A low hum filled the air, indicating the end of the interval. Gradually, people returned to their seats. It was a slow process. For anyone anxious to see the second half it would have been a time of great frustration. Indeed, anyone of that persuasion would have been advised to stay away from the evening's live performance altogether and watch the whole thing later on holo. This was because the interval was of supreme importance for the audience, for much more important even than the performance itself. Intervals in Glory Town sometimes lasted for hours, in some cases much, much longer - there was even anecdotal evidence of intervals lasting for days, resulting in the complete cancellation of the second half. 'Do you know it was a wonderful show, but we never got passed the interval?' The Marleeseen were often at least partly to blame for this. Not this evening, however, as everyone knew of Rahhoon's party, for which the Marleeseen were saving the happy mayhem they planned to bestow.
Omigali joined her parents who welcomed her back to her seat.
His Holiness Hakinadouus and Anakaran were taking great pleasure in seeing their daughter so happy. They had sometimes been concerned that her precocious spirituality and academic prowess would exclude her from friendships and normal social interactions with other young people. To see that this was not the case was most reassuring, not that they were ever personally concerned with Omigali's social skills. They retained a high opinion of whatever she did, and she had never been a difficult child -- her version of teenage rebellion had been to watch too many holos of The Never Ending Dance. But they knew that she longed to be normal. To be a Voice was a great responsibility, one could almost say a burden. To see that she could relax and enjoy friendships and indulge in teenage activities and pleasures pleased them greatly.
A low hum began to pulse in the air about them and a hush fell over the auditorium. Once again, the lights went out and all was dark. Then, gradually, there emerged a forest scene with accompanying bird songs, the sound of rustling leaves, and the faint smell of flowers and greenery. Soft music began to move and drift like a dream through the audience. It was a new sound, something not heard so far during the evening, an extraordinary keyboard sound. A girl stood amongst the trees, bathed in translucent light. She wore a plain white dress that offset her long, jet-black hair. She began to move, a graceful ensemble of arms, legs and body, enfolded in her flowing hair, movements like the trees that surrounded the auditorium, succumbing to every whim of breeze, yet elastic and tender. Her face, intent, yet enraptured, reflected her own wonder at the inner dance that moved through her. Tears came to the eyes of many as they witnessed this expression of innocence supported by elegant deportment. The Song spoke through her, the Voice that spoke through Omigali, also spoke through her, through dance and movement. This was indeed a prayer of thanksgiving.
When it was over Omigali turned to her parents. 'That's Sool,' she whispered. 'She is the greatest of her generation.'