Chapter Six
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–Mikhail Zoshchenko
Marshal Raikh had been put in charge of the party of "ambassadors" to Redwall. That's logical, since her position held her in charge of Mtsensk's military's field operations. I think, perhaps, that Zlaya should be given one more point for making that appointment. You'd expect, as I would, that the Marshal would select only military beasts for her expedition, but there she was at my personal quarters one night, late. I came upon her there after finishing my work in the study. I knew she knew I'd been there, and that's why I'd though Zlaya had found out. Before, she'd let well enough alone. Not pleased at the intrusion, I greeted politely anyway: "Good evening, Marshal Raikh."
The Marshal never was one for much needless speech; she did not return the greeting but rather asked immediately, "Mitya Shostak, are you at all interested in going to Redwall?"
I should clarify I've made a jump in time here, for the purpose of cutting the monotony of the everyday and keeping up the action, so to speak. My visit to Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka had been weeks ago, and I'd put it further back in my mind. But I'd not forgotten.
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I'm going to make another jump now, ahead past the rest of the conversation and the journey. It could be declared a given that I chose to go along to Redwall; I would have gone anywhere, let alone there, to get away from Mtsensk, concert or not. In effect, I hadn't quite escaped for the number of soldiers in our party, but feelings of ease were more likely the further away Zlaya was. She was the driving force of Mtsensk's power and fearsomeness– another given.
I'll speculate on luck again now, for what might have been random chance set the date of the concert and the date of our arrival at Redwall to be the same. More likely there were creatures behind it–Volklov, Evgeny, Venyamin. They were all there at the abbey as well, not by chance. Perhaps the luck and chance should come in that the "expedition," so to speak, was indeed to Redwall and not somewhere else. Though you could also say that Zlaya was behind that. An odd thing to thank her again. I should, but I can't earnestly bring myself to.
If my first view of Mtsensk's grand deceptive beauty had taken the breath from me, Redwall had a different impact. The red sandstone structure was simpler, almost homely, but homey too, comfortable, cloaked in a soft haze of surrealty. Losing your breath leaves you cold; Redwall's state of merely being warmed some of the space inside me that Mtsensk had emptied.
The hedgehog walltop guard frowned upon the soldiers, but Raikh held them back from reacting, approaching the gate then and exchanging a few words with the guard. Either Raikh knew something in the likeness of a key, or this guard was extraordinarily stupid. Or this guard also knew something of a shield. The soldiers were made to set aside their regulation weapons, but they were allowed through the gate after that. I despised their company, though they had brought me as far as Redwall.I kept up the rear, or rather held back from it as far as I could. The Redwallers were assembled at a table in their Great Hall, enjoying a feast that would be too much of a divergence from my point to describe in detail. I saw, I felt the contempt in their stares as we entered, contempt that was, I think, directed at the true vermin of Mtsensk. And was associating me with them. After a hesitant gesture from the hedgehog, the group of soldiers stiffly seated itself, Raikh further down from their main body. I made an effort to sit not only as far away from them as possible, but in the middle of a cluster of beasts including Evgeny and Venyamin. If a positive image of me was going to come up, they more than any other beasts could initiate it.
Looking back over this draft so far, I think I've portrayed myself as a gloomy, paranoid, pessimist. That's not true, though much of my sense of humor was beaten out of me, so to speak. I can't look at an unpleasant event without writing with a darker edge. I'm more than capable of being in a good mood when the situation permits. The trip to Redwall really was a very permitting situation. After a few minutes of terse introductory conversation and a bit of food, I relaxed more suitably to the merry surroundings. I spoke more, though with my usual stutter, even joking an laughing as if among very old friends. I was pleased to notice that the Redwallers fell to an easier attitude with me, despite my notorious species. That eased me further, in return. To keep a tally, another point for the Redwallers and a reason to perhaps take one back from Zlaya.
I've mentioned, also, how feelings can switch in an instant. I've mentioned it before because it happens often. Often with just a few words, even from a trusted friend. From another seat at the table, Volklov stood and approached the end of the hall, pausing in front of a configuration of chairs that was rapidly filling with creatures that were clearly musicians. The whole affair was awkward, really, but not as awkward on the whole as I was, contained in my own little chair. My appetite left me, I felt like I'd already eaten far too much as the wolf beamingly announced "...the premiere concert of works of Mitya Shostak, supposedly of Mtsensk."
The orchestra and the audience chuckled at the "supposedly," or that's how it seemed; the soldiers from Mtsensk bristled at that clear slander of their fortress. I said nothing, the foremost cause being my physical dizziness from nervousness. I kept my head down between my legs until the first note sounded.
The thrill of hearing something you've composed is indescribable. Granted, you hear it in your head as you put it to paper, but it sounds different in the medium of a real orchestra, perhaps as a creature's voice sounds different to other creatures than it does to him. I listened intently, leaning forward and staring almost glaze-eyed through my wavering spectacles. They wavered for my unconscious fidgeting; my footpaws tapped the floor lightly in the rhythm I knew all too well yet was only first experiencing. I think I can picture what I looked like, though my mental criticisms of the playing are clearer to recollect. Criticism of all things musical comes as a reflex to composers. The playing was not flawless, but it was still my music. I can't try to expect perfection.
When the music ended, I, also as a reflex, fell still, breathing heavily and in wonder, not unlike a dibbun getting a gift on Nameday or a birthday. The awe, I mean, not the loud energy. The internal thrill. I still paid only slow attention with my eyes and ears, oblivious to the thunderous applause and belatedly noticing with alarm Volklov's paw extended in my direction.
"Go on up, Mitya! They loved it, they love you! They want to see you! Go up there!" Evgeny boosted me forward verbally and with a shove of his paw. I think he was awed as well.
I stumbled up, forward on shaky legs to join Volklov on the conductor's podium. The Redwallers cheered loud enough that it would have outdone the loudest dynamic at the climax of any of the pieces they'd just heard. They shouted my name, over and over; I don't recall nor imagine it will happen again that I heard my name so loud and so many times at once. I hated the shouts and the ecstatic stares, though I was grateful for the feelings they represented. It just felt unnatural to be that much of a center of attention. At Volklov's whispered suggestion, I bowed awkwardly, shakily, many times, unpracticed. I'd never bowed before then; I still bow like that now. Maybe it's reflex modesty again. Concerts are to display music, not people. They should cheer the music alone and leave the composer to simply write more of it.