The Music of the Spheres


The music from the monastery window drew Jonathan along the path like the hand of a beckoning lover. It floated on the warm late-summer breeze like a spirit, spun and whirled buzzy-wuzzy with the bees over a field of goldenrods, laughed and tattled with a swift-flowing creek, grunted and creaked through the boughs of the venerable maple trees.

He couldn’t not follow it. He swore an oath years ago, though he didn’t know at the time that’s what it was. It happened in the little practice room of the conservatory. The music caught him then. Snagged him. Wrapped around him like perfume, beguiling and mysterious.

A comment from his violin teacher started it. “What if,” the old man had said, smiling eyes under bushy brown brows, “the music of the spheres was actual music?” The question wormed under Jonathan’s skin like a splinter that had to be explored and pursued until he could get the itch out of him. He studied every book he could find, liquidated his considerable trust fund to travel and learn and practice. After ten years, Jonathan got a letter and a map. The old man had died, after 200 years of searching. He found Jonathan, now Jonathan had to find his destiny..

“Go. Play,” the note ended. The map led him to Virginia and the monastery and the music.

He went inside and they were there: Pianist and violinist, identical to his teacher, ancients of days, playing the songs of the universe.

Jonathan joined them.

Today’s story is, I think, more poetry than plot. As such, it might not be a proper story but I still think you will enjoy reading it.

If you want to play along, here’s the prompt post.

(Photo Credit: Ri_Ya on Pixabay)