The Goblin King lifted his bow to the violin and closed his eyes. I watched him take a deep breath and begin the count in his head.
The piece began with a declaration, a proclamation of joy. The phrase repeated itself a few times before it was joined by a chorus of voices. The Goblin King skillfully conveyed them all through various shades of emotion and nuance, one after another, each in turn. All proclaiming Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! beneath his fingers. Then a pause, a breath, before he resumed; a stately sonata, reiterating the glad tidings of the first proclamation.
I had known he played beautifully. Like Josef, the Goblin King played not just with skill and precision, but with love. Yet they were as different from each other as night and day. My brother played with purity, but the Goblin King played with devotion. Josef’s talent with the violin had always been that of ruthless clarity. Nothing of the earth could touch my brother’s playing; he trod upon the ether and the air, the notes transcendent and oh so beautiful, so beautiful.
But the Goblin King’s playing was weighty; the notes held depth and gravitas. Emotions my brother had not yet learned: grief, tragedy, loss. The Goblin King’s virtuosity was earned.
The piece came to a close, the last note fading into the silence between us. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, not wanting to break the reverent hush in the room. “Did you write it?”
He opened his eyes slowly, emerging from a trance. “Hmmm?”
“Did you write it? It’s exquisite.”
He smiled. “No. I did not write it. But you could say it wrote me, in a manner of speaking.”
“What’s the piece called?”
A pause. “The Resurrection. One of the Mystery Sonatas.”
“Where did you learn it?”
Another pause. “At the abbey where I was raised.”
Such tiny crumbs from his past. I swallowed each morsel like it was my last meal. I hungered for him, for the austere young man, for every bit of him I could not have.
“Which abbey?”
His only response was another smile, with just the tiniest hint of teeth. The Lord and the Goblin King worked in mysterious ways, and I rather wished they didn’t.
“Who wrote the piece?” I pressed.
“Are we in another round of Truth or Forfeit?” he teased.
“Only if you wish it.”
He paused before giving his answer. “I do not know who originally composed it.” His eyes were distant, his fingers absentmindedly thumbing the strings on the violin. “I stole bits and pieces of song from the cloisters whenever I could, listening at corners and fingering the notes with an imaginary violin. I adapted the sonata as best as I could from memory.”
I tried to place the sonata in time from my slipshod, piecemeal history lessons. It lacked the melodic musicality to which we’d grown accustomed in the world above, and sounded a bit old-fashioned. But it lacked the structure of a sonata as I knew it, a little wild, a little fluid. We had both skulked in the shadows, the Goblin King and I, eavesdropping on things to which we had no right.
“You could expand upon the themes,” I suggested. “The scordatura is a little unusual, but it might be interesting to take the melody and play it again in a minor key.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You are the genius, Elisabeth, the one who creates. Me? I am a mere interpreter.”
The pain that stabbed me was sudden and fierce. I turned my head away so the Goblin King would not see me cry. My little brother had once told me that exact thing, before I came to the Underground, before I understood the difference between genesis and exegesis. I was too full of me, too full of my memories. I was drowning in the mire of my childhood dreams, and the unbearable pleasure of the present.
I felt the comfort of his presence settle down beside me on the steps. The Goblin King rested a gentle kiss on my shoulder blade, but said nothing, waiting for me to pull back my emotions, waiting for me to compose myself.
“Who—who taught you to play the violin?” I managed, clearing my throat of the sadness lodged there.
I felt him smile against my shoulder as he mumbled an answer.
“What?”
He lifted his head. “His name,” he said softly, “was Brother Mahieu.”
A monk. A monk of no consequence even, one who had passed from the world above without leaving a mark. Yet the Goblin King remembered him. The Goblin King had clearly loved him, and it was in his love that the beloved old teacher lived on. This was the immortality humans were meant to have: to be remembered by those who loved us long after our bodies had crumbled into dust.
I thought of my brother and sister, those who still loved me, and remembered. They were waiting for me in the world above, and I felt the wings of tomorrow settle over me. Too soon. It was too soon.
“What was he like?” I asked, my back still turned to the Goblin King. “Did he raise you? Who were your parents? How came you to the abbey? What—”
“Elisabeth.”
I still did not face him. I was not ready.
“Tomorrow has come.”
I shook my head, but we were past the point of no return. I had made my choice. I had chosen myself. I had chosen selfishness.
The Goblin King sensed my hesitation. “Don’t regret your decision to live.”
“I don’t,” I whispered. “And I won’t.” It wasn’t a lie, but neither was it entirely the truth.