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I don't know what happened. Peace or something. Or maybe I'm high on music.
Everything is so wonderful.
The drummer was utterly serene, her hands the only part of her which moved independently. She sat on the small platform with velvet cushions the colors of jewels, her drums set in a half-circle around her, her eyes closed in a passionate trance of performance. The viol, the girl could see now, sat between the knees of a man perched precariously on the rim of a wagon wheel, moving his entire body in the strokes he made with the bow. The man playing the tambourine was pacing in front of him, jumping or spinning occasionally with his vehemence. The violinist stood to one side, her lower lip caught between her teeth so that she thought it must surely bleed. Her back arched and her hips swayed, but her feet stayed in one place; this was not a wandering song.
The lutist may as well have been made of gold, he shone so. The wood of his lute was the surface of a molten pool in the firelight. The rings on his right hand made a glinting magic of his fingers as they plucked strings in an incomprehensibly ordered pattern, and the bracelets on his left wrist made every movement gleam when they swung. He held down threads of golden light, the fire falling down the length of them every time the pattern changed. His hands, his voice, the music were hypnotic.
At the last beat, pluck, strum, stomp, shout of the song, there was silence, and it woke her from her trance. The fervent cheers of the crowd rose to the black sky, exhausted as they were.
Everything is so wonderful.
The drummer was utterly serene, her hands the only part of her which moved independently. She sat on the small platform with velvet cushions the colors of jewels, her drums set in a half-circle around her, her eyes closed in a passionate trance of performance. The viol, the girl could see now, sat between the knees of a man perched precariously on the rim of a wagon wheel, moving his entire body in the strokes he made with the bow. The man playing the tambourine was pacing in front of him, jumping or spinning occasionally with his vehemence. The violinist stood to one side, her lower lip caught between her teeth so that she thought it must surely bleed. Her back arched and her hips swayed, but her feet stayed in one place; this was not a wandering song.
The lutist may as well have been made of gold, he shone so. The wood of his lute was the surface of a molten pool in the firelight. The rings on his right hand made a glinting magic of his fingers as they plucked strings in an incomprehensibly ordered pattern, and the bracelets on his left wrist made every movement gleam when they swung. He held down threads of golden light, the fire falling down the length of them every time the pattern changed. His hands, his voice, the music were hypnotic.
At the last beat, pluck, strum, stomp, shout of the song, there was silence, and it woke her from her trance. The fervent cheers of the crowd rose to the black sky, exhausted as they were.
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