Dream: Dulcimers Cross-Bred with Guitars
Wednesday, May 14th:
I sat at the end of a row of folding chairs, about two-thirds of the way back from the chancel at the center of the octagonal sanctuary. My mother sat to my left, and K sat to her left. An evening rainstorm rolled outside, its patter inaudible in the church.
Everyone around me held similar wooden instruments, all painted white, their long, fretless necks strung with crimson thread. They reminded me of guitars, but the six strings ended at pegs only a few inches from the head, and then another set started, half overlapping the first. The neck must have had 30 strings altogether, all tuned separately. Everyone plinked away, mostly in unison; the instruments were so quiet I had trouble hearing my mother play.
She broke a string not long after she started, and K cast her a nervous glance. Someone had told us earlier that breaking a string was a bad omen. She broke another a couple minutes later, and I felt strangely light and uncomfortable, my neck prickling, my hair lifting.
I dove to the floor of the aisle and lay flat, landing heavily, as a flash of sheet lightning broke through the sloped panes of the stained-glass clerestory. I rolled over and looked back at K and my mother, but they'd both been killed by the lightning. Guilt boiled out of my hollow stomach; I should have warned them, I thought. I should have wrapped my arms around her and sheltered her from the blast. I knew that was ridiculousI'm just as conductive as they are, so it wouldn't have helpedbut I still felt like it was my fault.
I sat at the end of a row of folding chairs, about two-thirds of the way back from the chancel at the center of the octagonal sanctuary. My mother sat to my left, and K sat to her left. An evening rainstorm rolled outside, its patter inaudible in the church.
Everyone around me held similar wooden instruments, all painted white, their long, fretless necks strung with crimson thread. They reminded me of guitars, but the six strings ended at pegs only a few inches from the head, and then another set started, half overlapping the first. The neck must have had 30 strings altogether, all tuned separately. Everyone plinked away, mostly in unison; the instruments were so quiet I had trouble hearing my mother play.
She broke a string not long after she started, and K cast her a nervous glance. Someone had told us earlier that breaking a string was a bad omen. She broke another a couple minutes later, and I felt strangely light and uncomfortable, my neck prickling, my hair lifting.
I dove to the floor of the aisle and lay flat, landing heavily, as a flash of sheet lightning broke through the sloped panes of the stained-glass clerestory. I rolled over and looked back at K and my mother, but they'd both been killed by the lightning. Guilt boiled out of my hollow stomach; I should have warned them, I thought. I should have wrapped my arms around her and sheltered her from the blast. I knew that was ridiculousI'm just as conductive as they are, so it wouldn't have helpedbut I still felt like it was my fault.