All songs must end, said the maxim, before we can know them. Without borders on a thing it cannot be comprehended as a whole. And so Esste decided to put the final border on her life, so that all her works and all her days could be viewed and understood and, perhaps, sung.
It was winter, and snow fell heavily outside the windows of the High Room. Esste had not decided beforehand that this day above all others would be the day. Perhaps it was the beauty of the snow; perhaps it was the knowledge that the cold would take her quickly, in a storm like this. But she sent on errands those likely to discover her too soon. Then she opened all the shutters and let the wind pour in, took off her clothing, and lay on stone in the center of the room.
As the wind swept over her, covering her with snow-flakes that melted more and more slowly, Esste hid behind her Control and wondered. She had sung many songs in her life, but which should she sing last? What song should the High Room hear as her own funerary?
She was indecisive too long, and sang nothing as she lay on the High Room floor. In the end her Control failed her, as in extremity it must always fail; but as she crawled feebly under her robes and blankets, a part of her noticed with satisfaction that the work was already done. Blankets alone would do nothing. The snow was two inches deep in the High Room. Tomorrow a new Songmaster would come here and the Songhouse would be taught new songs.
2
Onn was busy.
There was much to be done, and several key Deafs and Blinds had been sent out on errands at once, which sometimes happened but was damned inconvenient.
Sometimes, Onn had confided to a young master, I feel like I might as well be deaf, for all the time I get to spend with music.
But he didn't mind. He was a good singer, a good teacher, worthy of respect. Yet unlike many of the high masters and Songmasters who had the responsibility of seeing that the Songhouse ran smoothly, he was also a good administrator. He got jobs done. He remembered details. So that where most masters were willing to see almost all the work and decisions taken care of by the Blinds, Onn made it a point to know as much about all the operations of the Songhouse as he could, and help Esste as much as possible.
More important, he did it without being obnoxious. And so it was only reasonable for him and everyone else to assume that he would be the next Songmaster in the High Room, when Esste decided she was finished. And he would have been, too, if he hadn't been so busy.
When the Songmaster of the High Room did not wish to be disturbed, he or she simply did not answer a knock on the door. This was accepted practice. The only ones who could defy this were Deafs and Blinds going about their business, because, according to the etiquette of the place, they were generally regarded as nonexistent. A Deaf whose routine called for him to sweep out a room would simply sweep out the room, and the person who had sought privacy there would not mind-though if a student or a teacher were to enter without permission, it would be quite rude.
All this was simply taken for granted. But Onn had to consult the computer for an answer to a question, and that meant conferring with Esste. The problem seemed urgent at the time, though a few hours later he could not even remember what it was. He went to the High Room and knocked on the door.
There wasn't an answer.
If Onn had been ambitious instead of dedicated, he would have thought of the possibility that Esste did not answer because she had decided to quit her work, and he would have tiptoed away and been patient. Or if Onn had been less confident of himself, he would not have dared to open the door. But he was dedicated and confident, and he opened the door, and so it was he who found Esste's corpse cold under a thick layer of snow.
Esste's loss grieved him, and he sat in the cold (after having closed the shutters and turned on the heat) with her corpse for some time, mourning the loss of her friendship, for he had loved her very much.
But he also knew his responsibility. He had found the body. Therefore he had to inform the person who would be the next Songmaster in the High Room. Yet he himself was the only logical choice for the position. And custom forbade him to name himself. It could not be done.
It occurred to him-he was human, after all-to leave the room immediately with all as he had found it and go wait patiently for some Deaf or Blind to find the body, which was as it should be anyway.
But he was honest, and knew that the very fact that he had defied custom already and entered without permission was reason enough for him to be denied the office. If he could flout courtesy and enter when a person wanted privacy, he was too thoughtless to be Songmaster of the High Room.
But who else? It was not an accident that he was the most obvious choice for the High Room-it was not just because he was outstanding, but also because no one else was particularly suited for the work. There were many gifted singers and teachers among the Songmasters and high masters-after all, it was singing and teaching they were selected for. But a person of such strong will, such dedication, such wisdom that the Songhouse would be safe if guided by that will and that wisdom?
In all the years of the Songhouse's existence, there had always been someone, an easy choice, or at least an understandable one. Always one of the Songmasters had been ready, or if not one of them, then an outstanding young high master whose choice was clearly right.
This time there was no one. Oh, there were two or three who might have done passable work, but Onn could not have borne to work under them, for one was prone to make whimsical decisions, and another often got involved in petty quarrels, and the third was too absentminded to be depended on. Someone would always be cleaning up after their errors. That was not the way it ought to be.
By evening, Onn was getting desperate. He had barred the door-no sense in letting the rumor get out if a chance Deaf should enter-and with the snow now forming puddles on the ground, he was feeling quite damp and uncomfortable. He resolved not to leave the room until he had decided. But he could not decide.
And so, early in the morning, after a fitful sleep, he got up, keyed the door to open to his hand, locked it behind him, and began prowling the Stalls and Chambers, the Common Rooms and the toilets and the kitchens, hoping that some startling idea would occur to him, or that his indecision would be resolved, so that he could choose someone to replace Esste.
It was afternoon when, despondent, he stepped into a Common Room where a group of Breezes were being taught. He came just for solace; the young voices were unskilled enough that their singing did not force him to pay attention, yet they were good enough that their harmonies and countermelodies were a pleasure to hear.
As he sat at the back of the room, he began to watch the teacher, began to listen to her. He recognized her immediately, of course. She had enough ability that she ought to have been teaching in Stalls and Chambers-her own voice was refined and pure. But she was not young, and never likely to be advanced to be a high master or Songmaster, and so she had asked to remain in the Common Room, since she loved the children and would not be ashamed or disappointed to end her life teaching them. Esste had immediately given consent, since it was good for children to learn from the best possible voices, and this woman was the best singer of any of the teachers in the Common Room.
Her manner with the children was loving but direct, kind but accurate. It was plain that the children were devoted to her; the normal squabbles that were bound to break out in a class this age were easily handled, and they were touchingly eager to sing well for her approval. When a song was especially good, she would join in, not loudly, but in a soft and beautiful harmony that would excite the children and inspire them to sing better.