Modal Sojourn

It seemed to be attempting communication, easing my concerns, placating and erasing my phobias and offering some unusual kind of assistance. I must have given a rudimentary response to the theme, for it ceased and left me in momentary silence. Too, the assorted knots of color assumed a common blue tint in commiseration. They seemed to confer amongst their ripples of luminance.

"Worm hole cancer!" commented the aqua presence. "Warp irradiation will only prolong his agony, not remove it. We need a plague specialist."

From that moment, the presences shared an opaque azure band of suffused illumination across their many shapes as though they had learned to do so from me. Once again, melody filtered through the room, directed at myself. It was both like and unlike the previous song. There were many kinds of flutes, bass and soprano, balsa and oak, cylindrical and bulbous. Some were keyed with rose and lapis quartz, others open holed and rimmed with gold. More than one presence reproduced the tune exactly, but others interjected interpretations. One entity took control of them, indicating its superiority with an influx of intense vermilions and veridians. There was an hiatus in which this being conducted his deep vibrations into others until they more or less converged. The melody was repeated many times until the variations disappeared and the song became a unison sonorous plea. I was mesmerized by its unfamiliar, tempting mode. It was spherical and filled with gaseous brilliance.

"Take shape," said the bell suddenly.

"Commence," ordered the cord, still strumming.

The strong entity appeared to me visually for the first time. The face was that of an old man, resembling Grieg or Einstein. It was neither, for its lips moved and spoke incredible colors.

"I am Michel, known to you as Nostradamus," he painted slowly. "I doctor the centuries and your wounds are mine."

Timbre and intonation were accosted by this entity, claiming to be the great prophet of 16th century France. One by one, this being joined the others, influencing each to match its exact flavor and hue. I could taste the song and savored the slight differences between the choir members. Soon, the discrepancies became indiscernible and I felt myself rise as if called. My body remained static below its soaring focus. Perhaps I was being asked to sing, to duplicate them incorporeally. If so, my initial attempt shattered their carefully constructed flute bubble, saddening me. My song was brass and brash, orange and torrid. It wove between them like a cutting sword, cleaving to none. I snapped myself back into my former state, preferring my internal disharmony to causing their disruption and cacophony. It served to convince me that I was truly separate.

"He requires a power source," clanged the bell. "Call the necromancers."

They were persistent, I’ll give them that. No sooner had I lapsed into myself than they tried another, similar tactic. Again they appeared to have learned something useful from my distinctness, for the mode of the song altered to accommodate my own. Carmines and beiges supplemented the aquamarines, fusing themselves in a never-before-encountered iris. Patterns expanded to include a semblance of what they must have viewed as my form. The wooden shapes became petrified with crystalline particles. Their sparkling facets showered me with glints and shimmers. I became cognizant of the fact that they were trying to reach out for me or get me to join them. It was less mystical and more real, though my consciousness continued to refuse me a known path or doorway. Resolutely, they refrained from abandoning me in my helplessness.

"He languishes peacefully in our coil," said one necromancer. The name ‘Faraday’ emblazoned his iridescent colors in obsidian fire.