Small Ensemble Cello,Oboe,Viola,Violin - Level 3 - Digital Download
SKU: A0.576733
Composed by David Warin Solomons. 20th Century,Contemporary. Score and parts. 7 pages. David Warin Solomons #90581. Published by David Warin Solomons (A0.576733).
Mysterious piece in octatonic mode, originally written for the short story The Door The pdf file contains score and parts. The sound sample is an electronic preview. High up on the grassy hill behind the town there is a door. It stands there in its frame with nothing before or behind it. It is locked shut. There is no key. We climb the hill each day. We play each side of the door, games of hide and seek. But we cannot go through the door. Each day we go there during this long sultry summer holiday. We are fascinated by the structure. Why would anyone put a door up there, in its frame, eternally locked, with nothing before or behind it? Maybe it is all that remains of an ancient house? We play, we wonder, we laugh and play, and we return regularly to our homes in time for tea. Then, one day, as we climb the hill for the umpteenth time, a lady dressed in white arrives before us. We watch her take the key out of her bag and insert it in the lock. We are too far downhill to catch up before she closes the door behind her. As we arrive, puffing and panting, Steve knocks on the door. No answer. Dave knocks on the door more forcefully. We hear a distant swish of robes. Gloria knocks, perhaps a little more timidly as the swishing sound approaches. Estelle begins to knock in her turn and the door suddenly opens wide. We all gasp as we see the lady standing there in glistening robes. Her face is hidden from view by a white shawl, but her piercing eyes still show. Children, she says, welcome all. Do come in, please, the kettle is on. You are just in time for tea. We hesitate, as well we might. How can we come in when there is nothing before or behind the door? But Estelle puts one foot inside and looks back at us with a curious expression of serenity on her face. We follow her. We look around at the new space beyond the door and at the parquet floor beneath our dew-soaked feet. As our eyes become accustomed to the brightness of the interior we catch sight of many signs of the world we have entered, but only fleetingly. They pass before our eyes in an instant and then flee beyond the range of sight. There is a staircase, a hat stand, a distant gleam of an ancient cooker, a faint whiff of scones and boiling jam. As we walk inside, our senses are overwhelmed with the new reality, we are rooted to the spot. Do please sit down, says the lady with a slight catch in her throat. We are seated on wooden chairs along one side of an oak table, although we cannot recall how we got there, some slip of the memory perhaps. We have no sense of foreboding, Estelle's serenity has passed to all of us. We can stay here eating scones and jam until the end of time. The lady removes her shawl and reveals a face as beautiful as anyone's mother's. Her deep black eyes glisten like obsidian. She beams a smile of welcome and pours the tea. I'm glad you have come. I've been expecting you, she begins. You must have a thousand questions, so do please ask away. Well, says Steve, what is this door that we passed through? Is this another world? There is no other world, the lady replies, this is the only one. But there is! There is! starts Dave excitedly, Look!. He gets up quickly from the chair, knocking it over in his haste and rushes to the door to open it. He pulls at it with all his force and reveals a black nothingness behind it. We were on the hill, where's it gone? he shouts, what have you done to it? There is no hill. But you climbed the hill in front of us says Gloria. There is no hill. Even Estelle of the serene demeanour is beginning to look worried. How did we get here then, how did you get here, she asks the lady nervously. We have all been here since the beginning of time, the catch in the lady's throat is becoming more evident. No, we have our families down there in the town cries Estelle You have no families,.
