Difference between revisions of "Bamboo flute"
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Located in the North exhibit room of the [[River's Rest Museum]], this flute sings of the power of music and secrets and the ugliness of truth.
Located in the North exhibit room of the [[River's Rest Museum]], this flutesings of the power of music and secrets and the ugliness of truth.
Latest revision as of 22:46, 9 November 2019
Located in the North exhibit room of the River's Rest Museum, this bamboo flute sings of the power of music and secrets and the ugliness of truth.
The bamboo flute, clearly a very old instrument, is the color of very rich butter. The area around the fingerholes is shiny from use. A crack runs along the body of the flute, rendering it useless. Attached to the flute is a tag that reads, "This instrument is a classic example of elven flute-making during the era of the Kingdom of Elanith. It is said the owner of this instrument committed suicide when it was inadvertantly broken.
As you sing to the bamboo flute you begin to feel it respond to your voice. It vibrates slightly, as if the pitch of your voice strikes some sympathetic tone in the flute. Involuntarily, your voice takes on the low, dulcet tones of a bamboo flute and creates a melody that is simple but achingly beautiful. The melody seems to transport you to a winding lane lined with olive trees whose leaves are newly-budded. Scattered among the trees are a few small stucco cottages. The sound of the flute is carried on the spring breeze from the window of one of the cottages. An elven man...virile, in the prime of his life, with a tanned face that's pleasant more than handsome...walks purposefully down the lane. As he approaches the cottage from which the melody comes he slows down, caught up by the enchanting tune. He dawdles a bit, then proceeds slowly on his way with a happy smile on his face. As you continue your song a buoyant, cheerful melody surrounds you. It lifts up your heart and yet, at the same time, inspires a feeling of tranquility. Once again you find yourself on the lane lined with olive trees. The trees are in full bloom. The same elven man walks quickly down the lane of olive trees, hurrying toward the sound of the music. He stops in front of the cottage and leans against one of trees, clearly enraptured by the music of the flute. His eyes are closed, his right hand waves in rhythm with the tune, a joyful smile plays across his expressive face. When the tune ends he opens his eyes and tries to peer in through the window from which the melody came. He calls out softly, "Once again your music gladdens my heart. Come to the window so that I might see you and thank you properly." From the window comes a soft, delicate woman's voice. "I thank you for your kind words, sir. And for all the kind, lovely words you've said over these last weeks. But I will not come to the window." A softly romantic melody surrounds you as you sing to the bamboo flute. The song is wistful without being melancholy, yearning without being disconsolate, pensive without being forlorn. The image of the tree-lined lane slowly coalesces and you see the elven man sitting beneath the olive tree, his back against the trunk. Scattered on the ground around him are the first fallen leaves of autumn. A tear trickles down his cheek, but the look on his face makes it clear it's a tear of hope and joy, not of sorrow. When the song ends the man sits still for a long moment, then slowly rises to his feet. He composes himself before calling out, "Dear, sweet lady, you bend my heart like the sun bends the flowers. You draw at my soul the way the moon draws the tides. Come to the window, I beg of you, that I may see you." "Your words honor me," says the voice from the window. "But it is the music that moves you, not the musician. I will not come to the window." You continue your song and shiver slightly as a chill breeze carries the sweet, harmonius flute melody to your ears. As before, you find yourself on the winding lane. The olive trees are nearly devoid of leaves. The elven man, his heavy caftan wrapped closely around himself and a scarf carelessly looped around his neck, leans against one of the trees. Despite the chill in the air, the cottage window is cracked enough for the music to carry out to the lane. The song is a familiar elven ballad, a traditional tune usually played solemnly and pretentiously by young bards in the throes of unrequited love. It is now being played in a sprightly, lighthearted way that seems to gently mock the traditional approach while firmly embracing the true spirit of the song. When it is finished, the man smiles broadly. He calls out, "I've heard this song ten times ten thousand times, but today is the first I've truly listened to it and understood it. As always, you delight my soul and make my world a brighter and more genial place. Please, dear one, I beg you...come to the window so that I might more truly express my thanks and regard." From the narrowly cracked window comes the woman's soft, cheery voice. "You are kind, sir, and I am honored by your regard for my playing. But I will not come to the window." Instead of leaving, the elven man steps behind the olive tree and draws his caftan tighter around himself. A moment passes before he hears the cottage window being closed. He quickly steps out from behind the tree, a tremendously bright smile on on his face...a smile that quickly fades and turns to revulsion. Standing in the window the obese, bulbous-nosed elven woman holding the bamboo flute sees the man's expression change. She quickly steps away from the window. You quietly, tentatively continue your song but the bamboo flute no longer responds. You see again the winding lane lined with olive trees in first bud. You again see the stucco cottages scattered cozily among the trees. But the cottage that once held such music is boarded shut. Dust covers the windowsill. The soft breeze carries only silence.