A Tale of Two Doctors

You're the Relative to My Minor

Strange floated through the citrine dimension. What am I? I have a pulse, but no heartbeat. I am making sounds, but have no voice. What am I? What was I? A sound surrounds me. I've heard it before; it's a pitch. It's F# of a major chord. I'm in the key of G major, but how? There is another that makes my heart sing. Who is he? What is he? He is...is a Doctor—John. I want to call to him, but I can't. He is close. I can feel it. He could be any number of pitches. I run through a G major scale, panicking when I can't find him. John, John, where are you? I float adrift becoming lost in every piece of music I've ever loved. The notes bombard my senses, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, all perfect, all me. They are now the essence of who I am. If John, isn't in G major, then where is he? He then smiled, scattering notes. I know where you are, John, you are in my relative minor—E minor.

He then transitioned to John's key. "John, I'm here," he sang. "Don't be afraid. I'm coming for you." He then projected himself as the piano part in Mozart's Sonata for Violin and Piano #21 in E minor. "Join me John, we are in unison here." Then he heard John, strong and clear—a violin. "Oh, John you make a lovely violin. You must be a Strad."

Notes fluttered around him, then he perceived John's voice in its string instrument form. "Flatterer."

"John."

"Strange, what are we?"

"We are music. I am G Major and you are E Minor."

"Who picked the piece?"

"I did. Too highbrow?"

"No, it's lovey, very sensual."

"Join me here we are forte and together. You play, then I, until the last chord resolves. Here come the mournful tones of the second movement. This is how I feel about you, my love—my violin, answer me, penetrate me with each bow stroke, as I do you with each hammer strike of my piano keys. My hands no longer shake. The constraints from my injuries are gone. The temporal body is nothing more than a shell. The sonata is coming to an end. John, what piece will you choose?"

"Mmm, without hesitation—Summertime by Gershwin. Enjoy the seduction, Strange."

Wong concentrated, losing himself in a meditative trance. "I've found them, but they're dying."

Another sorcerer stepped forward. "How do you know they're dying? Where are they?"

"They are lost in...music."

"Music?"

"Yes, I don't understand but somehow they are pitches."

"How can we make them comprehend the danger they are in?"

Wong shook his head. "I have no idea. I'm not capable of communicating with them. Their initial frequencies are too high for me or any other human to hear." Then Brownie barked and a seldom seen smile transformed his austere features. "None of us can, but he can," he said pointing to Brownie. Brownie barked again, wagging his tail, excited to be the center of attention.

"Get Master Allan in here, now."

A few moments later a small man, entered the room. "Master Wong, what can I do for you?"

"You are a physicist, correct?"

"Yes."

"Can you construct or do you know where we can get a machine capable of analyzing sound frequencies? Time is of the essence."

Master Allan looked thoughtful, then smiled at him. "I think the University of Belgium has just such a machine, but it would take a fortune to ship it here and I don't think the University would let such a valuable piece of equipment leave the premises."

Wong took out his sling ring. "Then it's a good thing we have these."

"'I Melt with You', really John?" Strange commented.

"Come on, who doesn't like Modern English?"

"Cretin."

"Snob."

"Give me a challenge round, John."

"Okay, fine what's this?"

Strange listened, then sighed a B natural. "Seriously, John, 'Summertime Sadness'?"

"What's wrong with Lana Del Rey?"

"Nothing I just think that Born to Die is a bit morose."

"Born to die?"

"The name of the CD, John, try to keep up little fiddle."

"Hey, don't try and patronize me. I took a class in music theory—Mister Percussion."

"I'm impressed, John, I really am, king of stringed instruments."

"Don't feel slighted, Strange, you can hit me with your mallet any time."

"Oh, to be the ebony fingerboard beneath your strings. I'm getting hard, just thinking of your metal strings pressing up against my firm wood."

"Strange, I'm tremoloing all over the place."

"It's not my fault that you have no bow control."

"Stop, I can't stop laughing—tremoloing."

"Try a trill instead, it may be less taxing."

"Are you saying I don't have any stamina."

"Not at all, your sound peg and bridge are firm and upright, although there is something blocking your F-hole."

"My what?"

"Get your strings out of the gutter, I talking about the s-shaped holes on either side of you."

"Oh, let me tilt to the side. There, is that better?"

"Beautiful—John."

"Come Strange let's play a duet. I wish I were one of your piano strings, so that I could shudder every time your mallet touched me."

"John, we will touch each other one day."

"What if we can't get back?"

"Then I shall have to be content to bask in the mellow tones you produce. Tones from your heart to mine, blending together—forever."

"Strange did you hear that?"

"No, I can only hear you."

"Get your head out of your ass. I heard something—a slight hum."

"You're probably producing overtones."

"Shut up Strange and listen."

"I try and pour out my heart to you and all I get is a smart ass pizzicato."

"Sssh, listen, do you hear it?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"What is it?"

"I have no idea."

Brownie howled and Wong apologized. "Sorry, boy, but you're the only one who can hear the frequencies. Okay, Master Adam, generate that tone in pulses." Come on Strange. Come on John, answer.