Creative Writing Assignment 1

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This was my first assignment for my creative writing course at Birbeck University. The assignment was to take the dream image of one of our classmates, and write what happened before a certain moment in that image, and what happened after. I chose the moment on the cliff, with the leopard.

The spotlights came up, highlighting the mountains behind the plateau on which the assembled string musicians sat, bows, fingers, and hands poised to play the opening notes of a most unusual concert, set in a most unusual setting. The plateau sat atop a ledge above the mediaeval town of Aran, cut into the spectacular mountain which rose behind it. The moon was full, and visible above the peak of the snow-peaked mountain Prima, the tallest mountain, which jutted into the sky, seeking, it seemed, to impale the moon on it's narrow spear of a peak.

Closest to the mountain and protected by an overhang, were the string players. There were an enormous number of them, more than 500 players of all sorts of stringed instruments, from violins to shamisens, from guitars to sitars, from lutes to banjos, and many more whose names are known only in the tongues of the farflung places from which they come. Even with so many, though, they occupied only a small part of the massive plateau. In the centre of the plateau, were assembled over 400 tables, each seating nine people. To the side, were four massive tents, in which the food was being cooked to feed the assembled guests. The deer and cattle served that night, over 50 head, had been marched up the mountain and then slaughtered, special precautions taken to muffle any noise, the plateau possessing almost magical acoustical properties which meant that any sounds generated there carried to Aran as though they were being produced mere feet away.

At the front of the plateau sat the prince of Aran and 500 of his closest friends. At the side of the prince, sat a leopard, a sleek female with an improbably small head atop a lithe, sleekly muscled, and beautiful body. The prince stroked the beautiful animal, but not in the way one would stroke a cat, or a dog, but in the way one would stroke the hair of a lover.

The conductor of the assembly of strings, the very well-known Mr. Sowaza, awaited the signal to start, which was to be relayed to him from the prince.

The assembled guests sat at their tables, chatting, and drinking the sweet sparkling wines that had been served, and sensed what was coming. The noise abated as they either discontinued their conversations or began to speak in hushed tones. String playing and listening is such a fact of everyday life in Aran, part of the fabric of the town, that it was respected but not revered. Everyone, to a person, expected a fantastic concert, and had respect for the musicians who they expected to provide it.

The sweet evening mountain air, the floodlit mountain behind them, the twinkles from the hundreds of candles on the tables, the moon in the sky, and their beloved Aran below, all created a magical atmosphere that no one would forget. If anyone had any doubt that this was the best party ever, they disappeared as the prince gave the signal.

Mr. Sowaza brought his baton down, and the entire assembly of musicians played the same note, an E flat. The song had been specially composed to resonate at those frequencies that carried best to Aran. After the initial note, the violas, the shamisens, and the Lao lutes took the melody, and the other instruments took the harmony. Two old Lao men, Mr. Kangprathet and Mr. Ngam played their small instruments, constructed of coconut shells covered in calf skin, long teak frets, and strings made from the guts of water buffaloes, and played with bows that had been given to them by one of the famous violin makers of Aran, being so far superior to their own bows that when they returned to their country, the technique of making them would be designated a national treasure.

The melody was high, with the slightly spicy smell of the Orient, yet came back again and again to one which owed it's debt to the lovely melodies first conjured many hundreds of years ago in the valleys around Aran. One by one, instruments came in and left, the banjos, the guitars, the 30-strong bass section's deep sounds shaking the glasses that the guests had now set down on their tables, enraptured o f the music, and completely forgetting all else, the wine, the conversation, and even the beautiful setting they sat in.

Those not fortunate enough to have seats on the plateau sat in the market square of Aran, or in their homes, windows open to hear more clearly, and because of the way that sound travelled could hardly be called deprived of the marvellous performance going on above them. They, too, stopped all that they were doing, and listened to the performance, the magical performance, some closing their eyes to better experience the sensation of the sound, concentrating all their focus on that single sense.

The Symphony of Aran, as the piece later became known, was never heard in such perfection as on that night, the night of it's first performance. The composer, Mr. Jalakey, was seen with tears running down his face for nearly the entire performance. The pride of hearing his masterpiece, and it will definitely be remembered as such for many centuries to come, for the first time, in such an atmosphere, in Aran, on such a night, was so great that the memory was his most treasured.

The symphony conjured the images of the mountains, of the flowers growing in the high meadows, of the sound of the water of the creeks in the valleys, it was the sound of birds which migrated in from the east which brought the slight hint of the Orient, and there were the sound of winds of the southern Mediterranean desert, but all came back to Aran. And Aran, in this piece, ebbed, and it flowed, from the sounds of great thunderous crashes of avalanches, to the sound of a single songbird.

The finale was dominated by the violins of Aran, nearly 200 of them, and incredibly each one weaving a different part of the melody, though all playing in the same key, a nearly improvisational performance, but one that had been practised and refined, and followed a grand design rather than individual expression.

And then, some 90 minutes later, Mr. Sowaza raised his baton, and it was over.

The silence was profound. It was as if day had suddenly turned to night, the light, powerful rays of sound suddenly stopped shining on the guests. After a three second silence, a man near the front stood and began to tap his wine flute like a madman with his fork.

"Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!" he shouted, and was joined by others who also stood and struck their glasses. The glasses, in various states of fill, echoed a variety of notes across the plateau, and down to Aran. And suddenly, the sound 4,000 wine glasses being struck created it's own wall of sound, a sound of pure joy, of wild joy, uncontrolled and therefore not recognisable as music, yet containing in it's random notes, randomly struck at irregular intervals, a music of the soul, a pure form of expression. It was, somehow, the magical sound of laughter. And when the assembled guests began to hear it as such, they put down their glasses, and began to laugh. It was a laughter of joy, of having experienced something that was so perfect that tears were shed even as laughter bellowed forth.

Mr. Sowaza acknowledged their praise, recognising it for what it was, and bowed. On his signal, all of the musicians not already standing, stood, and on a further signal, all 500 plus musicians bowed. The applause was loud and enthusiastic, and held for over two minutes, laughter and tears mixing with the applause.

Even the elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen of the prince's party stood and clapped, their concern at outward appearances falling away in the face of such a magnificent display of musical virtuosity.

The female leopard had curled up around the feet of the prince, wrapping her long tail around his left leg, and purring contentedly.

The night continued to echo the wonderful sounds of the musicians, who took turns in four groups playing dancing music late into the night.

The guests sat down to dinner, a wonderful meal prepared to perfection, and served with impeccable care, of such basic ingredients as beef, venison, potatoes, cabbage, and things that made regular appearances on the tables of Aran, and yet seemed to have been transformed by some magic into a meal of extraordinary depth and richness.

When they were done with their exquisite meal, they took to the dance floor, which sat between the diners and the musician, a fabulous tile floor across which they glided to the sounds of fiddles and banjos, kotos and cellos.

No one wanted the party to end, and the guests, the musicians, and the nobility danced and talked and ate until the wee hours of the morning.

As the sun rose behind Prima, the rays of light flashing from the top of the mountain as though emanating from it, they stopped their dancing, their drinking, and their talking, and sat facing the rising sun, as though it was a god to whom they were praying.

And, if truth be told, they were praying, praying to never forget what was, hands down, the very best party. Ever.

One man who attended the party composed a song that described his feeling, and the following verse from that song probably echoes the feelings of many of the guests:

Song of Aran

Won'drous Aran, your valleys and yer heights

Won'drous Aran, your music and yer sky

Won'drous Aran, I had not lived til I'd seen your sights

Won'drous Aran, may I have mem'ries of this night until I die