I N S P I R E // M E
chapter deux

`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`’`

Sometime later, the nine Council members filed out of the meeting chamber.  The hum of idle chatter lingered over them as they walked down the shimmering opalescent hall, past the marble statues of Calliope, Melpomene, and Erato, of Clio, of Euterpe and Polyhymnia, of Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.  Each statue sat between two of the towering pillars that stood along the hall, and the unmoving women watched with vacant, white eyes as their living counterparts wandered by.  When the Council members neared the double doors at the end of the hall, Caracalla took one of his coworkers’ arm and veered left, away from the group, to stand in the shadow of Erato, who appeared to be the youngest and most beautiful of the statues.

Dragan gazed expectantly at Caracalla with unflinching silver eyes.  “Yes?”

“Dragan, my good friend.”  Caracalla released Dragan’s arm and offered a cajoling smile.  “You’re one of the best judges of talent I know.  Could you find an artist for me?”

Dragan smoothed his sleeve, which Caracalla had wrinkled, and said, “Always right to the point, aren’t you?  Though you did attempt a little flattery with the ‘good friend’ comment, I see.  Very well.  I’ll find someone for you.”

Caracalla clapped Dragan’s shoulder, grinning more broadly now.  “Thanks.”  Still with his hand on Dragan’s shoulder, he led them out of the building and onto the street.  

The street was lined with milky-white trees, the leaves silvery and shaking in the warm breeze.  The distance cradled a pale zigzagging mass of mountains, and the sky beyond that was a washed-out blue.  There was a lattice of white houses laid out across the land, small buildings that were all identical to each other.  

As they passed under the low-hanging branch of a tree, Dragan reached up and caught a leaf between his long, spindly fingers.  He paused in their walk, and Caracalla followed suit, watching Dragan curiously.  “Here,” Dragan said, and gave Caracalla the leaf.  “This boy.”

Caracalla’s eyebrows rose slightly.  “That was fast.”  He looked at the leaf in his hand.  On the back was scrawled a name.  “Tullio Amato… what is he?”

Dragan picked at the ruffles on the ends of his sleeves.  “He’s a poet, and a musician.”

“All right.  I’ll go see him.”  Caracalla pocketed the leaf in his coat and saluted Dragan.  “Thanks again, Draggy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dragan deadpanned.

Caracalla just grinned at his coworker.  Without further ado, he approached the tree from which the leaf had come and stepped through the ashen trunk.  The seemingly solid bark rippled like a puddle of milk as it swallowed Caracalla, but once he’d disappeared, the tree returned to normal, silent, sentinel, and seemingly untouched.

xxx

Caracalla blinked at the atmosphere change as he appeared in the human world.  Blinking a little more, he looked around.  To his left and right were windows, and the scenery outside them was whizzing past.  The vibration and hum of an engine met up with him next, and then the smells of synthetic pine and air conditioner.  It didn’t take long for him to realize that he’d wound up inside someone’s car.  

There were two people in front, none in the back where he’d landed.  The driver was a girl, and the passenger was a boy.  Both were dark-haired, with similar olive complexions, similar noses (from what he could see of their faces), similar bone structures.  They were laughing, the girl’s higher melody mingling with the boy’s lower, but no less musical, baritone.  And underneath that was a tinkling, electronic tune with a solid beat.  

Caracalla had to admit that it was catchy.

A man’s low, whispery voice sang from the speakers, “I dream of you every night, feels like I'm losing my mind, this feeling’s just getting stronger.  My head is spinning around, you play with me but I'm bound, I can't resist any longer.”

A woman replied with, “One kiss from you I'm on fire, your touch is all I desire, one look and you take me higher.  You know I couldn't resist, yeah I miss, every time I'm with you.  Every time that we kiss…”

“Tina, come on,” the boy said, “change the song!  Don’t you have anything other than this pop-dance-techno crap?”  From the part of his face that Caracalla could see, the boy was smiling, which belied his irritated tone.

“Hey, it’s not crap!” Tina argued, though she was smiling too as she cruised down the spacious country road they were on.

Caracalla raised an amused eyebrow as his milky gaze flitted between the two.  Considering that he’d been brought into their company, one of them had to be his artist.  And since the girl obviously wasn’t “Tullio,” then surely the boy was.  Already Caracalla got the feeling that the boy had a musical sense about him.  He had to be the one…

“I’m in heaven when you kiss me, heaven when you kiss me, you were sent to me from Wonderland… ”

“Oh, the horror!  Bad lyrics!”  Tullio theatrically covered his ears and banged his head back against his seat.  

“It’s sweet,” Tina said simply.  “Come on, it’s not that bad…”  She slowed to a halt at a stop sign and turned her head left and right to check for oncoming cars.  Caracalla saw that her eyes were dark, like her hair.  

Caracalla sighed and put his chin in his palm.  His head rocked back in forth to the beat as he considered the song; he supposed it wasn’t horrible.  It wasn’t the Moonlight Sonata, but it had merit.  It was, well,…it was just…catchy…

The man was singing again, “You know that I’m hypnotized, each time I look in your eyes.  You know I couldn’t disguise, and I couldn’t resist, every time that we kiss…”

And then the woman.  “I’m in heaven when you kiss me, heaven when you kiss me, you were sent to me from Wonderland…”

Suddenly, the melody swerved upwards into a refreshing new tone, this one more dramatic.

Tullio’s head tilted curiously, and Caracalla saw the corner of his mouth quirk into a smile.  “Key change, for the win!” he cheered.  “All right, this song has my appreciation now.”

Soon, the song was petering out on its recurring piano theme before finally drawing to a close.  The air hung quietly with the abrupt dearth of music, and Caracalla felt distinctly dispirited.  But it was only natural for him.

Tullio stretched his arms over his head.  “All right, time for a new song.”  He picked up the iPod that was sitting on his lap, connected to the radio by the cigarette lighter socket.  He’d started flicking through the songs when Tina stopped the car.

“No need,” she said, and unbuckled her seatbelt.  “We’re here.”

Tullio sighed and set the iPod on the floor between them.  “Aaall riiiight,” he drawled, sounding far from enthused.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Tina chirped, and got out of her side of the car.

Caracalla watched as Tullio unbuckled his own seatbelt and got out.  His movements seemed…different, somehow.  Slow, deliberate, almost…searching.  Once he was out of the car, Tina locked it and took Tullio’s hand.  Caracalla watched them through the window for a moment before calling up enough energy to transport himself outside.  Hands on his hips, he observed the new surroundings.  They seemed to be in a park, of sorts.  It was rather breathtaking, really.  A long, languid stretch of emerald grass that dipped and swelled with small hills, a cluster of trees here, a couple there.  And the leaves, while mostly green, were stained with faint reds and oranges—the harbingers of autumn, Caracalla knew.  He looked down to find gravel under his shoes, as Tina had parked in a little lot that wound away into a road through a nearby copse of trees at the right.  

Caracalla looked ahead and saw that the two people were wandering up a gentle hillside.  With a small sigh, he followed.  

Eventually, Tina stopped and sat them down in the shade of a tree that stood proud near the edge of a small pond.  The water’s surface was a lucid blue-green, crimped and rippled by passing breezes.  Releasing Tullio’s hand, she pulled the khaki messenger bag at her side into her lap and opened the flap.   

Tullio gazed out across the water and sighed, this time not with anything akin to unhappiness.  Caracalla sat down in front of him to get a better look.  He was young, Caracalla estimated late teens.  He had strong, but oddly…pretty, features.  And his eyes were dark, like Tina’s.  In fact, Caracalla would say that Tullio and Tina bore enough resemblance to be related.  Perhaps they were siblings.  

Caracalla glanced over at Tina to see that she’d procured a sketchbook, a charcoal pencil, and a box of pastel crayons.  

There was movement then, on Tina’s left shoulder.  It was slight, but Caracalla caught it.  And suddenly, with a familiar, faint chiming noise, a boy was sitting beside Tina.  Caracalla smirked.

“What are you doing here?” the boy demanded, looking surprised and indignant.  “This girl is my artist.”

Caracalla stood up and waved his hand dismissively.  “I’m not here for her.  I’m here for the boy,” he said, gesturing to Tullio, who had drawn his knees to his chest and folded his arms over them.  “Who are you?”

“Miksa,” the boy said, his previous expression morphing readily into something like pomposity as he rose to his feet.  He drew himself to his full height, but even so, he was a half a head shorter than the blond.

“Hmm… you must be one of Bisera’s little brats, if you’re attached to someone like this girl.”  Caracalla gave the Miksa a onceover.  He was slight of stature, with a mop of unruly russet hair, matching auburn eyes, a youthful face.  Caracalla was reminded of a wood sprite when he looked at this muse.

Miksa sniffed huffily.  “I’m not a brat, and don’t say Lady Bisera’s name like that, as if she’s beneath you!  I’ve heard of you.”  He closed the small distance between them and brazenly jabbed a finger at Caracalla’s chest.  “You’re the washed-out old coot!  The has-been!  The failure since Henry Wadsworth Longfellow!”

Caracalla remained cool and stepped away from Miksa.  He brushed off the breast of his jacket, as if Miksa had dirtied it with his touch.  

“You don’t even deserve to be on the Council, but Lady Ulrika has a soft spot for you,” Miksa continued.  He looked close to pouting as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Caracalla smirked.  “What?  Who do you think deserves my seat then?  You?”

“I’d do a damned better job than you ever could!”

“Watch your words, brat,” Caracalla warned.  “I’ve turned out better artists in the past than you can ever dream of producing.  Sure, there was Longfellow, but what about Mozart, Handel, Bach?  Edgar Allan Poe, Dante Alighieri?  And that isn’t even the tip of the proverbial iceberg, my boy.  I’ve been inspiring since the Egyptians first put pen to papyrus.  You don’t even begin to compare.”

Miksa glared fiercely at Caracalla.  Unable to find an adequate retort, he turned on his heel and marched back to Tina, where he shrank himself with another whoosh of chimes and hid on her shoulder to do his work.  Satisfied, Caracalla wandered around Tullio and sat down beside the boy.  Tullio’s eyes were closed as he sat in peace; Caracalla fancied that he was listening to the wind.

“Tina,” the boy said quietly.

Tina looked up from her sketchbook, where a picture of the nature around them had started to take shape.  “Hm?”

“What does it look like?”

Tina smiled and set her things down.  “It’s beautiful,” she replied softly.  “Well, we’re sitting in front of a pond.”  She reached towards it and gestured, as if tracing the scene with her fingertips.  “There’s sunlight on the water, from over that hill across from us.  Sunset’s coming soon.  The grass is very, very green… it’s still lush from summer.”

Tullio nodded.  “I can feel that,” he said, and Caracalla looked down to see the boy’s hands at his sides now, curled into the grass.

“And there’s a tree behind us…”

“I can feel the shade.”

“Its leaves are starting to change color.  There’s a bit of red in the green, smatterings of fire, if you will.  And the sky… it’s full of clouds.  Nice, big, fluffy ones.”

Tullio smiled, his eyes still closed, as he leaned back on his hands.  “I’ve always loved the fall.”

Tina smiled too.  Caracalla noticed something sad in it as she looked at Tullio.  “I know.”

Caracalla stared wonderingly at his artist, and when next the boy opened his eyes, Caracalla suddenly realized.

Tullio was blind.