[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
After he was gone, I explained about Ann and Uncle nodded. "Good, the relay will help," he
said. "I've seen it work."
His confident manner made me feel much better. I even managed a smile. "So you're working
in music," I said. "I'm not surprised."
"Yes, music was always a great love," he said. He gestured toward the grass. "Let's sit," he
said. "You'll like it better here than in the amphitheatre; I won't tell you why, I'll let you be
surprised."
We sat and Katie lay beside us. "Is there a lot of music here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, it plays a large role in Summerland," he answered. "Not only as diversion but as a
way by which a person can achieve higher levels."
"What is it you do?" I asked.
"I specialize in the study of the best methods of conveying musical inspiration to those who
have a talent for composition on earth," he said. "Our studies are tabulated and transferred to
another group who consider the best means of communicating with these talented people. A
third group does the actual transmission. Then but I'll tell you about it later, the concert is
about to start." How he knew I couldn't tell since everything was out of sight beneath ground
level.
He was right though; it was about to begin. I know you're not a classical music lover, Robert,
but it might intrigue you to read that the main composition to be performed was Beethoven's
Eleventh Symphony.
I saw quickly why Uncle had suggested that we sit above the level of the amphitheatre.
Listening is not the whole experience.
No sooner had the orchestra begun to play an unfamiliar overture by Berlioz than a flat,
circular surface of light rose from it to float level with the topmost seats.
As the music continued, this circular sheet of light became more dense, forming a foundation
for what followed.
First, four columns of light shot up into the air at equal spaces. These long, tapering pinnacles
of luminosity remained poised, then descended slowly to become broader until they
resembled four circular towers each topped with a dome.
Now the basic surface of light had thickened and risen slowly to form a dome above the entire
amphitheatre. This continued to rise until it was higher than the four columns. There, the
immense musical form remained stationary.
Soon, the most delicate of colors began diffusing throughout the structure. As the music went
on, this coloration altered constantly, one subtle shade blending into the next.
Because I couldn't see the amphitheatre, orchestra or audience, it was as though some kind of
magical architecture was taking place in front of me. I learned that all music emits shapes and
color but not every composition creates such vivid formations.
The value of any musical thought form depends on the purity of its melodies and harmonics.
In essence, the composer is a builder of sound, creating edifices of visible music.
"Does it vanish when the music ends?" I whispered, then realized that, since we spoke by
thought, I didn't have to whisper.
"Not immediately," he answered. "Time must be allowed between pieces for the form to
dissolve so as not to conflict with the next one."
I was so enchanted by the shimmering architecture that I was scarcely conscious of the music
which created it. I recalled that Scriabin had tried combining light and music and wondered if
that inspiration had come from Summerland.
I, also, thought how Ann would love this sight.
The beauty of the color reminded me of a sunset she and I had watched together at Sequoia.
This was not the trip we made when Ian was a baby. This was sixteen years later, our first
camping trip without the children.
We took a walk our first afternoon in the Dorst Creek campground; a two-mile hike to Muir
Grove. The trail was narrow and I walked behind her, thinking more than once, how cute she
was with her jeans and white sneakers, her red and white jacket tied around her waist,
scuffing the dust as she moved, looking around with childlike curiosity, stumbling often
because she didn't watch the path. Nearing fifty, Robert, and she seemed younger to me than
ever.
I remember sitting, cross-legged, in the grove with her, side by side, our eyes closed, palms
upturned, closely ringed by five immense Sequoia trees, the only sound a faint but steady
rushing of wind far above us. A thought occurred to me; the first line of a poem: Wind in the
high trees is the voice of God.
Ann loved that afternoon as I did. There was something about nature in particular the
stillness of a forest to which she reacted well; the total silence seeping into one's very flesh.
Outside of our home, it was one of the few places she felt entirely free of anxieties.
When we walked back to the campground, it was nearing sunset. We stopped at an enormous,
sloping rock face that overlooked a vista of giant stands of redwood trees.
We sat there watching the sunset, talking quietly. First about the landscape and what it must
have been like before the first man saw it. Then about how man has taken this magnificence
and methodically demolished it.
Gradually, we talked about ourselves; our twenty-six years together.
"Twenty-six," Ann said as though she couldn't quite believe it. "Where did they go, Chris?"
I smiled and put my arm around her. "They were well spent."
Ann nodded. "We've had our times though."
"Who hasn't?" I answered. "It's better now than ever, that's all that matters."
"Yes." She leaned against me. "Twenty-six years," she said. "It doesn't seem possible."
"I'll tell you what it seems like," I told her. "It seems like last week that I spoke to a cute little
X-ray technician trainee on the beach in Santa Monica and asked her what time it was and she
pointed at a clock."
She laughed. "I wasn't very friendly, was I?"
"Oh, I persevered," I said, squeezing her. "You know, it's odd. It really does seem like last
week. Does Louise actually have two children of her own? Is 'baby' Ian on the verge of
college? Have we really lived in all those houses, done all those things?"
"We really have, Chief," Ann said. She grunted, amused. "How many open houses have we
gone to at the children's schools, I wonder? All those desks we sat at, hearing what our kids
were being taught."
"Or what they were doing wrong."
She smiled. "That too."
"All those cookies and coffee in Styrofoam cups," I recalled.
"All those horrible fruit punches."
I laughed. "Well..." I stroked her back. "I think we did a reasonable job of raising them."
"I hope so," she said. "I hope I haven't hurt them."
"Hurt them?"
"With my anxieties, my insecurities. I tried to keep it all from them."
"They're in good shape, Mother," I told her. I rubbed her back slowly, looking at her. "So, I
might add, are you."
She looked at me with a tiny smile. "We've never had the camper to ourselves before."
"I hope it doesn't rock too much at night," I said. "We'll be the scandal of the campground."
She made an amused sound. "I hope not too."
I sighed and kissed her temple. The sun kept going down, the sky bright red and orange. "I
love you, Ann." I told her.
"And I love you."
We sat in silence for a while before I asked, "Well, what next?"
"You mean right now?"
"No; in years to come."
"Oh, we'll do things," she told me.
Sitting there, we planned the things we'd do. Lovely plans, Robert. We'd come to Sequoia in
the autumn to see the changing colors. We'd camp OB the river at Lodgepole in the spring,
before the crowds began arriving. We'd backpack into the high country, maybe even try cross-
country skiing in the winter if our backs held out We'd ride a raft down a rushing river; rent a
houseboat and sail it through the back rivers of New England. We'd travel to the places in the
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]