Stationary Traveller

It was almost midnight when I reached the train station. The journey ahead was long, but I was looking forward to it. The night before, I had found a dusty old box in the basement containing memorabilia and old items: war medals, pictures, and most importantly, letters he had written when he was a vagabond musician, something he rarely spoke about. I decided to read those letters the following day.

18th March, 1989

It was unusually cold when I arrived. I do not remember it ever being this cold here. The village is situated between mountains. The mule I was riding seemed exhausted. Its heat warmed my legs, and so I remained atop it. The setting sun did little to spare me and my mule from the terrible cold, but it shone beautifully on the snow.

The tree leaves were especially beautiful. Seeing them weighed down by snow, yet holding resiliently to the branches, made me decide to climb off my mule, one I had chosen not to name, to avoid getting attached to it. I named my favourite reed flute, which I now always carry with me. It is both extremely fragile and very expensive, which is yet another reason why I climbed down. If the mule were to lose its footing and fall, I would not only risk breaking my neck and dying, but worse, I would risk breaking my flute, which I called Marshall Ney.

I walked for almost two hours before it grew dark, and another half hour passed before I reached the inn where I am to stay for the next two months. I was still thinking about the snowy leaves and branches. I wondered if they knew how fragile they were, and I wondered too whether the mule knew how resilient it was.

To give you a clearer picture, I will describe the place. The inn had two levels, and three enclosures nearby. Their smell was atrocious, but they were clearly the only source of food. Two enclosures housed chickens and one sheep. There were many windows, but almost all were closed because of the cold, the smell, or both.

Inside, there were ten tables or more. I was half asleep and too exhausted to count properly. An old man was the only customer, besides the waiter, who also seemed half asleep and visibly annoyed at having to stay awake for a single guest. The light was terribly dim. You could barely see anything. The air smelled of tobacco and some sort of beef based stew. Though drained, I still noticed there were no cows outside.

19th March

The loud rush of wind woke me in the early hours of the morning. I was starving, but I decided to walk for a while first. I had arrived late the night before and had not had a proper look at the surrounding landscape.

Outside, I found a path, only half marked. It seemed the kind of path that leads nowhere. Rocky and untended, it felt inviting. As usual, I had my flute with me. I only needed scenery worthy of it. My mother, who taught me how to play, said that to make good and soulful music, one’s senses must be in complete harmony. And so I promised myself not to stop walking, no matter how rugged the path, until I found a place worthy of my mother’s approval.

Soon, I came upon a river shallow enough to reveal its bed. There were fish, so I would not have to endure whatever stink the inn had to offer. I tried to follow the river’s course with my eyes, but the rising sun blinded me, and so I contented myself with gazing at the land around me. It felt ageless, without beginning or end. Snowy hills stretched as far as I could see. I was in awe, and I like to think my mother would have been proud of how beautifully I played that morning.

On my way back, I stopped to inspect where they kept the cattle and chickens. Most of what I would eat in the coming months would come from here. It would be a serious problem if it were unclean. Before I could do so, a woman who looked as though her task was to keep the place in order approached me.

“You are wanted inside,” she said, picking up buckets near my feet.

“By who?” I asked. She did not reply.

When I went inside, I was met with cheers and applause.

“These men have been working in the mines all morning. I fill their bellies, but most of them have no women, so you must fill their souls,” she said without looking at me. I would later learn that she almost never met anyone’s gaze, and that among the miners there were whispers that when she did, disaster followed.

“That is not what we agreed upon. You were informed that I would only play at the Moussem, in six months, not for these fine men, no matter how hardworking they are or how starved their souls may be. Have they no religion?” I replied.

“Our terms did not include your staying here for free. Even if you can feed and bathe yourself, the bed you sleep on is a burden if it remains unpaid,” she answered.

“So one bed is what keeps your establishment afloat?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

I have never been a superstitious man, but her gaze unsettled me. It was said to bring calamity upon those who received it. Reluctantly, I agreed to play for her customers, most of whom were already drunk. This made me wonder how they would work the rest of the day, and whether they were truly as hardworking as she claimed.

The innkeeper asked me to play something soulful and inspiring, but she did not understand that I could never control what I play. My surroundings, and more urgently my senses, dictate the tune, the tone, the outer form, and what lies within. I was enraged at being forced to perform against my will.

I remembered what my mother once told me. Our craft is as beautiful as it is dangerous. Music is sacred, and the freedom of the performer must not be trifled with. She said we are merely mediums between two worlds, and that the reed flute I hold is an instrument of life and death. It can bring joy and laughter, but it can also bring destruction upon those who abuse it. That night, I felt abused and used.

As I played, no one listened except for one old man. His back was hunched, nearly crooked, but his attention was unwavering. There was fear in his eyes, the kind a sailor has when he knows a storm is coming. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind forced open a door and a window. Whether to sing along with my tune or to silence it, it felt like a warning.

That night, I was alone in my cramped room. A broken radio sat uselessly by the wall. I welcomed the lack of space. The absence of distractions comforted me. Before falling asleep, I thought of the old man. Only then did I realise he was the same one I had seen upon my arrival. His deep eyes lingered in my thoughts, filling me with unease.

That is how I spent my first three days here, my dear sister. I know you and our father must miss me, but know that my grief is twice as heavy as yours. I hope these letters have reached you, and that you will be glad to know no trouble has followed me thus far. Please read this to our father and tell him I will keep you both informed until we meet again. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts, along with the memory of our mother.

20th March

The following day was much warmer, and the snow began to melt. When I opened the window, a terrible smell of animal carcasses struck me, and I closed it at once, though not before noticing that torrential rain had fallen during the night. This surprised me, as I am easily awakened by the slightest sound.

I went about my morning as usual. You may notice that I avoid conversation in this desolate place, but loneliness had begun to weigh on me, especially after the events of the night before. I avoided the innkeeper in particular. I did not wish to perform again until the beginning of summer, before the harvest.

I returned to the path, now made dangerous by the rain. Misfortune had followed me thus far, but by the shallow river I felt free, as though my mother were beside me. The contrast between the repulsive inn and the beauty of this place spoke of the ugliness of man and the purity of nature.

When I reached my spot, marked with piles of sticks and branches shaped into pyramids and ladders meant to trap devils and evil spirits, I found the river flooded. The countryside, once so beautiful, was now submerged in brown water. Its symmetry and magic were gone.

For a moment, I forgot you and our father. My only grief was losing this haven. I felt as though I alone knew this place, and that is why its loss weighed on me so heavily.

Then it struck me. The wary old man. The warning wind. The danger of music. This place was lost not simply by nature’s hand, but as punishment directed toward me. I had disrespected the spirits by playing music for ears that did not care to hear it, in a place unworthy of it.

Sorrow submerged my heart as the water had the plains, returning threefold as guilt. I cursed the day my music dug this river’s grave.

“It is only partly your fault. This flood is monumental. But if you bear all the guilt, you will fall before you reach the inn,” said a coarse voice beside me. It was the old man from the previous day.

“You come here too?” I asked.

“If you follow the river downstream, you will find a woodworking cabin. I used to work there.”

“Used to?”

“Yes. Most of it lies underwater now.”

“Not because of something else?”

“Life is greater than you and me. Trying to understand it fully will drive you mad. What you did would be a crime if men understood that breaking the laws of nature is far worse than breaking the laws they invent to protect their pride and possessions.”

“Then why did you not stop me when I was playing? You were there.”

“The river would have flooded regardless. Had I stopped you, the blame would have been mine.”

“Partially,” I said.

“No. Entirely. The spirits are less forgiving to men my age. I know you came here to escape the chains that bind those who enter that filthy place they call an inn.”

We stood in silence, watching nature’s destructive power. I was not returning to the inn. Yet I felt that wherever I went, ruin would follow. In my hands, I held a power not fully understood.

For the first time in my life, I felt utterly lost and yet strangely found. I knew I had to bury the flute and never unearth it again, and this rain soaked earth was the perfect place to do so.