The Rebirth of the Flame

(A short story for class - I'm not sure how good it is... :\  comments are appreciated)

It was dark and lonely, mostly lonely.  Fiammetta awoke, no longer surprised that it was still black and shadowy.  She had not seen any light for a long time, almost as long as she could remember.  Hearing anything but the scurrying of mice was not such a distant memory.  She did not even know where she was and had given up trying to figure it out once the music stopped—she knew from the music that she must be near the concert hall or the school.

The last time Fiammetta felt the warmth of the light was grand!  She had been the centre of attention…well, aside from Antonio, but he could steal some of the spotlight if he wanted.  At the front of the orchestra, the wonderful A Minor Concerto played by the best violinist in Venezia, Fiammetta singing out to the concert hall.

How she missed Antonio—how long had it been now?  It must have been years.  She never heard Antonio’s music anymore; he must be gone now.  She paused a moment on the ideas of where he could have gone without her.  He probably did not move away.  Venice was his home.  Had he forgotten her?  That would be horrible!  That could not be the reason she was left in this isolation.  She was his little flame, his friend, and his counsel in the most dismal days of his life.  That left only one reason for her solidarity.  He must have died.

This made Fiammetta feel even lonelier than before.  She would not be able to join him; she could not die and pass into the next world Antonio had talked about when he was a priest.  What was she to do now?

A few more years passed, but time was all the same to Fiammetta, nothing about her ever changed.  Even the scurries of the mice faded away—now she was really alone.

One day, there was noise from above.  It shocked Fiammetta, even scared her for a minute.  What could it be?  It was loud, just one at first.  Thud, thud, clump, thud, clump.  Each one echoing, making the sound grow all the louder.  Then more.  The last time she heard that much noise was when the orchestra set up.  But why would an orchestra be setting up?  Could it actually be an orchestra?  Maybe she was going to get stuck underneath the rubble from the building!

Then, almost as if to answer her question, Fiammetta heard a cello playing, then a horn, and a flute.  It shortly turned into a cacophony of instruments.  It had to be an orchestra!  Such excitement!  Fiammetta wondered if she would ever be found and played again.

She grew accustomed to hearing the orchestra play.  No one found her, and they did not play Antonio’s music very often, but she found herself enjoying it nonetheless.

A few weeks later, there was noise that seemed to be in the same room, coming closer.  Fiammetta wanted to scream, “who’s there?!”  Rustle, thud, clump, bang.  Something had fallen, but it was not her.  Phew! Then she heard a creak—and there was light!  It was so bright!  She had forgotten how bright.  Someone picked her up and glanced over her body.

Soon she was brought out of the darkness.  And was on stage!  Back to the concert hall!  Ready to sing so even the people in the back could hear.  But the man holding her handed her to a little girl with red hair.  “I thought I would find this beneath the stage.” the man said.  “It was your uncle’s.  He called her Fiammetta.  Here is the case with some of his music.  Make him proud Rufina, bring her back to life.”

Antonio’s niece?  That would not do!  She could not possibly be as good as Antonio or love Fiammetta as much!  But what could Fiammetta do about it?  There was no way for the man and girl to know what she, Fiammetta, wanted.  No way for Fiammetta to stop it.  And so “life” began again with this young redhead.  Fiammetta did not want to live for this girl.

Antonio Vivaldi

Rufina played for hours every day.  It was exhausting after all those years sitting underneath the stage!  Despite Fiammetta’s resentment and resistance, Rufina began slowly but burst with talent once she had the basic skills.  Fiammetta continued to hate her.  She missed the conversations of music and the feelings that she shared with Antonio—Rufina never had a musical conversation with her, never told Fiammetta about her thoughts.  Everything Rufina played was written already.  Never missing a note on the page, never creating one either.

Rufina was selected to do a solo piece with the orchestra in the spring.  “Great,” thought Fiammetta, “now everyone will see what a diaster this girl is, and I will be shoved back under the stage.”  But Rufina chose to do Antonio’s No. 6 A Minor Concerto—one of Fiammetta’s favourites, the last time she had been with Antonio.  It was hard not to help Rufina whilst she played; Rufina even added some of Antonio’s old tricks and frivolities.

When the night of the concert came.  Fiammetta could feel the tension in the concert hall as Rufina stepped out from behind the curtain.  Fiammetta was not expecting the fear she felt—what if she had lost something after all these years?

They started out a wobbly, but as they got farther and farther into the music, Fiammetta and Rufina became one.  Just as Antonio and Fiammetta had.  After the final draw of the bow across the string, the audience jumped to their feet.  Fiammetta could not have imagined the glow she was emitting.  This little red-haired girl had put the flame back into an old violin.