The Flute

This is an old tale that one of my teachers once told me.

Once in an age gone by there stood a huge, old Ironbark, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head in the wind as it talked to the stars. Its roots struck deep into the earth mingling their bronze coils with the hard, red dirt as they chased what little moisture that slept beneath. Its fallen leaves drying, rotting, decaying and becoming the trees very nutrition. For eight hundred years it had stood majestically, stabilising the land. And it came to pass that the tree was felled by the might of a mighty, barbaric wizard that made of this tree the most magnificent Tenor Flute. But such was the independent spirit of the flute that it could not be tamed even by the greatest of musicians. For a long time the instrument was treasured for its wondrous beauty by all who laid eyes on it. The greatest musicians in the entire world tried to draw melody from such a beautiful and exquisitely made instrument but it was all in vain. No one could draw melody. In response to their uttermost efforts there came from the flute only shrill unrecognisable and even harsh notes of disdain. Notes that were not even remotely in accord with the songs the musicians wanted to play. The flute refused to recognise a master. Then Joshua an unaccomplished, unknown old man of quiet and tranquil demeans asked to play the stubborn, hardwood flute. With tender hands he caressed the flute as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse and softly touched the flute so intimately that even the coldest of maidens would not resist. As he blow strongly into the mouthpiece the spirit of the wood resinated the deep power  that  lay within the dark, red wood tube. His tune echoed of nature and the  seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet breath of spring played amongst its branches. The young cataracts danced and laughed to the budding  flowers. The dreamy voices of summer were heard with its myriad of insects, the gentle pattering of rain and the ceaseless laughter of the kookaburra. And the valley sprang to life again. It is autumn in the desert and the night, sharp like a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now, winter reigns and the rain filled air swirls and beats upon the boughs with fierce delight. Then Joshua played of love and the forest swayed gently lost deep in thought. On high, like a haughty maiden, floated a cloud white and fluffy but in passing trailed long shadows on the ground black like despair. Again the mood had changed. In ecstasy the exalted ones asked Joshua wherein lay the secret of his victory. “Sirs” he replied  “others  have  failed  because  they  tried  to  play  music  about themselves. I left the flute to choose its own theme and do not know truly whether the flute had been Joshua or Joshua were the flute.”

John Audet