"The Pianist" by Leigh *Shwin* Erickson

The pianist’s long hair fell into his closed eyes as he sat on the bench. He breathed in the dusty air with a deep, careful reverence, letting ancient memories fill his mind and heart. The piano and its room of secrets had long been abandoned. He had, many, many years ago, decided that the piano was a child’s toy, something a grown man didn’t need. It was in that attitude that he left the piano, left the room, left the truth.

A silent tear ran down his cheek. How foolish he was then. If he known what he knew now... if he had known the true meaning the secrets of this room held... he breathed another sigh. What he wouldn’t do to be able to return to the day he left and live his life differently... but he couldn’t. There was no way.

But he was here now. He had returned.

Tenderly he drew his fingers along the wooden surface of the piano, smoothing away the dust. Just the touch thrilled his skin. Until he felt the grain of the wood with his hand he hadn’t realized just how terribly he missed this. He breathed a deep sigh, reveling in the feeling or belonging and warmth, then set to cleaning the long abandoned piano. For many hours he sat there, carefully, meticulously brushing dust and dirt from its surface. A swirling cloud hovered around him, suspended in the single shaft of silver moonlight let in by the high window. He pulled a soft rag from his pocket and polished the wood to a warm sheen. When every inch was shining he sat back and sighed. His work was finished.

He dropped the rag to the floor, sending more dust up to join the cloud still falling around him, but he didn’t notice. He closed his eyes and placed both hands gently, with tenderness, on the keys and began to play.

At first, there were slight bumps in the music as his fingers readjusted to the now shining keys. He grimaced at these, but continued on, knowing he had to. There was no other way. He played, and played, growing more and more skillful, bright melody after melody until the moon had fully risen. With a sudden silence the pianist stopped. The moonlight completely surrounded the piano, enveloping it in a soft brilliance. A look akin to anticipation spread across the pianist’s face. “My old friend, it is time.”

He closed his eyes and set his hands once more on the keys. The song he played now was haunting. Thirds and sixths in perfect elegance coupled with dissonance corrected lined the edges of the room. Its melody spread into a wide, peaceful beauty performed with unmatched skill. He leaned over his piano, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, every inch of his being showing the passion with which he played. He was completely lost in the music’s world.

The moonlight caught every note, spinning and weaving a glorious tapestry about him. Layer upon layer of metallic brilliance rippled around him, every chord a multiple paned rush of light. Smooth glass notes brushed against his skin, mixing with the moonlight, slowly solidifying into a warm land filled with peace and colour.

The pianist knew by the glowing swirls of metallic light that the time was ripe, he had but to shape the music to his will... then he could finally go home.

He played the stream into existence, the cascade of melodious notes matching the smooth metallic blue cascade of water that now filled the room. He laughed softly with the stream, asking what to add next. The image of a grand chain of forested mountains filled his mind and he began to play them into being. Great, majestic chords and vast sweeping arpeggios filled the room draping over themselves in perfect harmonies, falling into form like a layer of thin fabric over an invisible model. One by one with playful thirds and seconds he formed the notes into flowers and blades of velvet grass. The scene, the embodiment of simple beauty, hovered around him. With careful chords he reinforced its fabric and looked above him. He just had yet to play the sky.

With smooth, haunting runs he painted the blue dome overhead. The lower notes creating the deeper hues of the variegated azure sky while the higher ones smoothly pulled forth the paler shades. He sighed as the clouds began to form, in perfect sync to his will and to the music. With a renewed vigor he played a storm into existence. The sky darkened with thick, black clouds as the chords gradually became louder, lower, and more dissonant. With a sudden flash of colour the first lightning bolt was born. A crash of the piano keys brought forth a deep boom of round, grey thunder and then, with a great delicacy, the rain began to fall. It fell on the pianist, flattening his hair to his neck and his clothes to his body; but it did not touch the piano. He raised his hands to the storm, feeling the cool, shining wet of rain, the great silver coarseness of the wind, and feeling the heat of the lightning, so close...

He waited for the moment when it would bring him home.

The scene began to waver, its fabric slowly coming undone with the passing of the moonlight and with the dying echoes of the song that had woven it. Still the pianist stood, moving behind the bench so he stood in the middle of the room. With closed eyes he felt the thinning rain still falling on his upraised hands, still heard the fading thunder... the cooling lightning... he stood as long as he could, wrapped in the memory of the landscape; the memory of his home.

He fell to the ground, tears mingling with the wet of the remembered rain. Slowly he pushed himself to his knees, straining to remember how to return. He searched and searched in his mind and in the fading echoes of music, but could not remember. He would try again. He had to try again. He attempted to stand then and reached for the piano for support only to find he was reaching for the thin shaft of waning moonlight.

His friend and companion was no longer there.

He was too late, he could never go back. He had been away too long, had abandoned too soon, and had shunned with too great a hatred. He had been rejected by the secrets of the room and could never return to innocence. “I’m sorry.” he whispered, now devoid of hope. With quiet feet he rose and placed a hand on the doorknob. He turned it was a slow motion, forced once again to enter the world he had been exiled to so long ago. This cruel world called Earth.