Shouting Sun

Swimming to wakefulness and the sound of the alarm. The roaring bell clapper. The sound stopped, revealed the distant hints of morning; birds gossiping in the streets, milk bottles chattering in crates, the milkman’s inane whistle.

Dave Roper, yawning, tried to sense what sort of day it was; sniffing for the solar wind. Dragging his resisting body – still imobilised by the toxins of sleep – from the bed, he drew the curtains. A reflex action that one, it made him smile.

He stared at/ through/ past the windows with sightless eyes, seeing what he could with his ears. The imperceptible tone colours of a fine, clear day, a few clouds perhaps, fluffy cumulus, seemingly suspended without support, disconcerting. Everything reflecting, crisp and clear.

Yes, he could feel the sun on his face. He felt for the radio, switched it on and got some nice morning voices, good.

Today, he’d go to the hills.

With a roar and a stutter, and a crunch of stones the bus started on its way. Behind him, and to the left, Viv, his Labrador led the way along the path, he could feel its dry chalk, smell the dust. There was a cool breeze, despite the hot sun. He could hear the grass, the birds’ fluttering feathers.

A steep climb up the weathered slope to the ridge, he found the stone, a small menhir of hard rock. Roper felt around the surface, the dry lichen and the rough crystal.

Roper looked around with his inner eye.

“You’re there Asmodeus, I smell you, I can feel your vibrations in the earth.”

“I fear that I cannot hide from the eyes of the blind.” said the demon, sitting on top of the stone by the sound of it. Roper sat down on the ground, rolling a cigarette. It had taken him ages to work up the confidence to light a cigarette -he had been sure he’d burn himself. He often wondered if he would have been better off to have been born blind. It was hard to say whether his childhood sight had helped his development, or merely directed it.

The odour of Old Holbourn mixed with the breeze.

“What have you got to ‘raise my spirits’ today?” the demon prodded.

“You really do thrive on conversation don’t you?” Roper replied lazily, lying down on the warm ground.

“What else is there Mr Roper? Eh? What else is there to fill in the time till the end of the universe? I shall converse till this galaxy is dispersed…”

“I have an alternative, it may not serve you, but it serves me. Asmodeus.”

“It suits your abilities Mr Roper? Those acrobatic ears of yours, eh?” The demon looped and somersaulted in the air above him.

“As you say; nevertheless, activity does not necessarily imply understanding. Have you ever considered the impact of music? What is the origin of it’s effect? That of the visual arts, or literature is easier to trace. But how does music evoke it’s response?’

“I would suggest, my dear Roper, that it’s effect is subliminal” replied the creature, alighting on the ground.

Dave remained silent, feeling the weight of the ground beneath him, and remembering a particularly powerful piece by SFF. What was it called? Symphonic Pictures…

“That’s probably true, but you haven’t said why the subliminal response is there, eh? What in nature would elicit such a response?”

“You ask me Mr Roper?”

“Well, you’ve been knocking around this island universe for longer than me Asmodeus.” Roper lit up another roll-up.

“It is true that I have been ‘around in this plane for a while” the creature sighed, “but I fear my time has been wasted,” he paused, and then continued suddenly as if something had just occurred to him, “Heartbeats Roper, your lives, in a primal sense, are full of rhythms. Some are a bit long on the time scale, but a rhythm is a rhythm, even if it’s extended temporarily.”

Dave Roper sat up, turning in the direction of the creature’s voice.

“Then what” he asked with triumph, “about melody, tunes, themes, mood, tonality, atmosphere, the illustrative side of music? It all evokes a response, but can you see any direct link with the environment? I doubt it!”

“There you have me…”

“Well the response is still subconscious, or it’s key is. But why certain frequencies and arrangements of sound? It could be linked with the songs that hump backed whales sing, or some prehistoric mating display…”

“You have a theory, Mr Roper?” The demon sounded almost interested.

“No.”

“Ha Ha.” the demon laughed, taking advantage of his tenuous nature to fly around Roper’s head. “You astonish me Roper.”

“Don’t take the piss Asmodeus.” said Roper, desperately trying to sense where the demon was. “You little bugger.”

“Malice is way of life Mr Roper, but to continue, why do you have no answer? It’s not like you is it? Eh?” The demon wheedled, sneering.

“Is it a necessity to have an answer? One might maintain that asking the question is enough, makes you think rather than just take music for granted. If you listen to Bach, Beethoven, Free, Hawkwind, Deep Purple, Elgar, Bartok, Focus, Pink Floyd, it doesn’t matter what it is, eh? Jazz or the Tocata and Fugue.” Roper paused. “You may be turned on or off, but you can still analyse your response and ask why, it’s like a radio play without words, eh?”

“You are in the ascendancy, Roper” the demon hesitated “but you must have a personal theory, a hunch…”

“To me” said the blind man, “music is a replacement sense, a sonar of the right hand cortex, one can paint with sound, one can see with it: not just outside, but internal structures. One might say that I’m insane, but I feel that my handicap is inverted, I think that music is a fine communication, a step in evolution, like telepathy. Once I had the blindness of the sighted, now I have the sight of the blind.”

“It is nice to know that we share and lack the same senses, Mr Roper, is it not?” The demon’s voice smiled warmly.

Originally published in Media fanzine, 1979, N. Ballock (ed)