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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v095) (the June 2011 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This writing also appears in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “See the World Burn” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book: (also available through amazon.com)

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The Violin

Malachi King

    The concert hall was drawing fresh converts every night. Wang Sho-Jia, an eight-year-old prodigy had tried to dismiss the growing storm of rumors concerning her violin, but it had the opposite effect. Her flawless English was so smooth and articulate viewers didn’t believe she was telling the truth. It sounded rehearsed, polished. Carmon had watched Sho-Jia’s interview and he didn’t believe her when she said her violin didn’t heal people like magic. “It was just the music,” she said, “that brought people in. The music heals the mind, not the body.” Her words fell around Carmon like snowflakes fall around a freezing man’s shoulders, hunching over a pitiful fire. He doesn’t want to notice the snow. He doesn’t want to believe it’s getting colder, the snow deeper, and his chances of survival slimmer by the moment.
    Wang Sho-Jia played two concerts backed by a professional symphony and was scheduled to fly to France after a third. Her concert tour was only halfway through when the rumors had begun. She didn’t understand them. She just wanted to focus on her music, on her violin. The sweet notes dancing in her head begged to be let out at each performance and when she performed it felt like a great connection was being made between her spirit and the physical world. This fusion set the music in her mind free and filled her soul with gladness. The roar of applause at the end of each concert was accompanied by Sho-Jia’s own heartbeat which also filled her ears and lightened her heart.
    The violin Sho-Jia played had been in her family for generations. Her father, Wang Bohai, had played it in concerts throughout China. He had been regionally well-known and had brought his family a reasonable income; first with performances, and then as conductor and composer. Bohai’s mother had passed the violin to him. She had been a music instructor in Hong Kong and did not play concerts, but she did inspire hundreds of children to follow their hearts with music. She was so talented, when she played the violin for her students many of them wept from overwhelming emotion.
    Beyond that, Sho-Jia only knew the violin had been a part of her family heritage for a long time. She was embarrassed that shame was brought onto her family from her performances. When she was told people believed her music was healing them of sickness at first she didn’t believe people would even believe such a thing. At the very next concert, though, she lingered in a hallway near the entrance, wearing a heavy overcoat, and listened to the whispers of men and women as they filtered in. Many were saying they hoped to be healed by the music. They spoke of inflammations, areas of pain, and cancer. When Sho-Jia saw an old woman being pushed through the doors on a wheelchair, she ran back stage and cried in her grandfather’s arms. Wang Cheung tried to comfort her.
    “Shhh, little spirit. Shhh. They only want to hear your beautiful music. Why should that make you sad?”
    She mumbled something in reply. It was broken apart by sobs.
    “That is not a reason to cry, little spirit. Listen. It will do them good to hear you. Let them believe. Remember when you believed in the power of music?”
    Wang Sho-Jia sniffled and nodded. She did remember.
    “I think there is something in you that still believes.” Cheung continued. “Music is a powerful thing. It is not for us to decide what that power is. Let their minds believe what they want. The mind heals the body, Sho-Jia.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Your parents still see you, little spirit, and they are very proud. I am very proud.”
    Sho-Jia climbed down from her grandfather’s lap, shed her coat, and picked up her violin. Its warm cherry finish comforted her and she traced the grain of the wood with her fingers. She felt the gracefulness of it, how it fit in her hand and under her chin. The tension of the strings held the potential for wonderful music, waiting for her bow, for her hands. She sensed the union between herself and the instrument, and let her heart settle into a peaceful rhythm. Then she walked out onto wings of the concert stage. A crowd of over two thousand waited.
    Carmon Blake had struggled to find parking. All the handicapped spots were taken, not all by vehicles with the proper tag. This was not unusual and Carmon just shook his head and went farther out to find a spot.
    It was taking him much longer to walk anywhere lately and he was leaning on his cane more the past two weeks. He bit back the pain that seared in his knees as he made his way between the cars and towards the concert hall.
    When he had been forced to begin using his cane at school he immediately became the subject of derision. Everyone made comments and laughed and said he looked like an old man. It was true; osteoarthritis was unusual for a boy his age, but not unheard of. They were just ignorant, Carmon told himself, they didn’t know any better. Ignorant idiots, his English teacher had called them.
    When he approached the swinging doors, Carmon sighed. They were difficult with a cane. The two doors on either side opened outward, but they were entirely blocked by people standing and waiting inside. There was a thin available path through the center and Carmon maneuvered through the rotating doors, grimacing at each step. It felt like someone was pressing his knees with hot irons. He paused and breathed deep when he made it through.
    Clutching the ticket he purchased online, Carmon needled his way through the crowd waiting at the counter. They were upset at the line they had created and Carmon ticked off another reason why the internet was the better way to buy. He showed an usher the number on his ticket and was waved to a seat in the middle section of the mezzanine. He painfully climbed the stairs.
    The crowd was abuzz with activity. People were finding their seats and turning off their phones. After he was seated, Carmon listened to one couple in front of him argue about how long the concert was supposed to take. The guy tried to elicit support from the strangers around him, but he lost the argument in the end.
    Carmon noticed an elderly pair to his right that held hands in silence. He wondered why they were here. Did they want healing too? The man dabbed his eye with a handkerchief and the woman began stroking the back of his head.
    Some talked so loudly everyone around them could hear. They seemed to enjoy the attention and blasted the rumors of healing with sarcasm.
    “I should have brought my dog! He needs fixing; he has a gimp leg!” A ripple of laughter followed.
    Someone from behind shouted, “Bringing your mouth should suffice! That needs fixing worse!” Now the laughter turned against the loud man, but he laughed along with them.
    Carmon watched the observers carefully. Some laughed carelessly, others were annoyed at the disturbance. A few, though, watched the speakers with lines of concern around their eyes. There was a hopeful glint in them. Carmon saw the elderly couple lock eyes for a moment, then the handkerchief came out again and the woman’s hand began to console the man.
    A hush settled on the audience as the musicians began taking their places on the stage. When a small Chinese girl came out carrying a red violin the crowd suddenly stood and applauded. She took her place at the end of the other violinists and bowed her head. The conductor entered with similar, although less intense, applause. He bowed graciously and turned his back to the audience, signaling the beginning. The two-thousand-plus concert hall quieted.
    The music began with sweeping low tones from the strings, rising then falling in time with the soft patter of the tympanis. The woodwinds entered with a flutter, adding to the chorus passages of harmony and phrase. The brass soon picked up the conversation with strong interjections. The conductor moved his arms in regular patterns, shoulders swaying slightly. The music gathered and maintained its pace. The first movement crescendoed with full participation of all instruments, carrying wave after wave of forms and dynamics. The audience was moved and clung to every sweep and yaw.
    Then the little violinist stood up. Her tiny form was dwarfed by the grandiose settings. A shower of lights descended on her shoulders and she moved the bow back and forth across the strings with purpose and ease. Microphones sent the stream of music emanating from her violin into the open space over the audience’s heads and down into each member, filling their ears with melodious song. They were enraptured.
    Carmon Blake listened to Sho-Jia play, enjoying the buck and sway of her notes. He wasn’t particularly a music lover, but tonight he made every effort to be. He kept his eyes on the Chinese girl and noticed her graceful form, barely moving, standing still as her arms worked the violin. Her head was tilted to the side, her chin held the instrument, and she played with her eyes closed. That impressed Carmon the most.
    His knees still hurt. He reached a hand down and caressed the bony knob on his left knee. It felt swollen. He suddenly felt stupid for being there. So what if his grandmother said her cancer was gone? She hadn’t gone to get a second opinion. The first doctor may not have seen any more cancer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. Carmon fumed at himself. His ears turned red and his face flushed. How could I have been so gullible? He asked himself.
    Carmon stood up and stuck his cane out in front of him as he worked his way to the isle. People made efforts to let him by. One benefit of having a cane, he thought, is that some people actually get out of your way.
    Carmon brushed up the aisle and pushed the doors open to the stairway. Hot tears now eased from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. He knew in five months he would be a cripple and there was no magic in the world that was going to heal him. A cripple! The word buried itself in his mind and refused to yield.
    Before entering the main lobby, Carmon wiped a sleeve across his face. He may soon be a cripple, but no one was going to see him cry about it.
    The lobby was fairly deserted now, only a man on his cell huddled against the wall and an employee sat behind the counter, fiddling with the computer. Carmon just wanted to find somewhere to sit in peace. His knees were on fire from the stairs.
    He walked down the right hallway, his cane thudding on the tiled floor. He imagined himself an old man, bent low from years of toil, his joints enflamed and nearly useless. If I get to be an old man, he thought.
    A bench appeared at the end of another hallway and Carmon made for it. He could still hear the concert, its baritones penetrating the walls easily. The amplified violin sung above the rest, its rapid notes sounded bold, confident. Carmon could picture the young girl on the stage and thought it strange such a large sound came from such a small person.
    When he sat, the pain in his knees lessened for a moment then swelled to a fever pitch. Carmon pulled a tube of ointment from his pocket and pulled a pant leg up to apply it. The cream went on cold and slimy, but the rubbing brought the pain to a manageable level. Carmon sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He closed his eyes. He could now feel the music as much as hear it. The wall reverberated with the rhythms and pulse so much so that Carmon pulled his head forward and opened his eyes.
    A man stood before him. An old man with oriental features. He had on a grey suit, pinstriped, with a bright red tie. In the center of the tie was an emblem with a crimson shield surrounded by musical notes. Carmon’s gaze went up from the man’s tie to his face. It was etched with time, but his eyes were gentle. Carmon stood, surprised to find his own eyes had teared up again. He wiped them and muttered, “Excuse me” to the old man and tried to turn away. The man grabbed his shoulders.
    “No. Come.” The man’s gentle eyes met Carmon’s and held him there. Carmon didn’t struggle, but just watched as the old man motioned towards a door further along in the passage. “Come. You’ll see. My name’s Cheung.” The old man pressed Carmon’s cane into his hand and smiled. Carmon walked with him to the door without actually knowing the reason why. Something about the man, something about his eyes. Carmon trusted them.
    Wang Cheung pushed the door open for Carmon and held it as the boy passed. They sat together on a bench in the next room. There were coats hanging on one side and instrument cases stacked along the wall. Several had stickers naming cities Carmon had never heard of.
    The music was louder here and Carmon and Cheung sat and listened. After a time, Cheung turned to Carmon and said, “My granddaughter loves to play. She was never forced into it.” Carmon nodded politely. “She has always loved it. I think it helps her deal with the loss of her parents. She’s so young.” Now it was Cheung’s turn to wipe away tears. Carmon felt incredible sadness come from this man. Cheung hung his head for a moment and closed his eyes. His shoulders shrunk as if from incredible weight.
    “She plays wonderfully.” Carmon said.
    This brought the old man around. “Yes. She has the gift. Much like her father did, and her grandmother.” Another smile. Cheung’s eyes became bright and soft again. “She doesn’t understand why people come to be healed. She thinks it’s silly.”
    “It is silly.”
    “No, son. It’s not. Her violin, it’s...special. It’s over three hundred years old.”
    “I didn’t mean-”
    “I know what you meant. It’s okay. She thinks the same as you. Only I know about the violin. It was once-” Cheung’s voice was lost in a roar of applause. The music had ended.
    Cheung’s smile widened and his fingers absently touched the symbol on his tie. Carmon was about to ask him about the violin when a side door was thrust open and the conductor entered. He looked tired and flushed. He sat down wearily and acknowledged Cheung with a nod.
    The young violinist entered next, clutching her instrument with both hands. She ran to Cheung and hugged him. Carmon looked at the floor.
    “Sho-Jia, this boy wants to meet you.” Cheung smiled wide and motioned toward Carmon.
    “Hi.” Carmon said. “You sound wonderful.”
    “Thanks. It’s more the violin than it is me.” Carmon noticed she had Cheung’s smile.
    “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’d better get-”
    “Not yet.” Cheung said, holding his shoulder. “Sho-Jia, would you mind playing for him? Just a little?”
    “Of course I will, grandfather.”
    Sho-Jia closed her eyes, nestled the red shiny violin under her chin, and began to play. The broad notes filled the room, bounced off the walls, and buried themselves in the hearts and minds of the three men that were present.
    The conductor sat and stared at Sho-Jia. He still couldn’t believe this little girl could play with such emotion. He knew it was an incredible honor to conduct her performances. It had been three months since the cist in his cerebral cortex had begun to shrink. He didn’t even know it existed.
    Carmon was shocked by the waves of energy that radiated through his body. Sho-Jia was just standing there, pulling the bow across the strings, but Carmon could barely stand. He finally sank to the bench, steadying himself with both hands. A brilliant light pierced his head and pulsated down into his neck and chest. Carmon clenched his eyes and braced himself. He didn’t know what was happening, but he couldn’t do anything about it anyway. His entire body was riveted to the frequency of the music coming from Sho-Jia’s violin.
    When the waves of energy reached his hips he heard popping sounds. The burning sensation immediately cleared away and his pelvis felt numb. Then it was his knees. The pain washed away and was replaced with a dull sensation, a low humming. Next, his ankles vibrated. It felt like grains of sand were being pulled out of them. Soon, they too were numb and painless. When the light passed through Carmon’s feet, Cheung put a hand on Sho-Jia’s shoulder. She brought the music to a stop and lowered the violin.
    Carmon remained poised on the bench for a moment, eyes closed.
    Presently, he opened his eyes and saw Sho-Jia putting the violin in its case. Cheung was holding the case for her. He turned and smiled at Carmon. Just before Carmon said thank you, Cheung shook his head and put his finger to his lips, then motioned toward the door. Carmon nodded. The old man’s eyes were wistful, intelligent, and rimmed once again with tears. Carmon pushed the door open and walked into the hallway. He left his cane behind and never came back for it.

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