The Valley of Raun Series
Book One
Jon-Vee and the Great Injustice
A Delightful Adventure in Faeryland
by
Donald L. Olson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published By
Donald L. Olson on Smashwords
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Jon-Vee and the Great Injustice
Copyright © 2011 by Donald L. Olson
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Glossary
Raun - Ron
Jon-Vee - John-Vee
Sorkas - Sore-kuss
Qwein-Ol - Queen-all
Qeing Dijn - King Dee-in
Gigglby - Giggle-bee
Lapis Lazulii - Lap-us La-zooly
Jahbria - Jaw-bree-uh
Doborowii - Doh-burro-wee
Quiinto - Kwin-toe
Pladoera - Pla-dear-a
Powajii - Pow-a-gee
Toooscundally - Two-skun-dally
Chapter One
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The Crystalline Flute
The wind loses its punch as it rolls off the Shawnnon Mountains and reaches across the fertile valley floor. By the time the turbulence reaches the Valley of the Raun, it is not much more than a breeze. Some say the valley is home to Faeryland, rumored to be a magical place of spell casting, inspiration and charm. Others dismiss the notion as so much nonsense. However, a most peculiar event unfolds when darkness crawls upon the region. The unmistakable glows of tiny rainbows emerge from behind and beneath the bushes, flowers and grass creating a glow that illuminates in the valley. Is it any surprise such a phenomenon would nudge the curiosity of travelers settling for the night?
Especially the children?
With youthful curiosity tugging at their spirit, the children are easily drawn to the field lilies and dandelions in search of the source of the glow. And, quite possibly, a fortune at the rainbows ends. What they have stumbled upon, however, is a faeryland tucked into the folds of the landscape. What they observe are faeries; each emanating a colorful hue as they go about their daily routines, tending chores or easing a neighbor’s burden. There are faeries that dilly-dally about, gossiping as faeries do, while others flitter here and there; powered by their delicate wings. The twill in the air is busy and fun as faeries shuffle with swag in their sway, speaking in near whispers that roll over teeth and dance off tongues. Most in faeryland absent-mindedly bob their heads or hum along with the whistle that is delivered on the breeze. Music sent to them by a lime-green glowing faerylander named Jon-Vee.
Listen carefully.
If you can silence the chatter, for just a moment, you may be lucky enough to hear Jon-Vee compete for the attention of Fairyland right alongside the crack of the crickets and the belch of the toads. His, however, is a pleasant sound that flows from his heart to his breath and into the ears of most everyone.
Most of the human kinds dismiss the musical folly as nothing more than the wind playing games. Once again, the exception can be found in the children who find the music to be the creation of this pixyish and peculiar lime-green fellow. And, truth be told, Jon-Vee was not the first faery in the Valley of Raun to paint the wind with such melodies. You see, as a young fae, Jon-Vee would hear this sound as it was delivered on the breeze. He never questioned from whence it came. It was simply something that happened as often and as naturally as the rising of any moon, the change of any season or the absolute intrusion of any thought. As he grew, the questions began to flow. The greatest puzzle to resolve, in Jon-Vee’s mind, was the riddle of the sounds that danced in his ear.
One day he asked, “Mother, what is that sound?”
Qwein-Ol’s translucent wings flittered, leaving a trail of sparkling faery dust in her wake as she busied herself to Jon-Vee’s side, “It is Sorkas playing with the wind,” she replied. She paused for a moment, cocked her head and with creased brows, asked, “You didn’t know it was your Grandfaery that makes the music?”
“Playing with the wind? How does he play with the wind?”
“With his flute, of course,” answered Qeing-Dijn, Jon-Vee’s faery-father. Focusing his attention on the young fae, he continued, “With his flute he can sing a tune and send it on the wings of any breeze. Why do you ask, Jon-Vee? Do you like it?”
“Oh yes, father…I like it very much. I want to make the music with Sorkas,” he exclaimed. “Where can I find it? Will Sorkas show me? Can I ask him? Can I go with him? I want to know how to play with the wind.” Jon-Vee had so many questions and was absolutely delighted when he learned it was his very own Grandfaery who spun the music for the Valley of Raun. With that delicious morsel of truth, he decided it his newfound mission to tag along on a nightly rendezvous with the wind to resolve the mysteries of musical merriment. He was quite sure Sorkas would oblige him this desire. After all, Sorkas often took the time to present Jon-Vee with new ideas.
This time, however, Sorkas was not immediately receptive to the young fae’s wild enthusiasm. Jon-Vee was made to bargain and plead with his Grandfaery to share his musical tricks. He couldn’t understand why Sorkas was resistant, but it simply made him want it more. The desire to create the sounds that danced in his ear had taken a firm grip on his heart. Jon-Vee certainly didn’t want to watch this desire dissipate with the fog. So, he hatched a plan. “I will become my Grandfaery’s shadow until I have my wish,” he determined.
And he did.
He followed Sorkas nightly; asking questions, playing his air flute and then asking more questions. His musical curiosities rubbed on the edge of irritation and annoyance until Sorkas finally relented. Tutoring Jon-Vee in the fundamentals of his craft, he also taught the science as well as the art of the musical process; emphasizing how to flow with impulse while staying true to the composition. There came the night when Sorkas talked about ‘listening’ as a musical tool, “Of course, part of the listening process is visual observation...I would agree. But I would encourage you to close your eyes,” he instructed. “Search for truth with your ear. You will find it in the voice of most anything. Listen to nature as she whispers her verse. Consider the message Earth so profoundly pontificates as she spins in the cosmos. Listen…not only to the song of the bird, but listen to the spirit of the song. It is in the spirit where truth is revealed. When you are able to interpret the belch of a lazy toad differently from that of the pestered…that is when you will stroll through the doors of musical truth. Listen…and sing with the owl as she hoots and even the wind as it whistles on its way. When you listen closely…to even the silence…the sum of the difference becomes knowledge.” Sorkas surmised, “Twould be a dreary life if we never listened.”
Jon-Vee, however, leant his ear to the pulse of his heart and that on which his eyes could feast. His music danced on the edge of the world as he saw it. “Because, it’s just so much fun,” Jon-Vee bargained. Nevertheless, Sorkas was unrelenting with his prod and nag and, eventually, Jon-Vee gave in to his wish.
He found it was not so easy to turn off his thoughts and focus only on the sounds. However, with the guidance of Sorkas, Jon-Vee learned to translate the sounds of life and deliver it in a universal patois. He developed his own style, transposing nature’s doctrine into musical composition as he laughed with the sparrow and scolded with the crow. He found his music sprouting with the spring foliage and slinking into winter’s hibernation, only to awaken to the sounds of newness, again. Eventually, the discipline produced a new creativity in the lime-green faery that scratched to be released. That is when Sorkas claimed he, “Truly has the blood of a musician” flowing in his veins.
Then came the day when teacher and student were immersed in academics. Sorkas paused a moment, stood back and sized up his student with a keen eye. Bringing his hand to his chin, he nodded and mumbled, “I think it is time.”
Jon-Vee looked up through the tangled forest of Sorkas’ beard and, with wide-eyed wonderment, he asked, “Time? It is time for what, Grandfaery?”
“I believe…it is time to release you to the world, Jon-Vee. You have come far in a short time. You have absorbed much and display your talent very well. However, what I need to know is…do you truly love the music you play?”
“Well, yes Grandfaery. I do. I do.”
“Well…if you don’t it surely won’t be too long before we all know. But, I think that you do love it. And so will the world.” Sorkas put his arm around the young faery and pulled him close to his side. “From here on I will only be as far away as your question.”
“But, where are you going?”
“Listen to me, Jon-Vee.” The expression on Sorkas’ face was forthright; his voice steady and calm as he looked directly into his student’s eyes, “Embrace all that I have taught. Let loose the strings that bind your imagination. Follow the rules of your heart as well as those I've instilled in you and let all the world be your manuscript.”
Jon-Vee illuminated a solid lime-green glow that pulsed with his racing heart, emanating throughout his entire body.
“Oh my,” Jon-Vee thought to himself. “This is the moment. This is truly, honestly…it.”
He knew this day.
He thought he knew it well.
He dreamed about the day he would no longer walk in Sorkas’ shadow but never gave a thought to how the moment would reveal itself. To leave the side of Sorkas and stand on his own was…
…well, it was…
…simply put, it was a preposterous thought.
A swell of activity flooded Jon-Vee’s mind. In the flash of a moment he was taken from just another musical excursion to standing on the threshold of his dream; peering through the door and down the halls of a new beginning. As he looked down the corridor of his dreams, he couldn’t help but notice the hall was empty with each door closed.
Sorkas shook off the young fae’s query, “Think about it, Jon-Vee. Nothing clutters the halls and rooms because...nothing has happened. You’re peering into your dream; into future possibilities as well they can be. Here you are about to embark on what undoubtedly is the beginning of the rest of your life. However, nothing has yet happened. So, make something happen. Fill these rooms with your life, your pulse, your music and you will come to know that your life’s journey is a worthy one, indeed.”
Jon-Vee illuminated his glow.
“You have the keys, little one. Use them. Unlock any of the doors and walk in. You’ll find on the other side is an opportunity. An adventure is exactly what it is. You must think of each room this way. This is why you must be wise. Choose your adventures carefully for you will be drawn to many. Be aware, for an adventure holds many unknowns. So, be prepared, for this is your life.” Sorkas smiled comfortingly and asked, “Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I think so,” replied the wide-eyed faery.
“I give to you this crystalline flute. However, let me warn you…be careful. While this instrument will sing your heart's desires it is also a mirror into the condition of your soul. And your soul must always be protected. I should also advise…this instrument possesses special qualities that you will have the responsibility to call on, should the need arise. Everyone knows the love you contribute so, do not fear. Make much music. And, might I say from the very start, do not give a thought to filling any shoes. You have shoes of your own. Wear them. Walk your path and all shall be well. I have much confidence in you, Jon-Vee. Consider yourself released to the world.”
Jon-Vee was a faery tossed in his tune.
Free in his form.
This is where our story begins.
Chapter Two
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Jon-Vee
Jon-Vee tried to sneak by his mother before she could perform the ritual that replaced the negative spirits with protection and vision for her sibling. When she thwarted the attempt, as mothers do, Jon-Vee squirmed, complaining as he usually did, “Why do we have to do this ev-er-y night?”
“’Tis for protection,” Qwein Ol patiently explained. “Fortunate as we are to live in a safe part of the world, danger is still earthly. A mother’s eye cannot be in all places so I summon the white light that will surround you with a whirl of positive energy. It is protection from the One greater than we. You must know it, believe it, and then…simply rely on it. Now, stand still, son.”
“But don’t I have enough energy left over from yesterday and the night before? Not to mention the night before that? With all this energy, I really don’t think I used it all. I should be just…”
“Focus, son.” She looked at him directly in his eyes and said, “Bring it to the center…and focus…on the center…on the One…focus…” her voice was measured, calm and loving.
“Bring it to the center.
Bleat quas imly. Solp kra dos.
Bleat quas imly. Solp kra dos.”
She chanted the ritual in the native tongue of Faery whilst swinging a metal cauldron of smoldering herbs and fanning the smoke with a feather. Jon-Vee squeezed his eyes shut as the smoke swirled and his mother spoke,
“Bleat quas imly. Solp kra dos.”
He stretched out a long, slow yawn and shook it off.
“Bleat quas imly. Solp kra dos. Now, say with me,” and the two recited, “Twip, loy, sunna. Watch over me.” Qwein-Ol heaved a large sigh and asked, “Are you prepared? Do you have everything you’ll need for tonight?”
“All I need is my flute. If I get hungry I’ll find a berry bush to lie under.”
“Then go.” As always, she reminded Jon-Vee to, “Return before the sun awakes. Tangle with the sun and you’ll lose every time.” Her fae, aglow in his lime-green hue, bolted for the door, slid to a stop and returned with a kiss for his mother’s cheek.
“Bye mother.”
The door swung open...
“Return before the sun…”
…and slammed shut.
“…rises.”
But, he was out the door and into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jon-Vee tousled his wild mop of hair, pulled the foxglove blossom cap snugly on his head and wiped a bit of moisture from his lip whilst skipping down the cobbled path. He stretched and straightened the brown colored tunic that Qwein-Ol gave to him a full moon and a half prior. It was her declaration that the cruelest of seasons had passed. Spun from the flax of sweet-smelling lynum, herb and other fiber, it fit Jon-Vee snug.
Slung from his shoulder was a velvet-red pouch from which he withdrew his instrument. Inspecting the transparent form brought a smile to his face that spread from the corners of his mouth to the lobes of his pointed ears. Cradling the crystalline cylinder in his hands was all he needed to blossom with the glow that radiated throughout his existence. He brought the instrument to his lips and filled the atmosphere with sweet musical tones, spraying melodies about the valley. Jon-Vee’s work was very much a part of everyday life in faeryland. As the sun went down, the music of Jon-Vee came alive, greeting each fae with a new day and a new song. Exuding his glow, Jon-Vee would course his nightly journey, leaving a splash of music in his footsteps.
Winding through this still-sleepy land of faery, he played a swashbuckling game with the shadows that jumped, swayed and attacked. The enemy shadows beheld crooked fingers attached to machete-like branches that swept his path at the winds behest; reaching and grabbing at the little faery as he swash-buckled his way along the cobblestone trail. Jon-Vee battled the evil spirits bravely, cutting the night air with swift retaliation and beating down the darkened spaces. Backing his way up Garden Hill, arms a-flailing like any good pirate, he reached the crest of the hill where, with much rant and bravado, Jon-Vee found victory against his foe.
Standing alone, the hero of Garden Hill held his hands high in a victory dance.
Having conquered the hill, Jon-Vee zipped down the path as it zigged and zagged to where a sign declared the rows of vegetation were ‘Mama’s Garden’. It was just beyond this point where he happened upon a roly-poly fellow, illuminated in an orange hue.
“Allo, allo, allo Cody. Yoo-dle-ooo-hoo, is that you, Cody?” he called. Short and squat, this faery seemed to squeeze his frame into a white button down shirt and red formal coat. With the collar clasped tightly around his neck it was unclear whether the permanently stitched smile on his profoundly round face was indeed a joyful expression or if the smiles were simply squeezed out of him. Nonetheless, he was jolly as could be while pressing his ample belly against the fence and announcing himself between each row of garden with a yodel, “Allo, allo, allo Cody…just wanted to…hmmm. Hehehe…Coooodyyy,” he sang out.
Each time he thought he’d found this fae named Cody, he found himself to be mistaken; speaking only to the cornstalks, moonflower and firefly. “A busy gardener is this one,” he said as Jon-Vee approached.
“Gigglby, old boy, what are you up to this fine night?”
“Trying to locate the very faery Cody, I am. Uh…you haven’t seen her, have you?
“I haven’t seen anyone until you came along. It is pretty early, ya know. But, if I see her, I’ll let her know she’s a wanted faery.”
“I was going to help with her gardening chores, but…I can’t…seem…to find her.” Gigglby was surely distracted with his quest. “Anyhow…where are you off to tonight?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maestro Bay, maybe. It’s never a planned thing. I just go to wherever my feet take me. But, the Maestro is cool; lots to play with at the bay. Do you want me to help you find Cody? I’ll send a whistle her way,” and with that, Jon-Vee blew a lively toot into the instrument, sending a spiraled path of music down the rows of garden. Gigglby couldn’t help but skip a step to the music-makers lively tune but abruptly interrupted the fun, “Hushhhhhh. Tshh…tshh…tshh,” he whispered into his raised finger. “No need to bother Cody this evening. I think I’d quite rather tag along with you. That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Jon-Vee never gave a thought about who accompanied him on his nightly excursions and Gigglby was never a burden. “To Maestro Bay it is,” the music-maker proclaimed. “We’ll probably pick up Banjo Buddy on the way so off we should be, and onward we are.”
“Well, ’tis necessary to encounter Banjo, I suppose,” Gigglby pondered, as the twinkle in his eye dulled, slightly. Then, snapping his fingers quite sharply, he said,
“Dally not a moment more.
For time’s a-slipping by and by
Lead the way…Ol’ troubadour
To Maestro Bay go you and I.”
Jon-Vee paused to acknowledge Gigglby’ poetic prowess. Then, he pointed westward, “Onward, to Maestro Bay!”
The two skipped down the paths of faeryland and into the adjacent clover field with Jon-Vee chasing a skip in his step, Gigglby following with a more struggled gait. Through the flute Jon-Vee exalted throaty intonations; spraying his inspiration from shoulder to shoulder, sky to cloverfield, hip to hip and back again. It required an unnatural purse of the lips, a fleeting tongue and dancing fingertips to pull the creativity from wherever it came. Jon-Vee harnessed his talent effortlessly, pushing the sounds through the tube. Exercising the selected sequence of tones and semi-tones, he produced the melodies instinctively with nimble fingers; his shoulders conducting the warming exercises in faery-like manner. First, he took a ride on scale exercises, a boring process but one that Sorkas taught was an absolute necessity. He rolled over the harmonic minors, slipped through a pentatonic scale, stumbled occasionally on chromatic traps and sailed with the majors…con brio! His swift finger work spun a flurry of colorful sparks that danced about the crystalline instrument. Jon-Vee found himself dancing across the open field in light bounds, twisting in pirouette and silliness as he cut a path through the night. For Jon-Vee, chasing one note after another created a freedom that danced in his spirit. And when his spirit danced, even the smell of the clover field was sweeter and the shine in the starlight brighter.
Gigglby did his best to maneuver his round frame through the musical score but lagged behind, nonetheless. “Allo, allo, allo, sir. I’m right behind you, I am. Yes sir. Here I come.”
Jon-Vee turned, skipping backward in a march-like cadence with the Shawnnon mountain range imposing large shadows from the south. Qeing-Dijn told many stories of the Shawnnon Mountains and how they literally swallowed good faeries…any good faery…many good faeries!...who dared journey over its peaks and forests in their quest for the tranquility found in Faeryland. He told of how the mountain range was formed over many generations as internal storms possessed and pounded the earth. Bolts of lightning, quaking land and a supernatural tempestuous rage forged and fused the stone into the range that stands so proud.
‘Tis been said that once upon a time, the Shawnnon’ radiated a brilliant heat that eventually subsided and now glows only under the light of the heavens. Jon-Vee canvassed the mountainous region, sending his music dancing down the cold, craggy steeples of stone to the warmth of the fir, cedar and aspen that stumped the moonlit mass of the Whispering Forest. He turned the snow covered peaks into blue flowing melody that trickled into the rivers, tumbled over waterfalls, splashed in the lakes and relaxed in the hot springs. Improvising the flight of the night birds, his melody would glide from branch to branch, get lost in a fogbank, harmonize with the forest and then settle in the valley. He let the music drip from the petals of the many-colored flowers where it pollinated with the bustle of life in Raun.
The clover field delivered the traveling companions to Coulette’ Passage, which began a slight descent to the sandy shores of Maestro Bay. From here, the duo could barely see the hovering glow of Faeryland. Skipping down the dirt trail he romped through a riff for his love, the very-faery Pladoera, who was at home under the glow. Just the thought of this fae would cause Jon-Vee to emanate his glow and behave with foolish giddiness. In the great wide open, he orchestrated the music of his heart with the song of the June bugs and then segued into the zip of bat tails that criss-crossed overhead; interlacing the symmetry in heel-toe time. He completed the lament with a long and oh-so-sweet moan…
…a final kiss for his wide-eyed love.
From Coulette’ Passage Jon-Vee led the way to Crooners Trail, which delivered the two to the brief but tangled darkness of Toooscundally Wood.
“Use your senses and follow your glow,” warned Jon-Vee, as the cover of forest captured all signs of life into its fold.
“Well, sir, if you would slow down just a bit I could follow your glow. Allo, allo, allo sir. If you would just…slow down…a bit...” Gigglby complained while negotiating the fallen and imposing trees. Toooscundally Wood trapped a murky chill under its stout branches. It was a chill that hugged onto most everything, and now squished between his toes as Jon-Vee squished the music from his flute.
Gigglby used the music-maker’s glow as a beacon for at this moment, he could not generate the musician’s passion with branches that whipped and scratched the bumbling fae. The weeds sent him tumbling and handcuffed his arms. All the while the forest chatter marched to the rhythm of Jon-Vee’s composition until the tangle of the woods abruptly deposited the two into an open meadow where the moon, once again, beamed from its perch in the sky.
While he played to the great wide open, Jon-Vee found the waddle of Banjo Buddy, a dumpy animal coated in furry grey and black stripes with a bandito mask painted across his eyes. Banjo was a traveling companion, always finding the music-maker and his song. He was, you could say, a gypsy of sorts. A free spirit, for sure. Born to the universe a raccoon, Banjo viewed his world with a trust other coons could never muster. Though, cautious as a raccoon should be, he was also keen and quick-witted.
The trio intercepted each other with Banjo Buddy laying his squirrel-like chirps in disturbing fashion throughout the musical frenzy. Jon-Vee never took the time to help him with even the fundamentals of rhythm for Banjo had walked with the music of Sorkas. If Sorkas failed to introduce basic rhythm into Banjo’s balance, surely an attempt by Jon-Vee would be futile. So, the out-of-time rowdydow of the black and gray striped companion was simply overlooked as he was greeted with considerable pomp, “What a grr-eaat night, Banjo.”
The raccoon waddled excitedly from one illuminated fae to the other, Gigglby snorting an attitude and turned up nose. ‘Twas a message the coon had seen before, and often. Oblivious to Gigglby’ displeasure, Jon-Vee sent a toot down the dell and led the way to Maestro Bay. Banjo Buddy waddled alongside the faery and verse, snapping at nights pesky flying critters.
Gigglby lagged behind.
Chapter Three
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Lapis Lazulii
Six Tine Trail extended in six different directions. Jon-Vee was well-acquainted with each option and skipped down the path that would deliver them to Even Time Turn, which twisted into Cut Time Corner and bumped into Rock Pile Point. From an angle in the path, the trio could see Maestro Bay sparkling under the moonlight as waves formed, gathered speed and rolled to a crushing crescendo, pounding the Serenader Shores in heavy repetition. Jon-Vee stretched his arms to the gods and his lungs to their limit, inhaling the salty spray of the ocean.
The bay extended beyond his imagination, surrounding an isle of land. Jon-Vee saw light on the island, a flicker now and then, but knew nothing of the inhabitants until one night Gigglby shared with him the fable of Prisoners Island:
“I’ve heard this version of the story more than any other so I tend to believe this one. You see, all those on the island were prisoners, relatives of prisoners or sympathizers that supported the prisoners cause. The Kings men from the Kingdom of Quadii, a corrupt and polluted society up the coast a-ways, corralled these prisoners onto an islet of land for what seemed to be their certain death back in the day of The Great Injustice. It’s not really clear to me just what the injustice was, or why it was so great, but the lore has lived a long and strong life.
As the story goes, on the eve of their certain death, clouds shrouded the region and the earth began to shake violently. The heavens breathed with heavy turbulence and whipped the wind mightily. Trees were stretched past their limit while others, still rooted, were forced into a position parallel to the ground. Rain pounded the land with drops as big as eyeballs. Can you believe that? Raindrops as big as your eyeballs! Well, the storm had its way for…no one knows, three or four days with cannonball downpours, the wind whipping up anything that wasn’t tied down and the earth just a-rumblin’ and rollin’.
“Eventually, the chaos subsided with the quakes settling into predictable tremors. Clouds sailed quickly across the sky and, to make a long story short, by the light of dawn, the islet of land that held all those prisoners…well, it was pushed out into the bay.” Gigglby stared into Jon-Vee’s electrified eyes for a moment to accentuate the calamity. “And there it sits. Right, smack dab in the middle of Maestro Bay. No one ever saw such a thing.”
Jon-Vee stared slack-jawed, unable to respond as his mind absorbed the history. Eventually, he worked the astonishment out of his mouth and asked, “They never escaped?”
“Far as anyone knows, they never did.”
“There they stay?”
“There they stay, by golly. The regime was unable to kill them for they were out of reach. But, at the same time, they were now prisoners of their own design with no means of escape. Tho’ spared, you must agree their luck was not much at all. Well…so goes the fable. Tehehehe…”
“So, it’s just a fable? It isn’t true?” pondered Jon-Vee.
“Well, the truth is yours to decide. Fact is nobody has ever seen the prisoners since. No one can prove it one way or the other, ” Gigglby replied.
Jon-Vee stared with quizzical astonishment while Gigglby danced and sang,
“Yours to decide
‘Tis yours to decide.
Where the truth shall take a ride.
Yours to receive
‘Tis yours to believe
And now the tale is your tale to weave.”
There was no way Jon-Vee knew to explore the mysterious marvel. On those nights when the wind blew just right and delivered festive sounds across the water, he would stop whatever he was doing and strain the atmosphere for a clue he could decipher. Mostly, he would only admire the isle that occupied Maestro Bay and use the lines of the island as curves and spikes in the music he created.
The trio approached Rock Pile Point where huge boulders litter the Serenader Shores of Maestro Bay, creating a self contained maze that separates the beach from the mainland. When the tide ebbed, as it did on this night, Rock Pile Point became a playground for Banjo Buddy. Unfortunately, the maze often left the raccoon confused, lost and frustrated while Gigglby beach-combed and Jon-Vee played to the magic of the surf. The musician became the music as he skipped along the shoreline creating the ‘Speech of the Angels’; compositions that summoned the phenomenon from…well, they seemed to materialize from out of nowhere. Sorkas called them “Mosaics of the Air” because mosaics they were and out of thin air is where they came. Jon-Vee would be lost in his music when these winged lovelies would float through a seam in a space close to him and dance all about as the music-maker became a conductor of sorts, whistling the music and producing a forum for the angelic creatures to slither and float. Jon-Vee played to the saintly multitudes as they shined in and out of his illumination. He never knew what to make of it all, but it was good fun.
Skipping about the beach, Jon-Vee bent his odes with a legato twist as his music rode the angles of the driftwood and slid down the dunes. His inspiration was carried on the wings of the night birds that mingled with the melody before delivering the song on a tip-toed path to the stars while waves replicated in the surf, pounding a rhythmic backbone for his work. As he played to his instincts, sound became palpable, spreading across the sky in myriad colors. Jon-Vee felt he could actually swipe the atmosphere and taste the colors as his tiny fingers stoked the crystalline device, harmonizing with the wind, surf and beach noise. He bolted across the sandy asylum of beach, skipping along the shoreline, snagging the impulses that raced about and sending them to where ever his music rained.
As Jon-Vee pranced and played, he noticed a soft blue light seep into the horizon from behind the isle in the bay. It shone with the brilliance of a moon however...the moon rose from the east. This oddity ascended from the west. Jon-Vee took his music for a ride over the silhouette of the isle whilst focusing a keen eye on the intruding light. He tossed the score on the choppy waves of the bay and over the moon-bright crest of the island. The melodies bounced over the illuminated tree-tops and then slipped back down to the waterline. He couldn’t hear any sign of life escape the island as the stream of the breeze, on this night, ebbed. Nevertheless, he let the creativity coast on his imagination and delivered a curious song.
The glowing star continued to rise and peeked above the tree line casting a soft and deceptive hue immediately above the island. Jon-Vee slowed the music for a moment as Gigglby joined him at the shoreline. The roly-poly red-coated faery asked, “’Tis a strange fascination, isn’t it?”
“Strange? Yes, it is very strange indeed, Gigglby. But, is there any other who travels this strange way?”
The glow encompassed a small blue-hued moon, about the size of a pebble as it was in the distance, and just as blue as the midday sky. The orb climbed to a point over the island where it hovered for a moment and then began to journey across the water, surfing on the swell of the bay and riding on the music. The music-maker spun his magic with renewed animation as he heard the velutinous ball harmonize with a whirring phenomenon. As it approached, the ball bounced on the tips of the musical notes and rolled into the valleys of his composition before hovering above the duo and then spun a tremendous twister of dust in the sand. It exploded like a firecracker, raining blue grains of sand all around. When the dust settled, it fell onto the shoulders of one Lapis Lazulii, who was dancing a jig.
“Shla-boom, shla-boom
My friend, shla-boom.
My you play a fancy tune.
And glow so radiantly bright
When weaving magic in the night.”
“Goo-ood day Lapis Lazulii,” Jon-Vee was pleasantly surprised to be face-to-face with his Guardian-Faery. “It was quite fun, wasn’t it?”
Lapis pulsated playfully as he emanated a blue shine. He removed his tattered hat and wiped the effort from his brow as Gigglby asked, “How do you do that?”
“Do what,” replied Lapis, dusting his coat.
“Travel like…like…what you did. Like a floating star.”
“Why, I don’t know, sir Gigglby
‘Tis just the way it is for me.
I never thought about it much.
Not enough to make a fuss.
But if ever I figure it out
I promise you, Gigg
I’ll give you a shout.”
“From where do you come and do you bring good tidings on your way?” Jon-Vee asked.
“I always carry close to me
Good tidings for my friend Jon-Vee
From everybody, near and far
Who know and love the who you are.
I am, in fact, on my return
From journeys far where I have learned
The they that I am speaking of
Appreciate, in fact, they love
The music that you love to play.
They listen for you every day.
They love to hear you play your tune.
Shla-boom, my friend
Shla-boom, shla-boom.”
Jon-Vee blushed. He looked at Gigglby and back to Lapis and said, “I’m flattered Lapis but…who are the ‘they’ that you speak of?”
“They are a bunch of lively folk
Who live and love and laugh and joke
And paint and dance by night and day.
And music, some of them, they play.
They’re not the same as you and I.
They never glow, they never shine.
But they love to hear you play your tune.
Shla-boom, my friend