The Book of Songs

By Roger Freed

What are the many ways in which music can influence us for the better or worse? These stories show how it does in its magical myriad of forms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329562165

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The Book of Songs

The  Book

Of  Songs

by Roger Freed

Copyright Roger Freed 2015

THE FLUTE

Heavy lay the smoke upon the fields before us, brown and thick like a floating gravy upon the flatlands. It hid from our eyes the torrent of fury that was passing there. While our eyes were spared, our ears were not, for they were assaulted with the thunder of cannons and the cries of horses and men alike in panic, in pain and some, a loud few, in the joyous rapture of combat.

We were safe for the present. Our regiment had been pulled up from the rear. Our hike of many days had wearied us; our commanders knew we were not ready for battle. In our waiting we could watch from our vantage point on the bluff the fighting that raged two kilometers away. We were silent viewers of a spectacle of death, fury, courage and destruction that writhed across the flatland like the sinuous coiling of a giant serpent in agony.

We made our camp in the clearing where the woods gave way to the hard stones of the bluffs crest. The peacefulness of the scene of tent awnings flapping in the warm summer wind that fanned the grasses around them were strangely opposite to the sounds of the distant struggle. We had now the luxury of occupying ourselves with the necessities of living or trying to find amusement in card games or sports, but our minds were never far from the mayhem that we knew we would soon be a part of.

I was a farmer’s son and a stranger to the awful rending of home and flesh known as war. Bloodletting at home was only for the autumn pig and the occasional chicken; to kill a man was unthinkable. Here, however, here in these fields so divorced from normal living, so far from home as to be a whole other world, here the killing of an enemy was the greatest glory and he who did not engage himself so was soon done in himself. I did not want to fight, but choices are not allowed in fields of battle.

We waited our days and our nights with tensed stomachs and prepared ourselves in all ways possible- our bodies, our guns, cannons, horses, our minds our emotions. At night we would have our moment to ourselves when we would sit around the campfire and relax muscles made sore by the day’s effort and our nerves chaffed raw by dealing with so many men in so small a space. Each would be quiet with thoughts of their coming fate whirling through their minds. Out in the night an owl would ‘wooo’ and his voice would blend so easily with the mood we were in that the creature seemed to be sharing our emotions with us and was trying to sooth our shaky nerves. Then, as though to match it, the slow, humble sound of a flute would start up. Its melody would lace through us so finely and cleanly as like a needle through many different fabrics and inject into our feelings a common comfort in spite of our situation.

The player’s name was Meraso; where he came from I never learned. He always seemed different from the other soldiers; more aloof, more detached. Somehow he was not burdened by a lot of the cares and worries that fretted the other soldiers, nor did he seem to be vainglorious as were as were so many of the older men who enjoyed their profession. Instead he was a quiet, simple man, yet one who was always at the ready for any situation. When I once asked him how he could always be so relaxed, he merely commented that he simply cast his problems upon the music. In time I came to know what he meant by that.

The flute had a wondrous melody, so light and airy as to be unearthly. To try to describe its sound in words would be to soil it. In sound it was like an angel’s voice. It flowed and lilted and soared; your heart could do nothing but follow it. The source of the melodies could not have been written by human hands. As many times as I asked him from where he learned the tunes, as many times I got a hazy answer or one that made no sense. I would swear that his melodies were from the heavens. Whatever the difficulties of the day, whatever the pain I bore whether physical or a rawness of the emotions, the notes would lift me above them all and act as a balm to bruises too numerous to mention. There was rarely a man with us who would not stop and sit and listen when Meraso’s music was in the air; wine was forgotten as were card games and discussion was halted before its conclusion. As we sat about even the most savage temperament would relax and become mellow as the music swept through us. Sad would be the moment when he would take the flute from his lips and we would find ourselves rudely deposited back into this hard world like Lucifers kicked out of heavenly bliss.

What was of greatest curiousness was the flute’s construction. It was steel but tarnished in such a way as to make it appear to be wood from a distance. It was stout; fashioned in such a craft as to be unbreakable, and this was for very good reason. At the sounding end of was a double edged dagger, a strange appendage for a flute, or one could say the flute was a strange appendage for the dagger, for both seemed to be of equal importance and of equal proportions on the article. One would assume this was the creation of a lover of novelty items; an object for curiosity and nothing more. I later was to realize the flute’s maker must have been a very level-headed and wise man for its making was a deliberate and brilliant act and the construction a well-planned out and careful thing.

I will not mislead you as to its purpose. I puzzled for a while on its oddness before I asked him. I got the answer I suspected. It was designed both for the uplifting of the soul and for the taking of life. It was a weapon of war that was also an instrument of the greatest peace. According to Meraso one part was as well constructed as the other. The flute was carefully balanced for throwing. The blade was finely tempered and ran straight out to a viciously fine point. The bladed end was weighted so as to give it the dynamic striking power it would need for combat; one would think this would make it difficult for playing, but Meraso said it was a matter of adjustment on the part of the player. It was a beautiful and strange creation, wondrous in its design and terrible in its purpose.

There came the day when the battle receded beyond our sight and earshot and most of the regiment was sent to guard the southern valley entrance against surprise attack, leaving only a few of us behind guarding the bluff. That first night we two were alone, Meraso and I. It was for me a gift from heaven, for his music was all mine to savor in a most selfish way. I fell under its spell willingly, a victim of a wonderfully wholesome vice. I wished to be drowned in its elevating tones. As I gazed upon him playing, so softly, so soothingly, I could only wonder how such a heavenly instrument could also be used for such a gruesome purpose as the ending of a human life. It would almost be a sacrilege, like that of a priest using the crucifix as a murder weapon. The more I focused on this odd idea, the more convinced I became that it was all a joke on the part of my compadre.

I wonder sometimes if he had read my thoughts at that moment for in the middle of a beautiful stanza his eyes left their absorption in his music and focused on me in a peculiar way, almost as though he could penetrate what I was feeling. Without so much as a missed note or pause he reverted back to his musical work and the song lilted on undisturbed.

When at last the song came to its graceful end he gently lay the flute upon his lap and let his head fall to his chest. His eyes were closed like one in prayer and for a moment it was as though his spirit had left his body. After a breathless wait that seemed like forever he spoke, his eyes still closed to the world outside himself.

Do you wonder about the flute? he asked, his voice unusually deep.

I was taken aback by the odd tone in his voice. Ah, I was just admiring it. I answered superficially, thinking that perhaps an unusual look on my part had brought about the question.

He opened his eyes and peered at me for a moment with a stare that was like an injection. It pierced through me. I shook myself with surprise at its penetration. He smiled at my discomfort, then looked down affectionately at the instrument, stroking it with his hand as though it were a kitten.

It is a strange piece indeed. It is truly, though, a most practical tool, for it is the creation of two worlds. One is the world of the spirit, of the heart of man that is ever hungry for beauty, for the tender notes of music that open a hidden door to bliss, to soul’s contentment. But this is balanced by the practical side, the dagger, for in our world there is ever danger, and even beauty itself must guard against base rape by forces that love only destruction. They see anything of fineness as something weak to be used forcefully or pushed aside and destroyed. It has grown for me to be not just a piece of novelty but one of necessity for in it I find my sanity, my life and my devotion. By that I don’t mean that I worship it like a golden calf, rather it’s purpose. It is the meaning of the flute, not the object itself, gets my respect.

How did you come to possess it? I asked.

"To explain that I must first explain myself, and that is a bit of a story, for the path of my life has become intertwined with the meaning