The night the Rhymer went whack

76

Don’t just speak (sing) to be heard, listen—for those words are your voice, your inner light, your strength and your purpose.

The bliss Nick had created was now being tested. The world, still positive, had become nervous and on edge as these singular murders were taking place sporadically across the planet. Each time he visited each crime scene he was overcome with a heightened sense of a connection with the world more powerful than ordinary. He was confused but he knew something was taking place. The sound centers were used but what became of the users is what left him wondering. The dogs couldn’t tell him. Nevertheless, he was still alone and that loneliness kept growing more intense with each murder yet, he wasn’t giving up hope. He had built, in all, nineteen centers and there had been fourteen murders. Regardless of how long it was going to take, he had five more to ultimately re-visit.

So as the years rolled by, the killings continued, sometimes in bunches, others, years in between. When just one sound center was left Nick’s hopes for kinship were nearly depleted. He could’ve built more but he knew statistically that if there was a like soul, they would have discovered each other by now. Fate, itself, would have led them to bliss. So he waited. Then it happened. The last murder.

Knowing the whereabouts of the last center, Nick had settled in the area beforehand, not close enough to offset the energy but close enough to be near if and when it was to be used. And it had taken years this time before the killing. That elongated stretch created a complacency that had set upon the world. The harmony had reached an all-time high, in spite of, and the fear of murder had almost been set to nil. Even Nick was enjoying the happiness that his music had brought. Throughout, there was a common beat, in tune and guiding the world even though Nick’s travels and performances had diminished. No longer needed as the unison became more solid.

But then the inevitable happened. The last sound center was compromised and the last murder was committed. So again they called Nick. The victim, a young boy, no older than five. Nearly quartered, his hands and feet were cut off as well. The scene was gruesome with the police, not used to seeing a murder, visibly shaken and inconsolable.

It had been fifteen years since murder eighteen and nearly thirty since Nick brought peace, so this was all new to them, but not to Nick. He remembered the old world and how he was such an integral part. He remembered all the previous murders that were so grisly that this scene of the little boy had no effect. Most folks didn’t notice but Nick did look sad, solemn and distant. He looked at the boy’s face and admired its peacefulness, contrasted to the tears and sorrow the crowd displayed.

And just like with every previous murder, he asked for privacy and everyone including the police granted him his request. He consoled them each before they left, reminding them that everything would be ok with a hug or handshake. He closed the door as the last person stepped out onto the porch.

Nick’s instrument, his sound instrument, was a conduit of energy. Sound is energy and he had, when he created those centers, installed larger versions of it. Placed inconspicuously, upon visiting each murder site, he activated them. Steadily fed by the breath of the living world, this energy produced a sound undetected to everyone except for someone who harbored his hearing ability. Strategically placed, this sound would combine with the others in the atmosphere to create a wavelength that again, only he could hear. A fatal wavelength that would fry his brain and explode his heart. He was tired and done as he looked at the last remaining device that could separate him from is lonely existence.

So he sat there in that young murdered boy’s house for hours, contemplating, knowing that when he hit the switch it would take hours before any effect would be felt. He had time, glad that he was overlooking a hilltop with grass, trees, blue sky, rocks, birds and butterflies all around. He smiled as a small boulder became disengaged and rhythmically rolled down the hillside in tune with the bleats, the moos, the chirps and the buzzes. The crowd, still waiting outside, had grown in numbers, anticipating his exit and wondering what was the delay. He flicked the switch and heard the low hum. The soundwaves on their way to the heavens, combining with like forces, creating a heaven on Earth, a Garden of Eden from whence this world had strayed away.

Finally, he stepped outside and said, “Can’t you see I set you free? I brought you to the light?” having, for the first time, stayed true to those very words.