When Sfidare il Male finally fell silent, the worshippers erupted, chanting and demanding more, prompting Niccolo to glance back at the band and signal. It was time to introduce their new number. Without stopping to allow the crowd to settle, the Sticky Lizards exploded into the introduction and before long, Sfidare Dissenso was wreaking havoc across the hypnotised audience. Needless for translation, the frantic crowd sang along with Niccolo, Defy Dissension, as if Niccolo had sung it in English. Stubbornly refusing to let the bracket finish, the crowd insisted he and the band perform the new song three more times until Niccolo found a strategic lull, quickly moving on to older, less enticing material. Exhausting their repertoire and under rapturous approval, the performance had reached a climax and the sweating performers grasped at the wild worship before reluctantly walking from the stage.
Alex and Ryan mingled in the foyer with the excited crowd, listening to the superlatives dripping from the lips of the young entranced audience. Enraptured by the concert too, Ryan’s constant jabbering... ‘way... way... way... cool...!’ resonated in Alex’s ears, amazed at the effect the music was having.
Passing close to a group of teenage girls, Alex was struck dumb when he overheard the gathering apologising to a member of their scene for causing her grief. The girls encircled their injured colleague and hugged her and then came the words that shook Alex to the core.
"Remember the new song: Defy Dissension."
*~*~*~*
Alex wandered along the crowded Quai de Vernex deep in thought, with Ryan following close beside in an excited and semi-coherent frame of mind after the Sticky Lizards' concert. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, refracting rose coloured light into the balmy twilight summer evening. It seemed wherever he directed his attention, he could hear ecstatic praise for Niccolo and the band erupting among young people gathered together in huddles, followed by infatuated sighs among worshipping female fans. The group's popularity was burgeoning and social media was crackling with all kinds of offers for the attractive, dark haired apparition if only he would come close enough to collect it.
It was obvious Ryan had heard the infatuated talk too, eager to push Alex for an answer. “S... so, do you think God has a plan for me in music, Alex?!”
The awkward question shook Alex, knowing Ryan was expecting some kind of answer, but this was a subject only God Himself could respond to. Hoping to delay Ryan’s enquiry and spend time silently praying, Alex offered to buy some carnival food from his favourite street vendor before delivering a conclusion that would hopefully lead Ryan in the right direction and come to the correct assumption for himself.
*~*~*~*
It had been a long walk from the Auditorium Stravinski to Alex’s favourite food vendor, only metres away from Freddie Mercury’s frozen image and the cavernous Covered Markets. The spicy food smells wafting on the still night air made Ryan’s stomach groan with hunger, while Alex’s answer to Ryan’s profound problem seemed further away with every impatient step he took. The mass of humanity mingling around the street vendor only made Ryan more edgy until finally, Alex chatted brightly to the vendor as he made up their food order. Finding a seat on the circular ponton suspendu, an observation deck built just off the shoreline over Lac Léman’s dark water and facing the bright busy hub of the Place du Marché, Alex drew in a long breath as Ryan bit down hard into a piquant roll.
“To answer your original question, Ryan... yes, God does have a plan for each person’s life whether they be Christian or not. Yet if you don’t know Papa God, then you can’t know His mind for the plan He has for you. It’s a difficult thing for any person to claim to know God’s will for someone else. Intimacy of this kind is usually and deliberately reserved for each child of God and their God alone. That’s why Papa God is so tough on judging others. Unknowingly you could be judging something strange that God is doing in that person’s life and inadvertently, you may end up judging God Himself and that’s a dangerous thing to do. Once you understand each person has been deliberately created in God’s image and every person has a God-purpose and a reason to be alive, then it’s simple to understand that God equips each one of His creation with the gifts and desires to fulfil that purpose. So, what you are good at, is usually a big clue.”
Ryan paused in mid chew and smiled. He had just heard what he was hoping to hear.
Alex saw the big smile and cautiously continued, “However, it is very difficult to find God’s will for your life when you are in rebellion to Him, Ryan.”
The smile suddenly disappeared from Ryan’s face. “What do you mean?!”
Alex shifted on his seat, ignoring the heat radiating through the paper bag containing his meal. “You can be directed and used by God to effect your purpose, but you can’t be truly at one with God’s purpose without first knowing Him. You have to know Him to approach Him in prayer and then He will eventually direct you to discover His purpose for your life. Anything other than relationship with your God and Creator is assumption on your part, and could lead to you missing the best and fulfilling the highest purpose for your life. I might add, it’s what we allow God’s Holy Spirit to do through us that counts, not what we do for God.”
Ryan held Alex’s glower with a confused expression. “Huh?!”
“Consider this, Ryan. A Christian mother seeks God’s will for her life with tears and heartfelt prayer. She longs to be used in some public office to bring people to Christ in large numbers, but all she is told to do is raise her family and teach them diligently about Papa God. She prays for her small flock and she does this year-after-year-after-year continuously. From her obedience and teaching, a Godly seed is planted among her offspring and a powerful man of God is raised and wins many people.
“Then there is the high profile wealthy businessman, still in rebellion to his Creator. He thinks he can win God’s approval by doing it his own way and sending vast amounts of money to the poor. Don’t get me wrong, this is a noble thing to do, but God wanted him to be a Christian street evangelist using the business skills he was given to reach many lives, instead of building a successful secular company. Which one do you think is allowing the Holy Spirit to work through their lives, Ryan?”
Ryan went quiet. It seemed to him that someone was wrong in the conflicting advice he was getting and he was more confused than ever. The Maestro said he believed in God and thought Ryan was good enough to have a career in music. There was one easy way to find out who was right. If the Maestro didn’t show up tomorrow and make good with his claims, then he would know he wasn’t supposed to follow his dream.
But if he did...?
*~*~*~*
Chapter 32
The unpaved forest road deviated and then made a gradual turn, leading quickly into a steep, uneasy climb and leaving Pensive struggling to find a sturdy place to position a hoof without stumbling and spilling the gallant rider to the gravelly surface. Openings in the heavily treed scenery offered a passing glimpse at the target of the nobleman’s journey and as a consequence, the high protected peaks of the fortified square watchtower drifted in and out of view, settling a pleasing smile upon the rider’s lips.
Château de Blonay, heavily defended and nestled high upon the sprawling mountainous terrain, commanded a breathtaking panoramic view to Lac Léman far below; but nurtured within the defining castle walls, abided another elusive breathtaking view even more pleasing to the nobleman’s eye. The beautiful Nicolaïde de Blonay had been a source of despair to many a determined suitor until she had met with a distasteful adventure, scandalously stolen from under Baron de Blonay’s very nose. Without so much as a donation to the family kit and to make trying matters worse, the Bernese overlords had taken the side of the thief, castigating the baron with unbending abuse for lacklustre parenting, although doing nothing themselves to return the sumptuous maiden to her rightful home.
A sudden stumble refocused the rider’s attention to the steeply graded path, grasping the saddle with anxious hands and enc
ouraging his steed to wisely steel unsure fetlocks and limit an unsavoury end for both rider and beast. “Whoa...! Easy there, Pensive. It would not do to arrive at the castle hoping for an audience with a fair maiden and intending to pursue her hand, but only able to offer a poor sample of a bruised and bloody baron for a potential husband.”
As the towering stone walls of the Château de Blonay became more defined, the nobleman’s heart quickened, driven on by a consuming desire to feast on the beauty of the younger daughter de Blonay. Nicolaïde’s beauty was well known and celebrated, but Dominique, a flower of equal intensity, was not. Baron de Blonay had been to some degree successful in hiding his remaining jewel, but rumours had reached the aspiring Baron Willy de Bad; and intent on a wife, he had settled his fancy on the younger of Baron de Blonay’s daughters.
Arriving at the castle gate, Willy de Bad climbed down from his sweating and exhausted mount, leaving Pensive to recuperate in the capable hands of Blonay Castle’s expert stable staff. With a determined gait, the tall and handsome de Bad made a resolute path for the castle’s impressive front doors and announced his arrival to the attending servant. After hearing the introduction from the foyer hall, Baron Willy de Bad proudly strode into the Grande Salle and bowed his head toward the aging patriarch of Blonay Castle.
“I bring you greetings from the aristocracy of Rougemont. My father, Count Fredericke de Bad, enquires of your health and that of your household, and sends you a gift, a sack of the finest apples in the confederacy,” Baron Willy exclaimed in all good humour and boisterous confidence; but resting his eyes upon the downcast baron’s countenance, he ventured a question to the apparently morose older man. “What can possibly be of such a grievance to you, my lord?” Baron Willy’s concern for his intended future relative flowed over in exuberance.
The patriarch momentarily turned his attention from his grief and concentrated on the splendid young man gracing his home. His deeply sorrowful eyes searched the face of the athletic nobleman standing tall and proud in his presence. “It is uncanny, my young baron. You have a grave resemblance to the once famous Count Neilious de Diamonde.”
Baron Willy bowed at the compliment. “I am oft mistaken for the count, my lord. But what is the explanation for your downcast countenance?” de Bad persisted.
Baron de Blonay’s face fell into a contorted struggle with sorrow and then finally sighed aloud. “My youngest daughter, Dominique, has been abducted and has not been seen in two days!”
Baron Willy drew his cutlass from its scabbard in an act of sheer fury. ”Who would do such a scandalous thing?! Offer me the name of the cad and I will track him down and make dog meat from his unworthy carcass!”
Observing the young nobleman’s fire and his apparent interest in Dominique, it appeared resolutely possible the handsome man had more interest in the de Blonay household other than just their health and wellbeing. Maybe, de Blonay thought, the young baron’s resemblance was more like that of a suitor and perhaps the title described his intentions more honestly. With the stinging reproach from the Bernese overlords when Nicolaïde disappeared still haunting de Blonay’s mind and hoping to encourage the young hero to act solely for Baron de Blonay’s favour, Blonay enticed him with a near truth.
“I offer my daughter’s hand in marriage to any man who brings her safely back to me!” the reprehensible baron proclaimed, hoping to fuel the fire already burning in the chest of the brave Baron Willy de Bad.
“Then it is set, my lord! I will not rest until the fair Dominique once again graces the halls of this castle! But I warn you, Monsieur, prepare ye for a wedding for it is as good as done.” Baron Willy set off at an eager pace, determined to accomplish his objective while his heart burst at the thought of capturing the lovely maiden for his bride and tasting her new name in his mind as he strode.
Baroness... Dominique... de ... Bad
*~*~*~*
An intense and steadily increasing chorus of pain quavered through Anne-Claire’s injured body. It seemed the more her mind became aware, the more frantically her muted pain sensors communicated with her brain, reporting in on suspected harm and urgently beckoning for the body’s repair mechanism to swing into damage control. Anne-Claire stirred, tasting the vile gritty dirt forced into her nose and mouth through her unconventional landing, but attempts to move or clear the offending matter brought an immediate aggravated response from her pounding head. Emphasising her brain's dissatisfaction, her stomach enlisted its gurgling voice, threatening to purge its content should the brain’s wishes be overridden.
Slowly, two fragile grey eyes blinked open, only to be met by a forceful wall of blackness and the ever-present dank, musty smell of confined and uncirculated air. Straining to identify shapes in her silent black prison and threatened with the insistent demands from her brain, tiny pinpricks of streaking colour shot across struggling retinas, signalling her eyes were endeavouring a pointless adjustment and vainly attempting to focus on something... anything!
But instead, blinded by the absolute absence of light.
Anne-Claire silently prodded the confused hallways of her logic, drawing on her memory and pushing her chaotic mind to function coherently. Yet the dire situation stubbornly remained entangled in an unknown wall of perplexed brain fog. A deep throbbing ache pounded through her neck and head, using eager pain sensors to sharpen her thoughts and reluctantly forcing her brain out of the murky stupor from which it’d chosen to hide. The whole bizarre experience was making her feel desperately frightened and unwell.
Fighting the desire to sleep and overruling her brain's demands to remain still and quiet, Anne-Claire attempted to rise from the sandy floor in an effort to make sense of the dubious sinister world she’d unwittingly fallen into. As she pushed herself into a sitting position, she felt something warm streaming down her forehead in a constant flow and dripping from the end of her nose. Beleaguered by an increasing wall of terror, her head pounded and her stomach wretched. Nevertheless, the turbulence of her dark, silent world gathered pace and spun out of control, threatening to shut down her conscious mind and slam her damaged body back to the gritty floor. Gasping air uncontrollably and forcing her mind to stay alert, she guardedly closed her eyes and waited, hoping the spinning would slow enough to calm her dangerously tilting world and exit the spiralling vortex.
After a while the violence subsided, allowing Anne-Claire to lift a shaking hand to her forehead and gently trace the profile of her skull with her fingertips, only to discover a sizeable wound beneath her hair. Smarting and impertinent pain sensors fired off like a jabbering crowd, protesting when her fingers gently explored the site, warning her that the injury was sensitive and demanding she do something to stem the tide of escaping lifeblood. In the gloom, darkness toyed with her mind and filled her imagination with all kinds of dread, deceiving her blurry consciousness and imploring it to believe the injury was more than serious. The unrelenting pain seemed to confirm her worst suspicions, making her feel weak and allowing fear to do its work, paralysing logical thought and forcing calm into a hasty retreat. For the first time in her life, she contemplated a lonely death; and with bags in hand, panic moved in, hoping for a prolonged, unhindered stay.
Grandpa’s wise and reassuring face abruptly flashed before her and as always, he seemed to entice her to fight on and not give up. With the corners of her eyes filling with torrents of despair and mingling with blood and grit, she took strength from her hero’s apparent encouragement, filling the young woman with a calm determination to fight for her life. With a new fire burning, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, displacing the tears along with a dubious slippery brew and then waved her hands around in the dark, searching for anything solid and recognisable. Her fingers brushed against something obstinate and after cautiously feeling the surface with her hands, she recognised the rough texture of an unyielding rocky wall. Relieved to have identified a little of her blind world, she dragged her aching body closer, backed up to the barri
er and leaned her torso against the cold, unmoving stone while belligerently ignoring the violent hammering inside her head.
Just for a few seconds, the fog hiding lucid brain pathways lifted, exposing reason like a break in heavy cloud on a stormy day and allowing the warm, encouraging sun to shine through. With a sudden clear thought, Anne-Claire patted the pocket of her Bermuda shorts, searching for the handkerchief she always carried. Finding the folded cloth in the place she expected, her fingers worked feverishly trying to grip the uncooperative kerchief until she gradually wrestled the hiding material from her shorts pocket. The familiar soft feel of the folded fabric increased her hope and the darkness lost some of its sinister chagrin, allowing new courage to sweep through her mind.
After a lengthy battle with her leaking blood, Anne-Claire pushed a little harder against the wound, wincing with pain as the material found the sore spot and eventually the trickle conclusively stopped. Laying her head against the cold stone wall, she tried to find a comfortable position in which the pain seemed to be least, but no matter where she situated her injuries, some part of her body objected and complained until the ache demanded she shift again. Unconvincingly at first, relief began to cooperate after the cold numbed the tirade of exhausting complaints, eventually finding a position not too sore and also willing to bear the hurt the rest of her body would not. After a few tenuous hours the pain at last became manageable, allowing her to concentrate on her dilemma and clean the congealing blood and grimy grit from her eyes, nose and mouth.
This first act of re-establishing order out of chaos also became a catalyst for rational thought. Where am I now? Her musings began to reorient themselves in a fashion. That’s right! I remember searching the castle’s dungeon pillars for names engraved in the shape of an arrowhead. Lord Byron’s scratching I can recall. Then her memory stretched further and filled in the gap. The names... I found them! Just exactly like Grandpa said they would be. Dominique de Blonay and Baron Willy de Bad forming an arrow pointing to...? This must be the secret room that Grandpa had spoken of!