A Short Story written by Logan Peterson
Edited by A.B. Timothy
(For context: This was written by a man in the First Person Perspective of a young female character. This is about two characters from the Historical Fiction W.I.P., Cornelius: The Son of Peter.)
I sat at the piano, as I had every day for the last few months, typing the notes of this newly imported song. A boy I liked had come home from one of his adventures on the sea with his father singing it, and I begged my pastor, in secret, of course, if he would write to the composer and get a copy. Dueil Angoisseux, written by Christine de Pisan, was such a beautifully haunting song. Another plus to it was that Claes Cornelissen had seemed to memorize all of it during his recent time in France. That boy could make a sparrow faint with his tenor voice; no wonder Pastor was so anguished when he stepped down from the boy’s chorus to be his father’s first mate.
I wished I could go on these wonderful adventures and see the world… but my father was only a baker, and I, a poor baker’s daughter. Maybe he’ll take me on his ship and on an adventure, one day, after we are married and I’ve had our daughter, Elissa, and a son for his name’s sake. Then we’ll grow old together and… Then I heard him.
As I sat there, playing the beautiful notes and moving with the melody as it moved my mind from sorrow to love and back again, I heard him. A door shut at the end of a hall, and footsteps in time with the song. As if he’d been singing the entire song so far, Claes’s tenor voice rang down the hall, filling my ears with the hauntingly beautiful French lyrics:
“Princes, priez à Dieu qui bien briefment,
Me doint la mort, s’autrement secourir…”
He continued the chorus even as I trailed off. My fingers were frozen from sheer enrapturement. My mother and everyone else I know would tell me I am too young to be in love, but how could I not be with a voice so sweet and inviting? How could I not fall for a man who so neatly embodied the knightly myth at such a young age? Fierce and adventurous but simultaneously gentlemanly and kind. I stood from the piano and turned to him. He’d just recently turned fourteen, and I had done the same. His beautiful tenor left the room with a resonance I felt down my spine.
I took a step towards him and he towards me as we sang the last line together.
“Et si ne puis ne garir ne morir.”
He pulled me into an embrace and bent his face down to mine. I closed my eyes and felt his lips on mine…
“Margaret!” I shot up in bed at the sound of my voice being called. “Margaret, are you napping again?” My mother opened the door to my room and caught me on my bed with bed hair. “Girl, get up, you can’t go and see that Cornelissen boy looking like a sleeping troll now, can ye? Besides, you need to help your father with the final loaves for the day before you can go anywhere.”
