The Wonderful Flute

I was eight the first time I heard music, the smooth, warm sounds of a golden instrument

that was held to a mans lips on the street. He wore a coat so old that I couldnt tell what its

original color had been, but I never forgot the sound. It caressed my ears, cradled my soul like an

infant, tenderly, lovingly. Long notes, getting louder, then softer, drew a crowd of people who

were more mesmerized than a thirsty crowd who happened upon a well. We all listened,

transfixed, dreamily, until the crying started. It was an old womenwoman who held her hands to

her ears. The man stopped playing and she removed her hands. They were covered in blood.

Then the police came and arrested him, grabbing his instrument, and silently hauled him away,

though he whispered apologies the whole time. No one ever saw him or his beautiful instrument

again.

So that was why, ten years later, when I found the flute, I kept it hidden. The rare treasure

was lodged in a log under a tree that had grown over it. I was in the forest, looking for Ingrid, our

cat, who slunk off mid-day with a rat in her mouth. Though stubborn, she was a house cat and

was vulnerable to wild dogs and, besides, Grandma liked the orange fluff-ball. But the cat was

tricky to find, and so the only way was to stand still and listen. The first sounds to meet my ears

was the nearly overwhelming static of the trees, their leaves pounding forcibly together as an

stadium of applause. It took some concentration and some strain to finally hear past the leaves,

but once it was accomplished I could make out the creatures that lived among them. The birds

were most obvious, their wings fluttering about erratically, their little clawed feet scraping in

time as they hopped around their nests. And the squirrels chittered and chattered with each other

most obnoxiously as they skittered from tree to ground to tree again, scraping off bark and

kicking up dirt with each round. At length, I heard the chomping and crunching of bones and

1
figured it came from a small-medium sized creature with teeth sharp enough to tear through

flesh.

I followed the sound so intently, and the other sounds providing sufficient background

noise, that I didnt notice the ground underneath my feet move from solid to hollow. In one swift

movement my foot went through the wet and rotted wood of an ancient log surrounded by moss

and toadstools with a sudden crunch! It startled the life out of me! It was almost worse than that

time Mother slammed the rolling pin down next to Arthur for trying to feed his frog from the

dinner table. I let out a breath the size of a gale and collected myself, noticing the feelings along

my leg. A couple scrapes, and my other shin smarted when it came down upon the roots holding

the log up, but nothing serious. Of course, the forest went silent at the startling noise as though

under attack. Even the leaves held their breath. I retracted my foot from the log and the sounds

slowly resumed. I looked down to inspect my shoes when I saw it, . the The case.

It was a piece of wood cut too perfectly to be part of the tree. Curious, I reached down

and pulled it out. It was smooth and long. I heard the log when it released the box and the dirt as

it fell away as it was scraped off into the ground. It was a box as long as my arm, but narrow and

thin. A good size. It had some latches on one side, made of gold, and a gold plaque that read He

who opens this box finds Wonder. Enthralled, I opened the latches with some difficulty, as they

were bent and stuck, but gave with some pressure and steady coaxing.

It was a flute. Id seen pictures of them in history books and one in a museum but it had

been old and made of clay. This one was metalbrass or gold, I couldnt be sure, but it had a

deep amber hue. It shown shone like the sunset, as though polished the day before, and it

couldnt have been wider than my thumb, though it was only a few inches shorter than the length

2
of the box. It was lovingly laid in soft velvet with an impression for it to lay quite comfortably. I

wondered what it was doing out here and who couldve abandoned such a beautiful thing.

I took it out to study it more closely. It felt like glass in my hands, smooth and cool, with

not a scratch on it, though it had sat in a log for some indeterminate amount of time. I turned it

over, inspecting the shaft, the holes. It was hollow all the way through, except at one end that

also held a hole that had another layer of metal formed around it in a neat oval. I wondered how

it was played.

The wind chose that moment to blow and as the air funneled through the flute there came

with it a low whistling sound, not unlike that which blew through the roof of our house. I turned

the flute ever so slightly so that the holes faced the wind and listened as the sound increased. One

of my fingers slipped and covered one of the holes and the pitch of the sound changed. I lifted

my finger and the previous sound returned. Amused, I covered the same hole again, then tried

another, and another, and then I tried covering two or three. Each time a hole was covered a new

sound was made.

When the wind quickened the sound emboldened and when the wind died the sounds

softened to a sweet trickle. Covering the holes with my fingers, changing the pitch, it was

remarkable, and I lost myself in it until the sky went dark and the wind fell completely to a still,

small breath. An irritated sound called me from the thrall of the flute. It was Ingrid, having

finished her rat and ready to go. I hadnt heard her come up. Her orange fur stood starkly against

the greys and browns and greens, reminding me of home. I couldnt stay out there forever, so I

sadly put the flute back in the case and latched it shut, but I couldnt leave it behind. The flute

had a voice, when played by the wind. It felt like it had a soul. I couldnt leave behind something

3
with a soul to the dark, cold, woods. So I tucked the box under my arm and picked up the cat

and, together, we made our way home.

Mother and Father were whispering frantically as I neared the light and warmth of the

house. I could hear them from outside. Normally they stuck to signing but when they were

aggravated, they raised their voices. I wondered what caused them such concern until I could

make out what they were saying.

It was a bird, a damned bird, flown in from the West, Dad said.

I thought they were all silent! Mom replied.

I slipped through the back door and Ingrid jumped down from of my arms, running into

the kitchen to sit by the oven.

Camille! Mom said, with an actual tone in her voice. It was small and worried. She

signed and talked out loud at the same time. Where have you been?

Looking for Ingrid, I signed back. I slid the flute on the shelf under my coat. For some

reason it seemed prudent that I dont show it to them. Not yet.

There was something in the wood. Something singing, she said, her hands moving

quickly, looking around me at the door. I moved over and locked it, careful to shield the flute

with my body.

I didnt hear anything, I said, shrugging.

She looked at me skeptically, her hair pulled back in a half bun, her grey shirt tucked into

the skirt under her apron. It was said that years ago she was a beauty, but the years had whittled

her down to her weathered skin. Now, as her kids were grown, she rarely smiled, and she always

had some ailment or another. Recently, it was a hacking cough that woke the whole house at

night. You were in the woods for a while, she said.

4
 My hands moved, my fingers forming their own words. Sorry, I had a hard time finding

Ingrid.

She didnt look convinced, but she said nothing about the box, so I assumed that she had

yet to see it. I moved around the kitchen, picking a cooled dinner role roll out of the bread

boxbreadbox, and went into the dining room where Dad was whispering with Grandma. She had

arthritis, and couldnt sign anymore, so when she talked it was with her raspy, whispering voice.

Dad whispered too to oblige her. It wasnt a bird, it was an instrument! Grandma said, wrapped

up in a blanket, sitting in her chair by the fire, that crackled and blew with the heat. I stood in the

corner and tore off chunks of bread, letting the soft, buttery taste sit in my mouth until it

liquefied.

Instruments are extremely rude, Mom, Dad said, Theyve been banned from the town

for a long time.

Banned? I said softly. Why?

Dad sat back in his chair and Mom came back from the bedroom. You mightve been

too young, but do you remember, years ago, when that guy played an instrument in the middle of

town? It was a great golden thing. Well, the sounds it made caused Ms. Dalemans eardrums to

rupture. She nearly died.

I remembered that day. I remembered the sounds that the mans instrument had made,

clean and clear and strong. His instruments voice was unlike anything Id ever heard. Is that

why they were made illegal?

Dad nodded. Our ears are too sensitive to such loud noises. Now, I dont want to get

anyone into trouble. He looked directly at me, as though seeing into my soul. My father, who

was once big and strong, looked worn out by too much work, greying in what was left of his hair,

5
wrinkles appearing around his eyes when he smiled. Still, he had this look like he knew more

than what he gave away. Im only saying that if anyone had an actual instrument, they aught

ought not to play it where they could hurt other people.

Shame, really, Grandma croaked, I miss music. She stared sadly into the fire and

rocked back and forth, slowly, blowing air out of her nose.

Mom snorted. I say good riddance. All the noise. Too much emotion. It made people

irrational. Remember the wars? What good came of them? Music is nothing but a waste of time.

And what do you know of a good time, Matilda? In my day they allowed music at

weddings and holidays. Now its only silence. It was loud but it made people feel alive. Now

everyones husks, even the ones you love.

Mom glared at Grandma and then signed, Did you take your medicine?

Bah! Grandma said, with her voice, making us all jump.

After that I helped Mom with the dishes and then went to bed. However, layinglying

there, hearing the wind through the rafters, I couldnt help but dream about the flute, and the

beautiful sound it made when the wind touched it. I got out of bed and retrieved the box from

under my coat, moving very slowly and as quietly as possible. Still, Mom might still hear

something so I went to get a drink of water to curb any suspicions.

Back in my room, I hid the flute under my bed, behind some boxes of keepsakes. It

wasnt perfect, but I would have to wait until everyone was gone until I could hide it in the secret

place in my closet, for it involved prying out wood.

The next day my fingers itched to play the flute in the woods again, though my hopes

were dashed when I saw policemen combing the woods behind my house. One came up to my

Daddad, who was chopping wood with earplugs in, and asked him if he heard anything strange

6
yesterday. The cop looked young, but tired, as though hed been at work too long already. My

Dad dad explained the noise and then the cop said to tell him if he heard anything suspicious.

They then moved on, looking for the flute that was no longer out there.

Days went by until I judged it safe to try to bring the flute out again. I had taken it out in

my room only once, to see if it was real and not just a dream, but fearing that the air would make

it sing, I put it away quickly, and from then on I only looked at it from inside the case. However,

the sound tickled my memory like sugar and made my ears, my heart, yearn for to hear its sweet

voice again. So, on a day that happened to be windy, I put the case in a basket and covered it

with a cloth and said made out into the woods again.

I travelled far, farther than I ever went before, all the way up to the bottom of Elmunds

Teeth, where no one lived and there was no way I could possibly bother anyone with the flute. I

sat down on a rock, where the grasses swayed under the wind and leaves and dirt danced a tune

all their own. I listened intently, stretching my ears to pick up any sounds of human activity, and

only when I was satisfied that I was alone, did I open the case.

The flute reflected the sun brightly, so I was sure it was made of gold. It was still

untarnished and so pretty. I picked it up out of the case and immediately it started to sing,

circular notes of whimsy, as though the air itself wanted to tell me something. I held the flute up

and began to play the fingers. The wind was perfect, twirling through it merrily until, suddenly, a

sharp burst caused a shrill note to erupt from it. Startled, I dropped the flute! It landed on the

ground with a high-pitched ring. I stared at it, scared. How could something so delicate looking

make that sort of sound? It bounced around my head for a good minute before it went away, and

my hands shook. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe instruments were dangerous. But, looking at it, I

couldnt be convinced that something so small and lovely could make that sort of sound

7
intentionally. It was like a baby who squealed because he didnt know better. So my hands

reached for the flute again, and, again, I held it up. I looked it over and found, in the middle, was

the tiniest of all scratches. Tarnished. Ruined. Ashamed, I rubbed it down with my skirt. Surely I

was not going to be afraid of this small thing.

I lifted it up to the air again and heard it sing again, but I was careful to not put it directly

in the wind again. So concentrated on playing it was I that I didnt notice my father step out of

the trees until he was halfway across the meadow and waving to greet me. Although he had to

have heard the flute, I hurried to conceal it, so by the time he got up to me it was sitting snugly

under my feet.

I thought youd want some company, he said. I nodded and he sat down on the rock next

to me, it was big enough for two. He said, Can I see the flute? in his real voice.

I sighed and brought the flute back up. Uncasing it, I heard his breath catch and I thought

I heard his heartbeat quicken, but that might have been the wind. Its beautiful, he said,

breathless. May I?

Will you give it back? I said, holding it possessively.

Of course. You found it.

I handed over the flute and he handled it gently in his overworked fingers. The wind blew

through it and it sang for him. My father smiled and then did something extraordinary: he

brought the flute to his mouth and blew.

The flutes voice rang high and clear, and at first I was frightened at the noiseso loud!

But then my fear melted into awe as my father moved his fingers over the holes and made

different sounds. The sounds came out in a pattern that sounded safe and happy. My father

played the flute with long sounds and short sounds, stopping the sounds with his tongue and

8
when he breathed. When he was done, even the wind died down to a hush, and I stared at him in

amazement.

Where did you learn to do that? I signed, my voice had completely left me.

He shrugged and held the flute reverently, and the years retreated off his face. When I

was younger I met a man who had many instruments, and he taught me how to play. He said he

came from a land where they still had music, and they listened to it all the time. I always wanted

to go there but . . . I ended up staying. He looked remorseful, and when he stared at my flute I

could tell he had wonder still in his eyes. Then he sighed sadly and gave the flute back.

I took the flute and said, Did he say how to get there?

Dad looked up at the mountain behind us. He said that if you climb to the top of the

mountain and listen, you can hear the music, and then all you have to do is follow it.

I looked up at the snow- capped mountains behind me, with its sheer cliffs and drop drop-

offs. That would be some journey. But the flute gleamed in the sun in my hands, and it seemed

wrong to not keep it out always.

That was when I decided to journey to the West. It took a couple of weeks of planning

and preparation, but eventually I was ready to go. I wrote them notes, though Dad guessed and

gave me a hug the night before I left, and Grandma actually yelled out, I hope you find it!

before being hurried off to bed, shushed by my mother for waking the neighbors. I hoped that my

mother wouldnt be too sad that I left, and I regretted leaving her without a proper goodbye. But

she, like the rest of the city, would never understand.

The climb up Elmunds Teeth was difficult, nearly impossible at some points. I didnt

have to rock climb but sometimes the way was so steep that my path was barely a foot wide and I

had to hug the mountain face to keep from falling. I had to ration my food and water, not

9
knowing when I was going to replenish supplies, and my stomach constantly growled. Before I

got to the top I already ripped my shoes and wore my pants, so that they were wrapped and sewn

like a beggars. But every time I got discouraged, I took out the flute. Sometimes I would attempt

to play it, like my father did, and other times I would just let it speak by itself, in the wind, and

its voice would cheer me up and motivate me to keep going. I knew in my heart that what I was

doing was right.

And then I was there, at the highest tooth, standing on the peak and able to see for miles.

I saw my town, glistening in the distance behind a wall of green. The sky was incredibly blue,

and it was cold. I took the flute in its case out of the bag and hugged it to me, standing very still,

barely daring to breath. I waited.

The wind blew its own mournful notes through the earth, playing it like it did my flute.

The tones were low and ethereal, carried from another realm, as though unknown gods were

singing. And then I heard it; faint, smaller than the furthest whisper, but as real as my flute. It

was a pure sound, full of happiness and warmth and promise.

It was music.

10