“And eventually one runs out of sections,” said Lan.
Lan thought of the Endplague. Running out of sections summed it up perfectly. After progressing, building, level by level … breakthrough by breakthrough … war after war … what comes next?
Nothing. And at the end of nothing, what is left?
Shizuka nodded.
“With the right gift, and the right training, the transitions between one section and the next can become almost unnoticeable.
“Musicians who achieve this can build careers, win international prizes, travel the world. Their works shine like magnificent timepieces that others can examine and appreciate for skill, for their effortless complications, for the graceful ways that each section finds its place.
“The very best can cause listeners to dream, to cry, to relive the happiest and saddest moments of their lives.
“But still, the seams are always there. And when the piece is over?”
Shizuka ate the piece of duck, then took another.
“However, imagine if one works in a completely different way. Imagine a music with no sections, with every note resonating with the whole composition. Whether it is at the end or the beginning—it does not matter.
“In such a music one can listen anywhere and instantly experience the entire work. Even as the piece progresses from season to season, from movement to movement, there is no anxiety about how the next section may or may not fit. Instead, the whole piece is always realized and complete—in that note. That chord. That rest. That ornament.
“And should that music also resonate within the hearts of their listeners, imagine how these listeners might awaken to their own music!
“Imagine what would happen if they could perceive their lives not as separate sections to be entered and left behind, but with a continuous forward, backward and all places in between?
“Lan, what would happen if someone played their existence not only to its inevitable end, but also to its inevitable beginning?
“What if someone played their music to its inevitable everything?”
Lan tried to remain calm, but her mind was racing. What if instead of despair, one could hear this? Lan picked up a piece of duck. To the sugar, the five spice, the honey chili.
To next Saturday. To the Saturday before.
Yes, our universe will end, but between now and then, how many civilizations have come? How many more will rise? To the glistening ducks on hooks. To those like starships gliding upon the lake.
And even after this universe ends, and the next—begins?
The duck was crunchy and soft, juicy and salty, and oh so very sweet.
* * *
Once home, Lan rushed downstairs to the lab. She had to find more of Shizuka’s music. Exhausting Shirley’s downloaded files, she reexamined the ship’s database. Exhausting that, she opened Shirley’s account and perused her search history regarding the Queen of Hell.
What she saw wasn’t pleasant, but, well, she knew all of that. Claim souls, send them to a horrible death … yes, yes, yes.
But something was missing.
Why?
The message boards assumed the Queen of Hell was just being the Queen of Hell. But everything about Shizuka, her music, her appearance—even her love for ducks—had a meaning.
The Shizuka she knew would not take souls without a reason.
It took Lan only a few minutes to locate every scrap of information about Shizuka that Shirley had found. And it took Lan only an hour longer to find information about Shizuka that Shirley had not.
Lan turned the computer off. For a long time, she sat there staring at the dead blank screen.
Once, Shizuka had said, “For music to happen, every note must sing, then end.”
And once, Shizuka had said, “Each fragment, passing eternity onward, holds on to that music forever.”
All well and good. All beautiful and wise.
But never once had Shizuka Satomi said she had only three months to live.
* * *
“Again.”
With Bartók, there were no shortcuts to practice. The piece was so difficult that Menuhin himself asked for simplification.
Of course, how one practiced depended on the player. Claire or Kiana would be focusing on technical perfection. Lilia or Yifeng would be reviewing emotion and phrasing. Morihei or Sabrina would be studying history, the biography of the composer, trying to glean clues to proper interpretation.
But with Katrina, Shizuka used what had always worked: let her listen, let her follow. Don’t mention the multiple stops by name. Don’t call them artificial harmonics. Don’t pause to discuss simultaneous left-hand pizzicato and right-hand melody.