F0132 · The Maroon Kingdom / Music and Silence
Farid played the duduk with trembling fingers, each note a lament rising from the depths of his being and filling the room’s dimness. The music seemed an ancient whisper, torn from the earth itself, and its echo caressed the castle’s stones like a confession impossible to halt. Hákim watched him from a corner, his grave face barely lit by the wavering candlelight. There was no need for words between them. They shared a certainty: something was approaching, an inevitable storm that would envelop them both.
Elsewhere in the castle, Jorge, weak and wasted by an illness that devoured his body, rested on a divan. The frailty of his flesh contrasted with the voracity of his mind, which continued weaving intrigues even in his condition. He had heard the rumors about Farid, the murmurs filling the corridors like an underground river, and he could not help feeling jealous of the attention that young slave attracted, even from Inés. Farid’s music possessed something Jorge had never had: a power that needed no words to dominate those who heard it.
Meanwhile, Hákim, torn between his duty and his compassion, kept watching Farid. He had sworn to protect him, but knew his influence would not suffice to save him from the very men who had tried to destroy him. Farid, marked by visible and invisible scars, had chosen silence as his shield. But that night, words finally sprang from his lips, broken yet clear.
—Feel how cold I am —Farid said.
Hákim, bewildered, remained silent. The simple, devastating phrase passed through the stone walls and resounded like an echo in every corner of the castle.
In her room, Inés contemplated the Virgin of Tribulation, whose figure seemed to emit a faint, strange light. The Virgin held a flower in her hand, a detail Inés found incomprehensible, as though it represented something beyond the earthly: music, literature, the soul itself. The icon had arrived at the castle with Lionel, entrusted to Alberto years earlier. Now, hanging beside the sign bearing Non Tolitur Mutatur, the Virgin seemed a silent witness to the plots interweaving within those walls.
Alberto, the Spanish music teacher who had taken Farid under his tutelage, saw in him something that transcended suffering. He taught him not only to play instruments, but to understand music as a bridge between pain and redemption. In one of his lessons, Farid, struggling to speak Italian, said something that left Alberto speechless:
—I would have liked to ask whether I did it innocently.
It was then that Alberto understood Farid was not mute. His silence was a deliberate refuge, a fortress built against a world that had betrayed him repeatedly.
As Farid progressed in his lessons, Alberto’s memories began to intertwine with Lionel’s. One night, Alberto confessed that Farid’s words had reminded him of a former pupil of his, a young man who had disappeared in the Troodos Mountains, in Cyprus, a victim of an alchemist’s shadows. On hearing this, Lionel fell silent, his thoughts lost in a past he shared with no one.
In the castle’s dimness, Farid’s music continued to resound. Everyone present, even those who did not hear it directly, sensed an inexplicable connection, an invisible thread that bound them. Farid, remembering the three oaths he had sworn in his life, felt a fear that drew him back from the abyss of suicide. He knew his voice, his music, his soul were part of something greater, a legacy he did not fully understand but accepted with a mixture of fear and hope.
The Virgin of Tribulation, with her inexplicable flower and her implacable gaze, seemed to watch them all, as though her eyes held both compassion and judgment. In her silence, she said: “There is still more to come.”
F0132 · The Maroon Kingdom / Music and Silence
Farid played the duduk with trembling fingers, each note a lament rising from the depths of his being and filling the room’s dimness. The music seemed an ancient whisper, torn from the earth itself, and its echo caressed the castle’s stones like a confession impossible to halt. Hákim watched him from a corner, his grave face barely lit by the wavering candlelight. There was no need for words between them. They shared a certainty: something was approaching, an inevitable storm that would envelop them both.
Elsewhere in the castle, Jorge, weak and wasted by an illness that devoured his body, rested on a divan. The frailty of his flesh contrasted with the voracity of his mind, which continued weaving intrigues even in his condition. He had heard the rumors about Farid, the murmurs filling the corridors like an underground river, and he could not help feeling jealous of the attention that young slave attracted, even from Inés. Farid’s music possessed something Jorge had never had: a power that needed no words to dominate those who heard it.
Meanwhile, Hákim, torn between his duty and his compassion, kept watching Farid. He had sworn to protect him, but knew his influence would not suffice to save him from the very men who had tried to destroy him. Farid, marked by visible and invisible scars, had chosen silence as his shield. But that night, words finally sprang from his lips, broken yet clear.
—Feel how cold I am —Farid said.
Hákim, bewildered, remained silent. The simple, devastating phrase passed through the stone walls and resounded like an echo in every corner of the castle.
In her room, Inés contemplated the Virgin of Tribulation, whose figure seemed to emit a faint, strange light. The Virgin held a flower in her hand, a detail Inés found incomprehensible, as though it represented something beyond the earthly: music, literature, the soul itself. The icon had arrived at the castle with Lionel, entrusted to Alberto years earlier. Now, hanging beside the sign bearing Non Tolitur Mutatur, the Virgin seemed a silent witness to the plots interweaving within those walls.
Alberto, the Spanish music teacher who had taken Farid under his tutelage, saw in him something that transcended suffering. He taught him not only to play instruments, but to understand music as a bridge between pain and redemption. In one of his lessons, Farid, struggling to speak Italian, said something that left Alberto speechless:
—I would have liked to ask whether I did it innocently.
It was then that Alberto understood Farid was not mute. His silence was a deliberate refuge, a fortress built against a world that had betrayed him repeatedly.
As Farid progressed in his lessons, Alberto’s memories began to intertwine with Lionel’s. One night, Alberto confessed that Farid’s words had reminded him of a former pupil of his, a young man who had disappeared in the Troodos Mountains, in Cyprus, a victim of an alchemist’s shadows. On hearing this, Lionel fell silent, his thoughts lost in a past he shared with no one.
In the castle’s dimness, Farid’s music continued to resound. Everyone present, even those who did not hear it directly, sensed an inexplicable connection, an invisible thread that bound them. Farid, remembering the three oaths he had sworn in his life, felt a fear that drew him back from the abyss of suicide. He knew his voice, his music, his soul were part of something greater, a legacy he did not fully understand but accepted with a mixture of fear and hope.
The Virgin of Tribulation, with her inexplicable flower and her implacable gaze, seemed to watch them all, as though her eyes held both compassion and judgment. In her silence, she said: “There is still more to come.”
F0132 · El Reino Cimarrón / La música y el silencio
Farid tocaba el duduk con dedos temblorosos, cada nota un lamento que ascendía desde el fondo de su ser y llenaba la penumbra de la sala. La música parecía un susurro antiguo, arrancado de la tierra misma, y su eco acariciaba las piedras del castillo como una confesión imposible de detener. Hákim lo observaba desde un rincón, su rostro grave iluminado apenas por la luz vacilante de las velas. No había necesidad de palabras entre ellos. Compartían una certeza: algo se aproximaba, una tormenta inevitable que los envolvería a ambos.
En otra parte del castillo, Jorge, débil y consumido por una enfermedad que devoraba su cuerpo, descansaba en un diván. La fragilidad de su carne contrastaba con la voracidad de su mente, que seguía tejiendo intrigas incluso en su estado. Había oído los rumores sobre Farid, los murmullos que llenaban los pasillos como un río subterráneo, y no podía evitar sentir celos de la atención que aquel joven esclavo atraía, incluso de Inés. La música de Farid poseía algo que Jorge jamás había tenido: un poder que no necesitaba palabras para dominar a quienes lo escuchaban.
Mientras tanto, Hákim, dividido entre su deber y su compasión, no dejaba de observar a Farid. Había jurado protegerlo, pero sabía que su influencia no bastaría para salvarlo de los mismos hombres que habían intentado destruirlo. Farid, marcado por cicatrices visibles e invisibles, había elegido el silencio como escudo. Pero aquella noche, las palabras finalmente brotaron de sus labios, rotas pero claras.
—Siente qué frío estoy —dijo Farid.
Hákim, desconcertado, permaneció en silencio. La frase, simple y devastadora, atravesó los muros de piedra y resonó como un eco en cada rincón del castillo.
En su habitación, Inés contemplaba la Virgen de la Tribulación, cuya figura parecía emitir una luz tenue y extraña. La Virgen sostenía una flor en su mano, un detalle que Inés encontraba incomprensible, como si representara algo más allá de lo terrenal: la música, la literatura, el alma misma. El ícono había llegado al castillo con Lionel, confiado a Alberto años atrás. Ahora, colgado junto al letrero de Non Tolitur Mutatur, la Virgen parecía ser testigo silenciosa de las tramas que se entrelazaban dentro de esas paredes.
Alberto, el maestro de música español que había tomado a Farid bajo su tutela, veía en él algo que trascendía el sufrimiento. No solo le enseñaba a tocar instrumentos, sino a comprender la música como un puente entre el dolor y la redención. En una de sus clases, Farid, esforzándose por hablar italiano, pronunció algo que dejó a Alberto sin palabras:
—Me hubiese gustado preguntar si lo hice con inocencia.
Fue en ese momento que Alberto entendió que Farid no era mudo. Su silencio era un refugio deliberado, una fortaleza construida contra un mundo que lo había traicionado repetidamente.
A medida que Farid avanzaba en sus lecciones, los recuerdos de Alberto comenzaban a entrelazarse con los de Lionel. Una noche, Alberto confesó que las palabras de Farid le habían recordado a un antiguo alumno suyo, un joven desaparecido en las montañas del Troodos, en Chipre, víctima de las sombras de un alquimista. Lionel, al escuchar esto, guardó silencio, sus pensamientos perdidos en un pasado que no compartió con nadie.
En la penumbra del castillo, la música de Farid seguía resonando. Todos los presentes, incluso aquellos que no la escuchaban directamente, percibían una conexión inexplicable, un hilo invisible que los unía. Farid, al recordar los tres juramentos que había hecho en su vida, sintió un miedo que lo apartó del abismo del suicidio. Sabía que su voz, su música, su alma, eran parte de algo más grande, un legado que no comprendía del todo pero que aceptaba con una mezcla de temor y esperanza.
La Virgen de la Tribulación, con su flor inexplicable y su mirada implacable, parecía observarlos a todos, como si sus ojos contuvieran tanto compasión como juicio. En su silencio, decía: “Aún hay más por venir.”