"Grantville Gazette.Volume XVII" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Sonata, Part Three
David Carrico

Movement III – Adagio Sostenuto

Grantville – March, 1634

"… and after seeing and hearing Master Ingram's uncle's violin, the masters were eager to get the new 'merino' designs. They agreed to make us thirty master grade violins for 20 guilders apiece."

Johannes Fichtold was positively beaming, Franz thought. Then something in Johannes' report registered.

"Merino? Did you tell them these were merino designs?"

The other young man's face fell. "Aye. It was a slip of the tongue while I was making the initial proposal to them." His face brightened. "But, it's all right-they think the designs were made by an Italian named Merino. You should have seen the looks they gave each other."

Marla burst out laughing. Everyone, Franz included, looked at her wide-eyed as she positively howled, drumming her feet on the floor and pounding her fist on the table. No one spoke-they were all somewhat shocked-Marla just didn't act like this. Finally, she subsided into gasping, "Oh… oh… oh… oh, that is absolutely hilarious, totally priceless." She laughed a little more, giggled actually, brushing her hair back and wiping her eyes.

"Uh… Marla," Franz ventured, "I grant you that the masters of Fussen thinking the up-time designs were stolen from an Italian master is somewhat humorous, but…"

"Oh, come on, guys… can't you just see the passage in some future twentieth century music history textbook?" Marla's voice took on a dry, lecturing tone. "' In the middle of the seventeenth century arose the so-called 'Merino' refinements to the basic string orchestra instruments. It is commonly accepted that, as with so many other technological advances, this was due to the advent of Grantville in the Western European scene in the 1630's. The earliest documentation of the term is found in the guild records of Fussen in southern Germany, but by 1650 both the designs and the term were in common use throughout continental Europe, with England lagging somewhat behind. A number of very interesting rumors and theories exist as to the origin of the 'Merino' term, but it is generally accepted that it was the name of an Italian master who either initially produced the designs or from whom the designs were stolen. Periodically, an old theory is resurrected that the name has some connection to the merino breed of sheep, but no proof has ever been found, so it always retires back into the category of interesting fables.'"

Everyone in the room laughed, even Lady Beth Haygood, with Marla's voice skirling over them all. At length-a very long length-order was restored. "Yes, I think we can all take some pleasure on having played a joke on posterity," Franz said, his voice a little uneven as he tried to keep from laughing again. "But, for Johannes' sake and the sake of the joke, we must keep the secret to ourselves. No more slips of the tongue. Maestro Merino must be accorded his appropriate due." Chuckles sounded all around the conference table.

"So." Lady Beth looked up from where she was sitting beside Amber Higham, who was making notes. "Thirty master class violins at 20 guilders apiece, three guilders in advance, the balance on delivery in Magdeburg by 1 April. You did specify 1 April by the Gregorian calendar, I hope?"

"Yes, FrauHaygood. But that was really not such an issue since they use that calendar every day. It was just to make sure they did not try to claim we had expected delivery by the old calendar's date, ten days later." She nodded. Johannes continued, "All instruments produced from the merino designs by December 31, 1637, will be delivered to the Royal and Imperial Arts Council."

"You got over three years out of them!" Friedrich exclaimed. "I do not believe it! Master Hans knows some of those men, and he was skeptical that they would allow even one year."

"Yes." Johannes grinned. "Well, they quickly saw that having these designs would give them… what did Master Girolamo call it… ah, yes, a 'competitive advantage.' They might not know those words, but they know the concept. I could tell they were positively slavering to get their hands on the designs, so I held my ground. It took over a week. In the process they slandered me greatly and profanely more than once. If my brother was not one of them, I am sure they would have had things to say about my ancestry. In fact, Master Eichelberger as much as said that I was an altar boy when my parents were married." Johannes laughed. "But he took it back after the others remonstrated with him."

"A good job of negotiating," Lady Beth said. Johannes sat back, beaming. Lady Beth looked at Franz and raised her eyebrows.

"The initial part of our recruiting trip was very slow, but we had three musicians who traveled with us back from Mainz. Several more from Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt caught up with us on the way back. So, at the moment, we have twelve. If Josef and Rudolf have any luck, and if any numbers at all respond to the broadsides and letters sent out, we should have our minimum of forty-five players by the first week of April."

Lady Beth nodded. She waited for Amber to finish taking notes, then said, "Okay, folks. Like I told you at the beginning of the meeting, I'm leaving for Magdeburg tomorrow to stay. Amber here…" The pleasant woman with the gray-streaked hair smiled at them all. ". .. will be taking over the job of representing the Imperial Arts Council here in Grantville. I'll do the same in Magdeburg, in addition to my other work with the new school." She stood and signaled that the meeting was over. "I'll see most of you in Magdeburg in a few days."

They all stood as Lady Beth and Amber left. Friedrich looked at Franz. "The Gardens?"

"By all means."

They were all seated around a table in the Gardens: Franz and Marla, Friedrich and Anna, Isaac, Thomas and Leopold; all the initial group from Mainz that had gathered around Marla last year to learn about up-time music. Franz had just finished describing his final encounter with Rupert Heydrich. The revelation of Heydrich's death and the manner of it greatly shocked those who hadn't been there. Anna was absolutely ashen-faced. Friedrich, Thomas and Leopold were studies in various shades of incredulity and aghast-ness.

Marla had grasped his arm while he had haltingly related what had happened. Franz felt her shiver. On his other side, Isaac was withdrawn, with a very distant look on his face. Franz was reminded of something that had puzzled him off and on since that night.

"Isaac?" No response. "Isaac?" A little louder. That pierced Isaac's shell. He looked over at Franz. "You said something that night when the body was turned on its back and the knife was revealed, something that I did not understand. What was it?"

Isaac looked very disturbed. He took a long time to respond. Finally, he said in a low tone, " Baruch dayan emes. It means 'Blessed be the Righteous Judge.' It is… traditional… for Jews to say this when we hear of or see a death. It is a reminder of the sovereignty of God; that nothing happens outside of His awareness; that regardless of our grief, He is the King of the Universe and all things happen as He wills it. It is meant to be a comfort."

"For everything there is a season…" murmured Marla.

"Exactly." But Isaac still looked distressed.

After a moment, Franz said, "Was it his death that discomfits you?"

"Nay. I have seen death before."

"The manner of it?"

"Nay."

Franz leaned forward. "Isaac, you are as close to me as a brother. I would not see you suffering because of what was my problem. Tell me what oppresses you."

Isaac sat for a long moment, staring at his tightly clasped hands on the table top, obviously wrestling with himself. Finally, he gave a great sigh. "As you will." Another moment passed. "That night, when I realized what I had said, I well nigh choked. Of all people I knew, the passing of Heydrich was not one that would have occasioned me sadness. I understood the waste of his talent, the tragedy of his life. But after all he had done, particularly after he so forcefully rejected your attempt to reconcile, there was an element of justice to his ending.

"But then you said 'That could have been me,' and…" Isaac swallowed. "That statement crashed through to my heart. I saw everything that happened that night in a new light. In Heydrich's rejection of reconciliation, that could have been me. In very truth, it is me. I must reconcile with my father-all our wisdom, all our tradition calls for it-and… I… cannot." Franz waited. "It is a blight on the life of my family, on my own. And if God, in His wisdom, calls for my life as he did for poor Heydrich's…" Isaac swallowed again. "I have not the courage to risk rejection again. Yet if I do not, I risk blighting my family for the rest of their lives." He looked up, with a desolate expression. "I wish to go to him so strongly, but I hurt so badly… it tears at me like a wolf, Franz. It hurts! "

Franz laid his hand atop Isaac's trembling clenched hands. "If you truly believe that God is sovereign, that all things happen according to His will, then trust Him. He will make a way. And until He does.. ." Marla laid her hand atop his, followed by the hands of the others at the table. "… you have here those who will help you bear your burden, just as they helped me bear mine."

One lone tear began to slowly trickle down Isaac's cheek.

Magdeburg – Early April, 1634

Franz watched as the various groups of musicians trickled into the ball room at the large room. First came the group from Mainz, Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt that had returned with him from the recruiting trip, led by his friend Georg Seiler. Franz had helped Georg and his daughter find a place in a rooming house that Klaus and Reuel had sworn was clean and fairly priced. Georg was still quiet and gaunt, but seemed to be a little less despondent. Franz truly hoped that the move from Mainz would be healing for both Georg and Odelia.

Following on the heels of the first group were the various musicians that had drifted in by ones and twos and threes from various towns in Thuringia, as well as a half-dozen from one of the Jesuit collegia. Franz felt a little guilty about how many small towns had just lost their premier musicians, perhaps even their only musicians, but not enough so to tell them to return to their homes. The vision of an orchestra that drove him and his friends was a stern taskmistress. He had to take the musicians regardless of where they came from.

The final group that entered was the direct result of Josef and Rudolf's recruiting trip to Copenhagen; nineteen musicians sent from the hand of Kappellmeister Heinrich Schutz. They had arrived the day before, looking somewhat worn from the rigors of traveling so far so quickly. Master Schutz himself was not with them. He had not been able to leave with them. In any event, his itinerary had been different. Matthaus Amsel, the leader of this group, had informed Franz that the master would first visit family in Kostritz, then would go directly to Grantville to meet with Maestro Carissimi. Only after that would he come to Magdeburg. Franz could forgive him the delay, when he saw how many musicians had come in his name.

If his count was correct, even after sending the wind players on to Grantville to study at the high school, there were sixty-two in the room right now. Franz had hoped for sixty and would have been willing to settle for forty to forty-five. He had feared that there would be fewer than thirty. They had enough! Providing, that is, that they stayed.

Franz stepped up on the platform that had been placed at one end of the room. "Your attention, please!" He pitched his voice to carry over the buzz of conversations that filled the room. The musicians turned and moved toward him. The noise began to dwindle. "Thank you, my friends, for coming to Magdeburg, for accepting the challenge to be a part of something that has never existed before-a symphony orchestra." As he spoke, Marla, Josef, Rudolf and Isaac gathered to each side of the platform.

Someone in the crowd started to speak. Franz raised his hand. "Please, all of you, let those of us in front of you speak. After that, we will have plenty of time to answer questions." He lowered his hand. "Now, I assume that you have all heard of Grantville." Heads nodded around the room. "How many of you have been in Grantville?" Perhaps a third of the men raised their hands. "How many of you have heard anything about the music of Grantville?" Over half of the hands went down.

"Well, it should not surprise you that just as Grantville contains knowledge and mechanical arts that seem amazing to us, it also contains music and instruments that are equally amazing. I and my friends…" Franz spread his arms to encompass them "… have been studying the music of the future for almost a year, now. My wife, Marla, is a Grantviller. You will find she is a surpassing musician in her own right."

There were a few frowns and some definite muttering from the crowd. "Yes, you are skeptical. I, too, had masters who taught me that women would never make superior musicians. I tell you that they were wrong. I tell you that Marla has won the approval of both Maestro Giacomo Carissimi-yes, you know that name-as well as Signor Andrea Abati, il gentilhuomo premiere of Rome." The citation of the famous castrato evoked more whispers. "Her knowledge of what music became in their time is invaluable, as it will help guide us to learn it, to digest it, to make it our own, then finally to move beyond it."

The rest of the morning was spent discussing some of the fundamental changes that the musicians would have to adapt to, including the changes in tuning and tempering that had been adopted as universal standards in the future. Marla figured prominently in those, naturally, as she had already had to shepherd Franz and friends through the same issues several months previously. The piano caused quite a sensation when Marla demonstrated its tuning. The planned discussion was diverted for quite some time as the other musicians almost mobbed around Marla to see the piano and its workings.

Finally, Franz announced a break for lunch, requesting that everyone return in two hours. While the others thundered out the door in search of taverns and inns, he turned to Marla and gestured to Isaac, Josef and Rudolf.

"Were we that loud and opinionated?" He was answered only by her silvery laugh, and winced. "I was afraid you would say that."

Grantville

April 1634

Heinrich Schutz, one-time Kappellmeister of the Elector of Saxony, watched with interest as his carriage rolled through the streets of Grantville. There were many strange things, including the poles with cables strung between them which served no purpose that he could see, but seemed to connect all the houses and buildings. However, it was as Josef Tuchman had said; there was no gold paving the streets of Grantville. A pity. He could have used an ingot or two. A man with a mother and two growing daughters to support could always find a use for an ingot or two of gold.

Thoughts of his family inevitably led to recollections of Magdalena, which in turn evoked the pain of her loss. Even after almost nine years, longer than they had been married, thoughts of his wife still hurt. It was an old hurt, one that perhaps no longer stabbed but was now a familiar ache.

The hurt was a little stronger, a little fresher right now, after stopping in Kostritz to see his mother and his daughters. Each of the girls, in their own way, took after their mother. Seeing them had scraped the scab off of a wound that Heinrich feared would never heal.

After Magdalena's passing, he had taken his daughters to live with their grandmother. The Elector's court at Dresden was no place for a widower to attempt the raising of two young daughters. It meant that Heinrich only got to see them a few times a year, whenever he could beg leave from Elector John George, which wasn't as often as he wanted. Regardless of whether he could come or not, Heinrich sent a purse for their support as often as he could scrape together a few coins. Lately, the Elector's pay had been as infrequent as his allowing leave, which was why Heinrich was in Grantville.

After a time, they left the houses behind, coming in view of the. .. what had Johannes called it… oh, yes, the high school. Lucas Amsel pulled the horse to a halt in front of the building. Schutz exited from the carriage, while Lucas jumped from the driver's seat to hold the horse's head.

They stood together looking at the building. "Master," Lucas said, "are you sure that is a school? It looks more like a warehouse to me."

Heinrich looked over at the young man fondly. His parents, as so many others did, had named their children after prominent New Testament figures. By good fortune and the grace of God, all four of their sons had survived to adulthood. As they had been named in order of birth, Lucas was the third. His oldest brother, Matthaus, the lead violinist amongst Heinrich's musicians, was quite capable. Next oldest, Marcus, also played violin and was also numbered in Heinrich's company. Youngest brother Johan was a viola player who had joined his brothers just a few months ago, but was by no means the worst player in the ensemble.

Lucas, however, was not a musician. He was a personable young man, hard working, reasonably intelligent and handsome. By rights and all expectations he should have been as fine a musician as his brothers. Alas, he was tone deaf and had an abysmal sense of rhythm. Heinrich recalled the day that Lucas had approached him, dressed in his finest clothing and holding his hat in hand, begging for any kind of position; anything, so long as he could work with the master like his older brothers and thus feel a part of their world.

Heinrich, pitying the boy, had given him a trial as a music copyist. To his great surprise, Lucas was both meticulous and rapid in his work. He soon became almost indispensable to the master copyist. As time passed, his responsibilities gradually broadened, first by taking over the responsibilities of Heinrich's secretary when that individual died suddenly of pneumonia, then by additional delegations from Heinrich. Lucas had accepted so many delegations, that he now served as factotum. All among the musicians-indeed, all at the Elector of Saxony's court-knew that when Lucas spoke in Heinrich's place, he was indeed the voice of the Kappellmeister.

Despite his rise, Lucas was still the same earnest soul that he was on that first day. Heinrich knew just how much work the young man did. He was indeed grateful for Lucas because of that. Above and beyond that, however, Heinrich was very fond of him. In his heart, Heinrich at times considered Lucas the son he had never had. If his daughters were older, he would have encouraged a match between one of them and Lucas.

"Aye," Heinrich said, clapping the Lucas on the shoulder, "it does look like a warehouse with windows, but I am assured that this is an institution of learning like no other in the world."

Just then the most appalling sound blared forth, loud, assaulting the hearing, most discordant. If there was a sound that was the very antithesis of music, this was it. All three of them-Heinrich, Lucas and the horse-jumped at the sudden onslaught to their hearing. Lucas immediately turned to calm the gelding, whose eyes were wide and white-rimmed and whose feet were dancing as if the drive were suddenly hot iron. Thankfully, the noise lasted only moments.

Just as Lucas was getting the horse to settle, the doors in front of them burst open and out poured what seemed to be a very horde of youths, most of whom ran over to a variety of yellow and black contraptions that stood in a drive to one side of the building. Heinrich was stunned to see that boys and girls alike were dressed in trousers, some of them even cut above the knee! A few of them ran to a metal rack nearby in which strange wheeled devices stood, pulled them out and jumped on them. Heinrich felt his mouth drop as they all began moving their feet and somehow the devices began moving down the drive, their riders calling out to each other and waving to him as they passed.

All of a sudden the yellow and black contraptions all began making loud rumblings, which were shortly accentuated by grinding noises. The poor horse became very insistent that he did not want to be in this vicinity any longer. Heinrich felt as if he was almost of like mind when the machines began slowly rolling by themselves down the drive and out onto the road toward Grantville.

It was quite some time before Lucas had the horse quieted again. At last, the eyes were calm and the big head turned and lipped Lucas's hair. There was no hitching post in sight, so Lucas led him over to the metal rack and tied the reins to it.

"Well, Master Heinrich, that was exciting. I shall have to make sure that poor Blume receives some extra grain tonight, to compensate him for the fright he has just received."

Both men laughed. "And perhaps we should receive an extra dose of grain ourselves, eh?" Heinrich said. "An extra flagon of beer, yes?" He clapped Lucas on the shoulder again, urging him up the walkway to the door. "Those yellow and black… things… do not match the description in the stories and rumors of the APC machines, so they must be the other machines, the 'busses.'"

"I care not what they are, Master. And I am not at all certain that I want to find out, either."

"Oh, come now, Lucas. Where is your spirit of adventure?"

"I think it is driving Blume's spirit of adventure back down the road as fast as it will gallop." Lucas opened the door.

Heinrich's laughter echoed down the empty halls. Rich and fruity, loud and resonant, it sounded as if a Titan had suddenly entered the building. An Englishman had once told him that his laugh reminded him of a character named Falstaff in some play or other that Heinrich could not call to mind at the moment.

There was a doorway ahead over which hung a sign that was lettered "Administration." A woman appeared in it, obviously searching for the source of the laughter. She, too, was wearing trousers. Heinrich tsk'd, but at least hers covered all of her legs. Her interested gaze appeared to assess them.

"Can I help you?"

Her German was oddly accented and inflected, but understandable. Heinrich and Lucas looked at each other. Help?

"Can I be of assistance?"

Ah, that they understood.

"Yes," Lucas said. "This is Master Heinrich Schutz and…"

He broke off as the woman raised her hands and laughed. "Slower, please. I am still new to this speech."

"We are looking," Heinrich said slowly, "for Master Giacomo Carissimi."

"Ah, il maestro. " She smiled. "I believe he has not left yet. Come this way, please." She led them down a hallway lined with metal lockers interspersed with doors. After turning a corner into another hallway, she stopped at the second door on the left. It was open.

"Maestro, you have visitors." She stepped aside and smiled at them as they entered. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway when she left.

Heinrich saw a youngish man in a black cassock look up from stuffing papers into a leather satchel. "Good day. I am Heinrich Schutz, and I am delighted to finally meet you." As one educated man speaking to another, he spoke in Latin.

"Master Schutz!" Carissimi stumbled in his haste to come out from behind the desk. "It is an honor to finally meet you, sir, in the flesh, as the Americans would say."

"The honor is mine, Master Carissimi."

"Please, please, call me Giacomo."

"And I am Heinrich."

The Italian was absolutely beaming. "Our letters give me some sense of you, Master Heinrich. Of course, Master Monteverdi has spoken quite highly of you, as well."

"As he did of you as well, Master Giacomo." Heinrich found himself returning Carissimi's smile; the man's enthusiasm was infectious.

"How did you know to look for me at the school?"

"We were directed first to your house, and met Master Zenti's apprentice, Johannes Fichtold. He advised us to come here." Heinrich frowned a little. "No sooner had we arrived than we were greeted by the most appalling clamor."

Carissimi had a quizzical expression for a moment, then he laughed. "Oh, you mean the 'buzzer.' They use it to mark the beginning and end of various study times. Yes, it is nasty sounding isn't it? Intentionally so, I'm afraid… it is designed to capture one's attention."

"It succeeds admirably in that." Heinrich shivered. "Even our horse took note of it." They all shared a laugh. "But tell me, Master Giacomo, what do you here in this school? Are you a choir master?"

Giacomo shook his head. "Oh, no. What do I do? Well, I teach a little Italian, I teach a little Latin. Sometimes, I teach what some of the other instructors call social studies or current affairs-I tell them about Italy-the cities, the rulers, the Holy Father-the tensions between all of them and between them and the other lands of Europe."

"What? You teach no music? No choirs?" Heinrich was thunderstruck. Here was one of the leading lights of music in Italy, doing the work of a mere pedant! Did no one know what they were wasting here? "I am outraged, sir. I am outraged that you are not given your due, not given the work for which God so admirably equipped you!"

"No, no, no, Master Heinrich" Carissimi said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "It is as I desire it. I teach what they need taught. In turn, I am a student."

"A student of what?"

"First of all, the English language. Already my English has improved dramatically since I first arrived. But more importantly, I study music, the course of music as it developed from our time to a future more than three hundred and fifty years from now."

"So, you believe their tale that they have come from the future?"

"Yes." Carissimi was quite firm. "What I have learned since I arrived leaves absolutely no doubt in my mind."

"But how? This has never happened in history. God has never done such a thing."

Carissimi smiled. "Master Heinrich, my friend, surely the God who can conceive of the universe that surrounds us-the turning of the seasons, the natural order that exists-surely that God could do such a work if he chose to. And the greatest works of God in his creation are only done once: the ark of Noah; the parting of the Red Sea; and the birth, death and resurrection of our beloved Savior. At one point in the history of man since Adam none of these things had happened. If someone before that point had said that because they had not yet occurred, they would never occur, would he have been right?"

"I understand your argument." Heinrich sighed. "But it is still hard to accept."

Carissimi laughed. "We are human. Of course, it is hard to fathom the power of God! Yet Grantville is here, a hard fact." He stamped his foot. "And unless you have fallen into the Manichaean heresy, what other explanation is there?"

"And is this what the pope and his college of cardinals believe?"

"I know not what decision the Holy Father will reach, but I am here. The music of Grantville is also here. I will learn it; I will master it if it takes the rest of my life." Carissimi was quite serious, Heinrich saw.

"If you judge it so, Master Giacomo, then make a place beside you, so that I may learn also."

"Then follow me, Master Heinrich, if you will."

The Italian master led them down the hallway to a large room. There was a sign on the door that said 'Choir Room.' When they entered, Heinrich saw that chairs stood on risers that formed arcs around the room.

"Please be seated."

Heinrich sat on the lowest level, motioning Lucas to sit beside him. They watched, somewhat mystified, as Carissimi walked over to some boxes on a table and touched them, to the accompanying sound of clicks. Then he dug into his satchel and brought out three small flat cases, which he set on the table.

"Once I heard that you were coming, Master Heinrich, knowing, believing that I knew what you came for, I did some small preparation. I am certain that you have heard that the Grantvillers possess some mechanical arts that are quite advanced." Heinrich nodded. "It is indeed the truth. Some of these arts, we of our time do not even have concepts of. This is one such, that by the small machines you see before you they can reproduce the performances of musicians from years ago, from many miles away, through what they call 'recordings.' This is an entirely different order of creation than the simple music boxes that we know of.

"The devices can be operated without knowing the arts to construct them. Witness that I will do so. I tell you all of this to prepare you, my friend. Do not be alarmed when you hear music seemingly from the air-it is only their arts."

With that, Carissimi turned and pressed on one of the cabinets. A small drawer slid open, into which he inserted a silver disk he removed from one of the small cases. He touched the cabinet again; the drawer retracted itself into its cabinet. Finally, he turned a knob on one of the other cabinets.

Despite Carissimi's warning, when the sound of massed trumpets and sackbuts split the air, Heinrich's eyes widened. He looked around for the brass, sure that somehow they had entered the room behind him. But there was no-one there. Then it dawned on him, this was the very thing that Master Giacomo had just told him about. Forcing himself to relax and listen, before very many moments passed, he realized that he knew this piece! The Sonata Pian e Forte, by his old master, Giovanni Gabrieli! He had heard it performed in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice during the days of his youth, when he had studied with the master. He closed his eyes and relaxed, listening to the purity of the music. Almost, almost it sounded as if he were there in the basilica again.

All too soon it was over. He opened his eyes and raised his head. He spoke aloud the words he had written about his master several years before. "But Gabrieli, immortal Gods, what a man!"

"Indeed," Carissimi answered. "So, you know that piece. You will know this one as well, I believe." He retrieved the first disk from the drawer and inserted another one.

This time, the music was choral. Within an instant of hearing the opening " Cantate Domino, Cantate Domino canticum, " Heinrich knew this was his work, his setting of Psalm 96 as part of his Cantiones Sacrae. So, Rudolf Tuchman had been right! The future from which Grantville came did remember him. Again, he closed his eyes and drank in the sound, this time listening critically. When it ended, he opened his eyes

"They pitched it too high by almost a step."

Carissimi laughed.

"That is something for another discussion, Master Heinrich. At least they have much of your music." He sobered quickly. "Very little of mine survived. I have read nothing of what they know of my… past, as strange as it feels to say, but Elizabeth has told me that I am remembered more as a teacher than as a composer. I know it was all written to the glory of God, but unworthy man that I am, I cannot help but feel some anger at the future princes of the church who let the works of my mind, my spirit, disappear without a trace." Carissimi spoke with an almost bitter tone.

"Who is this Elizabeth?" Heinrich was treated to the sight of Carissimi uncomfortable. Was the man blushing? Surely not.

"She… is one of the uptime musicians who have taught me much. When you go to Magdeburg, you will meet another: Marla Linder. We Italians have known that women can be good musicians. Marla and Elizabeth, they are proof that women can be more. They can be virtuosi ."

Heinrich absorbed that without comment, but decided to let himself be the judge of that. "Enough of music that I already know. The young men who came to me in Copenhagen, the brothers Tuchman, brought to me a work from Grantville-from, as you say, the future. It was entitled The Art of Fugue, by one…"

"Johann Sebastian Bach." A dreamy smile crossed Carissimi's face. "Ah, yes, The Art of Fugue. Probably the greatest contrapuntal work by the greatest of the contrapuntalists." He focused again on Schutz. "There is a recording of it in Grantville, but I do not have it with me." Turning back to the table, he extracted a disk from the third case and placed it in the machine. "I do, however, have this by the man; the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor."

For the third time, Heinrich closed his eyes and listened. The piece began with an organ playing a slow stately theme in the bass register. After eight measures it repeated as a basso ostinato with a new theme added to it. With each repetition of the bass theme, new themes were added to the work; so it grew in complexity. Then the rhythms began variations, but still that bass theme was heard.

The work was much longer than the previous two. Heinrich simply listened, listened with the ears of a master musician, as it built, as additional ranks of pipes were added and the sonorities became richer. It quieted to flute voices only as the various themes were delicately sounded.

Again additional stops were opened and the sonorities began to build, and build, and build, only to once more soften to passages of quiet dexterity and virtuosity. The piece was as much a test of the organ as the organist, he decided, displaying the consummate skill of the composer. The themes passed from register to register, but almost always that recurring theme was in the lowest voice. At last came a passage where the tempo slowed, followed by an outburst of rapid loud voicing, terminating in a thunderous, resounding terminal chord.

Heinrich felt chills chasing up his spine. The hair on his neck prickled. "God in heaven. To hear such work in my lifetime."

"Oh, master. This is only the beginning."

Magdeburg

April, 1634

"Come with me, please." Franz led Isaac Fremdling and Matthaus Amsel to a small room off to the side. As they entered the door, Isaac whistled.

"Greetings, Johannes. I take it these are the violins from Fussen?"

"Hello, Isaac." Johannes Fichtold nodded at his friend. "Indeed, they are. Freshly delivered from the master craftsmen."

"Matthaus," Franz said, "this is Johannes Fichtold, assistant to Master Girolamo Zenti, piano craft master in Grantville and brother to one of the luthier craft masters of Fussen. Johannes, this is Matthaus Amsel, principal violinist and leader of Master Schutz's musicians." The two men bowed to each other and murmured pleasantries.

Franz rubbed his hands together. "Right. Let us begin. Johannes, how many do we have here?"

"Of the contracted thirty, thirty were delivered in Grantville. Three of them were rejected by Masters Zenti and Riebeck and Journeyman Braun as being of inadequate quality. So only twenty-seven were shipped here to Magdeburg for your review. Here they are." Johannes waved a hand at the table.

Franz looked at Isaac and Matthaus. "We will all three inspect each of them. Then you two will play each of them. If any one of us votes 'no' on an instrument, it is rejected. Ready?" He opened the first case, and they began their inspections.

At some point in the morning the door to the room opened again. Lady Beth Haygood and Marla entered.

"Sorry I'm late, Franz," Lady Beth said.

Franz nodded, held up a hand to indicate they should wait and dove back into the conversation about the virtues and faults of the instrument Isaac was holding.

"This one is not acceptable." Isaac sniffed. "The neck is crooked, the varnish is unequally applied on the sides, and the tone is just. .. off."

"Agreed." Matthaus nodded.

Johannes shrugged and made a mark on his list. "Another one to take back to Grantville." He looked up. "That was the last one."

"Excellent!" Franz said. "So, what is the verdict of the judges?"

Johannes consulted his list. "We've rejected two more, leaving twenty-five to be accepted."

Franz turned to Lady Beth. "So, how soon can Frau Mary authorize payment?"

"Mary's out of town, remember?" Lady Beth smiled as Franz smacked his forehead. "But, before she left she gave me certain authorizations, including control over the accounts for the orchestra. I can authorize payment of the balances due under the contract."

Johannes handed him the clipboard. Franz borrowed Johannes' pencil to initial the first and second copies, then passed one to Lady Beth and the other back to Johannes.

"I'll take care of it." Lady Beth tucked her copy into her bag.

The young men turned back to the instruments and began discussing who should get which one. Lady Beth shook her head in amusement and followed Marla out into the hallway. "I declare, the only time I ever see Jere that worked up about something is if he can ride it, drive it or shoot it."

Marla laughed and linked arms with the older woman. "Musicians. Go figure. I've seen these boys argue about the merits of one varnish over another, or the different qualities of hair from different breeds of horses for their bows, just like my dad and his friends used to argue about which bait to try on that big catfish that used to lurk in the bend of the river."

When their laughter had subsided, Marla asked, "So, did you get everything worked out in Grantville?"

"Yep. We rented the house, furniture and all, to some acquaintance of Don Francisco. I loved that, since I didn't have to mess with trying to sell or store anything other than the knick-knacks. I packed up the kids and their clothes and their lessons for the rest of the school year. We left town pretty quickly after that meeting we had with you all last month."

"So you settled in here, yet?"

"Pretty much. Jere had already found us a place to stay, so it was just a matter of unpacking and finding places to stow everything. Most of the furniture is okay. The kids are pretty excited-it's still an adventure for them-but I do miss the electricity and the flush toilets."

"Tell me about it!" Marla laughed again. "So how's the new job?"

"Crazy. The Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls has a great future, but at the moment it's all potential. Elisabeth's father, the duke, has assigned the rents from a nearby village and its lands to provide a base funding for operations, but we're still scrambling to get it organized. We've lined up a few up-timers to teach, but we really need some additional teachers."

"Hmm," Marla mused. "What are you doing for humanities?"

"I don't know yet. They're still trying to pull together a curriculum and get it approved by the Abbess of Quedlinburg. She's the closest thing to a certification agency we've got at the moment."

"Well, you've got a lot of musicians in Magdeburg now. I can do choir, and voice lessons. There are a lot of string players; surely some of them can teach. Hermann Katzberg could teach harpsichord now and piano later. By next year, we should have some wind players who can teach."

Lady Beth brightened. "That's something we hadn't talked about yet. Great idea! I'll pass it on to the rest. I'd bet we'll take you up on that."

"I have an ulterior motive, of course." Marla smiled as Lady Beth raised an eyebrow. "I want public performances, public recitals. I want women musicians, darn it!"

"Of course! And with you leading the way, who would dare object?"

Grantville

April, 1634

Heinrich Schutz walked beside Giacomo Carissimi toward the "Band Room." He wasn't sure what the afternoon boded for him, only Giacomo insisted that he must hear what he referred to as a "band." And so, he was on his way to do that very thing.

Smiling, Heinrich looked over at the shorter musician. Once he got past his shyness, Master Giacomo was as voluble as most Italians. Today was no exception.

He had been talking without pause for the last few minutes.

"And here we are." Master Giacomo opened the door and ushered Heinrich inside the room. "This is where… ah… Marcus, you are here already. Good! Allow me the introductions to make. Master Heinrich Schutz, this is Marcus Wendell, the band director for Calvert High School, a master of music from the future." Heinrich nodded. "And Marcus, before you is Master Heinrich Schutz, Kappellmeister to the Elector of Saxony, now come to Grantville to learn of the great music you have."

Marcus held out his hand. Heinrich reached out to grasp it. "I am pleased to meet you, Master Marcus." His careful English was reasonably fluent, but the dialect of the Grantvillers was sometimes baffling.

"And I am honored to meet you, Master Heinrich, very honored indeed." Marcus was very sober. "Giacomo, I am not a master of music. Don't paint me to be something I'm not. I only earned a bachelor's degree."

"Pah!" Giacomo waved a hand in the air as if he had been taking lessons from his friend Signor Abati, the famed castrato. "Marcus, my friend, one can be a master of the art without being a Master of Arts, eh, Master Heinrich?"

"Yes." Heinrich cleared his throat. "Talent and skill cannot be denied."

"So, if we two declare you a master, a master you are. And if you wish for a piece of parchment to hang on a wall, no doubt at some time we can produce for you that very thing."

Marcus laughed. "No, thank you. If I'd really wanted a sheepskin, I would have gone back to school. I had plenty of opportunities, just never wanted it very badly." He turned and surveyed the empty chairs of the band room. "This is all I ever wanted to do, teach children to make music." He was silent for a moment, then said with quiet satisfaction, "And that is what I have done."

Heinrich looked at Master Marcus and nodded in approval.

Just then the 'buzzer,' that sound that almost had to have been first heard in the infernal regions, sounded its clamor. Master Giacomo caught Heinrich by his sleeve, drawing him back against the wall. Within moments students began pouring through the doorway, chattering as they came. It still astounded Heinrich to see boys and girls together in classes. He was not one of those who would voice the opinion that education was wasted on girls, but it definitely felt wrong to him for them to be in the same classes… especially at this age.

However, when in Athens, do as the Athenians do, so he attempted to look beyond that feeling and truly observe what was occurring. The

… musicians, he decided he would call them… quickly took their places. And there were so many of them! He looked around. There must be almost one hundred young people in the room!

Despite what seemed to him to be an inordinate amount of conversation, loud and in places unruly, they were swiftly assembling and preparing instruments for performance. Within moments, musical sounds were issuing from all over the room.

Dazzled by the sheer size of the 'band,' it was some little time before something dawned on Heinrich. His eyes widened; he turned to Master Giacomo. "The viols… where are the violins, the violas, the…" Giacomo's grin stopped him.

"That is why we are here, Master Heinrich. There are none. This is a wind ensemble, the only one of its kind here and now. And most of the instruments are of the future, outgrowths of what we know today. What you hear today will make that clear." Just then, Master Marcus stepped up on the podium. "Shh. Watch and listen."

Heinrich was very impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. He watched attentively as Master Marcus carefully tuned the instruments and sections, taking his time until he was satisfied. Again, Heinrich nodded in approval-it mattered not how well-written the music might be, if the performers were not in tune it would fail in performance.

"All right. Today we're working on Finlandia." There was a rustle all around the room as music was removed from folders and opened on the various stands. Heinrich watched as Marcus looked around the room, catching the eye of every musician, then raised his hands. The musicians brought their instruments to the ready position. Marcus held a stick in one hand, Heinrich noted, wondering as to its purpose. The stick seemed to twitch suddenly, then it was raised on high. When it descended, the music began.

Heinrich couldn't say that he was surprised by the loud swelling chords from the low brass that began the piece, but it was an unusual sound to his ears. It was almost like listening to a grave chorale done by brass instead of organ.

The sudden transition to soft woodwinds did catch him off guard. He quit trying to anticipate what would happen and opened his ears and mind to whatever occurred. The chorale sound developed, until the low brass rejoined it with a loud five note theme. Immediately thereafter the tempo sped up. The trumpets and other brass began sounding calls that echoed back and forth above the woodwinds. It almost sounded like a battle in music.

All the while, Master Marcus stood on the podium, waving his arms. Heinrich's attention was periodically caught by that. He wondered what Marcus was doing, but always, always he was drawn back into the music.

After a great swelling chord, the higher woodwinds began a section that was almost a hymn in its simplicity and purity, the theme of which was absolutely gorgeous. Heinrich lost himself in the sound of it. When lower woodwinds joined in, it simply added to the richness of the sonority of the piece.

Suddenly the low brass came bounding back in, restoring the martial flavor of the work. It went crashing on, to shortly culminate in a series of loud brassy chords. Master Marcus lowered his hands; the musicians relaxed.

Giacomo gestured for Heinrich to follow him. As they slipped out of the room, Heinrich heard Master Marcus say, "Trumpets, you're still not clean on those attacks…"

Outside the room, Heinrich realized how wrung out he felt, as if he had been performing for hours. It had only been minutes he had been listening-hadn't it?

"Well. What did you think?" Giacomo started walking.

Heinrich gathered his wits. "It was… impressive. Nothing even in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice ever sounded like that. And the youths-all of them-seemed to perform well. The sounds, and the capabilities of the instruments-so strong, so rich, nothing like I'm used to. My mind is drunk with the sonorities." He pondered for a moment. "But the harmonies seemed… very dissonant at times."

"Exactly so, Master Heinrich! Their music can be very powerful, like a strong brandy, but it can taste rather harsh at times, so one must develop a liking for it. But one returns to it, again and again, because there is nothing like it-nowhere else in the world." Carissimi's Latin was starting to sound very Italian.

They came to the main door of the school, the one by which Heinrich had entered what seemed a lifetime ago. Heinrich blinked as they stepped into the sunlight. It was as if he was awaking after a dream. "Again, I must say it was impressive. I have much to think about."

"I understand. The up-timers have an expression that I believe fits: 'Been there, done that.'" The words in English jarred a little after all the Latin, but after a moment Heinrich absorbed the meaning. Carissimi's mouth quirked, then turned to a smile. "Master Marcus asked me earlier today to make sure that you also attend tomorrow. He said that he has a surprise he wishes to present you."

"Tomorrow, then." Heinrich exchanged a handshake with Giacomo and began to walk. He wanted to walk today. Walking had always aided his thinking. This afternoon he had much to think about, including what the 'band director' wanted from him… or rather, wanted to give him.

Carissimi was waiting at the doors. "Good afternoon, Master Heinrich. How was your evening?"

"My evening was quiet. My head was full of the thoughts that were sown yesterday. Even my sleep was crowded, or so it felt." Heinrich smiled a little. "I have decided that it is a good thing that your younger mind has led the way down this road, as it is comforting to know that the things I feel and think have probably already passed through your mind."

The Italian laughed. "Oh, be sure of it, Master Heinrich, be sure of it. I was so bewildered, so awe-struck, at times so horrified, that I am amazed sometimes that I arrived at a level of understanding and acceptance. If I seem blase about it all now, rest assured there were many nights where sleep fled as my mind wrestled with all of it-Grantville, the new music, the new instruments-until it seemed I would go mad. And yet here I am, no madder than before."

"Indeed." They walked a few steps, then Heinrich said, "One thing I would ask of you now."

"Ask."

"Why does Master Marcus stand before his musicians and wave his hands in the air?"

"Ah." Carissimi smiled. "That is an innovation that seems perhaps to be simple, but is indeed profound in its impact. You and I, if we wrote a piece of some complexity, we would rehearse the performers beforehand. But in the performance we would play the harpsichord or clavichord and would provide some manner of direction as we played the continuo part to ensure that the players remained in unity as they played.

"But, as you no doubt noted yesterday, there was no keyboard in that music. That is overwhelmingly true of much of the great music of the future. So, you would say, you would play the violin or viola and provide the direction from there. And that might serve if the ensemble is small. But remember the size of Master Marcus' wind ensemble. And the size of the orchestra they are attempting to shape in Magdeburg. Such would not be possible with them.

"No, in their history, those who came between now and the future of the up-timers found a need for one to be the musician for the entire ensemble, to play the orchestra as a virtuoso would play the violin. A conductor, in other words, or dirigent as it is rendered in German." Carissimi turned to face Heinrich, serious and intent. "Such is Master Marcus. It is one of the new arts of which he is the master. And such is my friend, Franz Sylwester, becoming as he works with many musicians to create the first true symphony orchestra of our times, to the everlasting glory of God."

Heinrich was somewhat taken back by his fervor and passion. "The glory of God?"

"Yes, Master Heinrich." Carissimi resumed walking. "The glory of God. The more I learn, the more I can use to raise praises to the God who let me live in these times, to see but the fragment of what was possible to these people in their future. Speaking of which, you must attend at St. Mary's church on Good Friday to hear the Passion of Saint Matthew I have crafted."

Carissimi opened the door to the band room and ushered Heinrich in. Today there were only five students in the room, with Master Marcus standing before them. Each of the musicians was holding a brass instrument, all of which had the new innovation of valves. Heinrich had been mightily impressed with their flexibility. From their shapes two were trumpets, one was a variety of horn, and two were larger instruments for which he had no names.

Marcus waved at two chairs that were set back from the arc of the quintet. "Please, masters, be seated." After they did so, he continued. "This is a piece I remembered after I heard you were coming, Master Heinrich. We have prepared it just for you." He nodded to the quintet, then took a chair to one side as they raised their instruments. The trumpet player at the end of the arc counted softly, "Two, three, four," and they began.

It was a lovely piece of work, Heinrich admitted to himself, one that was obviously of his time or nearly so. Contrapuntal in nature, the voices flowed nicely, themes passing from part to part. It almost reminded him of the music of Gabrieli, but it was different somehow.

All too soon the piece concluded. The players lowered their instruments to their laps. Everyone looked at Heinrich expectantly.

"Very nice," he said. "Who wrote it, please?"

The first indication that something was not right was when the players gaped at him. Master Marcus, obviously very nonplussed, said, "Why, you did, Master Heinrich."

Heinrich stared back.

"No, that is not one of mine. It was nicely done, but I have never heard it before."

Marcus picked up a folder and extracted a printed page.

"But the publisher says that it is an instrumental arrangement of your motet So fahr ich hin, published in your Symphoniae sacrae collection in…" His face went white, and he looked up with a stunned expression. "… in 1647."

Feeling as if he had been bludgeoned, Heinrich stood. "I never wrote that. It is not mine." He began walking jerkily back and forth. "I did not write it. Now that I have heard it, how can I write it? This… this is impossible! How can I hear something that I wrote before I write it? How can you play something I wrote before I write it?" His thoughts were whirling madly. "I… I… this cannot be!" Unable to think, unable to express his confusion, his pain, his anger, Heinrich turned and bolted from the room.

Marcus stared at the door, shocked. He turned to look at Giacomo, who was wearing an expression that he was sure mirrored his. "I wanted to surprise him, to honor him. I thought the piece was published in 1627, not 1647."

Giacomo nodded. "I think Grantville's future just grabbed Master Heinrich."

"But what… why…"

"Imagine you were a writer, a good one. Now, imagine someone hands you a book with your name on it and told you would write it twenty years from now. How would you feel?"

"Umf." Marcus frowned. "I think I see what you mean. Even if it's good, how can you take credit for it? It would be like being a woman awaking from a coma and being presented with a baby that you don't remember but everyone assures you is yours."

" Si, something perhaps like that." Giacomo pursed his lips. "I think Lucas I must talk to. Master Heinrich is not… ah… comfortable in his mind, I think. Lucas must watch for him."

"Over him."

" Si, whatever."

Magdeburg

April 1634

Marla's voice died away on the last note of The Parting Glass. There was a moment of quiet in the common room of The Green Horse. It was only a brief moment, then applause roared out from the crowd. Franz noted that the room seemed very full tonight. In addition to the regulars and the Committees of Correspondence crew who always seemed to find tables whenever Marla and her friends were singing, many of the musicians from the orchestra had come as well. They all needed a break from the intensity of the rehearsals. Tonight was indeed providing that.

As usual, the songs they did were from the Irish recordings that Marla's mother had collected. They'd led off with Finnegan's Wake, following it with The Juice of the Barley and Nell Flaherty's Drake.

The middle part of the evening was marked by performing the sobering The Wind That Shakes the Barley and Only Our Rivers Run Free, those favorites of the CoC. Grim-faced men nodded as they were sung; fists pounded the tables when they were done.

The light-hearted tone was restored by Mick McGuire, Courting in the Kitchen and The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe. The performance concluded with Isaac singing Reilly's Daughter, followed by Marla's sweet rendition of The Parting Glass.

Franz placed his violin in its case, then wiped sweaty hair out of his face. The rehabilitation of his crippled left hand and retraining of his right hand to finger the neck of his violin had progressed to the point where he was able to play with most of the songs. It had been a long time since he had played that much in public. He was both exhilarated and winded.

"Well done, Franz, me lad." A large meaty hand landed on his shoulder, staggering him. He turned to look into the beaming face of Simon Bracegirdle, the Englishman who had come to Magdeburg as one of the musicians sent by Master Schutz. Simon played violin, and while he wasn't the best of the players, he was by no means the worst.

It was a frequent source of amusement to Franz to remember his statement so many weeks ago, that he would accept even an English musician if he would play in the orchestra. Simon had laughed robustly when he was told the story.

"Yes, Franz." Matthaus Amsel's face appeared behind Simon. "'Twas fine, indeed."

"My thanks to you both." Franz smiled. He looked at the two of them. After a moment, his expression sobered. "Since we are here, I am minded to ask you a question."

They looked to each other, then back at Franz.

"Say on," Simon said.

"How does the work progress? Are we indeed creating an orchestra as the Grantvillers would define it, or are we simply a mob of musicians all trying to play the same song?"

Simon started to speak, but Matthaus held up a hand and Simon gave way. "In truth, Franz, I know not how to answer. I have never seen this done before now. However, for what it is worth, I think the work progresses. The men all seem to understand what you and the others have been teaching. The violinists at least all seem to have adjusted to the new violins and bows."

"Aye," Simon interjected. "And this week I would say that we have finally caught the knack of following your conducting. At least I did." Matthaus nodded.

"That is comforting to hear," Franz said. "As you say, this work has never been done before in our time, or at least not at this magnitude. It seems to be going well, but it is good to know that you feel the same." He nodded, then stood and looked beyond them for a moment. "What am I to do with Herwin Vogler? His constant complaining and questioning about 'Why can we not do it as we always have done' has worn his welcome very thin indeed."

Matthaus' expression turned sour. "Do what you will. Master Schutz has more than once nearly discharged him. When he wants to play, he plays well. The question of whether having his skill is balanced by the price you must pay to have it is one that only you can answer. Myself, I long since lost patience with the man."

"Let me talk to him." Simon smiled. "Mayhap I can bring him to see that if he will accept the change instead of resist it, he can grow and improve, thereby becoming more valuable to future employers."

"Have at him," Franz responded. "If nothing else, make him see that he cannot continue to disparage Marla or other women who may become involved in our work." Both the other men raised their eyebrows. "I mean it. You have not seen Grantville yet, you have only had a small taste of their society. Women there are free to pursue their hearts' desires, much as men are. Whether they marry or not is their choice. They can indeed become just as accomplished as any man. Marla is a leading example. Frau Simpson is another-no man of sense would dare take her lightly. And I have heard tell of a Frau Melissa Mailey whose force of character is positively Amazonian. She was sent to England to beard the English lion in his den."

Franz stared at each man. "Grantville brings many changes. Just the existence of the place will be like a spring flood. We can fight it and be overwhelmed, or we can ride it and see where we land. One of those changes will be that women such as Marla will have a regular place in our world of music, gentlemen. It will happen. With women such as Marla and Frau Mary leading the way, it will happen."

Matthaus looked over to where his wife Elise was talking with Marla and Isaac. He slowly nodded. "As you say. I see it happening even now. For myself, after hearing Frau Marla sing and play, especially with the piano, I am convinced. Herwin, however, is of a more fixed opinion of the correct order of things."

Simon snorted. "You mean he is opinionated, rude, crude, slovenly and generally quite boorish, not to mention usually mistaken about any subject on which he wishes to declaim. It is only the fact that he plays a viola so well that has kept him from being throttled in the past."

"Do your best." Franz laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "I value his skills, but not at the price of his obstructions. He has one week." After a long moment of silence, Franz turned to Matthaus. "So, when do you think Master Schutz will arrive?"

"I know not. He was to visit his mother and his daughters in Kostritz, then go to Grantville to meet with Master Carissimi. I imagine that Master Heinrich is delighting in his time with Master Carissimi, which is good. He is truly a great man who so seldom has a chance to meet with anyone who would be a peer."

"Well," Franz said, "I truly hope he is enjoying himself."

Grantville

April 1634

Pastor Johann Rothmaler knocked on the door diffidently. No response. He knocked again, somewhat louder. That evoked a response.

"Go away." The tone was growled but listless.

The pastor looked to Lucas Amsel, who stood beside him. Lucas shook his head, and motioned energetically at the door.

Pastor Rothmaler cleared his throat. "Master Schutz, my name is Johann Rothmaler. I am the senior pastor in Rudolstadt. I…" He looked at Lucas, who motioned at the door again. "I must speak with you on a matter of some importance."

Silence from within the room, but after a moment footsteps dragged across the floor. Eventually the door was opened. The room was darkened.

"Come in, then, if you so desire." The voice retreated into the chamber. "You as well, Lucas. I know you're there."

"Might we have some light?"

More silence. Then a despondent, "As you will. Lucas?"

Lucas moved past Rothmaler. Within moments shutters were thrown back and the noonday sun poured into the room. Furniture and other obstacles seemed to be scattered around the room. Rothmaler picked his way carefully through scattered clothing, books, travel bags and empty wine bottles. Lucas bustled over and removed a cloak from the chair that sat across the table from where Master Schutz sat leaning and pressing his forehead against a dark green wine bottle. The pastor sat down. Long moments passed, moments during which Lucas quietly moved about the room bringing order to it.

Finally, Schutz spoke without opening his eyes. "Well, what is this so very important matter that requires you to intrude into my privacy?"

The despair and despondency in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible. Pastor Rothmaler looked at Lucas one more time; once more he was gestured to continue.

"Master Schutz…"

"Call me Heinrich."

"Master Heinrich, then. I… um… your assistant, Herr Amsel, came to me with an account that you appear to be suffering from some spiritual illness. He grew gravely concerned and attempted to find someone in Grantville to counsel with you, but to no avail. Finally, Herr Gary Lambert advised him to seek me out. And so I am here. I have heard what Herr Lucas has told me. I am here to help as I can, as God provides. Can you tell me what ails you?"

Schutz's eyes opened wide. Pastor Rothmaler almost recoiled. The whites were very red, which lent an almost demonic air to the disheveled appearance of the master musician.

"What ails me? What ails me?" Schutz straightened up, and for the first time emotion made an appearance on his face and in his voice. "Why, my good Pastor Rothmaler, Grantville ails me. The future ails me. God ails me." He lifted the bottle and finished the dregs it contained, then tossed it over his shoulder. Rothmaler winced, expecting it to shatter on the floor, but Lucas nimbly captured it in mid-air.

"Elucidate, please, Master Heinrich."

Schutz focused his baleful gaze on the clergyman. "Very well. At your insistence. Three days ago, I was suddenly confronted with evidence that music exists that I had written, yet I had not written-music that was supposedly written in the year of Our Lord 1647-supposedly written by myself. How can this be?" Schutz charged on, allowing no room for a response. Rothmaler schooled himself to patience.

"How can I already have written that which I have not written? How can I do the impossible?" Master Heinrich was almost raving. "But if I have, if all of my great music has already been written, then what is there for me to do in the future if it has already been done? Where is the worthy place for Schutz in that?"

Breathing heavily, Schutz paused for a moment. "I left the place of that revelation and wandered through Grantville. It was as if a gale blew through my mind. My thoughts were whirling, spinning, as a leaf caught in a storm. I know not how long I wandered, but eventually I found myself in front of a building named a library. For lack of some other profitable action to take, I entered. When an attendant approached, I asked if they had anything about the life of one Heinrich Schutz. He led me to a table where he opened what he called an 'encyclopedia.' Then he pointed to an account printed in it that purported to describe my life.

"My history was traced correctly, if somewhat briefly, until the present. My years in Venice studying with Gabrieli and Monteverdi; becoming the Kappellmeister for the Elector of Saxony; my marriage to Magdalena, the birth of my daughters, and her death. It even mentioned some few of the works I had written during those years.

"In truth, I was impressed that I was remembered by that much from a time supposedly over 350 years in the future. But then, it began to detail the further events of my life. It seems I am to die many years from now, serving the somewhat less than appreciative Elector until his death. My daughters will both die many years before I do. I will have no progeny. My only memorial will be music… music that has already been written by me, but not by me."

The master leaned over the table and asked in a dead tone, "Tell me, Pastor Rothmaler. You are a theologian. Are the Calvinists right? Is everything totally fore-ordained? Predestined? Are we all just actors treading the boards and reciting lines scripted for us by another? If so, of what worth are we? If my music has already been written, if my life has already been lived, then of what purpose am I?"

Rothmaler shivered. The master musician's monologue had distilled all the many issues that Grantville created for the theologians and philosophers of Europe, himself included. Many of them were affronted not only by the existence and claims of Grantville, but by the very tangible evidence that the town and its people did indeed come from a very different time and place.

But there was a fundamental difference between the objections of the philosophes and the raw pain of a man who was questioning whether his lifework, his art, his very existence, mattered in the face of Grantville's revelations. Rothmaler sat for long moments praying to God for wisdom to share with this obviously tortured man. "Master Heinrich," the pastor began, "it is pure hubris, the purest arrogance, to believe that we can fully know the mind of God. We can know as much of it as He has revealed in Holy Scripture, and perhaps a little more if He chooses to make a direct revelation to one of us. But the mind that can conceive of the world in its order; the mind that can contain the power to speak it into being; that mind is as far above ours as we are above the worm within the soil. So, we do not understand many things.

"Chiefest of these things is how and why Grantville is among us. We have no better explanation for their origin than the one they have offered since their first arrival, that they have somehow been ripped from the future and placed here. Why would God either direct or allow such disruption in the order of things? We have no answer. His word contains no prophecy about such coming to pass. Yet the very senses which God created in us, our taste and sight and touch and smell and hearing, they all testify to the reality of Grantville. The very ability to reason and deduce which the Almighty instilled in us takes the testimony of those senses and can arrive at no other conclusion than that Grantville is real, its people are real, its mechanics and sciences and, yes, its arts, are as real as our own. Real, but oh, so different in so many ways. And so, however objectionable the explanation, we are unable to propose one that is any more acceptable than what the Grantvillers say."

Pastor Rothmaler leaned forward and placed his own elbows on the table. He steeled himself to look directly into Master Schutz's eyes. "However, the Grantville men of science all say that the future from which they came is not the future that will be ours, that their very arrival will make so many fundamental changes in the courses of the church, of societies, and of history, that the future that will happen will be a very different future than the one recorded in their books."

Master Schutz's eyes widened, his eyebrows climbed. He puffed either in surprise or disbelief.

"Oh, yes," the pastor assured him. "And it has already started. With my own eyes I have seen in their books that in their history Gustavus Adolphus was killed six months ago in the battle of Lutzen, yet all know that he is alive and facing his enemies. So the changes have already begun."

Pastor Rothmaler leaned back. "And what this means to you is the future of which you read may or may not resemble that which will grow from the life you are living now. The Grantvillers have a very odd term for the concept. They call it the 'butterfly effect.' I do not pretend to understand their explanation-it seems foolish to me-but perhaps another image will serve.

"Herr Lambert told me once that Grantville suddenly appearing in our time was like a large rock being thrown into the center of a pond. Many ripples are sent out, which radiate to the banks of the pond and then bounce back, going back and forth and disturbing the water for a long time. Some of the ripples are quite large, such as Gustavus Adolphus surviving the battle. Some of them are very small, such as your reading the vita brevis about yourself from the future. But all of them, all of them mean change.

"Perhaps you will never serve the Elector of Saxony again. Perhaps, with some of the increased knowledge of healing the Grantvillers bring, your daughters will not die at such young ages. Of a certainty you will write different music. And none of it, none of it will surprise God. Live your life to His glory, and trust that at the end you will hear 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant.'"

Schutz sat-very still-for a long time, staring at the table. Finally, he looked up. "And the music?"

Rothmaler smiled. "Just consider it to have been written by a relative with the same name-an uncle, a nephew, perhaps a cousin. A different Heinrich Schutz wrote it, in a different time. Enjoy the beauty of it, admire the skill in it, learn from if you will, but do not consider it yours."

An expression of peace crossed the master musician's face. He visibly relaxed. "Thank you for your concern, Pastor Rothmaler, and for your wisdom. I will think on these things."