The castle without eco

A musical fairy tale about memory and the courage to listen.

By Marialuisa Veneziano

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Once upon a time, on the top of a hill surrounded by beech woods, a castle so great that no one had ever been able to count all its windows.

He had thin towers, slate roofs, paved courtyards and long corridors in which one hundred people could walk side by side without venting.

Yet that castle had a very strange peculiarity.

He had no echo.

If someone beat their hands in the throne room, the sound died immediately.

If a lady laughed under the vaults of stone, her laughter did not go back.

Even the bells, which on serene days should have been heard to distant villages, produced short and opaque intones, as if they were wrapped in wool.

The king, who was called Theodore the Risoluto, considered all this a fortune.

— Educational people — he said, — They never repeat what they have already said. I don't see why the walls should.

The courtiers nodded, as the courtiers often do when they did not understand anything but wish to keep their lunch.

In the castle lived Princess Eliana, daughter of the king.

Eliana was twelve years old, dark hair, careful eyes and the annoying habit of asking questions just when adults preferred not to answer.

He loved music more than anything.

He studied the flute with the old master Isidoro, who taught her that a sound was born from a vibration and travels in the air as a small invisible wave.

— When he meets a wall — I'll explain. — can be absorbed or go back.

— Like a person when it's not accepted?

The master remained silent for a few moments.

— More or less — he finally said. — But the walls are generally less complicated.

Eliana also learned that echo was not exactly the same as resonance.

The echo repeated a sound after a short interval. The resonance, however, welcomed it, amplified it and made it last longer.

In a good concert hall, the notes should not vanish too soon or be confused with each other. They had to have time to be born, live and then turn off.

In the castle, however, nothing happened.

The sounds just fell out of the instruments.

— It's like the castle was afraid to remember — once said Eliana.

Master Isidoro lowered his eyes.

— Castles are not afraid.

— What about the men?

— Men build castles just to hide their fears.

After saying those words, Isidoro closed the score and declared the lesson 20 minutes in advance. It was the usual method of adults when they realized they had told the truth.

One autumn night Eliana woke up suddenly.

The wind was shaking the windows and the rain was beating on the windows. In the fireplace, the fire almost turned off.

It was then that the princess heard three flute notes.

They were subtle and distant notes.

First saliva.

The second one was suspended.

The third seemed to look for something he couldn't find.

Eliana rose from the bed.

The notes came from the northern part of the castle, where a tower was closed for many years.

Waiting.

The melody did not continue.

The next night, at the stroke of midnight, the three notes returned.

This time it was five.

The first were the same; the other two formed a small musical phrase, but they interrupted just when they seemed at the point of ending.

Eliana knew that feeling well.

Teacher Isidoro explained to her that an incomplete musical phrase generates tension. The ear awaits a note capable of bringing back balance, just as one expects the end of a question.

But that answer never came.

The princess went to her father.

— In the northern tower someone plays the flute.

King Theodore, who was signing a decree against the excessive growth of weeds, broke the pen.

— It's the wind.

— The wind does not always sound the same notes.

— This is an ordered wind.

— And why does he always stop at the same point?

— Because it is also respectful of times.

Eliana fixed it.

— Can I get into the tower?

— No.

— Why?

— Because it's closed.

— And why is it closed?

— Because nobody has to come in.

— And why should no one come in?

The king rose.

— Because I am the king and I have exhausted the "because" available for today.

That night the melody returned again.

Seven notes.

Then nine.

Every night it became longer and more restless. Sometimes it seemed like a song; sometimes a prayer. But it always ended before the last note.

Eliana began to ask questions to the inhabitants of the castle.

The cook said he knew nothing and poured salt into the cake instead of in the soup.

The ruler said that the tower was uninhabited, but the sign of the cross was made.

The bellman claimed to be deaf for many years, although he heard very well when someone talked about his pay.

Finally, Eliana interviewed the gardener, a very old man who knew the history of every tree.

— What is in the northern tower?

The gardener continued to prune a rose.

— The dust.

— And under the dust?

— Other dust.

— And under the other powder?

Man sighed.

— A memory the king tried to lock up.

— What memory?

— It's not up to me to tell.

— Who's up to?

— Who will have the courage to listen to him.

The next day, as he walked out of the walls, Eliana met a blind beggar. The woman sat next to a fountain and held a small drum on her knees.

— Princess — he said without raising his head.

Eliana stopped.

— How do you know who I am?

— Important people walk as if the road belonged to them. You walk like you want to know where he leads.

The child smiled.

— Do you know the northern tower?

The beggar beat a finger on the drum. The sound spread in the square and slightly returned from the houses.

— In your castle the echo did not die — He said. — She was imprisoned.

Eliana sat next to her.

The woman told that many years before, when the queen was still alive, a young musician worked at court. His name was Lorian and he played the flute with so sweet that, when he played a melody, even the curtains seemed to move to listen to him.

During the long illness of the queen, Lorian composed a song for her.

It wasn't sad music. He was talking about the beloved things that continue to live in the memory of those who remain.

The queen died before the song was finished.

The shocked king ordered no one to play it again.

He locked in the tower the flute, the incomplete partition and every object belonging to the queen. He saw the courtiers say their name and forbid the musicians to perform melodies that could remember it.

— He thought, if no one talked about the pain, the pain would disappear. — said the beggar.

— What about?

— Pain is a very rude guest. If he doesn't open the door, get in the basement.

From that day the castle had stopped returning the sounds.

— Why?

— Because the echo is memory. And a house to which it is forbidden to remember ends up not answering anyone anymore.

Eliana returned to the castle.

For three days he sought the key to the tower.

It was made in the cases, in the cabinets and in the drawers of the royal wardrobe. He eliminated the pockets of his father's coats while he slept during the Council meetings, a habit that the king called "strategic meditation".

He eventually found the key hidden in the old metronome of master Isidoro.

The master surprised her when she opened it.

— You shouldn't.

— Did you know everything?

Isidore sat slowly.

— I played in the orchestra when the queen was alive.

— Why didn't you tell me anything?

— For fear.

— My father?

— Also. But above all to remember.

Eliana took the key.

— I will enter the tower.

— The king will forbid you.

— Then I'll go in before I have time to do it.

That night a storm fell on the castle.

Eliana crossed the corridors with a candle. His steps, as always, did not produce echoes.

He reached the northern tower and placed the key in the lock.

The door opened with a moan.

The scale spiraled into the dark.

At every step, Eliana had the impression of hearing something: a breath, a word, perhaps a cry. But as soon as he stopped, everything was silent.

On top he found a round room.

In the middle there was a lemur with a yellowed score. A silver flute rested on a table.

The walls were covered by veiled portraits.

Eliana lifted one of the cloths and saw the face of his mother.

He never knew her. The king had shown her only a small official portrait, in which the queen appeared still and severe.

In that of the tower, instead, he laughed.

Eliana took the flute.

The three notes of the melody sounded alone.

Then three more.

Finally, the whole sentence that was interrupted every night.

The last line was missing on the score.

Eliana brought the instrument to the lips and tried to continue.

It sounded too high.

The walls trembled.

Somewhere in the castle a door was heard and, for the first time after many years, the noise returned.

Eliana tried again.

This time the note was too low.

From the walls there were confused voices: names, laughter, words that someone had pronounced long before.

The castle was returning what he held.

The princess tried a third time.

At that time the tower door opened.

The king entered, followed by master Isidoro.

— Stop! — shouted.

His voice bounced on the walls.

«Stop... stop... stop...»

The king paleed.

— If you complete that music, everything will come back.

— What?

— The pain.

Eliana lowered the flute.

— Pain never left.

The king looked at the portrait of the queen.

— I wanted to forget.

— You only forced everyone to remember silently.

— You don't understand.

— Maybe not. But you haven't understood for many years.

Eliana observed the score.

Then he thought of the incomplete musical phrase. Every sound needed to find its place. Not always the right note was the most beautiful or the strongest: it was able to make sense to all the preceding.

He brought the flute to his lips.

The last note.

Nothing happened for a moment.

Then the note returned.

First weak, like a whisper.

Then clearer.

Finally a hundred times, from every wall, from every staircase, from every room.

The bells started ringing.

The steps of the guards filled the corridors.

From the kitchens came the titinnium of the pots and the voice of the cook, which for the emotion climbed again the cake.

People pronounced the names of those who had lost. Somebody laugh. Someone cried.

The king heard the melody for the queen.

At first he remained still.

Then a tear passed through his face.

Of course, the next day he declared that there was a lot of dust in the tower. Kings can recognize pain, but admitting a mistake often requires a more robust constitution.

The northern tower was no longer closed.

The flute remained in the room, next to the portrait of the queen. Every year Eliana performed the complete melody.

The castle regained its voice.

The bells were heard to the villages. The laughs ran under the vaults. Even the smallest steps left behind a brief answer.

Since then no one was more forced to forget what he loved.

And when someone suffered, others didn't tell him to shut up or be strong.

They sat next door.

And they listened.

What is not heard does not disappear. He remains within us until he finds a voice capable of freeing him.