Chapter 49 Magellan
Magellan
The next morning Magellan played the oboe the entire way to Saint Gilgen.
She needed to play; her whole body was knotted with nerves.
She felt like a pied piper leading Rhys and Godwin to the center of the labyrinth and its end.
The two men had become everything to her. Now she might possibly lose them both.
Godwin and Rhys were both quiet, letting her have her way, seeming to understand she needed to vent. When they stopped to picnic somewhere, Magellan barely ate, unable to taste a thing. She was trying desperately not to cry.
Godwin broke the silence. “When did you leave in your time?”
Magellan thought back. The Halloween wedding seemed so long ago, and yet the day was branded in her memory. When she told him, she added, “It was the week after my birthday.”
Rhys startled in surprise. “When is your birthday?” he asked softly.
“October 24th. The aurora borealis showed up that morning.” She saw him swallow and nod, his eyes going to Godwin. She explained, “It’s when I heard the song’s opening. The diary arrived at the museum that morning too from the Liron Institute.”
Godwin had parchment out and was scribbling notes of what she was saying.
“They even had my phone number,” she remarked.
“What is a phone number?” Godwin asked, and Rhys was the one to explain it to him, which Magellan found touching.
Godwin frowned at her. “So with these numbers we can hear your voice anywhere in the world?”
She almost added “and see me,” but Godwin already seemed confused.
He asked what her number was and wrote it down. He had the diary tucked away in his jacket for safekeeping. They had decided he should be the one to keep it, since he was the one to show it to Rhys in the future.
Godwin told her, “October 31st is the ancient day of Samhain and, legend has it, the one day of the year when the veil of the world is at its thinnest.”
“In my time,” she said, “we call it Halloween. Everyone dresses up in costume and eats candy.” She attempted to grin at Rhys and bring lightness back into the day. “I thought you were in costume when we first met. Everyone at the wedding was.”
“And I thought you were straight out of a fairy tale.” Rhys kissed her hand. His fingers gently stroked the edge of the scar on her arm that peeked out from the sleeve of her gown. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
She stared into his eyes, feeling a sense of déjà vu, and the words bubbled up within her. “Please believe me next time.”
He frowned at that, not understanding. She didn’t understand either or know where the thought had come from.
“All right, lovebirds,” Godwin declared, packing up his papers and supplies, “that’s quite enough.”
“Ten days to go, Father.” Rhys stood up, helping Magellan to rise.
“But how will I know it’s her? How will I know?” Suddenly Godwin seemed unsure.
“Kilig.” Rhys said the word like a professor schooling a student. Then he went on to explain. “A word from the Philippine Islands to express the sensation when you stare into her eyes.”
“Kilig.” Godwin tested the word as he boarded the carriage.
“Kilig.” Rhys nodded to him and winked at Magellan, making her smile. How she loved watching the two of them together.
Rhys spent the rest of the carriage ride regaling them with all his favorite words that defied translation: firgun, the Hebrew word to express the feeling of joy when something good happens to someone else; merak, a Serbian word to describe the feeling of bliss from life’s simple pleasures; and jijivisha, the Hindi word to describe the deep love of life.
Magellan held his hand, listening to him share words from around the world, words that filled her with hope and the yearning to keep living.
She wanted Earth to never stop spinning.
She wanted babies to be born and for the sun to rise again and again.
The determination inside her hardened as they neared their final destination.
Life and its infinite expressions had to go on.
If every atom could sing, the song should never end.
She squeezed Rhys’s hand and wondered if a word existed in any language to describe such a wish.
When they made it to Saint Gilgen, the town looked straight out of a storybook, with gingerbread houses nestled on the waters of a glacial lake surrounded by an alpine forest. They found Nannerl’s house in the center of town near the main square.
Magellan could only think the large two-story rectangular sterile white building looked like a hospital.
As they walked up the drive, she clutched her oboe and couldn’t help but hum a soft tune to calm her nerves. She was walking between Godwin and Rhys. Neither said a word as the moment drew near.
When they reached the door, Magellan let the hum go with a deep, calming breath.
“Ready?” Godwin asked softly. She gave a nod, and he knocked, taking the lead.
They’d already decided on the plan. The Earl of Liron, his cousin, and wife were wayward travelers and paying a courtly call to the town magistrate.
The men would distract Nannerl’s husband to give Magellan time alone with her.
A housemaid dressed in a cap and apron answered the door.
Magellan didn’t understand German, but Godwin was being his charming self and before long they were shown into the salon, where the woman asked them to wait with a shy blush.
The room was a modest living room and had a harpsichord in the corner.
Magellan took a step toward it, but Rhys tucked her arm in his. “You can’t play it yet, my love,” he reminded her, and they all took a seat to wait. Magellan tried not to fidget, but her body felt coiled with anticipation.
Minutes later the salon door opened again and there she was.
Nannerl.
Magellan could feel tears springing to her eyes and furiously blinked them back. Rhys gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Magellan felt like she would recognize this woman anywhere. Nannerl carried herself with quiet grace and looked to be about fifty years old.
Following behind her was a much older man, stooped with age. Only the men spoke, with German flying back and forth between them. Tea and coffee were brought in. They sat facing off across from each other on two sofas, Godwin, Rhys, and Magellan on one and Nannerl and her husband on the other.
As the men continued their conversation, Nannerl met her eyes several times. Her gaze kept drifting to the oboe case in Magellan’s lap. Godwin finally said something that made Nannerl’s eyes light up, then she spoke for the first time.
Godwin looked over to Magellan. “I mentioned how much you were admiring the harpsichord and told her you played a little.” He winked. “She’s invited you to play it.”
Magellan wanted to laugh. How alike he and Rhys were. The men stood, and Rhys reluctantly let go of her hand. “Her husband is going to show us the square.”
She gave him a nod and swallowed. The time had come.
After the men left, the women stared at each other. Magellan made a motion, asking if she could play, and Nannerl nodded.
Feeling like a sleepwalker, Magellan set down her oboe on the sofa and crossed the room. She tried not to think about what would come after she played the parts of the song she knew and instead focused on the here and now, standing in front of Nannerl’s beautiful harpsichord alongside her.
Was this Nannerl and her brother’s? The one they’d learned on when they were children?
Nannerl and Wolfgang had loved each other dearly, made up secret languages only they knew, and traveled across Europe together.
They had been kindred spirits, two prodigies from the same coin.
But only one side of the coin had been allowed to shine.
In two years’ time, in 1801, Nannerl’s husband would die and she would move back to her hometown of Salzburg.
She would become a music teacher and pass away in 1829, months apart from Magellan’s first arrival in the labyrinth.
And although Nannerl’s brother’s music would be immortalized around the world, none of Nannerl’s compositions would survive her death.
One of the greatest pianists and musicians ever to live would take all her music with her to the grave—except for this song.
Magellan laid her hands on the harpsichord and began to play.
She didn’t just play the song’s beginning; she played Fanny’s part and Hildegard’s part and Maddalena’s.
All the women were with her now. With their parts of the song, they had also given Magellan a piece of themselves.
They had given her their courage. Their resilience.
Their unshakable faith that they could do anything in this world.
Nothing could stop them, not even themselves.
Nannerl listened in wonder and sat beside her.
Then she laid her hands on the keys and began to play with her.
Suddenly they were in the midst of a duet, their hands in perfect harmony as Nannerl gave Magellan her part of the fourth movement, like handing over a flame.
The movement’s authority was visceral, a vast, sprawling piece of self-reckoning that could keep the tableau of humanity intact.
The harmonies ringing in Magellan’s mind were an epiphany, a pure distillation of power.
Magellan only prayed she was strong enough to hold it.