The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) (10 page)

"How much?" said Goldi Fawn, obviously never one to pass up a bargain."

"Half price," said Ian.

"Save me one of them skinks, then," said Goldi Fawn. "A green and red one."

Ian looked confused for a moment. "Green and red?" he said.

"Hawk your wares later, Ian," I interrupted. "Did you find out anything about Elle de Fournier?"

"Who's that?" whispered Goldi Fawn to Meg, who was sitting on Goldi Fawn's other side.

"The composer of our cantata," Meg whispered back.

Ian shook his head. "No, I did not, and I'm bound to tell you that if I could not find out anything, there is probably nothing to find." He sat down, then stood back up quickly. "Half price on zinks," he said hurriedly, "sixty percent off the lysards. Snoods are full price." Then he sat again.

"Well, choir," I said, "here's what I know.
La Chanson d'Adoration
was written by Elle de Fournier and was to be premiered at St. Barnabas on Christmas Eve, 1942. For some reason—and no one seems to know why, at least no one we've found yet—the performance was cancelled. The chances are very good that this cantata has
never
been performed."

"So this would be the world premiere then?" asked Randy.

"I expect so," I said.

"Cool," said Tiff. "Can I put this on my resumé?"

"Absolutely, you can!" said Goldi Fawn. "I got all kinds of stuff on my resumé. Like this one time, Wynonna Judd came in to get her stars done..."

"What a great story!" I said, cutting her short. "So let's start at the beginning and see if we can get a handle on this thing."

* * *

An hour and a half later, we'd rehearsed all four movements of the cantata and the entire choir was frazzled. I was frazzled, too. Frazzled but determined.

"How about a break?" I suggested. "We could use one."

"Nah," said Bob Solomon. "I'd rather get this over with. Let's just do it."

The other choir members, noticeably frustrated, nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Then close your books. Time to clear your brains."

The books closed.

"Here's the thing," I said. "This is a difficult piece, but it's not that difficult."

"There's no time signature," complained Tiff. "I'm having a tough time counting."

"There are no bar lines," said Georgia. "Just these half lines, and they're different in every part."

"There's no key signature," said Bert. "I don't know where 'tonic' is."

"The words are weird," said Sheila. "
The Song of Solomon
?"

All this was true, of course. The notation was difficult and not what anyone was used to. In addition, it was handwritten and that took some getting used to as well. The text was not the usual Christmas story.

"Listen," I said. "
The Song of Solomon
is sometimes viewed as a messianic text, especially during the time that this music was written. In fact, until the middle of the last century, The Song was regarded by theologians as an allegory describing the relationship of Christ and the Church. It's Advent."

"And then there's the whole apple tree/Garden of Eden thing," added Bev. "Okay, I buy it."

"Stand up," I ordered. "Open your scores to the first movement."

The choir complied.

"Relax. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Understand that singing is a gift and you are part of that gift. 'Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.' I don't know who said it, but it's true enough."

I looked across the choir. Surprisingly, all their eyes were closed.

"Now, just
listen
to each other. Listen to the music. Lose yourself in it, but
think
. You know the notes. You
know
how to sing this." I paused for a long moment, then said, "Okay, look at me."

I played their opening phrase, then raised my arms from the organ console and conducted the downbeat. Two measures later I quit conducting and my mouth dropped open.

As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,

so is my beloved among the sons.

I sat down under his shadow with great delight,

and his fruit was sweet to my taste.

He brought me to the banqueting house,

and his banner over me was love.

The choir kept singing (and
what
singing!), going through the entire movement, beginning to end, without a break. They finished together, looked at me and I cut them off. The final chord echoed through the church, perfectly in tune, perfectly sung. This had never happened, not once in the twenty-odd years I'd been at St. Barnabas. Not once in
all
my years of conducting. It just hadn't happened. I wasn't sure, until now, that it
could
happen. Not with a volunteer choir, anyway.

Silence filled the church. No one made a sound, not for a solid minute. It was as if everyone was afraid even to take a deep breath. Then Elaine said in a soft voice, "Holy cow!"

"Was that us?" whispered Georgia.

"It was," Meg whispered back.

"Well, I'll be a three-legged horned-toad," said Pete. "Does this happen all the time? I might just join up."

"Let's sing it again," said Randy. "Maybe it was an accident."

The rest of the choir agreed emphatically. I looked around. Each of them, every single one, had a look of wonder on their faces. I gave them their starting notes and they sang it again.

No mistake.

Silence again, then: "We have got to rehearse tomorrow night!" said Bert Coley, excitedly. "I have a poker game but I'll skip it."

"We
have
to," agreed Martha. "No way around it. We still have three movements to learn. We can sing this one on Sunday morning, but we've got to have some more rehearsals!"

I was speechless. This was something out of my experience.

"Okay," Meg said decidedly, "a Thursday rehearsal. Who
can't
come?"

"Oh, man!" said Varmit. "Muffy and me got tickets to the monster truck rally in Bristol. Amy Grant is doing the pre-rally concert."

"We've seen Amy before, Varmit," said Muffy. "And Bigfoot ain't even going to be there. He blew a head gasket or something."

"These tickets are nonrefundable!" Varmit argued.

"We'll scalp 'em on the internet," said Muffy with finality. "I can double our money." Varmit knew when he was licked.

"I have a party I'm supposed to be at," said Steve DeMoss.

"Me, too," said Sheila, looking daggers at Steve, "but we're not going."

"I'm not complaining," said Steve. "I didn't want to go anyway."

"Hey!" said Elaine. "That's
my
party!"

"Oops," said Sheila with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We'll be there when the rehearsal is over."

"The party doesn't start till eight," said Elaine. "It's just a little get-together. So what if I get there an hour or so late? Billy can handle it."

"Wow," said Annie. "That's brave."

"Oh, I owe him," said Elaine. "He did the same thing to me last summer. Invited a bunch of his customers over and then got 'held up' at the shop."

"Let's sing it again," said Marjorie. "There's something strange happening. Singing it...singing it just makes me feel good."

"It's euphoric," agreed Rebecca.

"Enchanting," said Bev.

"It's like how I felt when I first saw the Grand Canyon," said Cynthia, trying to find the words. "I can't even catch my breath. I don't know..."

"It's like something unbelievably beautiful," said Rhiza, putting her arm around Cynthia and giving her a hug. "You just don't know how to explain it."

"It's like Christmas," said Meg.

Chapter 8

It wasn't as easy as she remembered. When she'd been immersed in the music, when she'd had two and three lessons a week, when she'd been playing piano at the restaurant, composing had come to her as if it were second nature. Now, four years later, she found that writing music was...difficult. She struggled with themes, she struggled with harmonies, and she couldn't find the voice that she knew was there. She pored over her old compositions and looked for clues, hints on how to tap into her dormant talent. At least she hoped it was only dormant. What if it was gone completely?

She'd been going over Christmas texts, but couldn't find anything that spoke to her. Then, after a month of agonizing, she threw every sketch into the waste bin, sat down at the piano in frustration and placed her hands on the keys. Mozart, she thought. Mozart to clear her mind. It always worked. She began to play.

She wasn't thinking about the cantata at all. She was thinking about Henry, her family, her new church friends, the upcoming holiday, and then she realized what was flowing from her fingers. Not Mozart.

She picked up her pen and started writing.