PART THE THIRD

Chapter the First of Part the Third

In which the narrative recounts acts from the life of Kyle Pen Terraga in Puurraskin, Mastruum.

Kyle was awakened by a disinherited cousin of his aunt’s household well before the crack of dawn. The other disinherited relatives were snoring away in the bunks below and around him. Kyle climbed down from his top bunk as quietly as he could, not wanting to make the morning worse by drawing blows from Meg or any other angry disinherited relative robbed of precious sleep. Kyle took the attendant’s livery of the Wearmont Universal Music Institute off its hook and quickly put it on. To his dismay, the livery was uncomfortably loose on him, to the extent that he would have to worry about keeping his pants up if he didn’t make the belt unnaturally tight. His shoes were so large that walking was going to be difficult and he was sure to step out of his shoes by a mistake at an inopportune time. Supposedly the right measurements had been sent to the Pen Marsanga household. How could they have sized his livery so badly? To add to the frustration, Kyle could never complain about the looseness of the fit. A disinherited boy never complained to an inheritor about anything. This extra irritation only added the Kyle’s sense of helplessness as a disinherited son. He thought that his aunt had traded for him because she liked him and wanted to give him an opportunity to listen to music. But now she had traded him to a friend of hers at the drop of a glove. Kyle would still have some chance to listen to music by being Franco’s attendant at the Wearmont Universal Music Institute, but it was going to be frustrating beyond endurance to have to listen to Franco’s singing in the boys choir there. Kyle had no time to dwell on regrets. As soon as he was dressed and he had his cloak about him, he was pushed out of the Disinherited’s sleeping room in the direction of the stairs.

“The carriage is waiting,” Kyle’s cousin hissed. “Use the legs your mother gave you and don’t keep them waiting any longer.”

Kyle moved down the stairs as quickly as he could without making any noise, passed the kitchen where the aroma of breakfast made his stomach long for a few bites, and walked out the back door where the horse-drawn carriage stood. Being a disinherited boy, Kyle expected to ride next to the driver, but the man gruffly waved Kyle inside the carriage.

“Franco’s orders,” the man whispered, allowing the distaste to show in his voice.

Startled, but not unhappy to be spared the chilling cold air during the long trip, Kyle opened the carriage door and sat in the seat facing Franco. Franco said nothing in greeting. He looked like a corpse traveling in his burial car. When the carriage started up, Kyle looked back and thought that he saw his aunt’s face in a window looking out at him. He could not be sure, but he hoped that was true.

The unfairness of the whole situation weighed Kyle down like a wall collapsing on him. The unexpected brief happy moments experienced the night before in Merithwell only seemed to make it worse. It had happened, of all places, near the laundry tubs in the basement where he had been ordered to bring down his the Pen Terraga livery he would no longer need. He had just started to undress when the shadows near the tubs deepened. Dancing sparkles of that appeared and the singing that could only come from Merithwell reached his ears. Kyle put off undressing the rest of the way and walked in, heedless of the disarray of his livery. There, Kyle found four boys he had not meet before singing the song called “The Western Wind” that Luke and Brendan had taught him. Mark, Dunsland and Peete introduced themselves and Kyle joined them in singing the song. As with the other boys Kyle had met in Merithwell, Mark and Dunsland said they liked his singing and Mark even invited Kyle to come to his world and join his choir. What Kyle could not understand was why people from other worlds thought he was a good singer and yet nobody in his own world would give him the right to sing as much as one note. All this time, the fourth boy in Merithwell mostly sulked on his own. Kyle took that as a sign that not every boy he met in the place was going to be friendly. Finding an entry to Merithwell in a place other than the West Parlor of his aunt’s house gave Kyle a faint hope that he might find it again from somewhere at the Wearmont Universal Music Institute.

Franco fidgeted in his seat. Kyle eyed him just enough to notice that Franco’s livery seemed very tight on him. That made Kyle wonder if the disinherited relative responsible for making the livery for the Pen Marsanga household was so incompetent that frequent beatings could not get better results.

“Kyle,” said Franco.

“What?” Kyle responded.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Wh-wh-a-a-at?”

“I said: Take off your shirt. And take off your shoes and your pants.”

Kyle felt hot and flustered at this request. He had heard of inheritors doing horrible things to their disinherited relatives. Since girls were most usually the victims of such treatment, Kyle thought it would never happen to him. Knowing that protest was not allowed, Kyle slipped off his shoes and started to undo his shirt slowly.

“Kyle,” said Franco. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you do that.”

Those words were reassuring, but not much. They only made the order more incomprehensible than ever. To add to the strangeness of it all, Franco struggled out of his overly tight shirt and then his pants until he was stripped down to his undershorts. Kyle looked away and pulled off his pants. In spite of what the boy had just said, he must be intending to do that. Why else would he undress as well? Kyle pressed himself against the side of the carriage and waited for the inevitable. What happened, however, was that a pair of trousers landed in his lap.

“Put them on,” Franco ordered.

“I can’t. It’s illegal,” said a totally bewildered Kyle.

“It’s illegal to disobey an inheritor. Put them on.”

The only alternative to obeying the order was for Kyle to arrive at the Wearmont Universal Music Institute in his under shorts, so Kyle pulled on the trousers of Franco’s livery and then the shirt that Franco threw at him as well. Meanwhile, Franco put on Kyle’s livery so that he was the one who looked the part of a disinherited son. The smoother, finer quality of the garments felt strange to Kyle. And they fit him perfectly. Even more strange, the disinherited livery that Franco had put on fit him perfectly as well.

“You are a mess,” said Franco. “Let me straighten you up.”

Still in a daze, Kyle submitted to Franco’s rearranging the livery until everything was in place and he really looked the part of an inheriting son.

“Now you look okay,” said Franco, his face still grave. Dressed in the disinherited version of his family’s livery, Franco looked totally disinherited. “As you can see, we are switching roles. You are the one who is going to be the student at the Wearmont Universal Music Institute and sing in the boys’ choir. I will be your attendant.”

“I can’t, it’s—“

“It is illegal to disobey an inheritor. I know this will be hard for you. I know what people are like. I suppose you do, too. But you will have the chance to sing. I hope that gives you some pleasure. Your aunt says you like music.”

“What if I fail to make the tryout?”

“As a member of the Pen Marsanga family, you are already accepted to the boys choir. I could tell by the look on your face when I was singing that you know you can do better than I can. I’m sure you’ll do well enough to keep my family from suffering disgrace. You will have to. The Wearmont Universal Music Institute is expecting a boy named Kyle Pen Marsanga. We thought it would be too hard for both of us to get used to reversed names before our reactions gave us away. We can’t do anything about the family name, of course, so you’ll have to remember that you are now a Pen Marsanga.”

“I don’t know how to do anything. I can’t read. I don’t know how to act.”

“You will have to learn fast. Your aunt thinks you are intelligent. You will have to be or we are both done for.” Franco picked up a book he had beside him on the seat. “We have some time before we get there. I’ll start teaching you your letters right now.”

Throughout the day’s journey, Franco Pen Marsanga bombarded Kyle with the basics in letters, music reading and some other basic knowledge he would be expected to have. It was a bit of a relief to Kyle that his uncanny ability to make sense of words and music on the page that he experienced in Merithwell carried over to his own world. Franco also taught Kyle the songs he would most likely be asked to sing upon arrival to demonstrate his ability. Franco seemed pleasantly surprised that Kyle could remember a song after hearing it only once. Even so, the urgent learning tasks presented to him were monumental and Kyle’s head was spinning with the effort.

When the carriage finally came to a stop. Franco yelled out of the window to the driver to empty the baggage trunk and resume his seat. Only when the bags were on the curbside did Franco open the door.

“Keep your back to the driver,” Franco whispered “and remember: you are Kyle Pen Marsanga.”

The facade of the Music Institute took Kyle’s breath away. Six columns adorned the front which sported a carving of a woman, a man, and a boy singing heartily. Kyle instinctively reached for the bags but Franco snatched them first.

“Remember, you can’t do any work, you inheriting brat,” Franco hissed. “Walk in front of me. Walk tall. You are a top singer. You will have to be.”

Kyle straightened his body as well as he could. He thought of the kind words that Brendan and Luke and other boys in Merithwell had given him. If he really was good enough to sing in their choirs then perhaps he really was good enough to sing in the boys choir at Wearmont. As Franco kept saying, he would have to be. When Kyle reached the top of the steps he started to reach for the door. Again Franco pre-empted him by dropping the bags and opening it for him. Kyle walked in to a marbled foyer where a young woman wearing the light blue and silver livery of the Institute was sitting at a desk.

“I assume that you are Kyle Pen Marsanga,” said the woman.

“Yes, I am,” said Kyle with what little breath he had left.

“We have for a long time looked forward to meeting the boy from one of the most musical families in all Mastruum. You and your attendant are assigned to room S-12. You will take the corridor on your right to get to it. You will find a map of the Institute in your room. Please meet at the choir room at the third quarter of the afternoon.”

This was the first time the word “please” had ever been said to Kyle and the word so startled him that he might have given himself away if he hadn’t turned in Franco’s direction right away and started off to his room.

When Kyle walked into the choir room at the prescribed time with Franco behind him, he felt that he was walking in a dream that could turn into a nightmare at any time. Red and white marble columns complemented the orange tile floors and two chandeliers, each lit with a double circle of candles, hung from the ceiling. A hammerharp stood in the middle of the room with a set of music stands close to it. Several other boys in their resplendent livery were milling around with drinks in their hand while their attendants, most of them close to the boys’ ages, stood nearby. In the midst of a group of boys a strikingly beautiful girl was talking animatedly with them. Kyle wondered at that because Franco had explained that boys and girls were trained separately as singers because of the unique qualities of their voices. The possibility that a girl like that might actually speak to him one day melted Kyle’s heart and almost turned his knees into jelly.

“It is appears that the boy from the musically legendary and reclusive Pen Marsanga family has arrived,” announced a blond youth from the group around the girl.

Kyle flushed to see so many faces turned in his direction, the girl’s among them. Franco put a drink in Kyle’s hand and Kyle took a sip. He was startled by its strong flavor and had to force himself not to show his reaction.

“Well, so much for being the lead soloist of my generation,” said another boy. “Not even a Pen Parsley can compete with a Pen Marsanga.”

The boy’s tone of voice, however, suggested otherwise.

“Anyone want to offer bets on who gets the first solo?” asked another boy. “Burton Pen Parsley or Kyle Pen Marsanga?”

“I’ll lay down my money after Kyle Pen Marsanga introduces himself in song,” said one of the boys.

“Well, Kyle,” said Burton, “What do you think of having to tackle the Song of the Near Sky by Herbert Pen Testament?”

With Herbert Pen Testament being all the rage at the moment, Franco had tipped Kyle off about him and recommended a non-committal response until he sang the music for himself.

“I find Pen Testament’s work most interesting and I am still sifting my mind as to what I think about it,” said Kyle.

“Well,” said the girl with a look at Kyle that dissolved his heart, “I like someone who asks questions first and squares his mind second.”

“BOYS! TO YOUR PLACES!” boomed a loud voice.

As the other boys scurried to find their places, Kyle checked out the names taped on to the music stands and managed to make out his own name on one of them. Each boy’s attendant stood behind his master, ready to be of service. The girl seated herself at the hammerharp. That explained her presence in the room. A distinguished-looking man wearing a well-trimmed chin-beard stood beside the hammerharp and eyed the boys imperiously.

“As you all undoubtedly know,” the choir director announced, “the boy from the most musical of families has finally deigned to arrive and lend his voice to the Wearmont Institute Boys Choir under the direction of the man standing before you, Magister Marlow Pen Vango. I assume that Kyle Pen Marsanga will, like all of the boys assembled here, work hard for the satisfaction of being part of one of the top cultural attainments in all Mastruum. We will warm up by singing the ascending Meridian scale.”

With Franco having taught Kyle the basic scales in the coach, Kyle could sing them well enough to get through the warmup exercises.

“Before we proceed with our rehearsal,” said Magister Marlow Pen Vango, “Kyle Pen Marsanga will demonstrate the great vocal talent for which his family is noted by singing ‘Homeward Bound.’ Deanna Pen Lear will play the opening chord for you.”

Kyle’s stomach plummeted. That was one song Franco had not even mentioned. He was done for. Deanna played the opening phrase of the song while Kyle stood there, his lips quivering. Magister Pen Vango clapped his hands.

“Has the cold wind inside your carriage robbed you of your voice?” asked the choirmaster.

The incredulous and gleeful expressions on the faces of the other boys told Kyle that he was assumed to have known this song since he was old enough to walk.

“That is one of few songs I have not learned, Magister,” struggling to keep his voice steady. “I could sing ‘Geese above the Clouds’ for you.”

Magister Pen Vango rushed over at Kyle with a rod in his hand. Kyle steeled himself to take the blow as he was accustomed to but the blow fell on Franco’s outstretched hand. Kyle almost threw up his lunch, but he owed it to Franco to maintain a firm face or he would give the masquerade away. The relishing smiles on the faces of most of the other choir boys indicated that getting their attendants beaten at rehearsal was one of their favorite sports.

“In retribution for that little joke,” said the irate choir director, “I will ask you to sing this —at sight, since you come from such an illustrious musical family that has no time for common, ordinary songs that everybody else knows.”

Magister Pen Vango flung a sheet of music onto Kyle’s music stand bearing the title: Moon Meditation, composed by Homar Pen Stucco. One look at the florid music was enough to make the boy’s heart sink. Kyle’s ability to make some sense of the music only sharpened his fear as he could see how difficult it was. Deanna Pen Lear appeared to be as stricken by the order as Kyle was. She played the opening line for Kyle and smiled encouragingly.

“Come now, you are a lofty Pen Marsanga,” said Magister Pen Vango. “Let’s hear you sing it.”

Seeing that the other boys were already celebrating his downfall, Kyle wasn’t about let them celebrate for long if he could help it. The encouragement Brendan and Luke and Danzigger had given Kyle helped him pull his head together and pick out the basic thrust in the music. It wasn’t that much harder than the song called “The Western Wind” and that gave him some hope.

Deanna played the opening chords and nodded to Kyle when it was time for him to enter. The opening note was a high one, but Kyle found it and took off. He knew he was missing some of the rapid notes but he was getting many of them and he knew he had grasped the shape of the melody. The further along he got, the more the shape of the piece became clear to Kyle. Certain phrases repeated themselves and became routine. That made the variant phrases easier to pick up. As his fright subsided, Kyle realized that the song itself was quite beautiful and he poured some expression into it until his heart was fully in the final note. The choir room was still for a few instants. Kyle, emotionally wrung out as he was, could see that the boys were resigned to postponing their celebration of his downfall for another day. He tried to resist catching a glimpse of Deanna but he could not resist that temptation. Her eyes were shining. Kyle melted again.

“You turned the melismas early on into egg yolk pudding,” Magister Pen Vango began. “You made something palatable with them further on. Intonation was correct with three exceptions. Expression was as wooden as a post at first. Later in the piece, expression ran amok. My principle comment is that execrable vocal technique, poor breathing, and a massive lack of discipline overshadowed some of the most dazzling and powerful and—shall I say it?—sweet singing I have heard in many a season. If you wish to have your attendant’s hand healthy enough to serve you, I suggest you take the trouble to breathe properly and search your nursery school memory for some vocal fundamentals. However, considering what you could do without any discipline or thoughtfulness, you are most certainly proof that family blood runs strongest in the eldest children before it weakens with later issue.”

Magister Marlow Pen Vango told the boys to open their scores of Song of the Near Sky by Herbert Pen Testament. The music, having just been written, was new to all the boys and so Kyle was no longer at a disadvantage. He found that he was remembering each phrase after the first time he sang it while other boys struggled the second or third times through, drawing blows to the hands of their attendants. Magister Pen Vango stopped the choir when it broke down completely except for Kyle who was keeping it going all by himself.

“It seems to me that not even a Pen Marsanga should be able to learn a challenging new work so much quicker than the rest of you when that Pen Marsanga boy has been hiding for so long,” said Magister Pen Vango. “If the rest of you do not want to disgrace your families, I suggest you pay more attention to the notes and practice them between rehearsals. Now, from the top of the third page.”

After the rehearsal, Kyle wanted to escape instantly but Franco had already told him he had to socialize after rehearsals as well as before them. Franco put another drink in his hand while the other attendants did the same.

“How did you get a copy of that before the rest of us did?” Burton Pen Parsley asked Kyle.

“That’s easy,” said another boy before Kyle could figure out how to respond, “he’s a Pen Marsanga. Surely he has a speaking relationship with Herbert Pen Testament.”

“How come your voice is so untrained if you are a Pen Marsanga?” asked another boy.

Kyle feared that the other boys were already catching on to what he and Franco had done but he had to answer as best he could.

“My mother would not let me sing until this year,” he replied, knowing he was speaking the exact truth, as his mother indeed never let him sing.

“That is no way to raise an inheriting son in a musical family,” said the boy.

“My mother said it is a—a trial. To see if I can sing better if I have to learn everything all at once.”

“That is quite a startling idea,” said Deanna Pen Lear, “and probably a foolish one, but the Pen Marsanga family is as well known for its eccentric trials as it is for its eccentric composers. Perhaps this trial can only work in the Pen Marsanga family, but don’t you think it has yielded interesting results with Kyle?”

Kyle would have been elated beyond measure by Deanna’s words if he didn’t know what a fraud he was. If ever Deanna found out the truth about him, she would take back every word and then some.

Later, in his room, a shaken Kyle Pen Marsanga watched Franco administer ointment to his hand, all the while wishing he was the one who was struck. He sat uneasily on the large, plush bed, wondering how he was going to sleep in it when he was used to a narrow bunk highest up the wall in the Disinherited sleeping room.

“I’m so sorry,” said Kyle.

“It had to happen,” said Franco. “How was I to know he would try to insult you by asking you to sing something so elementary? I can’t believe you did what you did. I don’t think even your aunt dreamed you were this good. What happened to me today won’t happen often. I’ll make sure you know a lot more about breathing right away and other stuff.”

“I hate inheritors more than I did when I wasn’t one of them,” said Kyle.

“I know the feeling,” said Franco sadly. “I said this wouldn’t be easy for either of us. But we have to work with the system. There’s no escaping it.”

“Yes there is,” said Kyle.

As if his words were a cue, a peel of distant thunder sounded and then an opening appeared in one wall of the room. Kyle’s heart leapt. He would see his real friends again! Franco’s jaw dropped and he shrank back. Kyle heard the sound of a string instrument and then a voice. It had to be Danzigger!

“Franco,” said Kyle, “we can escape Mastruum, at least for a while. Come on!”

Proceed to Chapter the Second of Part the Third

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