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Text File | 1995-01-01 | 17KB | 312 lines

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SYROMACHE
  by Stephen Kunc
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  At first glance, Muriassel, rising from the earth like a strange
formation of giant trees, seems dark and foreboding. Its crumbling
stone masonry and its dulled brick walls, curling off into weather-
worn towers, inspires an ominous sense of spirit which disturbs the
mind. The massive foundations, hewn by the collective wills of a
generation and the elegant, Bacchantic style, wrought from the
fantasies of some zealous architect are now covered in webs of grape
vines. A pillar of history in a cleared grass patch, stark against an
empty sky, Muriassel is an uncomfortable reminder of a past far
deeper and greater than our own.

  Located somewhere along that indeterminable border where Asian
culture becomes the mysticism of the Orient, Muriassel is built on a
slight incline, on a promontory once believed to house the souls of
the dead, overlooking two villages, to the east and west. Its
intricate past, embellished and rendered unreal by the superstitions
that swarm the countryside, appears a savage tale of spiritual
tragedy and failure.

  For the better part of the last century, Muriassel has remained
unowned and unfrequented. Its formidable buttresses have begun to
give way to time and the vague hints at what, whimsically, could
have been the early progenitors of Byzantine sculpture, are chipping
away with the wind. Undaunted though, it hasn't loosened its grip on
the rough earth nor its pervading aura of fragilely balanced peace.
At the centre of Muriassel's being, and the sustenance of its dubious
warmth is its sole inhabitant. Here lives Syromache.

  It is dusk, and down in the villages, lights have begun to come
on. It is not quite a normal evening somehow. Dinner in each house
is happening irregularly early. The stores have closed, and what
little traffic there usually is on the gravel roads is non-existent
tonight. A small church in each village centre tolls six, almost in
symmetry.

  Syromache has become aware of the suspicious change in routine.
Her senses have become finely tuned to the beating of consistency
in the two villages. She has lived in Muriassel for its entire life,
less a half century. That dreary night, driven from her home far to
the north, wretched, cut and near unconscious she stumbled across its
newly cut steps and has since, never left. Her being has become fused
with the structure . . . its walls, its arches, its towers, and the
promontory on which it stands. As well, her insistent soul, over
time, has stretched far over the land and even into the villages.

   She reclines her head with a grace that would never betray the
rising sense of fear that has incubated over the day inside her.
Syromache is ageless and beautiful. Her long black hair is slightly
dishevelled with errant curls that taper into spirals and her eyes,
grey like an animal's, flicker with the auspices of some deep,
concealed passion. She wears a light, black gown held by thin straps
over her shoulders. A heavier robe of dark velvet is draped around
her neck and extends almost to the floor. As she walks, in precise
steps, the aimless rippling of her cloak reveals bare, cream white
legs, pale as her face. Her small feet are comfortably bound by the
crisscrosses of leather sandals and she treads silently up the stairs.

  Muriassel had been built as a collaboration between the two
surrounding villages, many centuries ago. As a great and regal
church, its conceivers had hoped that it would eventually bring
about the natural uniting of the peoples, and in time, placate
what enmity existed. Shortly after it had been erected though,
vicious warfare engulfed the two tribal villages and after many
deaths and an ensuing reluctant peace, Muriassel became an
unfortunate and painful reminder of the bloodshed to all, and a
shameful icon to future generations. It was immediately abandoned,
and left to the elements. It was during these first decades of
scornful vacancy that Syromache found her home.

  She stands in the chamber at the top of the east tower, her palms
resting on the open window sill. Torches fastened in iron clasps to
the wall flicker and her robe parts as a draft enters and circles
the interior. She is calm, watching the night sky and letting her
gaze fall to the dark tree tops and then the village below. She
cannot see the inhabitants from this distance, but the lights in the
thatched-roof houses attest to their existence. She peers inquiringly
into the marketplace, where dozens of empty stalls are barely visible
to her.

  Around the year 480 A.D., Syromache first retreated to the east
tower when Muriassel became the regular clandestine meeting place
of a secret group. Fascinated by the mysticism and suggestion of
spiritual power which emanated from the farther east, the youths
chose the church as an appropriate site to conduct their practices,
which were still considered highly sacrilegious in both of the
villages. Each day when the group met she locked herself in the
chamber, at the time furnished only with a mattress, and feared
discovery. At night, when the youths had gone, she entered their
rooms on the main floor, exposing herself to their subdued realm and
availing herself of the volumes of literature which they brought.

  She launched herself into an intense study of the I Ching and
eventually hauled the books up to her private chamber. It was a
fleeting obsession however; one which those who are immortal know
all too often. The passion of a mortal is fuelled by an inherent
knowledge that one day, he will exist no longer. Seemingly
contradictory, to Syromache, time is never of the essence and she
can therefore only indulge herself in empty hunger.

  She paces now, around her chamber, to the large four-poster
bed and back to the window. It is still quiet in the village and
outside bats circle around her tower like the flag poles of a
restless spirit.

  Several years later, the youths and their secret coven were
disbanded and they never came back to Muriassel. Uncovered by their
village peers in a time of austere and rigid intolerance, they were
exiled and forbidden return. The church, again, renewed its name as
a vanguard of disrepute.

  She paces warily again from the window to the bed and then to a
polished grand piano which stands at the other end of the chamber.
Syromache removes her robe and hangs it on a hook thrust into the
wall. She sits down on a polished bench in front of the instrument,
and as she aligns her fingers on the keys, her nervousness dispels
itself with the first note. She begins quietly, ignoring the foot
pedals, with a simple repetitive theme.

  In time and as generations rose and fell, Muriassel was
gradually disassociated from its myths. The emergence of a renewed
religious fervour and aesthetic need employed the church again, as
a monastery. For almost a century, Muriassel became home to a small
group of scribes, devoutly interested in the parallels of western
religion and eastern tradition. They slaved by candlelight,
transcribing and absorbing immense volumes.

  Syromache was restricted to her chamber for the entirety of the
monks' stay, from 780 to 869. She enjoyed a particular fondness for
them, and was entranced by their staunch habits and steadfast
beliefs. She derived some strength and insight into what it meant to
yearn for a faith, and although she was never seen by any of the
monks, she had momentary reprieve from a loneliness which had always
lingered in her soul.

  In 896, another vicious clash between the two villages ended
Muriassel's life as a monastery. The monks went north to less hostile
climes as an upsurge in Roman Catholicism from the west developed
into a battle with the Orthodox Church of the east. Muriassel was
abandoned temporarily but quickly became the neutral zone between
the two villages, where the leaders who remained sane enough met to
discuss reconciliation. Not being as unobtrusive as the monks,
Syromache was soon discovered.

  She replays the theme again, a little quicker this time. The
notes echo around the chamber, reverberating and distorting the
clarity of her playing. She is absorbed in her music, introducing
the other hand now, to play the same tune in a lower octave, and
slightly behind. With skilled precision her hands glide over the
keys, and the beginnings of her fugue come alive.

  There is a low thrumming rising up from both directions over
the trees that surround her home. It is the sounds of unusual
celebration, though perhaps slightly contrived, coming from the
villages. Faint wisps of music from the east filter through the
window and intertwine with those of the piano to become an unnatural
melody.

  As she plays, a sensation swells inside her which has pervaded
for years in Muriassel and grown dangerously strong. It is the
essence of the strange aura which surrounds the structure and
tingles almost electrically in the chamber in which it lives.
Imagined as a sound, it is a terrible high-pitched screaming which
bristles the hair and, when the true depth of its meaning is
realized, it is bearable for only seconds. It is the lonely
vibrations of a tortured soul locked in a cage from which it cannot
love.

  In 870 A.D. Syromache became a willing whore for the masses of
men who came to Muriassel to barter away their war. As a bastion of
sanity in a crazed time, only the most distinguished intellects of
the two villages were allowed to Muriassel to reconcile. A large
round table was erected in the main room, and every few days the
group of men discussed their plight while Syromache poured their
wine and later, prostrated herself to their desires. In turn, they
afforded her a taste of sorely needed companionship and although
meaningless, momentary reprieve from the terrible burdens which were
beginning to bear her scars.

  A settlement was reached in 876 A.D., but several of the men
continued to return to Muriassel until 884, when the last of them
was killed. The church was hailed as a historic landmark, redeemed
of its reputation, where the final meeting of minds had taken place
which had laid the war to rest.

  Syromache varies each of the themes slightly, in opposing
directions. She creates as she plays, like emotions turned into
sounds into a sonata which dances of its own volition on the surface
of the polished grand piano. The music from the village has become
louder, and small snippets of noise from the west are also heard. It
is less appealing now, restless and disorganized.

  Restless and disorganized, Syromache thinks, just like her soul.
Instead, the music she plays is not a reflection of herself, only
what she imagines life to be. If she could have one wish, she muses,
she would find a soul in her loneliness, that silence might one day
be her lover. Tears stream down her cheeks as she continues to play.

  In 900 A.D. Muriassel was turned into a mutual orphanage, to
be shared by the two villages. It was a place where those children,
of west or east, who were born with whatever anomalies were sent to
live. A small delegation of nuns lived with them, returning to the
villages only for supplies, or if a new, unwanted child was delivered.
Syromache was confined to her chamber again, and watched as the
children grew weak.

  The sisters, by way of punishment, locked the children into
rooms for days, without food or beds. They were whipped and beaten
and many were slowly starved. Syromache began to creep from her
chamber at night and she befriended the children. She brought them
food, and tailored to their needs while the sisters slept.
Eventually, she became known as a spectre to the children, and the
nuns thrashed them badly for speaking of her.

  On several occasions, one of the sisters stood vigil over the
children, determined to find out how they were stealing food. On one
of these nights, Syromache, dressed in black, silently glided down
the cold stone steps with her bags of bread and fruit. The orphanage
was quickly dismantled. The children disappeared from the cellar,
back into the villages, and the sisters fled. Muriassel was said to
have absorbed the spirits of the dead. It remained unopened for many
centuries and then, during a period of economic strife, the villages
agreed to sell the land.

  Down in the villages, thick bundles of cloth have been wrapped
around poles and lighted. Everyone carries a lantern or a torch,
and they are quickly massing in the market. Children are ecstatic,
the women are nervous and the men exchange reassuring glances. The
churches in each village sound ten, almost simultaneously, and a
great cheer erupts from both sides of Muriassel.

  Syromache plays almost unconsciously now. Her fingers hurdle
over the keys of the grand piano with amazing speed, picking out the
notes she feels surging inside her. She knows she cannot escape the
cage, but her playing is the closest she has found to what she
imagines mortal freedom to be. She also knows with each fleeting
glimpse into that world of passions unattainable to her, her soul is
drained some more.

  She can hear the villagers clamouring up the slopes which lead
to Muriassel. She begins to direct her thoughts to them.

  In 1580 a man purchased Muriassel and the land upon which it
stood. The villagers distrusted him, he was eccentric, and never
left the church. He had an elaborate network of harpsichords shipped
to him from somewhere in the west, and he composed and played strange
music during the night. Syromache was instantly entranced by him, by
his world, and one night, he discovered her listening silently to his
playing from the stair.

  At that time, Syromache believed she could discover love. And
each night she lay in his arms, convinced that one day she would be
free. He, Anton, became deeply attached to her. She exuded a feeling,
to him, of such intense and utter suffering. He sensed, and though
they never spoke of it, a pain inside her which she could not
disguise. Each day, or night, as he played, his music reflected the
thoughts he had of finding the key which would release her from her
misery. He had agreed to a silent pact, that he would free her soul
or else one day, he would understand.

  Anton taught her to play the harpsichord. They created elaborate
compositions together, beginning with simple themes and having them
evolve, as if on their own, into a complex stretto which left them
both exhausted and euphoric. They erected the giant four-poster bed
in her chamber and made love, exploring an almost perfect passion.
And while he yearned for her, he knew she desperately wanted to, but
could not yearn for him. Anton glimpsed then, for a moment, her
terrible world. And he was deafened, in that moment, by the hideous
screaming of Muriassel which cried out for her, in unbearable pain.

  The villagers, shouting together, arrive at the clearing among
the trees which defines Muriassel. An eerie chill sweeps among the
crowd as Syromache's music shakes the stone with vibrant clarity.
They raise their torches to the sky and press forward, streaming
under the arch and up against the walls. A number of them begin to
throw themselves against the great oak doors.

  1642, Anton had delivered a rare luxury in the world, a grand
piano. He asked that Syromache learn to play. He had grown old, and
she, ageless, had watched him whither. In 1643 Anton died in
Muriassel, and it was the first time since she had arrived that
Syromache left, to bury him. She wished that she too, could return
to the earth.

  Syromache plays on. She knows she cannot escape. She wishes
fervently as they, that the throng gathered on the steps of Muriassel
could achieve their goal. They have broken in and they rush up the
stairs to her tower. She tries desperately to have her music reach
its crescendo before they can enter. She knows she will not.

  They will burn her bed and her piano, and batter her naked into
the surrounding forest. She will find another home. They will,
Syromache thinks as they charge into the chamber, hear Muriassel's
last shuddering cry, and perhaps, she fears, bear for a second --
her suffering.

                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Stephen Kunc, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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Stephen is a poor, derelict farmer on the outskirts of Ottawa,
Ontario. During the times that he is not writing or busy on the farm,
he is wrestling with the age-old problem of how to properly attach
moose antlers to a sports car.
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