The Music Man

Through the mists of gray, the Music Man’s carriage would roll. It had no driver but the horses that pulled it had no need of one. A torrent of red and blue, it would light the roads it would pass, the wheels turning smoothly to the silence.

People would turn to it with suspicion in their tired eyes, hurt by the color. They would gather as the carriage would halt at the road side. The horses would not shift or make a sound, patiently frozen. For a few moments, the people would watch and wait, not knowing what this restlessness was that now clung to them.

And then the carriage would open and the people would see things they had no knowledge of. Devices bearing chemicals, whispering and bubbling. On a shelf in the back lay jars with the layer of dirt covering them dimly illuminated by the glow of whatever they held. Pipes spinning off out of view. A pair of puppets of blue and black hung from the top, smiling blissfully at any eye that settled on them. Things lurked in the darkness that the watchers did not see but heard.

Curiosity would hold them there though their cynicism would so snidely tell them to move away.

And then a man would appear standing with the devices. A man of immaculate appearance and bright eyes that pierced into each of theirs in turn, spreading discomfort and excitement. His clothes were of the same colors as his carriage but darker within the shadows.

He would smile and make a wordless offer that needed only refusal. He would hold up his hands and they would see then that there were taut silvery strings tying his fingers. A graceful flick of his slender hand and they would shine out of the darkness for a split second, a dense web within the carriage.

With every flick and twist of his hand, the carriage’s innards would gain life. Lights would shine out, speeding through the pipes. The devices would begin to move, gaining volume. And then they would hear it.

It would rise so gently and feel as though it had always been there; floating in the air till the strings of the Music Man had captured it. The people’s hearts would beat with the rhythm and they would be faced with color they had never seen. Their eyes would be tired no longer but wide and awake and entranced.

The music would sink into despair and then rise in desperation. It would lead them so sweetly and then slowly unveil the bitterness it carried. It would be loud and brave and then fall to a hopeless whisper. To each it was something different. A memory that had blurred, faced afresh. A feeling long hungered for. A pain that had festered in the hearts unknowingly, now given a voice.

And in the middle of it all, the Music Man would stand with his strings, his hands a blur to the rhythm, watching with a hungry smile as the sorrowful music slowly devoured his audience.

Beware the Music Man and his strings. Listen in silence and then be on your way. You do not know of what he makes his music.

*

The rust groaned to even the lightest shift in the swing. The day was still and gray, darkening gently. Shadows moved past. Shadows laughed. Shadows touched. He watched in silence and saw nothing.

There is nothing to fear. So he feared nothing.

The sun’s glow was dying, a reminder of time slipping past. Only when it rose did he know that there was plenty still left before him and when it set, he knew that too much of it was lost too soon.

There is nothing to want. So he wanted nothing.

He got up and his feet began to lead him home. He knew what waited at the end of the road. He knew the door. He knew the meal. He knew the stairs. He knew the bed. He knew the pillow and the place on the mattress he would find eventually. He knew the dreamless slumber and the morning and the afternoon and the evening that would once again circle back to his perch, where he now found himself increasingly often.