Illustrator strokes the page./His dancers muse his heft and weave / they leap and settle into place./There's music in his dots and shades. /A flat; a sharp; a pedal pressed then nimbly lifted./ Life is praised upon his stage.
Liszt had his tone poem propped up on his stand; he looked like the mad professor from 'Back to the Future.' Long, loose curls hung down past his shoulders from just behind his bald spot. He wore black tails with a crisply pressed white linen shirt, his shoes were polished to a high shine and they reflected his baton, which he held in his left hand; it fell down in line with the seam of his pants. He carried it even though he wasn’t conducting. He had sprained his right wrist and it was bound in an elasticised, translucent pink bandage.
Borodin had agreed to fill-in for him. The concert organisers were happy to switch, so everything was fine. But Liszt was harassed. He was showcasing a new movement and he’d asked for full orchestra, but they'd given chamber orchestra and Freddie Mercury. And he was still waiting on both to show up.
He couldn't believe it, Freddie Mercury! -- he was just about cold in the grave. But this All Hallows’ Concert was hosted by popular demand, and the organisers wanted Freddie to introduce Liszt and read his sonnet, and then to introduce the movement. And what the organisers wanted they got.
Gosh, there’s Carolan, that old boy had stayed as he was. Like all-souls, he was given a choice of an age to settle at, Liszt had chosen 42, Carolan, looked 80, though he probably hadn't seen it when he was alive, but he was no longer blind. He'd heard he was performing some of his *planxties. Still, he wasn't sure how he got in the door, must be down to Handel and his Messiah. The thing about Handel was that he said thank you too many times -- both dead and alive. Still he wasn’t here and neither was Williams, just himself, Borodin and Beethoven from the classics. Or so, he'd been told, but anything could happen on this brave night and indeed had, Liszt remember when . . .
At last, there was Borodin walking up with Lennon. He was closing the show. But that was not his concern, where the heck was Mercury?
Liszt paced nervously, his polished shoes tapping out an uneven rhythm against the floor. He squinted at Borodin and Lennon, now deep in conversation, likely comparing notes on the evening’s final piece. But Liszt’s mind was elsewhere. Where was Mercury? He had a show to run, and he didn’t need Bohemian Rhapsody derailing the whole event.
Just as his thoughts hit a crescendo of frustration, a distant sound floated through the air. First faint, then unmistakable-- the rhythmic clinking of bicycle chains and the unmistakable opening riff of "I Want to Ride My Bicycle."
Liszt’s heart sank, then rose, in quick succession. The doors to the hall burst open with a gust of wind, and in rode Freddie Mercury, resplendent in tight white satin and a crown perched jauntily on his head. His mustache curled into a mischievous grin as he pedaled, one hand waving theatrically, the other steering the bicycle with perfect ease. Behind him, a procession of witches followed, their broomsticks tied to their handlebars, their black robes billowing like sails in the wind.
The audience, a mix of spirits and mortals, erupted into a frenzy of applause and cheers. Even Borodin couldn’t suppress a smile. The witches, in perfect unison, circled around the stage like a choreographed dance. Mercury’s voice rang out, belting the lyrics to "I Want to Ride My Bicycle" with all the power and joy that only Freddie could muster. His energy filled the room, lifting it from the solemnity of the classical tones Liszt had envisioned.
For a brief, incredulous moment, Liszt forgot his irritation. He watched Mercury take his place at the center of the stage, still perched on his bike, microphone in hand, and his charisma lighting up the room. The witches circled, weaving around him, cackling in time to the music.
Mercury grinned at Liszt and winked. "All right, maestro! Ready for your sonnet or are we just here to ride?"
Liszt straightened his tails, gave an exasperated sigh, but couldn’t suppress the small smile pulling at his lips. “Let’s hear the sonnet first, -- he said, trying to keep his tone authoritative, though it was nearly impossible in the wake of Mercury’s larger-than-life entrance.
The witches screeched to a halt, their wheels spinning, and Mercury dramatically cleared his throat, producing a piece of parchment from inside his jacket. He unfolded it with flair, raised one eyebrow at Liszt, and began to read.
The room fell into an expectant hush as Freddie finished his grand recitation. A few lingering guitar notes faded into the background, leaving only the soft rustle of the witches' robes and the odd creak from their bicycles. Mercury, ever the showman, handed the parchment back to Liszt with a flamboyant bow before taking a playful lap around the stage on his bike, prompting a few chuckles from the audience.
Liszt stepped forward, his baton now tucked neatly under his arm. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling, and with a nod to the gathered spirits and mortals alike, he raised his hand for silence. The crowd stilled once more, anticipation crackling in the air.
"My friends," Liszt began, his voice steady and clear, though there was a slight tremor of excitement in it, "tonight we gather not merely to perform, but to conjure--through music, through verse--the essence of life itself. What you will hear tonight is no ordinary sonnet, but a tribute to those who dwell in the spaces between time, whose music lingers long after the final note."
He paused, letting his words sink in, his eyes sweeping over the eclectic audience. Spirits of musicians long past, famous and forgotten, mingled with the living, all drawn together by the promise of this night.
"Shall we begin?" Liszt gestured to the orchestra, who sat poised, ready to lend their notes to his words. He turned back to the audience, took a deep breath, and with a fluid motion, unfurled the parchment with the sonnet scrawled upon it.
He began:
The moon, the tide, the stars alight,
They whisper soft in silence deep.
A note once struck may take its flight,
But in our souls it wakes from sleep.
From echo’s grasp, a sound reborn,
A chord that carries through the veil.
In death, no stillness shall adorn,
For music's breath, it shall prevail.
So play your hearts, both loud and true,
For every string, a soul shall hear.
In every note, we sing anew,
A harmony that none shall fear.
His voice rose with the final stanza, and the orchestra, small though it was, responded with sweeping notes that seemed to fill the hall beyond their number. The witches, still circling quietly around the stage, hummed softly, creating a low harmony that mingled with the strings.
For a moment, the audience sat in stunned silence. The air itself seemed charged with emotion, a collective breath held. Then, like a wave breaking, applause erupted--an odd mix of polite claps, spirited whoops, and ghostly murmurs from the spirits in the audience. Borodin, standing at the side, gave a slow, approving nod, while Lennon smiled, tapping his fingers along with the rhythm.
Even Freddie Mercury, who had dismounted his bicycle and leaned casually against it, gave a small clap, his face lit with a rare expression of reverence. He met Liszt’s gaze and mouthed, “Well done."
The crowd’s reaction grew, and Liszt, ever the consummate professional, gave a small bow. Yet, as he straightened, a ghost of a smile flickered across his face. For all the chaos, for all the unexpected entrances and musicians from beyond the grave, the music had done what it always did--it had captured hearts.
And in that moment, for the briefest of seconds, Liszt allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, the night might not be lost after all.
Just as the applause began to settle, a distant rumble echoed through the hall, low and ominous. It started as a murmur beneath the floorboards but soon swelled into something louder, more insistent. The musicians exchanged puzzled glances, and Liszt raised an eyebrow. For a moment, even Freddie Mercury’s confident posture faltered as he straightened up, glancing toward the massive doors at the back of the concert hall.
The doors swung open, but no rider or ghostly figure emerged. Instead, a gust of wind rushed in, carrying with it a cascade of dried leaves and dust. The air turned colder, and the audience stirred uneasily, as if sensing an approaching storm.
And then, from the back of the hall, there was a sound unmistakable to those who had studied the great composers==a deep, resonant growl of brass. A single note, held in impossible suspension, filling the space with a gravity that demanded attention.
Liszt froze. He knew that sound.
The growl grew into a full-blown fanfare, the kind that sent chills down the spine. And as the shadows at the rear of the hall shifted, the silhouette of a figure materialized. A tall man with wild, unkempt hair and a powerful presence, his eyes glittering with a mischievous spark as he strode purposefully down the aisle, his coat flapping behind him like the wings of a great bird.
It was Ludwig van Beethoven, impossibly alive, his hands moving as if conducting an invisible symphony. His fingers twitched with every note that resounded from nowhere, as though he himself were pulling the music out of the very air. The room vibrated with energy as Beethoven’s symphony--one that no one had ever heard before--built into a triumphant crescendo.
The audience gasped. Spirits sat bolt upright. Borodin’s eyes widened, and Lennon, who had seen almost everything in his lifetime, stood speechless. Liszt, who had thought the night couldn’t possibly get more unpredictable, felt his heart skip a beat.
"Beethoven!" Liszt muttered under his breath. "Of course, it had to be Beethoven."
With an effortless flair, Beethoven reached the foot of the stage and swept into a dramatic bow, his wild hair spilling over his face before he stood upright again. Then, to everyone's surprise, he didn’t climb onto the stage but instead turned to the orchestra, waving his hand as if to summon them.
The musicians, entranced, lifted their instruments without instruction, drawn into the rhythm of the moment. And just like that, Beethoven’s invisible symphony took physical form, the chamber orchestra catching the spirit of his piece, their strings and winds swelling in perfect harmony.
Liszt stepped back, temporarily displaced as conductor by the overwhelming presence of the maestro. He could feel the electric charge of Beethoven's energy in the room, a commanding force that made even the most skilled musician feel like an apprentice again.
The orchestra, now fully alive under Beethoven's ethereal conducting, played a piece no one recognized. It was something new, something impossibly complex. The music wasn’t just heard==it was felt, vibrating in the walls and coursing through the audience like a living thing.
As the symphony reached its peak, the witches on their bicycles began to pedal in time, circling faster and faster, their laughter now woven into the melody. Freddie, ever the performer, couldn’t resist. He jumped back onto his bike, joining them, and together they formed a whirlwind of sound and movement, all directed by Beethoven’s unseen baton.
The audience was enraptured, caught in the swirling magic of it all. Beethoven, still conducting with furious passion, brought the piece to its final, breathtaking chord'a note so pure, so complete, that it seemed to echo in the air long after it was played.
The hall plunged into silence.
Beethoven, his eyes shining with satisfaction, turned slowly to face Liszt. A mischievous smile played at the corner of his lips. He gave Liszt a slight nod, acknowledging him not just as a fellow composer but as an equal in the madness of this night.
Liszt, for the first time all evening, laughed. A low, relieved chuckle. It was impossible to feel overshadowed, not when the music was so glorious, not when the entire hall had just experienced something transcendent.
The crowd, now fully alive with excitement, erupted in cheers. Spirits rose from their seats, clapping and whistling. Even the witches joined in, their cackles mixing with the applause.
Freddie Mercury, catching his breath from his latest whirlwind ride, leaned in toward Liszt. "Now that," he said with a grin, "is how you make an entrance."
The echoes of Beethoven's final note still lingered in the air when Liszt, regaining his composure, stepped forward once again. The audience, now fully captivated, waited with bated breath for whatever would come next. The night had already been filled with impossible performances and unexpected appearances, and yet, it felt as though one last surprise was waiting in the wings.
Liszt turned toward the orchestra and gave a small, commanding gesture. The musicians, still catching their breath after Beethoven’s whirlwind, straightened up. From behind the stage, the chorus emerged--an ethereal group of singers, dressed in flowing silver robes, their voices already softly humming in harmonic preparation.
The program had promised something special--a new movement composed by Liszt specifically for this All Hallows’ Eve, titled "Requiem for the Forgotten." The chorus, composed of spirits from across the ages, seemed to shimmer as they took their places on stage, ready to deliver the final piece.
Liszt raised his baton, now steady and sure, and the hall fell silent. With a slow, deliberate motion, he brought the chorus and orchestra to life. The voices of the chorus rose, a haunting melody that seemed to stretch beyond time itself, as if the souls of the forgotten were speaking through the music.
In shadows deep, where memories sleep,
We call the names we can’t recall.
The winds of time sweep o'er their keep,
Yet here, their voices softly fall.
The words drifted like mist through the concert hall, each note hanging in the air with a weight that pressed gently against the hearts of the audience. The music was both beautiful and melancholy, a reflection of those who had lived, loved, and been forgotten by history. Yet, in this moment, through Liszt's composition, they were remembered once more.
The chorus swelled again, their voices intertwining with the orchestra in a majestic crescendo:
Raise now the sound, let it resound,
For in this night we are not lost.
Though days may fade, their echoes made
Shall linger on, though tempest-tossed.
Freddie Mercury, standing off to the side, watched with a rare expression of quiet reverence. Even the witches slowed their circling, listening intently, as if the music had reached them on some deeper, more ancient level.
The final note of the piece was soft, fading like a whisper carried off by the wind. The audience sat in stunned silence, not quite ready to break the spell of the moment. Then, slowly, the applause began. It was not the wild, chaotic clapping of earlier--it was softer, more reverent, as though everyone present was giving their thanks to the souls whose voices had been heard tonight.
Liszt gave a slight bow, his eyes reflecting the satisfaction of a job well done. But as he turned to acknowledge the chorus, something strange began to happen.
The lights dimmed. The air in the room grew colder, and a low murmur began to spread through the audience. Liszt, confused, looked up--just in time to see the shadows at the edges of the stage begin to stir.
From the farthest corner, a single figure stepped forward, cloaked in darkness. As the figure moved into the faint light, the audience gasped. It was not a composer, nor a musician, nor any of the famous figures who had made their appearances throughout the night.
It was Death itself, standing at the edge of the stage, silent and still, draped in a long, flowing black robe. A bone-white hand slowly reached out from beneath the robe, gesturing toward the center of the stage.
The hall went deadly silent. Even Mercury stopped in his tracks, his usually unshakable composure faltering. Liszt stood frozen, his baton clutched tightly in his hand.
Death, without saying a word, moved forward until it stood before Liszt. The audience held their breath, wondering what was about to happen. But instead of claiming anyone from the stage, Death did something completely unexpected.
It bowed.
A slow, deliberate bow, as if paying respect to the music and the performances of the night. Then, just as silently, it turned and began to walk away, back into the shadows from whence it came.
The audience, unsure whether to applaud or remain silent, stayed frozen, watching as Death’s figure faded into the darkness. But before it disappeared completely, it paused once more and turned its head slightly, as if offering a final, silent blessing to the concert and all those who had performed.
And then, it was gone.
Liszt, his heart pounding in his chest, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The hall was still, the echoes of the night’s performances lingering in the air like the fading trails of the music itself.
With a nod to the orchestra and the chorus, Liszt signalled the end of the concert. The lights slowly brightened, the room returning to its warm glow as the audience began to stir, applauding now with a mix of relief and awe.
Freddie Mercury sidled up to Liszt, still shaken but unable to resist a grin. “Well, maestro, I’d say that’s one way to bring down the house.
Liszt, though still shaken, allowed himself a small smile. “Yes," he said softly, “it appears we had one last, uninvited guest."
And so, the night concluded with applause that carried the weight of an unforgettable evening. The musicians began to pack up their instruments, the witches pedalled out into the night air, and Freddie Mercury, ever the showman, waved goodbye to the spirits as they faded into the shadows.
But even as the last audience member filed out, the memory of Death’s bow lingered. For on this All Hallows’ Eve, it seemed that even the Reaper himself had been moved by the power of music.