The Song Journey - Free Sample

SONG JOU R N EY The

A novel

T.E. S COTT

When singer Julia MacAllistair sits down at a piano in her attic to play one of her late great-grandmother’s favorite pieces of music, she doesn’t expect to wake up on the floor of a Chicago concert hall in 1906, dressed in period costume with a sea of concerned faces peering down at her.

How did she get there? How will she return to her present day life? Why has this happened?

In her stunning and epic new novel, writer T. E. Scott weaves a rich tapestry of intrigue, danger and romance across time and continents, as Julia MacAllistair discovers who she really is, how her future depends on escaping the tragedy of her past, and what happens when the music stops‌

q

About the Author Q

T.E. Scott is an American writer who resides in Tauranga, New Zealand with her Kiwi husband and two children. Born with a love of the Arts, she split her studies between music and English lit, ultimately choosing a career as an English teacher. She now spends her days raising her family on the family farm and indulging in her two great passions…literature and music.

For Cam, my second self.

The Song Journey

T.E. Scott

Scott Publishing

First edition published 2015

by Scott Publishing NEW ZEALAND Email: books@tescottbooks.com Web: http://www.tescottbooks.com Copyright Š T E Scott 2015 Copyright Š Scott Publishing, 2015 The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

The Song Journey is copyright. Except for the purpose of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including via technology either already in existence or developed subsequent to publication, without the express written permission of the publisher and authors.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-473-32886-3 (paperback) 978-0-473-32887-0 (epub) 978-0-473-32889-4 (kindle) 978-0-473-32890-0 (pdf ) 978-0-473-32888-7 (hardback) Cover photo by Emma Bryan Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro, Futura and Bickham Script Pro Cover concept: T E Scott and Emma Bryan Book design: Bozidar Jokanovic

q Contents Q Prelude...........................................................10

Chapter Seventeen..............................215

Chapter One.............................................16

Chapter Eighteen................................ 238

Chapter Two.............................................. 21

Chapter Nineteen.............................. 247

Chapter Three......................................... 27

Chapter Twenty................................... 254

Chapter Four............................................. 33

Chapter Twenty-One...................... 260

Chapter Five..............................................45

Chapter Twenty-Two...................... 270

Chapter Six.................................................54

Chapter Twenty-Three................... 294

Chapter Seven.........................................60

Chapter Twenty-Four....................... 315

Chapter Eight..........................................66

Chapter Twenty-Five....................... 322

Chapter Nine........................................... 82

Chapter Twenty-Six.......................... 337

Chapter Ten...............................................95

Chapter Twenty-Seven................... 361

Chapter Eleven..................................... 108

Chapter Twenty-Eight.................... 383

Chapter Twelve..................................... 124

Chapter Twenty-Nine..................... 395

Chapter Thirteen................................ 148

Chapter Thirty..................................... 405

Chapter Fourteen............................... 156

Chapter Thirty-One......................... 412

Chapter Fifteen .................................... 171

Postlude.......................................................415

Chapter Sixteen....................................196

Bibliography Of Music And Quotes............................................. 419

q Acknowledgments Q Thank you to Cam, whose support is never failing; to my mother, whose voice I always loved to hear; to my dad, who shared with us so many genres of music; to my sisters and brothers, who have greatly influenced the person I am; to Mrs. Nash, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Ginn and all of those professors who cultivated in me a love of literature and language; to K. Davis, who shared the same love of music and literature; to Chalium Poppy for his musical insight and knowledge; to Emma Bryan, who has beautiful, artistic vision; and to Ian Wishart for his invaluable expertise, critique, and encouragement.

PRINCIPLES OF MUSICAL FORM

Music exists in time; as an aesthetician, Susanne K. Langer, put it in Feeling and Form, “music is time made audible.” The proper perception of a musical work depends in the main on the ability to associate what is happening in the present with what has happened in the past and with what one expects will happen in the future.

The frustration or fulfillment of such expectations and the resulting tensions and releases are basic to most musical works. ­—F.E. Kirby

Prelude December 1989 Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory —Percy Bysshe Shelley 1824

MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER DIED TODAY. EVERYONE HAS ALWAYS SAID

I am like her—in appearance, in stature, in abilities. She was a famous singer—quietly famous, but with a voice recognizable to millions. The singer, however, left many years ago only to be replaced by this hollow, emaciated shell of a woman who would sit for hours vacantly staring into nothingness. Most people, including my mother, had long ago given up any attempts to communicate with her. Of course, the required visits were maintained, particularly around significant holidays but—even then—my family would sit and talk as though my great-grandmother were not there. As for me, I was aware of her appeal to the masses, how she had managed to maintain a fifty year career with many fans and much success, but I had more memories of the famous singer Jules MacAllistair than I did of a grandparent. By the time I was old enough to be a 10

Pr elude

part of her life, she was lost in some dream world, asleep to the life she had once known…and the people in it.

But I know a secret about my great-grandmother that no one else knows. She was always there…maybe not in the physical, communicative sense, but she was there. I discovered her awakened self one afternoon when I needed a quiet place to practice. I had just started my third year at the Eastman School of Music and voice juries were right around the corner. Unfortunately, the practice rooms at the conservatory were filled beyond capacity and any hope I had of using one meant midnight or pre-dawn practices. Of course, there were the two pianos at my parents’ home, but practicing there meant facing the scrutiny of one of my greatest critics—my mother. So, instead, I made my way to the care home of my great-grandmother.

Being a famous singer had afforded her a few courteous luxuries, one being a private room with many of her own pieces of furniture and collectables. In one corner stood a mahogany Steinway upright piano in immaculate condition. Although no one played the piano anymore, it was still tuned monthly by an old man who used to love to hear my great-grandmother sing. I make-believe that he was secretly in love with her from the day he first heard her voice.

I quietly entered the room to see my great-grandmother sitting in a rickety spindle-back chair by the window. She didn’t appear to notice me or anything at all, the sheer curtains sufficiently shielding her view from life outside. I pulled back the curtain, then leaned down to her eye-level, a courtesy I had always seen my father give her. ‘Hello Etty,’ I said, calling her by the name she had preferred.

‘I hope it’s ok to use your piano. I’ve got music juries this week, but all the practice rooms are booked.’

As expected, she didn’t respond, so I made my way to the piano and carefully lifted the lid. A quick run of scales revealed the beautiful tuning, and the thought of the love affair made me smile. I leaned down to my bag filled with anthologies and librettos, pulled 11

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

out a Mozart aria, looked at the music for a moment, and then shut it up. I wasn’t quite in a Mozart mood. Instead, I played Over the Rainbow, one of my favorite songs since my first encounter with Judy Garland and The Wizard of Oz. As I crescendoed my way up to the line, ‘that’s where you’ll find me’, the most extraordinary thing occurred. A faint hum, quietly mimicking the melody, emerged from the occupant of the chair behind me. I turned around slowly, my fingers instinctively finding the keys, and saw my great-grandmother, the silent absent one, very lucidly smiling, lips met, eyes closed. I could feel the magic of the moment and continued playing, leaving the melody to Etty.

And what sounds came from that once-famous singer? Not the voice of a learned, practiced musician, but the voice of a 91-year-old woman—cracked and aged. Contrary to Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, time had indeed withered her. Despite that, I’ve never heard anything like it. It was so unexpected, so pure. There was no attempt to impress. There was simply music, ironically poignant in its content.

I’m not sure what the moment represented for her…whether she had actual knowledge of the experience. Perhaps it was simply a reflex from her many years of performing. But I hope it felt like a return to her blessed life—a life dictated by ability, not limited by a cruel age-induced disease.

I played the last note and swung around on the piano bench to face my awakened great-grandmother. She was still with me. She did not speak, but led me with her now-alert eyes to a simple box beside her bed, indicating I was to get it for her. I jumped up quickly and took the box to her. As I set it in her lap, her wrinkled, gaunt hand briefly rested upon mine. She then opened the box and slowly pulled from it a key, antique and rusted. She put it in my hand and folded my fingers around it, nodding her head and smiling as if in some secret conspiracy. I smiled and looked down at the key, debating whether to rush from the room to tell the staff that she was awake, 12

Pr elude

but as I turned my head to look at the door, I felt her hand drop from mine. I glanced back to see the great-grandmother I had always known--empty, vanished. I shook her hands and touched her face.

‘Come back Etty, come back please!’ But there was no response. I swung back around to the piano and pounded out the song again, looking anxiously over my shoulder to see what effect the music might have. I hoped that whatever magic had delivered her to me would grant another visit. But the moment was gone.

I left her that day with the key secretly tucked inside my change purse. And did I tell the nursing staff of the amazing experience I’d had? Truthfully, I told no one. It was something I saw in Etty’s eyes. As I looked at her, a lost memory from my childhood popped into my head. A stroppy four-year old hammering away on the piano…the hint of a familiar tune somewhere in the mess of notes and rhythms. A woman sits and begins to play the song the child can’t quite master. Then the words… ‘Music will take you places, Julia.’ I suddenly knew that what she offered was for me—and for me only. So I gently stroked the key and then hid it away like the secret I now keep about my great-grandmother—who died today.

13

EXPOSITION

No man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter One I AM JULIA MACALLISTAIR, THE GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER OF JULES

Etta MacAllistair. This is my memoir. In the following pages, I write of an extraordinary adventure…one of fictional proportions if you are so inclined to doubt its truth. But it is truth that I write.

Etty’s gift of the key proved a gift unlike any other. After days of searching for its matching lock, I found it tucked in an old wooden chest perched head-high in the attic of my parents’ home. A simple wooden box without embellishment. As for its contents? Inside were five pieces of sheet music, each dog-eared, tarnished with the yellowing decay of age. I fanned through each piece to discover music of diverse time periods and differing genres, nothing seeming to connect them. In fact, I must admit I felt great disappointment shuffling through that sheet music. I had expected something of great value to be in a box locked away with a secret key. But it was just a box of old music.

Or so I thought.

At the time of the discovery of the ‘box’, I was a twenty-year old university student…driven, ambitious, self-critical. Of course, I knew myself to be the quintessential ‘product’ of my environment—the only child of the only child of the only child of the 16

Ch a pter One

famous singer, Jules Etta MacAllistair. In some cruel twist of fate, both my mother and her mother were gifted very few musical abilities…and certainly not exceptional ones. I, on the other hand, have understood music from the beginning. It is the core of who I am.

Like Etty, I was destined for a musical life. And since my deliverance upon this earth by my unmusically-vicarious mother, I have been pushed and prodded into the world of song. Hers was an inescapable influence…voice, piano, guitar, violin. I was jostled between the best teachers in our region. I was ordained for the best musical arts schools. Any other talents were suppressed in favor of musical supremacy. Failure absolutely unacceptable.

I am like Etty…musically and physically. I’ve always marveled at the many pictures of my great-grandmother, as if I had lived two lives, we so like each other in appearance. Our one distinguishing difference? A scar, high above my right eye…the jagged gift given to me by the sharp corner of my childhood toy chest. It has been many a topic of conversation throughout my life, particularly with my meticulous mother who still mourns the ‘flawed effect of its presence upon [my] face’…her words verbatim.

I re-read this cold description of my mother and wish I could write her differently. But she is a woman more like manager than nurturer. Practical in her ambitions for her only child. She somehow convinced my father that she must keep her famous maiden name…a name that I too carry (although she went for the more conventional ‘Julia’ over ‘Jules’). But I’ve never wished to trade upon my great-grandmother’s name, it a double-edged sword. Does my success rest on my own merit or the influence of my famous relative?

Of course, my mother fails to see this conundrum.

As for my father, he has filled the role of nurturer. Free in love.

Driven to introduce his only child to that which is outside the world of music—literature, politics, humor, and the law, the profession to which he belongs. We’ve spent hours in argument or debate 17

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

resolving the great dilemmas of our time—all purposeful and goodnatured, of course. I’ve never doubted my father’s love for me or for my mother. But like me, he needs reprieve from her. Through the years, I’ve watched him find escape in his work, in books, in silent games of chess with me. And while we have found solace in each other, the one great regret of my life is my sibling-free status. I would have loved a sister…even a brother, some comrade in this constant friction within our household. But I have lived a life surrounded by adults. And an adult world often creates those odd kids who are old before their time…the inevitable consequence of immersion in an adult world. Even my friends fit the same quirky mold...high IQs and artist-types…all drawn together in our idiosyncrasy.

Upon Etty’s death, our family was whittled down to only three, my father’s brother having died in Vietnam. Etty was not a topic we discussed much in our house. My mother’s mother had died when my mother was in her late teens forcing my famous greatgrandmother into a role she was not prepared for. According to my dad, she never played the role well. But while she may have failed in her attempts at motherhood, she exceled upon the stage. She had a voice that, once heard, was impossible to forget—rich and poignant, the kind that lingers in your memory. I had spent my life immersed in her recordings, scratchy records of varied genres.

She could hold the most flawless note until the perfect moment, often one moment longer than an average performer might. It was a simple thing, but Etty did the simple things well.

Besides chests of hidden treasure, my parents’ attic housed an old upright Story and Clark piano, the very one I learned to play on. I had spent many an hour locked away in the highest point of our house, the attic my childhood playroom and retreat. It was a dusty, dark hovel where imagination was allowed to soar. And, due to the junk and disorder, it was a place my mother rarely frequented. On the day of the funeral, reflective of the woman that 18

Ch a pter One

we had just lost, I sneaked away from the throngs below, sat down at the instrument of my early years, and opened the one classical piece of music from the box. It was the Pie Jesu from Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem Mass, a piece I had performed the previous fall with the Rochester Symphony Orchestra. It had essentially been my debut, my first performance outside of the safe confines of the school of music. The performance had been a critical success, but a particularly poignant one for me, the local music critic suggesting of the Pie Jesu that ‘Even Fauré himself would have been inspired.’ The piece was for soprano. The text was in Latin.

Pie Jesu domine, dona eis requiem, requiem sempiternam.

I had sung this text numerous times, the Pie Jesu a standard movement in all masses. It translates as follows: Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them rest everlasting.

It was a prayer for the dead and would have been perfect for Etty’s funeral. I instead was forced to sing some tired version of Amazing Grace—not that I generally dislike that piece of music, but, despite numerous requests to up the tempo, the organist played at a ridiculously slow speed, making the whole rendition, including every single verse ever written, somewhere around eight minutes long.

Of course, Etty would still have loved it. She loved all music. That’s one thing I remember about her. I recall as a young child, maybe four or five, hearing the rock band Queen blasting from her record player. In my ignorance, I thought that amazing voice coming from the player had to be one of her friends…someone she performed 19

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

with on stage. I had no idea Freddy Mercury was an up-and-coming rock sensation and my great-grandmother was simply a fan. A few years later, while ritualistically sifting through her record collection, I discovered every album Queen ever made along with The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Styx, and even Elvis Presley...all filed neatly alongside Beethoven, Bach, Puccini, and Handel.

I played the opening chord of the Pie Jesu and was immediately drawn back to the Rochester performance, the sound of the organ quietly resonating…nothing pushed or hurried. I played through the opening phrase, trying to create a constant and unadulterated sound, not so easy without an organ. And then I began to sing.

It is here I must pause to mark the change—to establish the moment…the moment I discovered the power of the sheet music.

As I finished the first phrase, one of the most significant events of my life occurred. It is an event that has shaped my very being as a woman and a performer.

Sitting at that piano, my body felt flooded with euphoria, like being lifted into another realm. Light-headedness overwhelmed me, as if the blood was uncontrollably rushing from my brain.

Numbness set into my fingers and toes, the tingled flutter of pins and needles. In sudden panic, I grasped my chest, thinking my heart must explode at any moment. And then there was darkness.

20

Chapter Two Time goes, you say? Ah no!

Alas, Time stays, we go.

—Henry Austin Dobson, from The Paradox of Time (1877) Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.

—T.S. Eliot, from Four Quartets (1936)

THERE WAS FRANTIC COMMOTION AROUND ME, LIKE MUFFLED VOICES

confounded by the weight of water. I was lying flat on my back, my arms and legs dense like the freshly cut wood of a new season, and I couldn’t seem to pull my body up, the mass of it too much to lift. Suddenly I was shocked back into movement by the most reeking smell…a burning flash of odor that seemed to rip through the back of my head. I panicked and began flailing my arms in some irrational attempt to reach something familiar. Then somehow amid all of the roar, I heard my name.

21

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

‘Miss MacAllistair!’ A man gripped me tightly about my arm and said my name again. ‘Miss MacAllistair, you must relax. You’ve just fallen. Are you injured? Do you know where you are?’

Of course I had no idea where I was or who was speaking to me.

His reference to ‘Miss’ only amplified my growing sense of confusion…confusion swelling into utter panic. Who was this person?

Where was I? What could have possibly happened? I wanted to scream, ‘I’m in the attic of my parent’s house avoiding personal contact with people downstairs!’, but I obviously wasn’t there anymore. So I slowed my breathing, swallowed and said, ‘Where am I?’ The man, dressed much too formally in black, answered. ‘You are rehearsing with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and the Apollo Chorus? The Pie Jesu?’

He spoke as if I should have full knowledge of my circumstances.

Of course, I knew it must be a dream…that place somewhere between sleep and consciousness. How else could this be explained?

As the man pulled me to my feet, I looked around to discover a full orchestra flanked by a choir, every eye focused upon me. They were dressed in long gowns and formal wear, the attire of a life dead and gone. I looked down at my own clothing, the monochromatic fashion replaced by a tailored wool dress of deep purple velvet, similar to a costume I wore the previous year for my role as Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. It was as if I had stepped back in time 100 years.

The conductor finally spoke. ‘Ms. MacAllistair. We really must continue. I do hope a few moments of respite will see you back again. As you know, the concert is tomorrow evening and you are our last resort.’

It seemed so real, this conversation…the piercing glare of those around me.

The conductor continued. ‘We will continue with the Agnus Dei. This should give you a few moments to compose yourself.’

I absently nodded as the man at my arm led me away. As we 22

Chapter T wo

walked, I told myself to wake up, as one does so often in a dream.

I even pinched myself under the arm thinking this must surely knock me out of the fantastical trance I had somehow fallen into.

But pinching did not awaken me nor lead back to my sacred attic.

My heart began to race.

‘It is rather warm in here. I’ve been anticipating the crash of a chorister since we walked in this morning. I can’t say I thought it would be you.’ My escort smiled at me. ‘And you mustn’t worry about the concert master’s bow. It was most certainly an accident.’

‘What do you mean?’

He stopped and turned towards me. ‘You caught your dress on the corner of the conductor’s box and fell into the lap of the concert master. He managed to save his violin, but sacrificed his bow in the gesture. Do you have no recollection of this?’

I shook my head.

‘Then you have no recollection of what you said in response?’

I pinched my eyes shut, fully aware of what I would have said in such a moment. And I was quite sure it was not a commonly used word in this time period, whatever that was. ‘Wow.’ I paused, unsure what to say. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m…I’m not quite sure what to say. That could explain why everyone was looking at me the way they were.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t worry too much. The truth is, the conductor is correct. You are our last resort. They would only throw you out for swearing if they had a replacement.’ He winked as he said it and I could see that he found amusement in the whole episode. ‘And besides, they’ve already printed your bio in the paper. The public will be expecting you.’

He handed me a folded copy of the morning paper. There in bold print was my name and picture, Julia MacAllistair of New York.

I scanned the text quickly, then unfolded the paper to look at the publication date. December 12th. The same day I sat down to play the Pie Jesu in the attic...the day of Etty’s funeral. But obviously, 23

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

as evidenced by the clothes, the language, the venue, and in sad commentary of my decade, my escort’s flawless manners, this was not 1989. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and looked at the year on the paper. 1906.

Again, I willed myself to wake up. Of course, this was just a dream…none of it real or even possible. I stood shaking my head, trying to make sense of what had occurred. A fall from a predictably safe piano stool…a stroke. But somehow, standing there, I knew it was real. It was not simply a box of sheet music. I was where Etty had intended. The impossibility of my predicament blazed in the pounding of my temples, my head pulsating almost rhythmically. Suddenly my knees buckled and I had to brace myself against the wall. Mr. Fielding came and leaned down to me, gently placing his hand under my elbow. ‘Are you alright, Miss MacAllistair? Shall I get a doctor?’

‘No, I’m…I’m alright, thank you. I’m just…this isn’t possible.

This can’t be real.’ My heart thumped a thick, anxious beat.

‘I’m afraid it is very real. You were engaged yesterday morning after the sudden illness of our resident soloist. You arrived on the train an hour ago and you have one rehearsal before tomorrow evening’s performance.’ He paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Are you capable of doing this, Miss Mac Allistair? We are most certainly counting on you.’

Very rarely had I proven myself incapable…particularly in the realm of music. It was my world….a world I had been schooled for my whole life. But this, this time warp, was wholly unexpected… and wholly unbelievable. Was I really in Chicago in 1906? How was I to get home? Could I get home?

‘I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. I’m just a little overwhelmed, what with the fall and everything. I’m sorry…I can’t recall your name.’

‘Mr. Fielding…accompanist and escort whilst in this great city of Chicago. Let me get you a glass of water and we’ll go back and try this again, shall we?’

24

Chapter T wo

A few moments later, I was led back into the great hall where the conductor was busily fine-tuning the performance of the Agnus Dei. All eyes in the choir must have diverted his attention back to me, for he turned around and said, ‘Ah, Miss MacAllistair. Are we finally ready to begin?’, with obvious emphasis on finally. I nodded and walked to my place beside the conductor’s box, carefully avoiding any potential hazards. Before turning to face the empty hall, I looked at the concert master and mouthed, ‘I’m so sorry.’

He curtly returned a cringed smile while visibly wrapping his hand protectively around his new bow. I turned around and tried to calm the rapid beat of my pounding heart. Then, with the drop of the conductor’s baton, I began the song of my incredulous journey, somehow knowing it was Etty who had led me there.

q It’s a funny thing about music. It has this strange ability to transport you to a different time, a different emotion. The swell of an orchestra at true love’s kiss. The frazzled strings foreshadowing some impending doom. That day, music had a similar effect. As I sang, I forgot where or when I was. Embarrassment and fear melted from my body as the Pie Jesu wrapped me up in its folds. Standing there, I felt the power of music tangibly.

At the end of the piece, however, fear gripped me again. I stood in complete silence. There was absolutely no response from the orchestra, the conductor, or the choir. I felt a stunned anxiety and thought of running from that hall…forcing my way into the safety of my attic. The silence felt like an eternity, and in that brief interlude, self-doubt began creeping in, working its way into that still comfort of Fauré’s notes and rhythms. Time had appeared to stop. Then suddenly, the floodgates spilled open. A slow surge of applause began. The concert master was on his feet, violin tucked 25

T HE SONG JOUR NEY

under his arm, hands embracing mine with vigorous shaking. The conductor approached, holding out his hand to me.

‘That was…well, unexpected. Lovely.’ He paused. ‘Of course, today did not start off well for you, but bravo, Miss MacAllistair.

Bravo. Now, go to your hotel, rest until tomorrow evening, and come back and do exactly what you’ve done tonight…perhaps without the expletives.’ He smiled and I grimaced back. ‘I dare not rehearse it again for fear of losing whatever magic journeyed here with you this evening.’

As my escort led me from the stage, I understood this notion of magic. While nothing made sense, it all made sense. Something super-natural was happening. I had witnessed it in the reawakening of my great-grandmother the day she gave me the key. And there was no doubt something had magically propelled me into time’s past…something real and powerful. This was no dream.

If you enjoyed this extract and want to read more, get it on Kindle instantly: http://www.amazon.com/Song-Journey-T-E-Scott-ebook/dp/ B015D59CXC/ 26