Music, Magic and Mayhem

Chapter 1 - Beloved Prodigy


Bursting through the door of the new blue and wood accented Packard station wagon, darting past a large indoor, in-ground pool, through one of the rounded archways, a boy with curly ebony hair and tan skin, raced into his favorite room of the Moroccan styled mansion, well ahead of the older woman carrying a tote with fresh groceries. By now, he knew that their butler had put his presents out. Excitedly, Césare ripped off the wrapping paper of his presents on this 8th year of his birth. After the obligatory clothes and boring presents, he unwrapped a giant book of sheet music from around the world that his chacha gave him. He vowed to learn every song. Since he promised his chacha that he would save the special present from his parents until last, he grabbed it now that he unwrapped everything else. In a week, his parents would celebrate his birthday when they returned from their trip. Luckily for him, his nanny agreed that he shouldn't have to wait until then to open his presents.

Within the long rectangular wooden box Césare found a hand-crafted antique mizmār, an Arabic oboe of sorts with a double reed. Though young, he mastered every instrument he had been given. While the instrument looked clean, he still cleaned it and then rubbed it with almond oil. He played a few notes. “We will start with the traditional Zumar.” Césare continued with all the traditional music the instrument was meant to play.” When he grew tired, he cleaned it again and climbed his step latter and placed it on an empty shelf. “You see. You now have a special place in my music room and among my friends.” He pointed to the ninety-seven key Imperial Grand Bosendorfer. “This is Freja.” Then he pointed to the Ramirez tablao guitar. “That is Paco.” He introduced all his friends. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your name will be Zumar. I'll play you more tomorrow. I have to eat now. Chacha will be in soon.”

The middle-aged woman with dark shoulder length hair , brown eyes who possessed an air of tranquility strolled in with a small plate of pinchitos. “It's la merienda time, Bebé,” she stated with an odd tonal quality in her voice Césare ran to her and hugged her. She kissed the top of his head. “After your afternoon practice, do you want to help me with dinner?”

“Sure, what are we having?” As he spoke, he signed the words in case she couldn't read his lips.

“Pato a la Sevillana and for dessert basque cake,” she replied.

“My favorites,” he commented.
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As with all his instruments, Césare played Zumar in rotation. Sometimes when he played Zumar, he felt a presence a bit different than his other friends. The longer he played the stronger the presence felt. At various times in his music room, out of the corner of his eye, he would catch a glimpse of a rather thin man wearing a strange outfit like he saw in his history lessons, with dark hair and pale skin standing next to Zumar, looking sad. Césare figured his music room was haunted but the ghost seemed harmless. Because of his exposure to the supernatural, he thought nothing of it. Besides, he didn't want to lose his music room or any of his friends because of a haunting.
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Not only did Césare love to play music, he wanted to sing too. Since he had a scholastic tutor and a music tutor, he knew he could convince his mamá to hire a singing coach since he got his musical talent from her. At least, his papá
said so. To show how much he wanted singing lessons, he dressed up and grabbed Paco, his guitar. After dinner, he played a show for his parents. He sang “"Mañana (Is Soon Enough for Me).”

His father smiled. “Well done.”

His mother clapped but looked sad and gave a nod towards his father. “You sing too beautifully.”

“I want to sing more. Can I have a singing tutor?”

They sat him on the couch. “Your singing is so wonderful that you can never sing for anyone ever again.”

“But I like to sing,” he pleaded near tears.

“I know but you see, I'm part siren and that means you're part siren too. A siren's song can enchant mundanes and cause bad things to happen. We hired Berenice to be your nanny because she's deaf and couldn't fall under your spell or mine.”

Césare nodded. “I understand. If I sing when no one is around, will I hurt anyone?”

“No, but you shouldn't anyhow because for us singing can be an addiction. An addiction is something that we can't stop doing even if it is very bad and we don't want to do it.”

He stared down at his feet. “I promise not to sing ever again.”

“Playing music should stifle any urges you have to sing but at the same time stay true to your musical nature.” His mother squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe this is the occasion we celebrate Christmas a little early.” She handed him a small box and watched her son tear it open.

Césare studied the slightly egg shaped but a little bigger, wooden instument with several small holes that had intricate tribal flames painted on it and a leather band that he wear around his neck. “Gracias,” he said.

“This is an ocarina. You can take it anywhere so you can always have your music with you. It will also remind you of the inheritance you got from your father. One day it will come to fruition.”

“In the meantime, we can practice football.” His father had returned with a soccer ball. “One day you'll be the strong boy I know you can be.”

“Aren't I a strong boy now?” Césare thought about how when he and his friends got together to play football. Most of the boys were bigger than him and played better but he tried his best.

“You're a musical boy but you are my son. You're too slight for rugby. In the meantime, we will practice so you can win a football trophy. If football isn't your calling, maybe in a few years, you can be my picadore.”

After football practice, Césare pleaded with his father to take him horseback riding so he could be a picadore and eventually a matador but for now he was too little.
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One day when Césare played Freja, he thought that something seemed off. Normally, at this time in the afternoon, Chacha would bring him his Pimientos rellenos and a virgin sangria but she was on holiday for a couple of weeks so they got another nanny to fill-in. Then he heard strange men in the coñaceá. Quickly, he ran to shut the music room door. As he tried to lock the door, one of the men pushed the door in, throwing him back. “You're worth a lot kiddo.”

When they tried to grab him, Césare kicked, bit and punched them as best he could until one of them pulled out a knife and held it to his throat. Suddenly, the ghost he had seen before, appeared. “Protect master,” he growled. The ghost grabbed the hand of the man holding the knife, and twisted it away so Césare could escape. Once Césare got away, the ghost twisted the knife back on his attacker, stabbing him. Then took it out of the man's hand. The ghost whipped around and slashed one man's throat and then in almost a twirl closed the distance to thrust the knife into the other man's chest.

The ghost turned towards Césare who stood shaking and splattered in blood. The ghost's solid coal black eyes stared at him. He never knew a ghost could do that. “Thank you,” he squeaked.

The ghost bowed and disappeared. Césare cried until his parents arrived and comforted him. They thought he had killed the men who tried to kidnap him. His father hugged him tightly and smiled bigger than ever. “Well done. You do take after me.” Since, he loved the pride his father expressed for him defending himself, he never told anyone about the ghost.

Once his music room was sterilized and everything returned to normal. Césare ambled in and called to the ghost but nothing happened so he resumed playing his various instruments.
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Under clear sunny skies, one warm October day in Spain, in a packed arena, at the age of eleven, Césare bounced in his seat, next to his mother and his nanny, awaiting his father's appearance. Excitement and anticipation permeated the crowd. This was his first corrida de toros. As the traditional pasodobles played, his father's cuadrilla entered, at first, his two picadores on horseback, followed by his three banderilleros, his mozo de espada, an ayuda and the subalternos. As the senior matador and master entertainer, his father strode in wearing his resplendent blue and gold traje de luces, which his mother had sewn, and the crowd roared. Chin up, standing proud and handsome, Joaquin bowed towards each of the four corners of the crowd as he did, they cheered their beloved matador. After a very flourished bow, he approached their seats and produced a huge blood red carnation and announced to the crowd, “I give this flower of our country to the ravashing flower of my heart.” He then tossed the flower into his wife's awaiting hand.

All heads turned towards the glamorous olive-skinned lady who blew a kiss to the dapper matador in the ring. “The bull is tame compared to my husband.” Her lilting voice carried followed by uproarious laughter and applause from the crowd.

A trumpet sounded signifying the first tercio de varas. While the bull attacked the picadore's mount, he stabbed the bull's neck with a colorful vara causing Césare to shudder. They stabbed again and he watched the blood spray from wounded animal. “Mamá, he's suffering.”

“It's part of the sport. It won't be long before it's dead.”

“Mamá,” he pleaded.

“Bebé, let's go for a walk.” Chacha took his hand and they walked to a nearby park. “Not wanting to see any creature suffer is not a sign of weakness. You're a good boy.”

That evening, when his father arrived home, Césare ran to him and hugged his waist tightly. His father patted his head and looked down at his son with disappointment in his eyes. “Maybe in a few years,” he said.

Césare's stared down at his feet. Even though he hugged them all the time, his mother and father barely and rarely hugged him but his chacha hugged him all the time. He couldn't understand why his parents were like that. “Papá,” he called, hoping to ask why but his father had already left so he ambled into his music room to be with his friends. For a little while, he played Zumar hoping the ghost would pop in and talk to him but it didn't so he played Freja.
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Months and then years went by until one day when Césare played Zumar, the ghost he remembered with dark hair and pale skin, only a few years older than him now, appeared but he didn't look fully human with his pupil-less coal black eyes and slightly pointed ears. “Who are you?”

“Amicus,” he replied.

“Why do you look so odd?”

“I am the ghost of someone who died along time ago. I melded with Zumar, the jann that inhabited the mizmār.”

Because of his Moor heritage, Césare knew of janns, very minor djinn that inhabited objects, very similar to the Japanese Tsukumogami. They grew stronger with age but couldn't really do much anyhow since they were a minor form of djinn. “Why are the jann and you so violent?”

“The craftsman that carved the mizmār was gifted so the jann became part of the instrument. Over the centuries, it became stronger and lived in peace. All it ever wanted was to be played and bring enjoyment to people. It never wanted to harm until it was used for murder. Then that hatred and violence infected it. Only after you began caring for it and playing it, did we know contentment again.”

'How do you fit in?”

“About four hundred years ago, I gave the mizmār to a gifted musician named Verdad as a present. Verdad and I grew up together and I loved him very much. Since Verdad worried about the instrument being stolen because he lived in a rough area, he would leave it at my home. During our time together, he would often play it. One day my father caught us together.”

Césare didn't understand. “Caught you doing what?” Playing an instrument wasn't a crime.

“You're not a virgin still are you?”

“No, Madina and I have had sex many times and I have loved other girls as well.”

“We were caught having sex,” Amicus stated.

“But he was a he,” countered Césare. “Why would you sleep with another man?”

“You are so naive.” Amicus sat next to him. “When you hit puberty, something in you suddenly found girls attractive. You didn't decide girls were attractive. They just were.” He sighed. “The same thing happened to me but with men. I was just born that way.”

Césare contemplated this. Both Catholicism and Islam preached against that sort of thing but he never gave it a second thought. He didn't even think it could be real, maybe because his parents exposed him to very little in life. However, he understood it now that Amicus explained it. Truly, that is how it happened when he hit puberty. Girls suddenly became attractive and he enjoyed them very much. If that happened to Amicus, then it was God's will? Besides, Amicus saved his life and that made him a good person/ghost/jann or whatever. “I understand, a little. Did you really … love... him?”

From the confused look Amicus observed on Césare, he knew the teen knew nothing of real love. “Every time we were together, my day brightened. Feeling the way I did towards him wasn't discussed in my day so I denied my feelings for a long time. When I couldn't deny them any longer, I feared telling him for it might have drove him away. I wanted to be near him but more than anything I wanted his happiness, even if it meant sacrificing my own so I kept my feelings to myself. We went camping one day and he sang a song for me about forbidden love and then he kissed me. Then I was happier than I had ever been.”

“So what happened?”

“We saw each other frequently but kept our relationship secret. The night my father caught us, he screamed at the both of us and Verdad ran. Then my father grabbed the mizmār and hit me. The blow struck me here.” Amicus touched his temple and trembled. “My father killed me. I like to think it was an accident.” His voice cracked as he was on the verge of tears. “Because I was killed using that instrument, the jann and I coexisted and gradually melded together. We materialized and used my Destreza skills to kill your kidnappers. It weakened us for a little while.”

“I can't thank you enough for saving me.” Césare thought of the horror that had been: a teenager killed by his father for loving someone, by using an instrument intended to bring joy but instead used it for murder. “I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Keep playing. The jann part of us is bonded to you. Somehow we are gaining strength from your playing.”

“Then I shall play.” Everyday for months, Césare played and played until one day when he woke up, Amicus sat next to him. “So it worked,” he commented.

“We can't even explain it except for the stars, the magic, the music and the talent were all in alignment. However, this mortal coil is bonded to you because of the jann and your music which strengthens us.”

Cesare smiled. Now I have a Jann-Ghost. Life is getting more interesting.