The Parables of Undique

Simple Gifts

(A different style altogether, but I hope you enjoy it just the same.)

            Someone once told me that music was the second most powerful thing in all of existence. I always thought that was ridiculous. Thinking about all the powerful things that "all of existence" had, there's no way something as simple, something as fleeting as a sound or song could ever combat the forces of this world, let alone defeat them. Music is inconsistent. It's there, and then it's gone......much like my father. He and my mother fell in love and had me long before either of them were ready, then suddenly, the war took him away. War....now that's powerful. It builds men up and breaks men down, all at the same time. My father, unfortunately, was one of the broken ones returning home every year during The Arms Festival. He, and hundreds more paraded down the streets in a neat and organized group, both physical and mental scars covered by garments of prestige. Covering their upper body was a bright red, long sleeved jacket with a zipper in the back and a pure white sash, starting at the right shoulder and extending across the torso, ending at the left hip. White gloves covered the hands and nothing but black from the waist to the feet. Finally, atop there head was a black blazer with a long white feather attached to the side and extending behind them. At the front of the group were soldiers wearing the same garments, but all in white with gold trimming. I assumed they were of higher rank. My father was somewhere in the middle and as the train of men approached the houses and the soldiers broke rank to see their families, he walked onto our front porch and greeted us with little more than a hug for mother and beer on his breath.

I would like to say that he stayed with us during that time, but the man that ate our food and slept in mom's bed was not my father. He was a bitter man who grunted like an animal when spoken to. He seldom looked at me and when he did, it was an annoyed, drunken scowl, a face I grew well accustomed to.

I remember one day being so fed up with him and that stupid war, that I told him exactly what I thought about all of it. He grabbed me by the hair of my head and slapped my face hard. Mother cried when she saw the handprint on my cheek, but I didn't. I wasn't going to show him that it hurt. I lifted my head slowly and saw regret flow over him. For that one moment, I saw my father again. He lowered his and rushed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Awhile later, I quietly made my way to the room and put my ear against the door. It was faint, but I heard it......he was crying. It was certain then, that War was a monster, a powerful monster, and it devoured my father.

After that incident, I tried to stay as far away from home as possible, for as long as possible, until the week ended, and he was gone again. One particular day, I was walking through the festival, looking at all of the amazing trinkets and smelling all of the amazing food, when I heard something faint in the distance. I looked around slowly, trying to find its source and the sound seemed to be coming from the forest outside of the town. I quickly diverged from my path and made my way towards the tree line. As I got closer, the sound grew louder and more clear. It went from a faint echo in the wind to a droning sound, stopping and starting again. I entered the forest and the sound grew even louder, stopping and starting, a single note droning. I pushed my way past branches and through bushes and the sound took form, it was sounding brass, but who and how many? I was now running at this point, desperately trying to get closer, and I didn't know why. Suddenly, I tripped and fell face first in the brush, but the sound was right in front of me. I scrambled to my feet and before me was a clearing, occupied by what looked to be more than a hundred musicians each wearing the same uniform as the soldiers did. They were standing in an arc, instruments to their faces. Standing in front of them was a man, dressed nice, but comfortable. He waved his arms in time and the sound began again, and it hit me. It was like some powerful force of nature, crashing into my body, but also surrounding it, sending tingling sensations across my arms and down my back. I was petrified, not out of fear, but awestruck wonder. The man in the front motioned with his hands and the sound cut off, leaving remnants of the sound echoing through the forest. I didn't move. I didn't speak. I was practically outside of myself. The man pointed to both sides of the arc and their instruments rippled down from the ends into to middle. Then the man turned to the brush and called into it.

"Come out of there."

     I realized that he couldn't see me, so I stumbled my way out and into the clearing, still shaking from my experience. The man saw that I was just a young boy and his expression lightened. He walked over to me. My mind wanted me to run and my heart wanted me to stay, but my body wouldn't give me an option. I  couldn't move. This man that came before me was intimidating and I wasn't sure why. He wasn't tall and strong, nor did he seem angry. He was just....intimidating. He got close and spoke calmly.

" What were you doing back there in the brush, kid?"

My words failed me, just like the rest of my body in that moment. I stammered trying to make out a word and then he put his hand on my shoulder. I fell silent, but the immobilizing feeling of awe slowly faded and I was flooded with comfort instead. He pointed to the grass directly in front of the arc of over a hundred silent and unmoving musicians.

"The good seats are up here. Come on."

A massive weight had lifted from me at those words. I nodded shyly and sat down in front of the arc. A couple of the musicians looked down at me for a moment and one of them smiled. I suddenly began to feel welcome, as if this was a place where I belonged, but I could never amount to them. The man stood next to me and pointed again. The instruments went back up in the same miraculous ripple, the light dancing across each horn as they moved. He gestured forward and the beautiful note hit again, this time even more powerful. Then he held up three fingers, gesturing forward again, and the pure and lavish note became a chord, loud and overwhelming. My senses were ignited. I could hear each note in the chord, a high singing tone, two tones that filled the middle, and bass tone that shook the foundations of my soul. I never wanted to leave it. My anger was gone. My hate was gone. There was only music.

From that day, I never failed to come to the forest and hear them play, each and every day of that week, and each time I heard them, the feeling returned, that overwhelming positive energy. It was a drug to me. It would all end on the last day of that week. It saddened me to think of it, but when the day came, I was there, sitting on the grass in front of that beautiful arc. The man, whom I now recognize as the director, looked at me and smiled.

" You've been a wonderful audience these last few practices and I think it would be appropriate to end this with a very special song. It was given to me by a scribe who said he had recovered it from a distant world. It's called "Simple Gifts" and I'm sure that wherever this came from was a very happy place."

My heart skipped a beat at his words, a new song, how exciting! At this point, I had all but forgotten about my broken father, but to my surprise, I saw him enter the clearing through the brush. I expected the worse, a cruel scolding, maybe another slap to the face, and in front of them as well, but he merely looked down at where I was sitting, then sat down next to me. I was shocked. Why would he do this? What was he trying to prove? The director began moving his arms in time again and there began the same note that had brought me to this forest days ago, still so beautiful. The director then began waving his arms again and the song began. It entered proudly and with great power....power.... there it was, and with it came a flow of joyous chords and melodies surrounding us in a pure wall of sound. It then occurred to me. This is a song about someone's, maybe more than one person's "Simple Gifts". Perhaps I too am surrounded by them as well. I look to the band, to the kind and warm hearted director, and finally, a man who now had his arm around me and stared back with an expression that belonged to him....my father....my loving and brave father. He was crying. It was the first and only time I would ever see him cry, but that was ok, because I was crying too. He hugged me tightly and I laid my head on his chest and listened as the song ended on one final, beautiful chord.

Someone once told me that music was the second most powerful thing in the universe, and as he stood and conducted that band, I believed him and I also found out what the most powerful thing in existence was as well. It turns out that they're not too different. One simply inspires the other.