me, for though Curvo is his favorite, everyone knows that I bring him the most pride.

Only a month ago one of the most esteemed music critics called me the greatest musician in Aman, if not in Arda. "Canafinwë Macalaurë is aptly named: the music that he plays is indeed golden…" It had gone on in this vein for some time, becoming ever more flowery. I tried to wave away some of the more flowery parts, but Atar had stopped me.

"You know you have done something well," he said, "so what then is the point of modesty?" (When I heard that I realized that he had just described himself in a single sentence.)

But regardless of what newspapers say, I tend to feel inadequate with Atar—somehow, he can find mistakes in almost anything. If he had been a Vala, he would have told Ilúvatar that the design could be better.

"Macalaurë?" His hands are still flying across the papers, but every moment that he spends watching me stand in the doorway is keeping him from devoting his entire mind to the task at hand.

"I—I created my own musical notation." I hold up my handful of papers. "I think I'm finished, but I don't know if it could be improved. And it is a language in its way, so I thought, who better to speak to?" It is truth, not flattery, but in any case it earns me an immediate and appreciative audience. Atar shifts one of the stacks of paper that comprise whatever he was writing and motions for me to come sit.

I kick the door closed behind me and pull a chair around to the other side of his desk. A prism paints a rainbow across the papers as I set them down.

"Explain it to me."

"Well…you know how music is written now." Though music is not one of his greater interests, he can play several instruments and has of course made it his business to become familiar with the linguistic aspect. I have had enough experience discussing this with him to know his opinions.

"Cluttered, sometimes near-incomprehensible. Difficult."

"And so needlessly complicated! Everything squashed into these columns; no wonder it took me almost a year to master it. But look how the staff is organized here…" I explain my system: the notes and rests, the time and key signatures, the dynamic and articulation symbols that eliminate the need for long descriptions in the composer's own words. The nervousness vanishes as I talk; I am in my element here.

I have been a musician for as long as I can remember-apparently I learned to sing before I learned to talk-and one of my great regrets has always been that music as it is is so difficult to learn that many people either play by ear, or give up trying. My way, I hope, will make music much more accessible, and then what a world it will be! Atar follows intently until I have finished explaining. He pulls the paper closer and rereads it once. "Over here, you say—this would be played as—" He vocalizes the melody line of the piece I have been showing him.

"Yes!" Even if he says that what I have is abominable and that the project should be abandoned, at least I know now that I have created something readable.

"Hmm." He goes through the pages, reading and comparing them with some of the current notation I have brought along for contrast while I look around at all the little half-finished curiosities that fill his shelves. One of the differences between him and Amil—she rarely lets a project go unfinished, while Atar jumps from one thing to another, devoting his entire attention to one task until he gets another idea; brilliant he may be, but the one of the few things that eludes him is staying on task (I remember Haru Finwë saying that Atar was more difficult than all four of his half-siblings combined).

"Atar?" That's one of the things about him: his expression hardly ever changes, so I can't tell his opinion. "What do you think?"

He nods approvingly. "I have taught you well."

For a moment I wonder if I have heard correctly—for Atar to let a first attempt pass by without a criticism is nearly unheard of. "So you approve?"

He looks up, and he is smiling. "Certainly. It is clear, it is relatively easy to comprehend and it is even pleasing to look at."

Compliments. That was three compliments from a man impossible to please. I pinch myself. Yes, I'm awake.

But suddenly I have another problem: "So now what do I do?" Atar presented the Tengwar in a scholarly fashion at a university to a group of like-minded scholars and already the Sarati are becoming a thing of the past. But it just doesn't work that way with music.

He thinks for a moment. "Isn't there a concert the day after tomorrow?"

"A ballet." I hate him for reminding me; I try not to think about performing for any audience until I actually find myself onstage. After the first note I'm fine, but until then….

"You will be playing with the orchestra?"

"Yes. Flute." Less than a week ago the principal flutist left in a snit; the space was empty, the show was in a few days, and everyone was in a panic. In one of my less-than-intelligent moments, I had volunteered to play an instrument I haven't practiced for months for a four-hour ballet which I know nothing about.

"All the better. You make sure to use this notation. People will question, and your opinion seems to matter in the musical world. Am I correct?"

"Well…yes." It frightens me, knowing that something I say in passing might have a lasting effect. "And you think it will work?"

"I know it will work." He examines the music again. "So. Another new writing system."

"Maybe it runs in the family."

"Perhaps. You do have a lineage to be proud of. And a name, as well."

Canafinwë Macalaurë—Commanding Finwë; Forging Gold. I think I am proving myself worthy of both. As I stand up to leave, I glance at Atar's papers—copious writing interspersed with (to me, at least) indecipherable symbols.
"What are you writing of?"

He picks up the prism and holds it up to the light. "Optics."

"Wasn't something of that sort already published several months ago?" I remember it causing quite a stir—even I, with my negligible interest in anything outside of music, had heard something of it.

"Inaccurate and full of holes. I write based on my own observations of light augmented with the advantages of being a jewel-wright, and of being correct."

"Ah. Well—thank you for your time. Good night." But Atar has already begun to scribble again and does not answer.

It is incredibly late, and I feel sleep calling; at the same time, there is a deadline and I feel the ballet calling (and now I have to put it all into the new notation!—at least I will get some practice). A concerto is birthing itself in my mind, and I must write that down as well. But just now, I will allow myself to stand in the hall and savor this moment.

Bravo.

-Finis-