Ryuki Watari's Destiny
He’d done the calculations, calibrated the synthesizer, double-checked the drawings and incantations, and as many times he checked it the only flaw he could see was the fact of the synthesizer. It was technology, and while it explained why this feat had never been done before there was something dirty in his mind about using electronics to call such spiritual beings. Still, it could not be helped. The human voice was simply incapable of pronouncing celestial names.
Funny, he mused. In old America an Asian such as himself would be described as ‘celestial’. How things changed.
The requirements were daunting, as they should be, but they meant he required help. He contacted his old mentor, the ‘Big Kahuna’ (in contrast to the ‘Little Kahuna’, his daughter Grace). The old man said his spell could not be done on the islands and it took a great deal of effort for that reason alone to get his assistance. The spell itself would take days, and since its intended was his own Corat he needed to be within a few hours of the Windy’s expected location. This meant working near an airport on the mainland, tracking Corat’s movements enough to make him accessible but rule out a coincidental visit. His was the only name he’d heard in its true form, and he did not question his old friend’s wisdom in singing it to him. Still he must not know that this was the time he would try his masterpiece, must let him be called through the Symphony and by no other means.
On a patch of scrub at an Indian reservation, Ryuki began his art. Kahuna stayed at a short distance in a small trailer rented for the purpose, watching his old student. The circle was not a circle but more of star, neither binding nor protection despite his advice but simply an amplifier. He drew it with art and precision, knowing it must be his best work and quite possibly his last.
He sat meditatively in its center, and spared a few minutes to enjoy the sights, smells and sounds of a lovely sunset. He switched on the synthesizer and pulled a spirit jar out of the cooler, opened it, and began to sing.
He must have been a lovely soprano in his boyhood, his voice ethereal yet strong, rich yet entirely on a single note without slides or harmonics. In adulthood it grew to a mid-alto where such qualities gave it a childlike quality out of place with its pitch, and the result was somewhat ordinary. Some of his technical precision was gone through disuse but he put his heart and soul quite literally into this song, relying on the machine only for the sounds he could not physically make. Kahuna set it to record in case he fell asleep, to keep the song going should the flesh prove too weak. It was unlikely to preserve the spell itself but it would slow the breakdown, no small thing. The spell, if it was to work, had to be sung for ninety-nine hours, a full day past any spell known before. He could not do it alone. He might not be able to do it at all.
Seventy-two hours later he remained. Kahuna had ministered to him like a boxer’s coach, keeping the necessities within his reach and simple enough not to occupy his thoughts. He continued to sing, sometimes allowing the machine to pick it up to rest his physical voice, costing him more Essence his own and bartered. The circle-star had accumulated a disorderly pile of discarded jars. His eyes took on an otherworldly stare. One more day…
Somewhere in the distance, a little ditty intruded on Corat’s thoughts. He didn’t hear it in the Symphonic sense, but he couldn’t shake it either. It was simple and repetitive as though it were incomplete, an instrumentalist practicing a single part of a much larger symphony. He couldn’t place it; it was too small a piece. He decided to sleep on it. When the ditty had not left the next morning he met with a fellow angel at the airport, ready to put in another Air Marshall shift. He mentioned it to the angel who said, if she listened very hard, she could hear it too. Neither knew what to make of it. She asked him where he was flying to and it seems she was headed that way too, so she came along. Corat found an excuse to cut his shift short at her destination.
Ryuki continued to sing, no longer conscious in the conventional sense. Kahuna kept him to a schedule for meals and eliminations and watched for signs of sleep. None came.
Their first visitor came on the 78th hour, a little old lady of unclear ethnicity. She would not explain herself, and responded to neither English nor Hawaii’ an nor Japanese, only smiled enigmatically at the young man on the ground and express vague gratitude towards Kahuna.
Hours later at sunrise, the next one came. He was not Corat, simply an Elohite who happened to be staying at the casino. He looked, puzzled at first, at the source of the song. Kahuna held up his hand in a gesture of peace, and the old lady said something in a language he did not understand. The angel stood there, and waited. At the sound of the old lady’s words Ryuki was nearly shaken out of his trance, and his voice faltered. She was an angel. She was not the one he thought he had called. Somewhere in his mind he knew why, but that part was no longer accessible to him.
One by one they trickled in, hiking over the scrub or walking up the thin path. One had left an ATV a little ways away, its engine sound unwelcome to those already there. Silently they stood, waiting for something, some nodding gently in time to the song in their heads now in their ears.
Corat arrived with his lady companion. Alone among them he was not awed, not surprised. He walked around the gathering checking faces: the Sword, the Stone, the Inquisitor. They were not entranced, not hypnotized, simply curious. Silently he thanked the Lord for the presence of the Flowers, and took his place standing behind his sorcerous friend. The old lady waved a small hand at him and he recognized her as Ryuki’s guardian angel, probably the hardest working Mercurian in half the world. He waved back at her, and then recognized the song.
Mozart, a minuet. How fitting. And Ryuki was singing first violin.
Corat picked up the beat, tapping it out with his foot. A Seraph in the back row lent his unearthly voice to Ryuki’s synthesized one, echoing his violin. Kahuna excused himself to get earplugs, understanding on some level what he was hearing and how ill-prepared he was for it. An Elohite chimed the rhythm, then another and another until the air was filled with bells. A Kyrio’s flute, never meant for this piece, somehow made sense and harmony and the others chose each their own woodwind. Some Mercurians tapped, snapped, and thumped their chests, and Corat switched to his celestial voice of a heartbeat. Soon the Ofanim were crashing, beautifully for all their noise, cymbals and tubas and bass drums like even Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could never have imagined. Finally, reluctantly, the Malakim added their booming harsh voices, causing the ground to rumble.
It was hour ninety-nine.
The strange orchestra finished the movement, sounding the canyon with their otherworldly voices, the echoes of the final note leaping away through the red stones like a frolicking deer. Quietly, to assure him that he was there, Corat said, “Bravo,” and this pulled Ryuki out of his trance. He stood unsteadily, turned slowly to see countless celestials standing there, and fell back to his seat. Exhaustion, awe, humility, amazement, a thousand emotions coursed through him, and he wept. He understood why they were there, why the spell had taken so much. It wasn’t that angels were more powerful than their infernal counterparts; it was that they functioned as a unit. It wasn’t possible to summon only one angel, so in effect he had summoned them all. And amazingly, in great numbers, they came.
Kahuna came out of the trailer in time to see a Warrior approach the weeping man and place a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep young soldier,” he said kindly. “We have much to do.”
Funny, he mused. In old America an Asian such as himself would be described as ‘celestial’. How things changed.
The requirements were daunting, as they should be, but they meant he required help. He contacted his old mentor, the ‘Big Kahuna’ (in contrast to the ‘Little Kahuna’, his daughter Grace). The old man said his spell could not be done on the islands and it took a great deal of effort for that reason alone to get his assistance. The spell itself would take days, and since its intended was his own Corat he needed to be within a few hours of the Windy’s expected location. This meant working near an airport on the mainland, tracking Corat’s movements enough to make him accessible but rule out a coincidental visit. His was the only name he’d heard in its true form, and he did not question his old friend’s wisdom in singing it to him. Still he must not know that this was the time he would try his masterpiece, must let him be called through the Symphony and by no other means.
On a patch of scrub at an Indian reservation, Ryuki began his art. Kahuna stayed at a short distance in a small trailer rented for the purpose, watching his old student. The circle was not a circle but more of star, neither binding nor protection despite his advice but simply an amplifier. He drew it with art and precision, knowing it must be his best work and quite possibly his last.
He sat meditatively in its center, and spared a few minutes to enjoy the sights, smells and sounds of a lovely sunset. He switched on the synthesizer and pulled a spirit jar out of the cooler, opened it, and began to sing.
He must have been a lovely soprano in his boyhood, his voice ethereal yet strong, rich yet entirely on a single note without slides or harmonics. In adulthood it grew to a mid-alto where such qualities gave it a childlike quality out of place with its pitch, and the result was somewhat ordinary. Some of his technical precision was gone through disuse but he put his heart and soul quite literally into this song, relying on the machine only for the sounds he could not physically make. Kahuna set it to record in case he fell asleep, to keep the song going should the flesh prove too weak. It was unlikely to preserve the spell itself but it would slow the breakdown, no small thing. The spell, if it was to work, had to be sung for ninety-nine hours, a full day past any spell known before. He could not do it alone. He might not be able to do it at all.
Seventy-two hours later he remained. Kahuna had ministered to him like a boxer’s coach, keeping the necessities within his reach and simple enough not to occupy his thoughts. He continued to sing, sometimes allowing the machine to pick it up to rest his physical voice, costing him more Essence his own and bartered. The circle-star had accumulated a disorderly pile of discarded jars. His eyes took on an otherworldly stare. One more day…
Somewhere in the distance, a little ditty intruded on Corat’s thoughts. He didn’t hear it in the Symphonic sense, but he couldn’t shake it either. It was simple and repetitive as though it were incomplete, an instrumentalist practicing a single part of a much larger symphony. He couldn’t place it; it was too small a piece. He decided to sleep on it. When the ditty had not left the next morning he met with a fellow angel at the airport, ready to put in another Air Marshall shift. He mentioned it to the angel who said, if she listened very hard, she could hear it too. Neither knew what to make of it. She asked him where he was flying to and it seems she was headed that way too, so she came along. Corat found an excuse to cut his shift short at her destination.
Ryuki continued to sing, no longer conscious in the conventional sense. Kahuna kept him to a schedule for meals and eliminations and watched for signs of sleep. None came.
Their first visitor came on the 78th hour, a little old lady of unclear ethnicity. She would not explain herself, and responded to neither English nor Hawaii’ an nor Japanese, only smiled enigmatically at the young man on the ground and express vague gratitude towards Kahuna.
Hours later at sunrise, the next one came. He was not Corat, simply an Elohite who happened to be staying at the casino. He looked, puzzled at first, at the source of the song. Kahuna held up his hand in a gesture of peace, and the old lady said something in a language he did not understand. The angel stood there, and waited. At the sound of the old lady’s words Ryuki was nearly shaken out of his trance, and his voice faltered. She was an angel. She was not the one he thought he had called. Somewhere in his mind he knew why, but that part was no longer accessible to him.
One by one they trickled in, hiking over the scrub or walking up the thin path. One had left an ATV a little ways away, its engine sound unwelcome to those already there. Silently they stood, waiting for something, some nodding gently in time to the song in their heads now in their ears.
Corat arrived with his lady companion. Alone among them he was not awed, not surprised. He walked around the gathering checking faces: the Sword, the Stone, the Inquisitor. They were not entranced, not hypnotized, simply curious. Silently he thanked the Lord for the presence of the Flowers, and took his place standing behind his sorcerous friend. The old lady waved a small hand at him and he recognized her as Ryuki’s guardian angel, probably the hardest working Mercurian in half the world. He waved back at her, and then recognized the song.
Mozart, a minuet. How fitting. And Ryuki was singing first violin.
Corat picked up the beat, tapping it out with his foot. A Seraph in the back row lent his unearthly voice to Ryuki’s synthesized one, echoing his violin. Kahuna excused himself to get earplugs, understanding on some level what he was hearing and how ill-prepared he was for it. An Elohite chimed the rhythm, then another and another until the air was filled with bells. A Kyrio’s flute, never meant for this piece, somehow made sense and harmony and the others chose each their own woodwind. Some Mercurians tapped, snapped, and thumped their chests, and Corat switched to his celestial voice of a heartbeat. Soon the Ofanim were crashing, beautifully for all their noise, cymbals and tubas and bass drums like even Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could never have imagined. Finally, reluctantly, the Malakim added their booming harsh voices, causing the ground to rumble.
It was hour ninety-nine.
The strange orchestra finished the movement, sounding the canyon with their otherworldly voices, the echoes of the final note leaping away through the red stones like a frolicking deer. Quietly, to assure him that he was there, Corat said, “Bravo,” and this pulled Ryuki out of his trance. He stood unsteadily, turned slowly to see countless celestials standing there, and fell back to his seat. Exhaustion, awe, humility, amazement, a thousand emotions coursed through him, and he wept. He understood why they were there, why the spell had taken so much. It wasn’t that angels were more powerful than their infernal counterparts; it was that they functioned as a unit. It wasn’t possible to summon only one angel, so in effect he had summoned them all. And amazingly, in great numbers, they came.
Kahuna came out of the trailer in time to see a Warrior approach the weeping man and place a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep young soldier,” he said kindly. “We have much to do.”