Dreams in Counterpoint

Wiesenstraße gleamed with morning dew as Georg trudged beside his father, their footsteps creating a syncopated rhythm against the cobblestones. The barber-surgeon's hand rested heavily on the boy's shoulder, steering him toward the courthouse where he would someday practice law. Ten-year-old Georg's fingers twitched at his sides, conducting an invisible orchestra that only he could hear.

"Keep your focus, boy," his father muttered. "Dreams fill empty stomachs with nothing but air."

Georg nodded obediently, but his mind wandered to the church organist he'd watched yesterday, whose hands danced across the keys like water over stones. The music had wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing until tears threatened to spill. *It was all just a dream*, he reminded himself. Father would never permit such frivolous pursuits.

The courthouse loomed before them—a formidable structure of stone and judgment. As they approached, Herr Händel nodded toward the building. "One day, you will argue cases here. The path is clear. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father." The words tasted like dust.

Inside, the courtroom buzzed with activity. Barristers in dark robes hurried past with scrolls clutched to their chests, while clerks scribbled furiously. Georg's father greeted his colleagues and introduced his son with practiced pride.

"My boy has a mind for rhetoric," he boasted. "Perhaps someday he'll serve the Duke himself."

A well-dressed man with a powdered wig bent down. "Is that what you want, young man? To follow your father's path?"

Georg felt the weight of his father's expectation press down. "Of course, sir."

But that night, as moonlight filtered through his bedroom window, he lay awake listening to the household settle. His father's snores rumbled down the hallway, and the maid's footsteps faded into silence. The house held its breath, and Georg slipped from beneath his blankets.

*It was all just a dream*, he thought as he crept through the darkened corridors. The forbidden music that played constantly in his mind couldn't possibly become reality. Yet his feet carried him upward, toward the forgotten attic where his late aunt's clavichord lay shrouded in dust.

Each creaking step threatened to betray him. His heart drummed against his ribs as he pushed open the attic door. Moonlight spilled through the small window, illuminating the instrument like a divine revelation. His trembling fingers reached toward it.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Georg froze. His cousin Friedrich stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his nightshirt.

"I—" Georg's voice faltered. "Please don't tell Father."

Friedrich's face softened. "I've heard you humming when you think no one is listening." He stepped further into the attic. "Show me."

Relief washed over Georg like a warm bath. He wiped dust from the clavichord with his sleeve and sat before it. "I've never actually played," he admitted. "But I hear it in my head—the music—like it's already there, waiting."

Friedrich sat beside him on the bench. "Then let it out."

Georg placed his small hands on the keys. The first note rang out—tentative, uncertain—but it vibrated through him with undeniable truth. He played another, then another, building harmonies that had existed only in his imagination until this moment.

"You're gifted," Friedrich whispered. "But your father..."

"He says music is for dreamers, not doers," Georg replied, his fingers continuing their exploration. "That I need a respectable profession."

"Perhaps some dreams aren't meant to stay dreams."

The next day, Georg's attention wandered during his Latin lessons. His tutor rapped his knuckles sharply.

"Pay attention, young Händel! Your father doesn't pay me to teach a daydreamer."

Georg rubbed his stinging hands. "Forgive me, sir."

But that night, he returned to the attic. And the next. Each time, his confidence grew. The melodies flourishing under his fingertips became more complex, more confident. Friedrich sometimes kept watch, sometimes listened in awe.

"It was all just a dream," Georg whispered one night as he closed the clavichord. "Until it wasn't."

Friedrich squeezed his shoulder. "Dreams need protection until they're strong enough to stand on their own."

Summer faded into autumn, and Georg developed a pattern. By day, he was the dutiful son—studying law, rhetoric, and languages as his father dictated. By night, he became someone else entirely—a creator, a composer, a musician whose soul poured through his fingertips.

Then came the Duke's visit to Halle. The town buzzed with excitement as decorations went up and streets were cleaned. Georg's father, being a prominent citizen, was expected to attend the reception at the town hall.

"You'll come too," he informed Georg over breakfast. "Wear your best clothes. Make a good impression."

Friedrich, who was polishing silver nearby, caught Georg's eye. "The Duke's organist Wilhelm Zachow will be performing," he murmured.

Hope flared in Georg's chest like a match struck in darkness.

The town hall gleamed with candlelight when they arrived. Important men in expensive wigs conversed in hushed tones while servants circulated with trays of food and wine. Georg stayed close to his father, observing everything with wide eyes.

When the organist began to play, something in Georg's soul recognized its kindred spirit. The music soared toward the vaulted ceiling, lifting his heart along with it. His body swayed slightly, fingers twitching in sympathetic rhythm.

His father's grip tightened on his shoulder. "Stand still," he hissed.

After the performance, while his father was deep in conversation with a town official, Georg slipped away. He found the organist in a side room, packing his music sheets.

"Sir," Georg began, his voice barely audible. "Your playing—it was magnificent."

Zachow turned, surprised. "Thank you, young man."

"I—" Georg hesitated, then pressed on. "I play too. In secret. My father doesn't know."

Interest flickered across the organist's face. "Does he not?"

Georg shook his head. "He says music is for dreamers. That I must become a lawyer."

Zachow studied him thoughtfully. "And what do you say?"

"I say..." Georg straightened his shoulders. "I say that everything begins as a dream. The acorn is not the oak tree, but one cannot exist without the other."

A smile spread across Zachow's face. "Wisely put. Would you play something for me?"

Terror and exhilaration battled in Georg's chest. "Now? Here?"

"There's a small harpsichord in the corner. Just a few notes."

Trembling, Georg sat on the bench. His hands hovered over the keys, then descended. The melody that had haunted his dreams flowed from his fingers—hesitant at first, then with growing confidence.

Zachow's eyes widened. "Who taught you?"

"No one, sir. I taught myself. In the attic, when my father sleeps."

"Extraordinary." Zachow placed a hand on Georg's shoulder. "You have a rare gift. It would be a crime against God and man to let it wither."

"But my father—"

"Leave your father to me." Zachow's voice was kind but firm. "Dreams like yours don't come along often. They must be nurtured, not crushed."

The next day, Zachow appeared at their door. Georg's father received him with surprise and suspicion, which only increased when the organist requested a private conversation. Georg was sent to his room, but he crept to the staircase, straining to hear.

Raised voices reached him—his father's angry protests, Zachow's measured responses. Words floated up: "prodigy," "wasting," "privilege," "duty."

That evening, his father called him into his study. The stern man's face was unreadable.

"Herr Zachow tells me you've been playing music. In the attic. Without permission."

Georg's stomach plummeted. "Yes, Father."

"He says you have extraordinary talent." The words seemed to pain him. "That denying you musical training would be... unconscionable."

Hope fluttered in Georg's chest, but he remained silent.

His father sighed heavily. "I want you to have a secure future. Music is uncertain. Unstable."

"I understand, Father."

"But..." He hesitated. "I also remember your mother's love of music. How she would sing to you as a baby." Pain flickered across his face. "Zachow has offered to teach you. Properly. In addition to your regular studies."

Georg's heart soared. "Do you mean—"

"Your legal studies will continue," his father cut in sharply. "Music will be secondary. Is that clear?"

It wasn't everything, but it was enough. "Yes, Father. Thank you."

That night, Georg returned to the attic one last time. His fingers caressed the clavichord with newfound legitimacy. "It was all just a dream," he whispered to the moonlight. "But now it's becoming real."

Friedrich found him there, playing with tears streaming down his face. "Your father told me the news. You've won him over."

"Not entirely," Georg replied. "But it's a beginning."

"The beginning is the most important part," Friedrich said, sitting beside him. "It's where possibility lives."

Lessons with Zachow began the following week. The organist was demanding but kind, pushing Georg beyond what he thought possible. His fingers grew stronger, his understanding deeper. Melodies that had once existed only in his head now filled the room.

"You compose with your soul, not just your mind," Zachow told him one day. "That cannot be taught."

At night, Georg dreamed of grand concert halls and audiences moved to tears. By day, he dutifully studied Latin verbs and legal precedents, answering his father's probing questions with careful precision. The double life exhausted him, but the music sustained him.

Months passed. Winter settled over Halle with a blanket of snow. The attic clavichord was moved to a proper music room, with his father's reluctant blessing. Progress in both law and music continued, though Georg's heart clearly belonged to one far more than the other.

Then came the invitation that would change everything. The Duke himself requested young Händel perform at the Christmas feast, having heard whispers of the prodigy from his trusted organist.

His father received the news with conflicted pride. "It's a great honor," he admitted gruffly. "Though I still fail to see how playing tunes will secure your future."

"Perhaps the future isn't something to be secured," Georg ventured, "but created, note by note."

The night of the performance arrived. Candles illuminated the Duke's grand hall. Nobility in their finest clothes murmured in anticipation. Georg, dressed in his Sunday best, felt his hands trembling as never before.

"Remember," Zachow whispered to him, "they are just people. The music is what matters."

Georg nodded, took a deep breath, and approached the harpsichord. The room hushed. He glanced at his father, standing stiffly by the wall, then at Friedrich, who gave him an encouraging smile.

His fingers touched the keys, and the world fell away. The music that had lived in his dreams now filled the hall, wrapping around the assembled guests like an embrace. He played what he felt—joy and struggle, hope and determination. He played for his mother, whom he barely remembered. He played for Zachow, who had recognized what others could not see. He played for Friedrich, who had kept his secret. And yes, he played for his father, whose resistance had only strengthened his resolve.

As the notes flowed from his fingers, something strange happened. Time seemed to fold upon itself, and in that moment, Georg saw beyond the candlelit hall, beyond the snow-covered streets of Halle, beyond even his own lifetime.

He didn't see how his "Water Music" would soothe a king but later be sliced into ten-second fragments for telephone hold music, pacifying frustrated callers in soulless corporate labyrinths. He didn't see his labor of love being reduced to tinny ringtones or buried among millions of other compositions in sleek rectangular devices no larger than a playing card—magical white boxes that would hold more songs than stars in the night sky, where people could summon any piece of music ever written with the mere touch of a finger, yet somehow value it less.

He didn't see how his melodies would float through cavernous shopping arcades, barely noticed above the din of commerce, or how schoolchildren would be forced to analyze his passion until it became a sterile academic exercise. He didn't see how the "Hallelujah Chorus" would become background noise at Christmas sales events, where people battled one another for material trinkets while forgetting the message that had inspired the triumphant notes.

But somehow, he also glimpsed further still—beyond the trivialization, beyond the centuries of changing tastes and technologies. He saw how, even after all that, his music would still move hearts to tears in darkened concert halls. How a single perfect phrase could still part the veil between heaven and earth for a moment, allowing listeners to glimpse something greater than themselves. How, when everything else failed, the pure expression of his soul would remind people that they too had dreams locked inside them, waiting to be born.

And in the furthest reaches of this vision, he saw the end of ages, the folding of eras, when all mankind would stand as one before the child carrying the government upon His shoulders, and give account for their stewardship of the dreams breathed into them. He saw his music rise again, not as commodity or curiosity, but as what it had always been—a prayer, a testimony, an offering.

The vision faded as the final note of his performance resonated through the hall. For a moment, there was silence—the silence of collective awe. Then applause erupted, pulling Georg back to the present. The Duke himself approached, beaming.

"Extraordinary, young man! Simply extraordinary. And composed by yourself, I understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Georg replied, bowing deeply, still shaken by what he had glimpsed.

"Such talent must be nurtured. I shall speak with your father about arrangements for your continued education."

Later that night, as they returned home in their carriage, Georg's father sat in unusual silence. Finally, he spoke.

"I have always wanted what's best for you," he said stiffly. "Security. Respectability."

"I know, Father."

"But perhaps..." He struggled visibly with the words. "Perhaps what I thought was best isn't what God intended for you."

Georg waited, hardly daring to breathe.

"Your mother would have been proud tonight," his father continued, his voice softening. "She always said you had music in your soul. I didn't want to hear it then. It was easier to dismiss as—"

"A dream?" Georg supplied.

His father nodded. "Yes. Just a dream." He met his son's eyes. "But some dreams, it seems, refuse to remain merely dreams."

In his bed that night, Georg stared at the ceiling, replaying the evening's triumph and the strange vision that had accompanied it. The path ahead was still uncertain, still difficult. His father hadn't released him from his legal studies, nor fully embraced his musical future. But a door had opened—a door through which his dreams might someday walk as realities.

*It was all just a dream*, he thought, but with a different emphasis than before. Not dismissal, but wonder. Not limitation, but beginning.

Outside, snow fell on Halle, covering the town in pristine white. Somewhere across the centuries, audiences would weep at the sound of "Messiah," and children would bounce to the lively strains of "Water Music." Georg Friedrich Händel—or George Frideric Handel, as he would later be known—didn't know all that awaited him. But as he drifted to sleep, the music already playing in his dreams, he somehow knew that this night was just the opening movement of a magnificent symphony.

For dreams, after all, are not unreal things. They are merely unrealized—acorns awaiting their chance to become oaks. And his dream, at last, had taken root.