Robert’s fingers danced over the keys of the piano, hitting each note in perfect rhythm and beat. The piece he played was one of his many compositions, all of which he had committed to memory. Quickly his fingers leaped from white to black and back again. Low notes for beat, high notes for contrast in this stanza.

       To him the piano was a place where wars were fought. The low notes were evil. Not just the evil of armies who were bent only upon the destruction of anything with which they did not agree, but all evil. The evil inherent in every human being, corruption within society, prejudicial views, and so much more. If there was evil to be found, the low notes could express it.

       Then there were the high notes, powerful knights riding to glory upon white stallions. These notes, so pleasing to the ear, contained self-sacrifice, valor, and humble attitudes. These were the angels who guarded mankind against Lucifer’s stronghold. But still, as wonderful and righteous as they were, they were nothing without the low notes. For goodness would not seem so great if there were no evil for comparison.

       And so the war raged on. Swords clashed and arrows flew through the air at the whim of Robert’s fingers and imagination. And in the thick of the battle, where more blood was seen than the objects which had shed it, there came a sudden pause. Every soldier hesitated at his current opposition and looked into the center of the fray. There, upon a pile of corpses, the two leaders stood facing one another.

       One beat. Silence reigned among the masses as each giant glared across the expanse into the other’s eyes.

       Two beats. Time seemed not only to stand still, but to have no meaning at all while the two powerful statues stood measuring the other’s abilities.

       On the third beat, the two rushed forward, their hatred sending out a gust so immense that it sent all within the vicinity sprawling to the ground. And finally, they met.

       Fires sprang up from the earth to encircle what was the greatest battle of this particular war. Higher and higher the flames leaped, encompassing the two immortal warriors as well as their armies. Burnt air of red and orange raged to the heavens and seemed to scorch the toes of the titans. But this was no ordinary fire. The heat was far too intense and the sounds of the crackling seemed out of context. Robert remembered the last time flames had seemed so incongruous. This fire was real.

       “Robert! Robert!”

       Robert awoke from his trance expecting to see the audience, who he could hear chanting his name. The masses loved his music. They had loved it since he had introduced his very first crusade. But when Robert opened his eyes, he did not see welcome faces of appreciation and awe; he saw Mrs. Jones. A sigh of disappointment escaped his soul as she gently shook him out of his daydream. It was always Mrs. Jones. Why couldn’t she leave him to his glory?

       He looked past her into the fireplace. There were the flames, burning almost as fervently as before, but not quite so extreme. He could feel the warmth caressing his nine-year-old body. This was the same warmth he had felt only a few moments earlier, but then it had seemed much more comfortable. He sighed again.

       “Robert, you were daydreaming again. I know it,” Mrs. Jones scolded. Her shrill voice always grated on Robert’s mind, but still he endured it. His father wouldn’t have him talking back to a woman seventy years his senior. “You need to stay focused to prepare for the concert.”

       “Sorry Mrs. Jones. It won’t happen again,” Robert said, inwardly rolling his eyes.

       “See that it doesn’t. Now, play through to the fifth stanza for me.”

       Robert did as he was asked, inwardly playing out a new battle. Back and forth it raged…

       “Stop. Right there. You’re playing the third stanza too loudly, with too much force. Try it again and this time ease off a little.”

       How could she say that? That stanza was where a soldier had met his bitter demise. It was meant to be powerful, intense. Robert tried again.

       “No, no. You did the exact same thing. Listen, like this,” Mrs. Jones leaned forward and played her rendition of the battle, slightly softer and smoother at the soldier’s end. To Robert it sounded horrible – taken completely out of context.

       A knock came at the door. Four quick knocks, soft. That would be his mother. Three hard, evenly spaced knocks would have been his father, but he hadn’t been by to pick up Robert since he’d been sent to the Gulf for the war.

       “Robert, your mother is here,” Mrs. Jones’ shrill voice came from the door. Robert quickly gathered his things and ran to the door. “I want you to practice for two full hours this time Robert, and don’t think for a minute that I won’t notice if you don’t practice.”

       “Yes Mrs. Jones.”

       “Thank you Dorothy. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Robert’s mother said before turning down the walk. “Mrs. Jones didn’t sound very happy with you Robert. You need to obey her when she tells you to do something is that understood? That’s what we’re paying her for.”

       “Yes mother,” Robert’s voice came softly.

       They walked home without speaking, but it was far from silence. In Robert’s mind, the beats and melodies of everyday life were playing louder than ever. He watched a couple walking down the street. Clip clop. Clip clop. A person knocking on a door. Knock, knock, knock. Three hard, evenly spaced knocks just like his father. Knock, knock, knock. Again. The hum from the engines of nearby cars. Whirrrr, gradually fading. A muscle car approaching. Rrrruummmm. The hammering of a nail somewhere in the background. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

       All of it flowed together in a beautiful symphony. It went hand in hand with the images Robert was seeing. The red and white striped pole outside the Barber Shop, gradually spinning. The traffic lights, green, yellow, red along with the walk-don’t walk sign, on and off. And always the people walking down the street. Clip clop. Clip clop. A wonderful beat.

       “Mrs. Stanton! Hold up.”

       Robert and his mother turned to see Lieutenant Turner, the army recruitment officer running towards them. “Why Daniel, you seem all worked up. What’s the problem?”

       Daniel looked around nervously. “Why nothing ma’am. I just have something for you that’s all, back at the office. Could you come back there with me?”

       Uh-oh. Daniel’s tone was uneven, splotchy. Robert could tell that something was wrong.

       “Well alright Daniel. No use getting yourself all excited.”

       They walked back to the recruitment office where Daniel suggested that Robert stay in the waiting area. “It might be better off,” Daniel suggested.

       “But mom! I wanna…”

       “You’ll do what you’re told Robert Andrew,” his mother said firmly. “Now sit yourself down and wait patiently.” With that, her and Daniel strode into the office.

       It seemed to take an eternity, but perhaps it was only a few moments. At first, their voices behind the door were steady, probably chatting about the weather or some such thing. After a couple of minutes they lowered, became faint. It was so quiet; were they even talking in there?

       A sudden gasp from a woman followed by crying. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” came Daniel’s voice repeatedly. “Remember, it was quick, painless. I’m so sorry.”

       Two weeks later Robert was sitting at the piano in front of his peers and their parents. His mother was sitting in the second row, her head slightly lowered. She was still wearing black.

       Robert began playing the song he had been practicing for two and a half months now. He remembered when he had started how the soldiers had slowly taken form. Cautiously they marched forward, slightly afraid, but unwilling to allow the malicious dictator to keep his regime. This time, Robert’s father was among them, braver than the rest. He stood tall, intent on leading them to victory. The bullets began to fly, but Robert’s father wouldn’t back down. He continued to advance.

       It was so wonderful until Robert approached the stanza he and Mrs. Jones had discussed. He knew it had to come, but how? Robert’s father had died a hero, so maybe it should be played with force, importance. But at the same time, his death was a tragedy, national and personal. Robert began to cry, but kept playing. The third stanza finally came, softly. It hurt so bad to see him go, and that was why it was played softly. Robert understood now. Amidst the soft tones, the soldier’s friends and family mourned his loss and honored his sacrifice.

       In the corner of the room, the fire burned brightly, its heat warming all within the room. But in Robert’s mind it blazed. A thousand possibilities. A million. More.

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