The Ridleys are an accomplished family. RuthAnn's daughter Robin is a graphics designer
(responsible for the front and back covers of Sebastian, pictured here),
and RuthAnn is a musician (magna cum Laude from Baylor), a widely published writer
with 18 years experience, and now a novelist. In Ridley's own words, "Sebastian is the untold story of the man whom many consider the greatest composer
who ever lived. This book transports you into the world of 18th
century Germany with its Adonis wigs, bimonthly clothes wash, potholed roads,
flamboyant courts and frigid cathedrals." In Sebastian you will find
love, tragedy, comedy, pageantry, "and above all a saga of the soul."
Prelude (1701)
It was a dangerous time of history to be taking a walk. Louis XIV was warring against half of Europe, and mercenaries returning from the fronts were extending their pillaging to an innocent countryside.
People might have thought the young man, a journeyman, sixteen years old and traveling the German roads, his extra pair of shoes dangling over his shoulder, his rucksack bulging. The traveler heard a rumble of hooves and wheels, and a carriage materialized over the rise in front of him. Some nobleman in a hurry. The young man edged off the road. Lipizzaner! and galloping so fast, you'd think it was the mail express -- a glimpse of a red velvet interior, a wrinkled old baroness with a towering coiffure.
Dust caught at his throat and threw him into a spasm of coughing. His water skin was drained, and now his empty stomach heaved. He gritted his teeth. "Just tighten your belt, trembler."
The youth regained the road with an air of determination and began whistling a tune he'd heard in Hamburg. What a city! The very air was commerce and cheer. He jingled the coins in his pocket and drew them out in his broad fist, checking one more time. Only two groschen! Well, it wouldn't hurt him to go a day without food. Where to spend the night was the bigger problem. Sleeping outdoors would be risky.
Rounding a curve, he spotted a copse of birch trees and detoured across the purple heath. The shade and the tumble of water welcomed him.
But he wasn't alone.
A burly man was sitting on a mound of rocks fishing. "Now you've done it with your infernal whistling!"
Keeping an eye on the fisherman, the youth sidled toward the brook.
The man cranked in his line. "Get your water."
The youth scrambled to the stream, dropped his rucksack on the rocks and cupped his big hands full of water. He drank, then threw some over his face. He could taste the sweat. He filled his water skin and, with a glance at the fisherman, collapsed on the grass.
The man had recast. He was staring at him, his black eyes luminous. "Come far?"
"From Hamburg."
"Ah, Hamburg!" The man's voice savored the name of the city like a sweet. "English ships, Dutch cargoes, cathedrals, music."
The youth bolted up, "Yes, music! Have you ever heard the organ offerings at the Catherinakirche?"
The fisherman nodded. "Quite a virtuoso that Reincken! Then there's the Hamburg opera. You attended?"
"To the rue of my pocket book, yes. But it was the music at the church that held me."
The man continued to query him, listening so attentively to his answers that before long the youth was eagerly pouring out his story. He told the fisherman how, twice now, he'd taken summer trips from his school in Luneburg to hear Reincken play the organ, and how this summer, Reincken had invited him to stay the week, and given him free organ lessons. "It will take me years to master all we spoke of: musica theorica, musica practica, suites, sonatas, melody in the Italian style. Have you seen the collection of manuscripts at the Hamburg publishing house? I purchased a musical treatise this morning, a chance to study musica theorica at leisure."
The fisherman reeled in a small fish, dropped it into a pail, then threw out his line once more. "And what do you mean to do with all this learning?"
There was something about the way the fisherman asked the question. The man really wanted to know. The youth downed a cold swig of water, leaned back against a boulder and crossed his stocky legs. Shapes and sounds of glory passed through his mind, splendors trumpeting, voices chorusing, people being lifted to the heavens with the works he was going to write for cathedral organs and choirs. But there was more. "I think I am close to having the answer," he began. "It comes to me more clearly everyday."
The fisherman probed, and the youth spilled out to him the heart of his aspirations and fears. Finally he dropped quiet.
The fisherman drew in his line. "I'm a musician myself," he said. And he began to talk of music and what it could do and what it had done and what it wasn't and what it was. And he said of the youth's dreams, "You must persevere."
Then, suddenly, he stood up. The youth gasped. The man was taller than anyone he had ever seen. Beneath his black traveling cloak, he was wearing a golden vest that matched the shine of his long hair.
"Try the Squire's Inn tonight," the man boomed, "in the next village."
Before the youth could explain that he had no money, the man swooped up his gear and strode away.
How long had it been since someone had taken him seriously? Not since the days of his father's tutelage. Music was a job, a way to make money, yes. But to him it was far more. Today was the first time anyone had encouraged him to pursue his dream of shaping truth with his composing.
"I want my music to help people get at the heart of life," he said out loud.
A crow cawed, and others joined in, swelling, then quieting, angry, then muttering, exclaiming, whistling. The youth laughed. He jumped up, opened his rucksack and drew out his violin. He would seek to capture the nature around him.
The violin sang. The youth stretched out the melody, questioning. The birds sang. The youth responded, weaving the violin tune more intricately, grasping for what he felt, but could not yet articulate in his music.
But then he froze. Rough voices from the road, coming closer! He picked up a stick, backed into a chalky shelter of birches and waited, heart pounding. Men in red uniforms at the edge of the copse. Hessians! Stick ready, Sebastian backed toward the heath on the opposite side, watching the soldiers move toward the brook.
Then he was in the open again, snaking across the Luneburg heath toward the distant spires. He ran for a long time, then finally stopped. No one was following. Relieved, he walked on toward the village, slowly now, gasping for breath.
The sky was turning gold by the time he reached the town. And there it was - a white structure with window boxes of primroses and a calligraphied sign: The Squire's Inn. Smells of sausage soup and bread poured from an open door.
His stomach stormed. He jerked off his pack and, pulling off the boot that had been rubbing his heel, sat down on the step. Something slapped to the ground in front of him, then something else. A window ground shut over his head. He looked up but saw no one. Then he leaned over the two silvery shapes. Herring heads! Might there be enough meat to roast? He picked one of them up and probed the slippery insides. His fingers felt something round and hard. He pulled it out. It couldn't be! He bit the object the way he'd seen his brother do. It was! A golden ducat.
He searched the second head. Another ducat! In his hand he held two golden ducats. It was enough not only for a meal and lodging, but for another year of trips - home for Christmas, another trip to Celle, Hamburg, and maybe even Lubeck to see the mighty Buxtehude!"
Why would anyone stuff herring heads with gold and toss them out the window? He thought of the enigmatic fisherman in the copse. He remembered the petitions he'd placed before the Almighty concerning this particular trip, his uncertainties about the coming year, his failing funds. Surely these herring heads were meant especially for him.
The meal that night seemed the best he'd ever tasted, and the path he'd chosen more Providence-affirmed than ever before.
