It has been plaguing our little town for some time now. Every Friday night we hear it — the piercing blare of strings tuned just a smidge sharp, the chaotic clanging of cymbals abiding by no time signature but their own. We see the players, hideous creatures with moss-green skin and eyelashes so long they form a sort of beard under each one’s chin. They drift down the central roadway on their massive stage made from twigs and mud, playing a “song” (which is putting it generously) so unbearable that it drives us all back into our houses.
We call it the Orchestra. No one knows where it came from, or what exactly its goal is. All we know is that it is a force of evil, because only a truly heartless group of “musicians” would subject the innocent denizens of a simple mining town to such a horrendous racket. After the townsfolk's failed attempts to block out the cacophony with cotton and wax, many have resorted to removing their ears altogether. Despite the ingenuity of this solution, it is ultimately aiding in the progression of evil. The only true solution is to destroy the Orchestra once and for all.
And I, Marten, am going to be the hero who does just that. As the Musician of Tailskint, these blasphemers offend me to my core, and I refuse to let their evil deeds go on any longer. I perfect the shining golden swoop of my hair in the mirror, grab my violin, sheath my bow for use as a weapon if necessary, and march out the door.
I strut through the town, greeting its inhabitants as I pass. “Hello, Apothecarist Algabeth! Hello, Bookseller Balbin! Hello, Courier Calendrimus!” They stare back at me, eyes glazed over with the horror and hearing loss that only individuals who have been haunted by an evil orchestra for the last two months can possess. Luckily for them, I’m about to change that.
I soon reach the steps leading up to the Ostentation Opera House, where the Orchestra resides. Needless to say, no operas have been held since their arrival. No one knows what goes on inside those gilded double doors, but there are scores of rumors about what the Orchestra does when they’re not haunting our streets. Playing horrible lullabies to babies before eating them alive, scratching up their instruments with their claws, modifying sheet music to make it appropriately horrific, and so on.
I march into the entry hall and head towards the sound of screeching coming from one of the rehearsal rooms down the hall. Raising my bow high, I shout, “I’m ready for a battle, brutes!” and throw the door open.
I am met with a wall of discordant sound. The room is filled to the brim with the detestable “musicians”, and one of them stands at the front waving a knobby stick with great gusto. Inexplicably, they appear to be . . . rehearsing? The players shoot looks of confusion at each other as they try and fail to keep up with the gestures of the stick-wielding fellow. The different sections gradually become less and less synchronized until the conductor eventually waves his claws in disgust. “Stop, stop!” The players lower their bows, brass, and bongos.
“That was horrific!” the conductor spits, eyelashes flapping. “The violins are tuning out the violas, the xylophones are ignoring the marimbas, and the flutes are disregarding the piccolos! How are we supposed to assimilate into humanity if our collective musicianship is indistinguishable to that of a tone-deaf toad? No wonder the humans can’t stand our performances!” The players look at their webbed feet in shame. As the conductor scans them in disgust, his eyes finally meet mine.
“Ah! A human!” he squeals. One hundred green heads turn in my direction and two hundred violet eyes widen in terror. “Raise your instruments, toads! A newspaper critic man has finally come to judge us! Let this be the best performance of your pathetic lives!”
“Performance? You’ve been performing all this time?” I sputter.
“What else would we be doing?” the conductor squawks. “We’re tired of living in the swamp. We wanted to impress you humans so we could join your refined society with its cottages and biscuits.” Several of the creatures perk up and start foaming at the mouth at the mention of “biscuits”. “But it’ll never happen, because these fools are worthless as musicians. I can’t get a coherent chord out of them.” The players look very ashamed. A few wipe away tears.
Some part of me, deep within, feels a bit of pity for them. While it may be hard to believe, I was once unable to execute sixtuple stops and ponticello pizzicato myself.
Before I can stop myself, I offer, “I suppose I could . . . help you improve. If you so desire.” Silence. Then the conductor bounds across the room — using a player’s head as a springboard — takes my hand, and kneels solemnly before me.
“Thank you, newspaper critic man. You have saved us all.” I resist the urge to vomit at the sensation of his slimy skin against mine.
He shoves me towards the front of the room, kicks someone out of their seat, and plops himself down in their stead. I take my place behind the makeshift twiggy music stand and look out at one hundred expectant green faces. “Okay. Your first lesson: Notes, and playing them.”
We call it the Orchestra. No one knows where it came from, or what exactly its goal is. All we know is that it is a force of evil, because only a truly heartless group of “musicians” would subject the innocent denizens of a simple mining town to such a horrendous racket. After the townsfolk's failed attempts to block out the cacophony with cotton and wax, many have resorted to removing their ears altogether. Despite the ingenuity of this solution, it is ultimately aiding in the progression of evil. The only true solution is to destroy the Orchestra once and for all.
And I, Marten, am going to be the hero who does just that. As the Musician of Tailskint, these blasphemers offend me to my core, and I refuse to let their evil deeds go on any longer. I perfect the shining golden swoop of my hair in the mirror, grab my violin, sheath my bow for use as a weapon if necessary, and march out the door.
I strut through the town, greeting its inhabitants as I pass. “Hello, Apothecarist Algabeth! Hello, Bookseller Balbin! Hello, Courier Calendrimus!” They stare back at me, eyes glazed over with the horror and hearing loss that only individuals who have been haunted by an evil orchestra for the last two months can possess. Luckily for them, I’m about to change that.
I soon reach the steps leading up to the Ostentation Opera House, where the Orchestra resides. Needless to say, no operas have been held since their arrival. No one knows what goes on inside those gilded double doors, but there are scores of rumors about what the Orchestra does when they’re not haunting our streets. Playing horrible lullabies to babies before eating them alive, scratching up their instruments with their claws, modifying sheet music to make it appropriately horrific, and so on.
I march into the entry hall and head towards the sound of screeching coming from one of the rehearsal rooms down the hall. Raising my bow high, I shout, “I’m ready for a battle, brutes!” and throw the door open.
I am met with a wall of discordant sound. The room is filled to the brim with the detestable “musicians”, and one of them stands at the front waving a knobby stick with great gusto. Inexplicably, they appear to be . . . rehearsing? The players shoot looks of confusion at each other as they try and fail to keep up with the gestures of the stick-wielding fellow. The different sections gradually become less and less synchronized until the conductor eventually waves his claws in disgust. “Stop, stop!” The players lower their bows, brass, and bongos.
“That was horrific!” the conductor spits, eyelashes flapping. “The violins are tuning out the violas, the xylophones are ignoring the marimbas, and the flutes are disregarding the piccolos! How are we supposed to assimilate into humanity if our collective musicianship is indistinguishable to that of a tone-deaf toad? No wonder the humans can’t stand our performances!” The players look at their webbed feet in shame. As the conductor scans them in disgust, his eyes finally meet mine.
“Ah! A human!” he squeals. One hundred green heads turn in my direction and two hundred violet eyes widen in terror. “Raise your instruments, toads! A newspaper critic man has finally come to judge us! Let this be the best performance of your pathetic lives!”
“Performance? You’ve been performing all this time?” I sputter.
“What else would we be doing?” the conductor squawks. “We’re tired of living in the swamp. We wanted to impress you humans so we could join your refined society with its cottages and biscuits.” Several of the creatures perk up and start foaming at the mouth at the mention of “biscuits”. “But it’ll never happen, because these fools are worthless as musicians. I can’t get a coherent chord out of them.” The players look very ashamed. A few wipe away tears.
Some part of me, deep within, feels a bit of pity for them. While it may be hard to believe, I was once unable to execute sixtuple stops and ponticello pizzicato myself.
Before I can stop myself, I offer, “I suppose I could . . . help you improve. If you so desire.” Silence. Then the conductor bounds across the room — using a player’s head as a springboard — takes my hand, and kneels solemnly before me.
“Thank you, newspaper critic man. You have saved us all.” I resist the urge to vomit at the sensation of his slimy skin against mine.
He shoves me towards the front of the room, kicks someone out of their seat, and plops himself down in their stead. I take my place behind the makeshift twiggy music stand and look out at one hundred expectant green faces. “Okay. Your first lesson: Notes, and playing them.”