The Backbeat:
From the Minstrel's Wife's Point of View

Written by KidKourage

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‘Why do you love him?'

If I were to be paid even a small amount of money for every time I have been asked that question, I would soon have enough to buy one of every different kind of instrument in the world. It's never asked in quite so polite a tone, either-in most cases it's accompanied by raised eyebrows and upcurled lips: ‘Why do you love him?' What those who do the asking don't understand, of course, is that love is an emotion that works without any regard for ‘why.' We always note reasons-‘His sense of humor,' ‘Her beautiful smile'--but it is my belief that these are merely platitudes we offer to each other and ourselves in an attempt to justify the fact that, well, we just can't explain what has caused us to feel so perfectly close and connected with another person.

At least, that is my experience with love. My husband is not someone you'd call the most outwardly charming of all individuals, and it is true that he has quite a quick temper. In fact, the day we met, at a performance in one of the villages of some roaming theater company or another, he vowed to despise me until the end of time. In the intervening years between then and now, I introduced him to his true calling--that is, beyond conquering the kingdom and ruling it with an iron fist--in the music, to be only somewhat surprised when he became as able a musician as I…and then far more able. And somewhere in there, we suddenly realized that what had begun as a tentatively struck alliance and had grown into mutual respect and friendship…had somehow blossomed into love. We have been connected in soul for a long time, now, each feeling the other's emotions and understanding the other's thoughts, though it was only recently that we became officially wedded. We have a child, a beautiful daughter whom he says has my spirit and I say has his determination. Together we travel the land looking for chances to bring our music to the people of this kingdom. We've made some friends along the way, and played with countless other minstrels, but there was one occasion that stands out in my mind as…

You are desperate to have a response to your question, are you not? ‘Why do you love him?' Perhaps, in this story, you might find the answer. You might, finally, see…

Going through my husband's notes on the subject, it is all returning to me as if I were experiencing it all over again. Ha, yes, but leave it to that one to become distracted by some sudden inspiration and leave off writing at just the crucial moment. As I've been reading this, I've been wondering just how he would explain the climax of his epic encounter with the one so like himself. Oh, well, I suppose I should be thankful that he obviously had so little desire to finish that he's left his account unfinished for weeks now; it's a good thing that he's not dwelling on…what happened. I will pick up where he left off, then, and complete it for him. Otherwise…well, he's hard at work composing some suite of tunes or another that I'm sure is destined to hypnotize the people of one of the nearby markets. That is to say, if I don't write this, no one will. …it still surprises me how such a small thing, a little quirk of personality, can make the corners of my lips turn up without my willing them to. Ah, but look-another symptom of the strange madness we call love.

Let the story continue…

If you had been in my head at that time, you wouldn't have found a coherent thought in the place. Just an instant before, I had been thoroughly immersed in the alternate plane of the music, letting my dulcimer's hammers ring against the very strings of the universe. I was playing my usual role in our duets: that of the harmony, the backbeat to support his soaring, dipping melody. As such, it was my ‘job,' of sorts, to weave my notes in and around his, keeping the rhythm going and providing support. When I am in the flow of the music, this translates to color; what we create appears a tapestry of threads, insubstantial and sparkling in the ether. It is always beautiful, to be there with him. And our daughter obviously believes so as well, for there she was as well, adding the song of her soul if not of a tangible instrument to the mix. Yes, beautiful indeed.

Over the moments of this occasion, however, the loveliness had gone sour. For this was no performance, recreational or professional--this was a duel. My husband versus this…other, who was just as skilled as he was. Neither of them will ever admit it, I am sure, but…they seemed so very alike, both possessed of that rare ability to convey true emotion in song form…and both absolutely determined to triumph over the other in this contest of talent and will.

Still, there was an inherent difference there. My husband's rival could indeed call to the musical core of the world, but what he created from it…it sounded and felt like pure anger and pain. And by his side…

When you are in the ‘business' of traveling minstrel-hood, you soon find others like you to join with on occasion, combining your separate songs into one, to the delight of audiences and for the greater good of building friendships that will last beyond distance and time so that whenever you meet, you can pick up as though there has been no intervening age. One such friend of ours was there, a girl with incredible skill with stringed instruments, whose talent seems to increase every time we are together. We two are alike in our love of music, in our tendency to fall into hypnotic trances both when playing and listening, and also…

Well, I'd had no idea that she knew someone like…him. And yet they must have been very, very close-no one could create music together in such a way without having a deep bond. She was as connected with that wraithlike form in black as I am to my love. And as a result, when he began to pour more and more hatred into his melody…

She was in pain. And I…I could do nothing. I didn't know how. I could feel her hurting as he dragged her deeper and deeper into that swirling song of darkness, and I wanted desperately to reach out and catch her. But that would have meant dropping all the threads of my husband's and my own music, and…non-musicians may not understand, but to do so…would be the equivalent of kicking a sleepwalker. Music, strong music like this, must be eased out of gently-and must, most importantly, be seen through to the end. If I let go…I could have hurt him, and my child, and might leave myself so reeling that I would be of no help to my friend, either. I was the backbeat, the support…if I let go…

I felt a touch at the corners of my mind. It was my love, reassuring me to continue with my part. He too had felt the suffering in his enemy's song, and he was going to…deal with it…. Then in another brief flicker, he was gone again, and then…………so was the music.

I opened my eyes, dizzy from the shock of it, and shook my head to clear my hazy vision. As I've said, to be jerked out of the musical world so suddenly and completely…I had always known without being taught that such a thing went against the grain of…oh, I lack words, and begin to understand why my husband would abruptly begin cursing about ‘useless language without proper expressions' late at night while attempting to put his thoughts on the subject to paper. In any case, as you've likely noticed, my love is hardly orthodox. So while I had been held back from ending the song and assisting my friend by my own fear and doubt, he…

He had tackled his rival to the ground, thus putting a stop to both songs in one fell swoop. No, you could never ever accuse my husband of being subtle. In fact that's probably the top reason why people keep asking me that question-‘Why do you love him?'

My love, being himself, recovered quite quickly and leapt to his feet, backing away from the prone body of his rival, obviously distraught by what he'd done. That man…that self-proclaimed phantom…he seemed so much smaller then, without the aura of his powerful music around him… With all sound gone from the place, the room felt so very, very empty. I reached for my child and was relieved when I found that she too had survived the cessation of the song and could grip my fingers, the two of us reassuring each other of our continued solidity. My friend looked like she was struggling to keep from losing consciousness as she reached out to touch the still form of her companion in an attempt to wake him.

At which point my husband did something that anyone but me would probably be surprised at: he asked the girl if she was all right. I had known, being so connected to him, that he had acted to help her-anyone watching from outside would likely have said he had ‘attacked' his foe in order to prevent him from winning-but…even I had never expected him to actually communicate that intention out loud. He quickly reverted to his usual public self, and I could sense his embarrassment at having shown even so small a bit of what he would normally deem ‘filthy' compassion. He ranted a little about how awful it would have been if his rival had died of shock, because then he wouldn't be able to gloat, but…his heart was hardly in it, despite the force of his words.

In the meantime, our friend had steadied herself enough to grasp her fiddle again, and…was trying to call back her friend's spirit to his body with her song. My love again surprised me by retrieving Sang av Aere and joining her, lending a degree of support to her as yet weak melody. I looked down to find I was still somehow holding on to my hammers in one hand, and, after pulling my daughter closer, started in with another lower harmony, trying to infuse the whole product with a feeling of peace while letting my friend call out. This was my chance, I thought, to redeem myself for not having done anything in the first place. I still wasn't entirely back to myself from the first round of music, and amidst my swirling thoughts was a sense of guilt at my inaction. Now, I would try to help make it better.

It seemed as though our target was reluctant to be caught up, however. For all my friend's soothing music and entreaties to return, his spirit was keeping just beyond her reach. Being immersed in music once more, I could feel the auras of all those present in that other world, and…yes, I could see vaguely the cause of this. Apparently the rivalry between my husband and his ghostly enemy had not been entirely dropped. Though my love was attempting to help, he had not altogether let go of the idea that he should emerge ‘victorious' from this encounter and be given glory as the greatest musician in all the land. And, for his part, the phantom seemed determined not to admit defeat either.

Nevertheless, this battle of mind and will did not go on for long. My husband stopped playing his fiddle, admitting that he wasn't being helpful, and I too gave up, seeing now that only my friend had the kind of connection necessary to achieve this goal. I set my hammers aside and took my daughter into my lap, now only listening to the other girl call out. Still her companion remained out of reach until finally…

‘I gave up.' I will never forget those words, so simple and yet so very, very difficult. In the midst of yet another characteristic tirade about how he'd been the better fiddler, had had the better song…my love, for the first time in all the years I have known him…admitted defeat. Perhaps it was said without thinking, perhaps it was only fleeting, but they say that it is what is said without first consulting reason is what is most true. If he had stopped to let his conscious mind intervene, no, he probably would not have said it. And that…is how I know that he meant it. This is another reason why it's probably a good thing that I am finishing this instead of him; he would never admit to having behaved in such a way, while to me the fact that he did so is…well, the whole point.

At that moment, the ghost, who had fallen so far into the haze of the music, finally latched on to the remaining light of my friend's melody, and returned to himself. She had saved him, and only she could have done so. It made sense-after all, if things had been the other way around I greatly doubt that my own companion would have ever deigned to respond to the call of anyone but me, so…yes, it is clear that those two did have the same level of bond between them. I have no idea whether my husband's declaration of defeat had anything to do with the phantom's resurrection, but…for the most part, indeed perhaps entirely, it was my friend's love for him that had brought him back.

He didn't stay with us long, however, and within a brief instant had vanished into the shadows once more. But the fact that he did return, did answer the voice of my friend's music when she called him, is to my mind the proof that though this ‘phantom' does live in shadows, there is the potential for light within him. As there is with every living creature in this universe. Someone with such talent, such an inherent tie to music, who can create such a pure emotion using only wood, bow, and spirit, and who can feel such a love for another that her touch could bring him back from the depths…yes, I'm sure he can shine.

And now for the answer you have all been waiting for. I've been keeping you in such suspense, have I not? ‘Why do you love him?' Because he shines. My love's exterior may be hard and anger-prone, and more than a little touched by pride, but I have seen his inner soul, and it is bright. That he could concede defeat, admit that he had lost by giving up when he had so much desired to win…and that he had given up not because of any lack of talent or lessening of concentration but because he had seen that our friend was in pain and decided that helping her was more important than victory…there, for those of you--everyone but me, really--who have known my husband only in passing…is your example of that brightness.

Look around you, at those you care for, and think--is it really those eyes, that smile, that knack for witty observation, that leads you to call what you feel for these people love? Or is there something else, some deeper feeling that here, here is a good person, someone you can see the heart of and know that it is something wonderful, something that, in your own soul's eyes, sparkles radiantly? That feeling, my friends, is the core of love.

That is why…I love him.