More wars, or fewer? The same number, but less violent? Niven preferred to consider the music of the stars in the form of questions like these. What would it be like if everyone could hear it? Tonight’s symphony of rumbles and whistles seemed appropriate to battle.
This was no Roger Whittaker whistling. It was low and undulating, like the wind that passes between two closely spaced houses ricocheting off the faded vinyl siding, syncopated by protruding electrical meters, abandoned garden tools, and a wheelbarrow full of soil bound for a garden that will forever go wanting. The North Star large but dull, a tarnished steel sonata, sat idle while neighboring constellations ignited in high operatic style. The last throes of a desperate movement capitulating to a soft plum dawn, the musicians in need of rosin and an intermission.
Perched on his rock, he zipped up the the high collar of his sweater, protecting his neck and the humble beginnings of a beard from the night. He twisted off the thermos lid and poured the remaining half cup of tea into the lid, savouring the warmth on his hands. Soon, it would be too cold to come listen like this. The rock, wide and flat and accommodating as it was no longer received enough sun during the day to radiate comfort in the wee hours. In a matter of weeks, if not days, clouds and snowfall will quiet the stars, and Niven and his kind will endure the white silence.
Every rock, hill, island, and each city roof top yields a different arrangement of the score as ancient frequencies Doppler past. In the long shadows of winter, they will complete their transcriptions. In basements, in libraries, and out of the way coffee shops, they’ll meet to compare the longitudinal pitch shifts and latitudes of rhythmic variation. Ink stained hands will dance in proclamation of genius, piety, doom, and the sanctity of night. The papers annotated, filed and eventually archived so other generations may know the subjective and second hand beauty of the stars.
The last notes fade into the ripening morning light and the stars take a bow. As near as Niven could tell, the performance suggested war is destined to exist in one form or another for all eternity. He finished his tea, shook the straggling drops out of the lid-slash-cup, and threaded it back onto the thermos.
Like the others, he will wait patiently for spring, sleepless blankets pulled high and windows shuttered against the snowy glare. The rock will be there in May. The stars, too. He will have a new season of questions, a warmer sweater, and a bigger thermos.
This is both beautifully written and expresses an idea that captivates me. It will stick in my mind for a very long time – and thank you for that.
Very nicely written. Good story!
Many winter nights I have stood listening the music of the stars. Sometimes they answer questions, but most of the time they ask the questions. This story brings back great memories.
Is this a love letter to Larry Niven? Regardless, I really enjoyed the style here. Just grand enough in substance to warrant the flare, without being overbearing in either dimension.
I can see why you tweeted about trying to use “Doppler” as a verb. The Doppler effect is a salient detail there, and I can’t think a proper word that would connote it. I don’t like the capitalized “Doppler,” though. Maybe you should invent a verb. Ancient frequencies can pherson past my roof.
Thanks for the substance vs flare appraisal. I wondered about that myself. As for Mr. Niven, I was considering Niven a first name, not last. Embarrassingly enough, I haven’t read any of his stuff and know of him only by association w/ genre. I’ll have to fix that.
I too wondered if this was a paeon to Larry Niven. I loved the synesthesia of starlight as music, constellations as compositions. Beautiful piece.
Frequencies, music, light…sometimes it all comes together and begs attention. Thanks for reading and the RT.
well done trev..ponderous questions for all of eternity..
A new side of you… or at least a previously less public one.
Gorgeous. I read three times. I don’t have time to read anything more than once, but this… makes me pause. Thank you, and peace, Linda
A new side? I am polyhedron, hear me roar. With vertices too many to ignore….
This is beautiful, and that’s not flare that’s truth. What a way to ask and answer a question. And this is stunning:
“The North Star large but dull, a tarnished steel sonata, sat idle while neighboring constellations ignited in high operatic style.”
Glad to have found your work.
In addition to the beauty of the opening, the description of the “mundane” in the second paragraph is almost as compelling because it places the reader clearly in the scene. I wasn’t clear about the connection between the stars and music and war. I may be missing something. Otherwise, a beautiful piece.
Stars do produce wondrous symphonies.
This is beautifully written, but I can’t tell what kind of world Niven lives in. There are still things like zippers and thermoses, but the people seem to have reverted to a magical interpretation of events.
It’s our world. And like our world, some folks experience things more magically than others. Thanks for reading.
ahhh, really good! thanks for sharing
Well dang. Your descriptive prose puts mine to shame. But, then, the magic of stars can do that to a person and translate through their fingers into words. I spent some time on the flanks of Mt Everest, with stars down to the horizon in the crystalline night skies. It was magic, pure magic, but did not make me think of war. A really interesting and beautiful addition to this week’s flash.
Great perspective, well written. Thanks for this.
Ah, this one is very topical for me, I’m starting an Astronomy course next week!
The music of the stars, like little radios, receiving instructions from the heavens. Quite brilliant really.