The orchestra takes a few moments to warm up while the audience gathers. A scramble ensues when a gitarist succeeds in breaking a string and hurriedly replaces and tunes a new one.
After a time, Varoni looks up from his podium. The orchestra and chorus fall silent, a signal for the audience. The conductor speaks briefly.
"This concert represents a kind of history of Pern, as handed down in the legends of the people, and the records and songs of my Craft. It is the cooperative effort of myself and all these apprentices in the chorus and orchestra. I am also grateful to Apprentices Jenufa and Uma, as well as Journeywoman Shirana, and Masters Mykal and Jalassa, all of whom told me to present this to you all... or as one of them put it, 'I'll kick your butt if you don't.'"
The journeyman grins and turns back to the apprentices on the stage. When all is silent, Varoni raises his hands, baton in his left. He looks over the orchestra and chorus and lowers his hands for the first beat in 6/8 time.
A soft murmur rises out of the chorus. The gitars in the orchestra cause a quiet hum in the background. A bass steps forward from the rest of the chorus and starts singing in soft tones that carry over the audience.
"They came to Pern, needing to be free
In ships of silver, sailing between stars
They found the wherries and firelizards
Found the skybroom and the numbweed."
"For eight long Turns they toiled
Sowing the land and seas
Making new lives for themselves
Setting up new homes."
The bass slips back into his place in the chorus joining the growing song. The drums roll forebodingly as the music rises in pitch. The flutes join in, their low tones augmenting the melody. A soprano steps forward.
"What is this horror falling from the sky?
It kills all that we grow, anything that lives
Can no one protect us from this awful menace?
Will we lose all that we have worked for?"
With a crash of cymbals, the chorus' voices flow into a surge of hope. A young red-headed alto takes the forefront.
"I have it, the answer that we seek!
It lies in the firelizards!"
An older apprentice moves awkwardly into the center spot, a plaster on his leg, raising his baritone voice in argument.
"How can they help us?
They are too small
Useless little creatures
For all their vast numbers."
The alto replies in a hopeful tone.
"We can make them larger
But it will take some time
We will do our best
To create the dragons!"
The orchestra plays a desperate strain, and Varoni signals them for more intensity, flipping a page in the sheet music with his right hand, left one measuring time with the baton as the alto continues.
"Our technology is failing
It's our only chance
We must try it now
Or all of Pern will die."
Both singers return to the body of apprentices as the orchestra plays an aria of slow decay, muted humming from the chorus providing a backdrop of foreboding. The bass narrator steps forward again.
"For two long Turns, they fought, they died
Losing more and more to Thread
Gradually, they lost all hope
And then disaster struck."
With the deep rumble of the drums and the clash of cymbals, the brass section sounds out a startling melody, a musical mimicking of the land's torment.
"They all moved North, they had to flee
The ash was burying their homes
Their machines could not take all
They left many things behind."
The tempo increases even more, the music building as the drums roll with greater volume. The sound spirals up and up, the flutes trilling in a melody that spells nearing danger. A voice cries out from the chorus.
"Thread! Thread is falling at Fort!
We must fight it with what we've got!"
As the rest of the chorus open their mouths and sing a powerful 'ohh', a young man dressed in riding clothes steps forward.
"We are the dragonriders of Pern
Now is the time to fight
Let us finally take up our duty
To Fort! to sear the Thread."
The orchestra plays a flurry of notes, a long solo that reaches to the sky. The wall of sound rises higher, the chorus' voices ringing in unison on a triumphant note. The 'rider' slips back into the rest of the chorus as there is a sharp drumroll. Silence falls sharply, and the bass sings into it softly.
"The riders took their place
As Pern's sole defenders
We, their descendants
Carry on the fight."
The chorus echoes the last line as the orchestra crashes toward a thrilling crescendo.
"Carry on the fight!"
As the trumpets blare and the flutes rise in arpeggio, the drums beat loudly and the chorus members raise their arms to the sky, where a wing of dragons suddenly appear from *between* in formation, adding their roars to the dizzying sound.
The note is held for over a minute as Varoni continues holding up his hands. Then he drops his arms, fingers pinching in a signal to the apprentices. The chorus and orchestra fall silent as one, lowering their heads in quiet tribute to the Ancients.
After the audience quiets again, the orchestra members turn the pages of their sheet music, a soft rustling into the silence. There is a long pause to allow the chorus to regain their breaths and for the Fort Weyr dragons to deposit their riders to join t he audience.
When all is settled again, Varoni raises his hands, and the orchestra prepares to play again. The conductor lowers his hands, marking a slow beat in the air in 3/4 time.
The orchestra plays a soft murmuring sound, flutes and bass gitars playing in their lowest registers. A brown-haired senior apprentice steps forward, tossing curls out of her eyes as she addresses the audience.
"Throughout the Turns, our ancestors lost more and more of their wondrous technology. They had failed to stop Thread. With a last attempt to save themselves, they created the dragons of Pern, as everyone knows."
Her eyes range the crowd, picking out all the riders present as the orchestra plays a light motif.
"But they lost their first homes, and over time, lost knowledge due to Fall, or disease, or those who died without passing their knowledge to the new generation."
The chorus hums sadly as the orchestra's flutes play a mournful theme.
"Finally, the First Pass was over. Thread had not conquered Pern. Our people spread across the continent, founding new Holds and the rest of the Weyrs on the Northern Continent. Our ancestors mostly forgot about the Ancients, having more important things to do for their survival."
The chorus's voices grow slightly softer at a signal from Varoni as his baton slices the air in a slow methodical motion. The flutes then take up a spritely melody.
"Eventually, all knowledge was lost regarding the firelizards, only whispered legends and harpers' songs keeping them alive in memory."
The spritely theme fades into the background, a doleful air added into it by the flutes.
"Our ancestors settled into their lives on Pern, Hold, Hall, and Weyr joined together by the need to defend Pern from Thread. Let us look to a time a few hundred Turns after the Crossing, to Fort Hold."
The curly-haired girl steps back into the chorus as the orchestra softly draws to a close, leaving only a single flute playing into the silence until a young tenor takes the soloist's place. A sole gitarist starts picking out a pastoral theme.
"There was a young holder who lived at Fort.
She picked herbs for the healers.
Her father a farmer, her mother a handmaiden,
Her brother one of the Lord's guards.
One winter afternoon, the sun was setting.
The holders trudged wearily to dinner.
The girl had to sit with the young kids
Ridiculed and despised.
She didn't know what else to do
To make her life more fulfilling.
Scorned and taunted all the time,
She endured on in silence."
The orchestra shifts into a refrain of sadness and teenaged angst, with the flame-haired harper journeyman marking time for the apprentices. A young fair-haired lad wearing rich clothing steps forward.
"I am Parel, the Lord of Fort.
I work hard with my holders.
My parents gone, my sisters married,
I Hold the Fort alone."
We work so hard to feed ourselves
And tithe to nearby Fort Weyr.
This winter's cold, the snow is fierce
We crouch next to our fires.
The Great Hall in my Hold
Has many lovely tap'stries
Tables for my holders' fam'lies
And rushes strewn on the floor."
The young baritone steps back into the chorus, and the orchestra finishes the Lord's aria of pride and hope. Some of the glows surrounding the chorus are dampened, and the tenor resumes the fore. A girl is seen sitting on a bench on the right-hand side of the stage, miming needlework.
"It was late at night, the moons were dark
The young holder girl was tired.
She continued her work in the Great Hall
Even the drudges were in bed.
She used her hands to sew the cloth
Squinting in the fire's light.
Sparks flew up as a log fell down
Floating up toward the ceiling.
The holder girl sat all scrunched
Eyes on her handiwork
She coughed a little, not realizing
Until her work was illuminated."
The orchestra plays a startling cacophonious melody of alarm as the young apprentice dressed as the holder girl starts to her feet. A single large torch flares up, casting a ruddy light over all. The girl's eyes widen, the needlework falling to the stage as she stares, more torches being lit from the first. Varoni signals for more intensity from the musicians, drums beating and horns blaring as the young girl sings over them.
"Fire! Fire in the Great Hall!
Lord Parel, your Hold is on fire!
Rouse the drudges, rouse the holders
Awake! Rouse the Hold!
You there, bring some water
You go and get a broom
Stop the fire with what you can
Pull down the tapestries!
Hurry there, beat it back
Open the bronze doors wide
Let the smoke billow out
Hurry now, before the fire..."
The young soprano coughs and falls to the stage, hair falling about her face. The apprentices playing drudges and holders stifle the fire, and acrid smoke drifts up. The orchestra shifts into a morning theme, a melody of aftermath as more glowbaskets are uncovered. The harper playing Parel walks over to the soprano.
"Who is this lying here
Why is she not awake?
Did she sleep through the fire
That nearly destroyed the Hold?"
The soprano lifts her head, then rises to her feet.
"My Lord, my name is Melianne
I pick herbs for the healers.
My parents are your cotholders
I am their youngest daughter."
The baritone frowns, until an apprentice wearing healer purple steps up and examines the girl. The baritone sings again.
"Are you hurt, oh holder girl
Do you know what happened here?
Why are my tap'stries burnt
And the Great Hall is scorched?"
The girl cowers slightly as jeers and catcalls rise around her. Other apprentices playing children accuse her of causing the fire. The orchestra's sound rises, a pulsing theme punctuating the catcalls, until the girl pushes back her shoulders and stands up tall. The apprentice glares at her peers, and the musicians stop on a drum beat as she begins to sing.
"I was working down here in the Hall
Finishing my needlework
A log on the fire threw up some sparks
And flew up into the tap'stries.
I did my best to rouse the Hold
To stop the fire from spreading
We got some water and some brooms,
And blankets to attack it.
The tapestries are lost, my Lord,
But the Hold is safe.
So do not accuse us of neglect
We did the best we could."
The baritone glowers at the mob, who back away in shame. The orchestra slips into a gentle strain as the Lord holds out his hand to the girl.
"Melianne, fear no more
You have all of my gratitude
You may also have my Hold
If you'll be my Lady.
Do not think I did not see
Your loyalty to the Hold
Your quiet charms have conquered me
Please say yes to my proposal.
Your rank in life, do not fear
Won't be held against you
The Conclave, desp'rate for my marriage,
Will accept you very quickly."
The two harper actors turn toward each other, a winning smile on the baritone's face, and a tentative, growing smile on the soprano's visage. The two join hands and walk toward the chorus as the orchestra dwindles into silence.
Varoni signals a short break, letting the singers and musicians get a sip of wine and ease lungs and fingers. After a few moments, he taps his baton against the music-stand, and the two sets of harpers assume poses of readiness again.
As the ginger-haired journeyman lowers his baton, hands moving in the standard for 4/4 time, the orchestra begins a short interlude. A tall strapping lad takes the soloist's place.
"We turn ahead to the end of the Sixth Pass, to the time of the plague that ravaged Pern and cost us many brave people, including Moreta, rider of gold Orlith, Weyrwoman of Fort."
As one, the harpers bow their heads to the Fort Weyr riders present, and the speaker slips back into the mass of apprentices. After a moment, the orchestra's music rises in volume, and the chorus begins singing along with the bright and happy melody.
"Look! See this, scampering there
What is this strange creature
Brought by the seamen to the North
See how it gambols there.
Come dance with me, the harpers play
Our favorite melody
Celebrate, no Fall today,
Enjoy the Igen Gather!"
The chorus hums forebodingly as the orchestra sneaks into a tune that doesn't sound too cheerful. Varoni signals for the flutes to dampen their tones, furthering the somber mood.
"Look! See him, the collapsed one
Why did he convulse so?
All here are beginning to cough
Something is very wrong.
We need the healers to come help
People are starting to die
We cannot deal with an epidemic
Aid is needed now!"
The orchestra's sound swells, and the chorus' faces turn up as their voices rise in unison. A freckle-faced alto steps forward, wearing healer purple. A surprisingly adult tone eminates from the soloist's mouth as he begins to sing.
"Healer am I, come to save
The gatherers fallen ill
Redwort here, fellis there
I do the best I can.
There are too many to nurse
Even the riders are dying
Are there no more febrifuges
Where are your supplies?"
The 'healer's' voice becomes strained, and he wipes his brow as the chorus hums dolefully.
"I cannot think of what to do
I feel so very warm
No! I cannot be sick right now
I must tend to my patients.
I do not understand this plague
I feel so very strange
Is this how the others died?
Now it is my turn."
The alto bows his head, and the chorus echoes the movement, humming softly as the glowbaskets are dimmed around the soloist. Finally, the chorus sings again, their voices muted and and their tone sad.
"So many lost to this plague
So much knowledge lost as well
The Weyrs barely mustered for Fall
Fort lost their Queen and Rider.
The creature that caused all of this
Was destroyed long ago
The South is now closed to us
We'll slowly build up the North again."
The orchestra closes on that phrase of hope as the chorus repeats the last line softly, and then both dwindle into silence. The 'dead healer' melts back into his compatriots. The glowbaskets near the chorus are covered, throwing them into darkness. A narrator steps forward, a slightly-blushing girl who looks to be in her middle teens.
"It was just over nine Turns ago, when Thread fell on Pern again. The Weyrleaders and Weyrwomen of that time, some sadly no longer with us, mustered the Weyrs of Pern to combat their ancient foe."
The chorus chants a list of names in a tone of respect.
"Shallana and M'gan for Fort!
D'vin and Krystlin for Benden!
Darci and G'son for High Reaches!
Shandra and J'rell for Igen!
H'kon and Gwyneth for Ista!
Sarai and T'mas for Southern!
Marlena and C'mic for Eastern!"
Other names are chanted as well, a litany of the leaders of Pern's Weyrs that bring a cheer or a soft murmur of respect for a fallen rider and dragon.
The narrator steps back as the musicians all open a specially-wrapped package of sheet music. A gasp races through the apprentice chorus as they see that the music is printed on _paper_. The soft sursurrus of the sheets rustles into the night as the orchestra members settle the papers onto their music-stands. The journeyman conductor's eyes are slitted as they range over the musicians, raising his baton when he sees they are ready. A gentle signal from him sends a soft and low sound over the audience.
The gitars, regular and bass, murmur low, a deep sound that is also surprisingly soft. The sound is reminiscent of the rumbling aftermath of storm, with the human chorus humming from their darkness so softly, they are indistinguishable from the musicians.
For long moments, this quiet theme is all that is heard, until the flutes insert themselves, playing a doleful tune of a land's ravaging, like survivors picking over a Thread-stricken field.
A couple of minutes later, there is a shift to a motif of impending danger. The heads of the chorus members are seen to lift in the gloom, eyes on some unseen sight. One of the musicians on the drums throws in the roll for Threadfall.
As the music swells, rising in volume and power, a young girl in the back of the chorus holds out a bag, reaching down into it. She flings her arm to the sky, and a handful of tiny sewing strings start fluttering down over the audience.
A tinny bugle is heard, and then a fair of seven firelizards dive toward the strings, arrowing in strict wing formation. As the strings continue down, the firelizards start flaming, lighting up the night with their activity.
The orchestra keeps time with the tiny flamings, quick bursts of large drums and brass as the smaller drums and gitars keep up the strong beat and pulse of the simulated Thread fighting.
The wing of 'lizards: bronze, brown, three blues, and two greens successfully flame the flung strings, battling each salvo with precision nearly unknown in most firelizards, showing their training by their very seriousness and accuracy.
The orchestra and aerial play come to a climax as the last string is charred to a crisp, then one of the blues drops down as the musicians play a soft melody of loss and aftermath.
The small midnight-blue slides back into the wing, and the orchestra's drums beat into a cymbal-marked transition, the choruses voices rising in a wordless aria of hope, their glowbaskets uncovered again and held high as they begin some long-forgotten ancient chant, a soloist's voice bursting out in intervals, until all the voices sing out.
"Til we live in Peace
Without fear of Thread
On the planet, the planet of Pern!"
The orchestra draws the music upwards, and the conductor raises his one hand, the chorus' voices nearly crying out the last line.
"Planet of Pern!"
The last note is held, voices belting it out in glorious unison, until all the drums are beat as one, and silence falls with all the stage's glowbaskets being immediately covered.
And silent darkness is all that remains.
Back to Varoni's Page.
The Dragonriders of Pern is c and tm 1967 Anne McCaffrey. The Pern theme
is used with her permission.