Yaron’s Lyre

Anton D. Morris

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Thomas Farinelli ran his wrinkled fingertips over the lyre. After fifty years, the strings were as smooth and tight as when he had first touched them. He wrapped his calloused palm around the gold-trimmed neck, then raised his head and shifted his eyes to the priest before him. An acolyte, no older than twenty years in age, stood shoulder-high beside the priest.

“We’ve tried to destroy it, but we cannot.” The priest's voice was saturated with disdain. “It is certainly cursed.”

Thomas rose from his chair. His knees ached as he walked toward the window.  Even though he didn’t see it, he could hear the soldier at his door shift his hands to the hilt of his sword. Other swordsmen were posted in the courtyard. “You’ve come from Rome?”

“Yes.”

Thomas calculated. Five in the courtyard and one standing behind the priest. That left five others behind the closed door. “How did you find me?”

“A man can change his name, but the soul remains unchanged,” the priest murmured.

Thomas said nothing. He watched the priest turn, his attention drawn to a distant corner. The priest seemed hesitant and cautious as if he expected something to leap at him from nowhere. He stopped at the bookshelf, observing Thomas’ collection of books disapproved by the Catholic Church. He was not surprised when the priest reached for Decretum Glasianum.

The priest snorted, exhibiting the book so his acolyte could read the title. Thomas observed how the priest pressed his lips into a thin line and nearly turned red before regaining composure. “The infamous Thomas Antonious Devini from Tuscany regularly donated large quantities of gold to scientific research.” He waved the book in front of Thomas as he sauntered to him.

Thomas was not intimidated, although he imagined the priest hoped as much. He looked past the priest to the young assistant standing in the center of the room. Thomas sensed something about the servant – something resentful hiding behind his apparent tranquil appearance.

“A lust for things forbidden by the church.” The priest tossed the book to the side. It slid over the wooden floor toward the acolyte. “And like all of Tuscany, a love for vineyards.”

Thomas turned his back to the priest and gazed out of the window. The priest moved to stand beside him. “I must say that your vineyard is divine.” His voice quieted to a whisper. “It would be such a tragedy if it suddenly burst into flames.”

Thomas did not react.

The priest’s tone suddenly became accusatory. “Did you finance it from the fortunes you filched from knights of the crusades?”

Thomas scorned the priest with his tawny eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“Tell us how to destroy the lyre.”

Thomas returned to his chair. He rotated the gold memento on his finger. The ring reminded him of the older days when he could easily spot an overzealous and ambitious soldier in his ranks. The priest was no different from them – they were often the first to die.

“If you cannot, then tell me what you know about it. And spare me no detail.”

Thomas sighed, and his shoulders slumped. He ran his fingers through his gray beard and reached for the lyre. “Very well.” Holding the lyre, he obliged.

“It was near the end of my campaign with the English. We had a successful push against Sultan Saladin. Tall al-‘Ayadiyya was ours. The soldiers, hungry and rife with lust, took to raiding the Saracen homes, much to my disgust. I rushed into a hovel ahead of two of my best men. Inside, three other subordinates pillaged and terrorized. They had already killed the father and ravaged the mother. I arrived too late for the parents, but in enough time to save the mute. He was no older than ten. He was cornered, his back against a wooden chest.

“Those despicable soldiers withdrew when I chastened them. There was something about the chest the mute was trying to defend. I had him pulled away from it. He kicked and bit at my men’s hands while I opened the chest. Inside, I found the lyre.

“Including villagers and Muslim troops, we contained some three thousand men, women, and children. Such a massive number gave us great negotiating leverage against the Sultan. But the mute had leveraged my heart. I kept him in my tent – maybe as a pet or servant, I don’t know. When I gave him the lyre, something in my soul gave way. His fingers danced over the strings with a grace seen only in French ballrooms.

“What the mute could not say in words, he spoke through the notes of his lyre. Tranquility blanketed me. The melodies often numbed me into a stupor somewhere between sleep and imagination. Mesmerized, I had visions and revelations. I envisioned a mass exodus of armed Christian men leaving Jerusalem. The Saracen victory shamed them as they went. That’s how I knew Saladin would conquer and win that war. I also knew then, as I do now, that a thousand years later, Christian kingdoms will fight for the Saracen lands. Battle after battle, they will resist us with an infallible resolve that won’t break.

“Such made me ask if we, the followers of the cross, were indeed sent by the one true God to conquer them or if we are mere pawns for the papacy.” He peered deeply into the priest’s eyes. “I admit, my doubts have yet to be quelled.”

He shifted in his seat, and his gaze moved to the young boy. He stared intensely at him. Something wasn’t right about the way his eyes widened with interest. “Now, you may not believe me, but I dreamt this home. I saw the vineyards and orchards. I saw the heavenly serenity of the golden sun setting behind it. I envisioned my lovely wife and her gaunt face when the bloody cough took her away.

“I was so captivated by the music of the lyre that I selfishly kept the mute as my enslaved entertainer. Each night, he played for me, and I saw visions. At the time, I was no more than entertained by them until the night of August nineteenth. That was when I saw the most heinous futuristic vision. It sickened me, and my stomach poured into my mouth. It was so real. I could smell the sweat and blood of Muslim prisoners slaughtered by the swords of a thousand Englishmen. Every man, woman, and child – indiscriminately killed, their lifeless bodies stretched over the dusty horizon. A man’s arm here, a woman’s head there. I saw children in trees, their dead bodies swaying in the wind.

“That morning, the Sultan had agreed to our terms to exchange prisoners. But hours after Saladin released the Christians, Richard ordered, to my dismay, the execution of every single Muslim prisoner – man, woman, and child. The vision I had seen the night before was fulfilled.

“In protest, I refused to follow the Lionheart to Ascalon. I left their camp before the Sultan’s rage fell upon it like the vengeful fist of God, taking the mute and his lyre with me.”

Thomas was quiet for a while. His eyelids closed in a feeble attempt to suppress the memories, but nothing stopped the cold hands of regret that squeezed his heart. Pointing to the jar of wine on a mantel across the room, he ordered the acolyte to fill a cup.

“When did you realize the instrument was cursed?” asked the youth, delivering the wine.

Thomas sipped. “I never knew for certain. When my bride of just two years fell ill, I petitioned His Holiness, and he blessed us with his prayers. Both priest and cardinal arrived to chase away evil spirits, but it was not until the mute sat at the foot of her bed and played his lyre that she healed.” Thomas smiled. “He loved her as much as me. She often read to him. The book of Genesis was his favorite.”

Thomas eyed the acolyte again and chuckled. Placing the empty glass on the tabletop, he mumbled, “It was a miracle, the cardinal said. But the offering plate grew light when men and women brought their sick children to hear the mute play. Things changed. The mute and the lyre were curiously defamed.

“I wanted to know how it worked, from where the power came. One day, the mute showed me. He sat on the floor, not ten feet away. His brown eyes glazed hypnotically into mine. The music was a perfect transport into a trance. I envisioned a naked lady sitting inside a painted circle on a white floor. Around her were black and red candles burning with gentle flames. They gave only light and cast thin lines of gray smoke into the air. She possessed the lyre, the same as the mute played.

“Magically, the strings moved without a finger to pluck them. The most melodious sound suffused my ears. The smoke from the candles thickened into a haze that filled the room. It was alive. I don’t mean that in a poetic sense. It was alive. The smoke took shape upon the woman’s call. She sang her evocation, and the smoke transformed into two winged figures. ‘Iblis, I give my womb to you.’ She stood, and the smoky figures approached the circle. From the haze emerged a face more handsome than a man’s face should be. His eyes were alive like flames on a candle. He reached a hand still covered in smoke to her. Not taking it, she turned to the second figure. ‘Kasdeja, I offer you my blood.’

“She reached for the devils’ hands and stepped outside the circle. Her body, smooth as the Arabian sands, prostrated before the spirits, and they copulated. Their bodies merged, not like a man and a woman, but the spirits passed through her opened legs.”

Thomas saw the boy wet his lips. Delighted, he continued. “She turned and gyrated. Her moans entwined with the music.”

“Enough!” yelled the priest. He frowned and firmly slapped the boy across the face. “You will not admire the abomination this relic of a man paints.”

The acolyte reached for his lip. Blood covered his fingertips. Thomas leaned back in his chair and noted a flicker of contempt in the lad’s dark eyes. He continued.

“It was just that moment when I understood the lyre was the djinn’s gift to her, like a dowry. The Nephilim she bore? His name is on the lyre, inscribed with djinn letters. It reads Yaron – Orpheus in Greek.”

Thomas turned the lyre to the priest and, after wetting two fingers with his tongue, brushed the crossbar until the inscription, smeared with soot, became visible. The priest gasped as he studied the letters.

“There is an Orpheus written about in Greek myths.” The acolyte’s voice was apologetic.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, there is.” He smiled as if the acolyte understood a secret anecdote.

The priest stood over the boy and scowled at him again. “I brought you with me at the behest of the cardinal. I would rather leave you in the forest for barbarians and wolves. You are to learn and not speak.”

The boy nodded, lowering his eyes to the floor.

The story between the boy and the priest was a curious one. Why did the cardinal insist the priest bring the boy along? Was the acolyte forced into service, or was he the victim of church violence and now an orphan? “From where does this boy come? I can see a hint of Macedonian in him.”

“That is not your concern,” the priest exploded. “I am growing impatient with your lingering. I wish you would just get to the point. We already know the lyre is evil.”

Thomas smirked. He sensed something gloomy in the boy. Instead of pushing the issue, he continued. “The cardinal sent an army for the mute. They burned my vineyards and my storage houses. They destroyed my distillery. Yet I did not surrender the mute. Then they breached my defenses with battering rams. My gates crashed to the ground, and they trampled them. Their archers, with flaming arrows, attacked my east wing. The wind accelerated the inferno.

“My last memory was the mute sitting in the lobby as the cardinal’s men broke down the door. He bore no fear of them. He played the lyre, and the men entered the room. All who heard the music were enchanted. They gathered around him, and more entered – the room filled with men and steel. They all stood entranced by the mute, shoulder to shoulder and toe to heel. When the lot of them were enchanted, the mute suddenly stopped playing. When I turned to him, the mute stood his hands and the lyre above their heads. Then the mute spoke. Can you imagine what he said?” Thomas stared ahead at the acolyte. He paused until the boy responded with a slight head movement. Thomas spoke softly, “‘Let there be.’”

He noted the acolyte’s enthused reaction. Louder, he continued the tale. “My home trembled, and the floor collapsed. Wood, stone, brick, and mortar gave way as if the Almighty’s hand cast them all into an endless pit. I saw them plummet to their deaths deep into my dungeons. I escaped with my wife and a few servants.”

“You pained us with your recollections only to say the lyre is cursed.” The priest turned and, with a wave, ordered the soldier behind him to draw his sword.

Thomas shook his head and held the lyre in his arms. He cuddled it like a child. “Father, you misunderstood me. The point is that this lyre does what its master created it to do.” He shifted his eyes again to the acolyte. “No different from all creation. It submits to the will of its wielder.” His voice was soft and slower, eyes focused on the boy as if to send a message that only he and the acolyte would understand. “No different than a sword, or even the universe.”

“Your old age and forbidden books have driven you mad.” The priest grimaced. “We intended to take you back to Rome, but I see now there is no need for that. You should wallow in your misery but with one missing hand as a penalty for your insolence.”

The priest turned to a soldier, and head signaled to him. “I will increase your misery.” The priest continued.

Neither the approaching soldier nor the priest’s words moved Thomas. “Would you like to know how to wield it?”

The soldier hesitated. “I’d rather not.”

The priest waved, and the swordsman stood firm.

“First, you touch it with something from your body – blood, perspiration, even saliva will do.” His hand moved over the strings, and a bar of notes came from it.

“I only wish to destroy it.” The priest’s grimace smeared into an impatient scowl.

“Then, you focus on what you’d like it to do.” Thomas’ eyes moved to the priest. Then to the boy. “If you want it to destroy itself, it will oblige.”

The priest’s eyes widened. He stepped closer to Thomas. “Then play it and cause it to do so.”

Thomas shook his head. “It would not be wise. You’ve entered my home unannounced and made irredeemable insults. You’ve threatened to maim me. I would rather play this lyre and kill you all.” He placed the instrument on the tabletop. “No, someone with purer thoughts than mine must do it.”

The priest turned to the soldier and then to the boy. With nothing more than a nod, he ordered the boy to take the lyre.

Thomas smirked as he instructed the boy. “Yes, hold it like this. Place your fingers here. No, not the thumb, the two you put to your lips. Yes. Now concentrate. When you’ve formed the image, stroke the strings.”

The acolyte closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his blank stare fixed on the priest. Thomas was not bewildered by the hateful glare. The boy ground his teeth and stroked the strings. The music lifted from the lyre with a dull noise like a dying nightingale.  The priest’s legs buckled, and his lifeless body flopped to the floor.

A second stroke and the soldier’s sword slipped from his hand. His body dropped to the floor. There were two thuds behind the door. The steel from the soldiers’ armor dropped with a dull clang. They were all dead.

The acolyte’s face was pale, and his mouth gaped when he turned to Thomas. The exhilarating emptiness that swept the corridors and into Thomas’s chest was all too familiar to him. By now, he had grown too comfortable with death. He yearned to escape it but he could not.

“Take it,” Thomas ordered. “It is neither gift nor curse, but a thing to be ruled, no different from men's desires and wills. Take it and go away. The power you have will bring you no peace. Such is the curse of power.”