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Prologue
The pain cut through her like a
knife.
Bethany gripped the podium with one hand, keeping
the beat with the other. It's nothing, she promised herself. Just keep
the music going.
Unto us a child is born, she mouthed with her
singers.
For unto us a son is given, they answered.
The Forge Hill Chorale was forty strong. Kids of many colors, they all
had voices of angels--the kids' salvation, the community organizers had
hoped when they put together the music program for the charter school.
And his name shall be called--
Michael, Bethany thought, trying to ignore the
spasm in her side. They had already decided to name him after her father,
the renowned Michael Testamarta. If only he could have lived to see
his first grandchild. Bethany leaned her hips into the podium, willing
the ache away.
---Wonderful, the kids sang.
---Counselor, Bethany sang with them, her voice no
more than a whisper. The kids' voices were the ones that should be
heard. She was there simply to call out their talent.
---the Mighty God. Her side cramped.
She took quick, shallow breaths.
For unto us a child is born---
Kyle would be so disappointed if
something...no, she couldn't think that way. The pain was nothing,
just a touch of food poisoning or even constipation from the prenatal
vitamins. Things were different this time--not even a hint of morning
sickness. It was just Murphy's Law that she would catch a stomach bug
the night of the Christmas concert.
Her face flooded with perspiration.
Maybe she should sit down, just for a moment. No. She couldn't stop,
not now. She had worked too hard, invested long months of cajoling and
inspiring to bring these kids from hip-hop to Handel.
The soloists were about to begin.
Anthony Martinez stood stiffly, his eyes fixed on Bethany, his fingers white
on his folder. You will not crack on the A, she had promised him,
though he had at every rehearsal. She smiled as she cued his entrance.
Rejoice greatly, O daughter of
Zion, Anthony Sang, his tenor vibrant and at perfect pitch.
She brought in the rest of the
tenors. He shall speak peace unto the heathen. She saw Tyler
turn his head to catch Charissa's eye. Rumor was that it was his
daughter that Charissa carried. These Children bore children as easily
as they breathed, it seemed.
He shall gather in the lambs
with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.
She let their music fill her.
And gently lead those that are
with young.
Bethany relaxed as she led them through the end of the piece, then grinned
as she signaled the cutoff. The music stopped. "We'll count
three," she had told the accompanist. Any longer and the audience
would. She raised her baton-two-three-NOW!
Hallelujah! the kids sang it out
joyously, some celebrating the end of their ordeal, others celebrating their
own talent. All soared far beyond any height they had imagined.
For the Lord God omnipotent
reigneth. The air rippled as the audience members rose from their
seats.
Hallelujah! they were in
the staggered sections now, the basses leading off in sure, strong tones.
The tenors were crisp, the altos she as always, but perfectly on pitch.
The sopranos came in, flying high then higher.
She loved them with a fire,
these kids who had at last surrendered to the touch of the divine that is
music. Bethany sang with them, now in full voice.
And He shall reign---
She was flooded with sudden heat. Before she could tighten her grip,
the baton flew out of her hand. She kept on conducting--until the pain
pierced her from front to back, maked her collapse against the podium.
--forever--
Then the blood came, a cruel gush.
--and ever, she sang hopelessly, sinking to her knees.
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