Chapter the Second of Part the Sixth

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

“How could you have ever thought it was possible for a disinherited child to sing better than an inherited child?”

“How could you, a disinherited child, have possibly intimidated an inheritor into changing places with you and becoming your attendant?”

“How could you possibly think that you were any kind of singer at all?”

Each question hurled at Kyle from the boys and men formed in a semi-circle before him was punctuated by a sharp blow to the face or the shoulder as Kyle sat on the hard bunk of his cell. A bowl of thin, tasteless gruel rested on Kyle’s lap, untouched.

“You’re right, I am an imposter,” Kyle answered dutifully, having learned the hard way that failure to give the right response promptly only doubled the intensity of the blow inflicted on him.

“Your voice is thin!’

“Your voice is harsh!”

“Your voice is raspy!”

“Your voice is reedy!”

“Your intonation is flat!”

“Your intonation is sharp!”

“Your intonation is off the notes in every direction!”

“You’re right,” said Kyle, “I can’t sing.”

“Is that all you can say about the noise you make with your throat?” an older boy yelled as he knocked Kyle over with a hard slap.

“My singing is—is abominable,” Kyle gasped as he righted himself.”

“That’s better—I mean your understanding of your deplorable lack of talent is better.”

“Your diction is deplorable!”

“You have no musical sensitivity whatever!”

“You have no subtlety in shaping a melodic line!”

“Your sense of rhythm is nonexistent!’

“You can’t keep the simplest beat!”

“You’re right,” said Kyle, “my singing is worse than abominable.”

“Your singing makes all of your listeners sick!”

“Medical workers had to give stomach medicine to everybody who was subjected to your caterwauling!”

“Everything that can be wrong with a singer is wrong with you!”

“You’re right, my worse than abominable singing makes all my listeners sick,” said Kyle in a monotone voice.

“Now, meditate on this!”

The accusing visitor tossed another newspaper on Kyle’s lap as he and his fellow accusers stalked out of the detention house cubicle, closing the door with a resounding slam. Like all of the other newspapers they had thrust upon him, this issue sported the sketch of Kyle that was once posted all over the Universal Music Institute and throughout Wearmont before his last disastrous performance but with a thick black X printed over the picture. In the dim light of his cell, it was easy enough for Kyle to read the headline: FRAUD! FRAUD! FRAUD!

Although Kyle knew what this article would say, he read it anyway:

The boy pictured here has perpetrated the greatest fraud in the history of Mastruum. Although ordered to be the attendant for Franco Pen Marsanga, rightful student at the Universal Music Institute of Wearmont, the fraudulent disinherited child of the Pen Terraga family intimidated the rightful inheriting son of the Pen Marsanga family into changing places with him. Upon arrival at the Institute, this fraudulent criminal claimed to be an inheriting son of the musically illustrious Pen Marsanga family. Because of the long line of fine treble singers produced by the Pen Marsanga family in the past, this imposter was assigned solos which he sang with the worst vocal quality in this history of the Institute’s Boys Choir, thus causing speculation that the musical talent of illustriously musical Pen Marsanga family had run out. Much work went into the proper training of the imposter but to no avail. At a gala concert performed by the boys’ choir, this fraudulent imposter showed his true and total ineptitude by singing solos with execrable intonation and produced a screech on his high notes that crunched the bones and nerves of all who heard him. The only conclusion that could possibly be drawn from such a horrible performance was that the boy claiming to be Kyle Pen Marsanga had to be, in fact, a disinherited child. Subsequent investigation proved that the imposter is, in truth, the youngest disinherited child of the Pen Terraga family. Once again, experience has proved that inherited talent diminishes greatly with each child born after the firstborn in any family. The fraudulent imposter is currently in custody of the inquisitors of Mastruum where he awaits the judicial removal of his offending tongue. When this judgment is carried out, the social order of Mastruum will be restored to the relief of all virtuous citizens of this proud country.

Even when Kyle was left alone, the accusations buzzed through his head like a swarm of stinging insects that never stopped. Each repeated accusation renewed the blows he had received and made his bruises ache all the more. Your singing is flat, your singing is sharp, your sense of rhythm is on-existent, your voice quality makes a sick hog sound good, your singing makes all of your listeners sick.

“But I don’t sing flat,” Kyle whispered to himself, wishing he dared to shout it aloud. “It’s not my singing that makes people sick, it’s the society of Mastruum that’s sick.”

But even then, the accusations swarmed in Kyle’s mind with such force that he might have believed them if he didn’t recall the looks he saw on the faces of Brendan and Danzigger and his other friends when they sneaked into the concert.

“They know I can sing,” Kyle said to himself.

The melody of the song “The Western Wind” returned to Kyle and he started to sing it softly. As he sang, he longed so strongly to be back in Merithwell that for a brief moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of the place and of the boys singing there. He even thought he heard the boys singing and he joined them, feeling he was already back in Merithwell, when suddenly his accusers broke in on him.

Kyle snapped his mouth shut and stiffened his body as two boys and a girl swooped down on him, calling him by name. He closed his ears against their insults as best he could, but he could not help but hear them accuse him of making a boy sick and demanding that he come with them to see for himself what he had done.

They called Kyle “Stupid” and accused him of brainwashing his listeners to make them think he was a good singer when he wasn’t. The girl snatched the newspaper off Kyle’s lap and showed it to the two boys to impress on them how horrible Kyle’s singing really was. Kyle opened his mouth to admit that his singing was worse than abominable and that he made all his listeners sick but closed it again. He was tired of admitting to their lies and resolved to suffer twice the blows rather than admit to them even one more time. Kyle braced himself for a blow when one of the boys stretched a hand towards him, but the boy only grabbed him by the arm. Then the girl pulled at his jaws, forcing his mouth open, and then complained that his tongue had not been cut out. One of the boys then said something about pulling out Kyle’s tongue with red-hot pincers.

Then the boys yelled louder than ever about the boy Kyle had made sick. Kyle almost admitted that his singing makes all his listeners sick but stopped himself. If his singing really made his accusers sick as they said it did, then let them get sick. There was no way Kyle could save his tongue. This was his last chance to get back at his tormenters. And so Kyle began to sing the song “The Western Wind” with all his strength. One of the boys raised a hand but Kyle refused to cringe. He steeled himself to continue singing no matter how hard he was hit. But the boy did not hit him. He clapped him on the shoulder as if he were a friend. Before he knew it, both boys were singing the song with him and finally Kyle knew who they were and who the girl was.

Suddenly the cell became so dark that Kyle could no longer see them. Deanna grabbed his hand while Kyle continued to sing and the boys with them. The darkness grew thicker, like a blanket stuffed into his mouth, but not even the smothering blanket could stop the song from streaming from Kyle’s lips. Loud buzzing sounds filled Kyle’s ears, distorting the voices of his friends and then drowning our their voices altogether. Hardly able to hear his own voice, Kyle pushed himself to sing, convinced that only the song could get him and his friends through the dark. Not even when he heard the cubicle door open did Kyle think of stopping, no matter what happened to him.

“How dare you afflict us with that sound of a cat being tortured?” yelled the guard.

Proceed to Chapter the Third of Part the Sixth

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