The child was born disfigured. On part of his face and from the neck down he was entirely covered in a jet back birthmark. The child had problems at school, indeed he was bullied remorselessly, but despite this he developed a strong sense of self-defence.
His father was a singer and raconteur, while his mother, a dancer was a beautiful as his father could have wished. It was soon obvious that the child Jarik had an unusual skill with music. Indeed while his body was disfigured his voice was perfect. By the age of three he could play the lute, flute and drums, once when visiting a temple he even picked up the newest Brettonian innovation, the organ.
One night his father was singing him to sleep with an ancient story telling of the creation of the universe, meanwhile his mother danced.
The child fell asleep to the sound of his fathers voice, his mother’s white robes shimmered as his mind fogged, sleep overtook him.
He floated, flying perhaps, but since there was nothing to see it mattered not. In the Darkness – was it Darkness, what was Light? What was Darkness without Light? – He waited or did he? What was Time?
Then came its appearance. A line neither straight nor of equal thickness began to materialise before him. Was it small or far away, light or dark, was the distance deceptive? Was it indeed a line at all? After all it was neither straight nor stationary, what was distance?
The line swirled around itself fattening now toward the top – there was an idea up and down, top and bottom. But which way up? It was clearly not a line.
He settled on an answer, it fattened toward the top. Lines do not fatten.
Neither do they make a noise. This grew as the vortex approached; soon it became painful, but total agony was only finally perceived when engulfed in the eye of the Maelstrom. The sound was, by then, utterly incomprehensible. Every sound was heard, every variation of every sound swirled towards the heart of the vortex. His scream joined the cacophony; torn and shattered he ripped upwards.
Flying implies volition; pain is a product of existence, he was clearly not flying now if ever he would. However, he understood agony.
Like all detritus it ends up and starts in the heart of the Vortex.
A sound, a perfect note at the end of existence. An immaculate chord at the beginning of the perfect piece. Was the start minor and the end major? Or the other way round? It seemed to matter.
At the heart of the vortex he saw two men arguing over a cauldron.
"But what will happen to the souls of the dead?" One asked the other. "Like the universe they must come to an end and join me in the void." the other disagreed. "No, they with re-enter the maelstrom where all is possible and continue their song" the other replied.
The two argued on, it appeared to Jarik that he could not understand the words they spoke, instead it was the music that transferred meaning. They were negotiating creation in song.
Jarik intrigued approached wondering what was inside the cauldron. As he walked forward he felt another presence watching him closely. The two men missed his approach engrossed as they were in their debate, however the cauldron was too tall to see inside. Jarik felt drawn to pull himself up and look in the cauldron. Placing his hands on the lip he attempted to pull himself upwards. What happened next was entirely unexpected, instead of lifting himself off the ground the cauldron pivoted, tipping towards him.
The fluid inside was viscous and jet-black, the smell defied words but maybe could put to music, and it now covered his body from the neck down.
The pain could not be described he felt as if he was being burned from the inside out, as if every part of his existence was being burned away.
The now old, wise and kindly looking man stopped his pain by touching his neck, the pain left. He looked pleased singing "See even their dreams reach us from the Maelstrom, who knows when this one will die. The perfect piece need not finish, but it must start!" His song resonated perfect harmonies spanning all octaves and every discord from every instrument. Jarik dreamt on.
A cold feeling invaded the dream, the pain returned. He felt loss.
The cold presence approached, neither young nor old but infinitely sad. His voice was perfect, pure, absolute, destroying "he who does not applaud an end misunderstands the beginning and misses the poignancy of the song. These hands could play the last chord, after all he has heard the first."
The cold man took Jarik’s hands, as he did a pain beyond any description passed through the child as he fought to wake up. In his dream he shattered into glass every part of his existence annihilated utterly. As he awoke screaming, he hit the ground. His bed and clothes had shattered beneath him.
His parents found him naked and screaming, it took days before he could speak, but when finally he did, his parents realised that his voice, if it was possible, was even purer than before, indeed it took more naturally to song than speech. The child believed that he could sing any bully out of existence but if only he could remember the note…