by Emilie Wiseman

Created on: February 10, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Pale skin, stretched taut over her huge frame, scored with hundreds of tiny scratches and scars. A testament to all he had invested in her. These very marks were what made her his. She stood before him perfectly still; mute and unyielding.

He wielded the batons not as weapons. This was not an act of aggression. It was a performance, and with these instruments he would make her sing; in a language that was universally understood. For who does not understand the roar of a female provoked beyond her reason? It matters not that the roar is an anguished scream or an exultant cry if it is born of uncontrolled emotion from deep within the psyche.

There were times when his faint caresses spoke of his love, and she would respond, gently, with minute vibrations, barely discernible, except to him. A silent rumble.

Tonight he had a greater need. He was restless and agitated. He wanted to lose himself in her voice. Feel her vibrations wash over him entirely. Feel her penetrating the depths of his soul.

She had no choice but to respond to him. His own passion could not be quenched if she remained passive before him. But a flame can only be brought to life through agitation. It was her cleansing fire he craved. He would add more scars to that beautiful, pale skin, and she would sing the songs of ancestors.

He leant back, legs slightly apart to counterbalance the force of his blows. He raised his baton-clenched fist and struck. Wood on skin. Two more blows in quick succession. A pause, then two more. Her response was slow but powerful, reverberating back up his arms. Shaking his bones.

With measured blows he carried on beating. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, until he established a rhythmic pattern. The noise was incredible, deafening. The goddess of thunder awoken from her slumber. Her vibrations thrummed first into the earth beneath his feet, then up through his body until they reached his solar plexus, and remained there, a steady hum in the core of his being.

His aching arms carried on beating. Wood on skin. He began to loosen his tight grip on the batons, feeling, at last, the rhythm taking on a life of its own. Blood filled his head. An argent light washed through his brain. He relinquished his sense of self, and the bargain was struck.

He drummed to the point of exhaustion. All rational thought dissipated. He was now nothing more than a force of nature. He gave her everything that was essentially him, and she, in turn, filled him. They communicated in a language that neither could express without the other. Music to ignite the world. For what is music without emotion? And what is passion without a medium for expression?

Spent, he stepped down from the podium to rapturous applause, tossing his batons into the audience as he went.

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