Night Visions by Thomas Fahy

Life and Works of J. S. Bach catches her attention:
    On a late summer afternoon in Dresden, Germany, Johann Sebastian Bach was approached by a sickly man wearing black clothes, a red silk scarf, and a circular pendant around his neck. He introduced himself as Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk and invited the composer for supper.
    Bach arrived under a crepuscular sky that made the dirt roads shimmer with red and gold. Keyserlingk Castle was at the bottom of a steep hill, and moss covered much of the shadowy exterior. Bach paused briefly at the entryway to concentrate on the faint sounds of a harpsichord. The melody was dissonant, unfamiliar. The interior had a mausoleum-like stillness, and Bach couldn’t remember ever feeling so cold in the summer. A servant led him down a corridor with eight faded tapestries that looked like distant memories. Orange-brown fields. Colorless skies. Faded-red sunsets. Bach was surprised that hecould only hear the sound of his footsteps as they walked. All of the count’s servants seemed to float, moving about the castle in long gowns that hid their noiseless feet. None of them spoke or smiled. They communicated with mechanical gestures and nods.
    Bach was led to a sparsely furnished room where he was greeted warmly. The count had not changed clothes after his midday ride, and he smelled of hay and horse dung. He sat in a chair directly across from the composer.
    The count explained that for years he had suffered from sleepless nights. His eyes burned, and his body had become thin from nerves. At most, he slept one or two hours a night, and when he did, he experienced the most horrible visions. His wife, who had developed a nervous condition from his pacing and mad talk of dreams, had recently left for the spas in Baden-Baden. His servants were miserable from being summoned at all hours. They knew no rest—particularly the harpsichordist, Johann Goldberg, who was often required to play throughout the night.
    The count spoke of Bach’s reputation and the remarkable power of his music. He had been following the composer’s career for quite some time. Then the count pleaded—begged—Bach to write some keyboard music to help him sleep. He was convinced that such a genius could help him somehow. He would pay well.
    Flattered and in need of money, Bach agreed to try.
    The count did not want to waste any time. He showed Bach out without serving supper. “Please, hurry.”
    Soon after Bach began the piece, he received an earnest letter from his eldest son:
    7 NOVEMBER 1742
    Dearest Father,
    You have no doubt heard the rumors buzzing about Dresden? This count from whom you have taken a commission is a notorious drinker and gambler. He lurks about the streets like a madman, and people say that he practices alchemy—that his servants do not dare leave the castle for fear of his magic.
    I know such matters do not concern you. “People will always talk, regardless of truth,” you are fond of saying. But perhaps this is a work best left unfinished.
    Do not be angry, Father, but I have written to Goldberg. I met him in Berlin years ago, and I know him to be an honest, good man. His recent letter makes me fearful for you. He too describes the count as an alchemist and tells me that for decades he has been searching for the secret to immortality!
    Even if these are only the ravings of a madman, is it not better to have nothing to do with this count? Please, Father, do not partake in this.
    Your son,
Wilhelm Friedemann
    Bach did not take these concerns too seriously. He finished the piece and gave it to the count as promised. There is no record of the count’s response to it—whether or not it broke the spell and helped him sleep again.
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    No matter, Christina thinks. She knows one thing that these historians don’t.
    It works.
    Even though she can’t read music, she takes a copy off the shelf and starts looking through it. The lines and circles on