Not My Song

Not My Song by Angela R. Hunt

It was a dream. I tell myself that. I had no idea what was happening or why a man I barely know was there. He looked just as confused. Stubble shadowed his round face. He spoke but I could not hear the words. Irrationally I thought of sex and shook my head. He seemed unable to hear me but picked up on my expression. He shook his head emphatically, relieving both of us.
I gestured my confusion. He tried charade type gestures, then started changing the scenery around us. He handed me a cheap molded ceramic planter with a false child on it. Skin colored with fleshy bark, it had a gaping hole in the top yawning blackly at the apathetic child. The child's expression was flaccid.
That maw seemed hungry. Empty yet drawing attention, I shook my head and looked at him again. What was he saying? He seemed to want me to play it like a flute, but how would it work and what horrible sound would be wrought? I shook my head.
Suddenly, his eyes went sad and his clothing became dirty and ragged. His shoulders slumped as he stepped into the shadows of a filthy room. He was gone. I awoke. Message unclear, feeling thrown off.

What did the cheap pottery mean? Why a flute?

Shortly after that dream I watched my world turn sour. Music made me anxious. For some reason I feared that music would summon that awful flute. I had an intangible loathing for something I thought was a figment of my imagination.

I found myself searching the web for that imaginary flute. What would I do if it was real? What if I found it? I searched. My spare time became speeding through pictures and descriptions. There are a lot of flutes. There are many varieties. Artifacts of flutes from around the world.

Music was played to change mood, worship deities, and communicate. What worship, mood or communication did I fear? The communication in the dream had failed. It was dead.

It was several years later that I found it. It was sitting in a dusty display at the local historical society. A note next to it mentioned that it was believed to be a cheap reproduction of an ancient flute. Legend said the original was destroyed as it was meant to calm listeners and please the spirits but instead it irritated the spirits and caused despair in listeners. It was used as a defense against another tribe once. The warriors that heard its heavy notes turned their weapons on themselves.

The tribe destroyed the flute to prevent any further discord. The tribe and the legend were almost lost. A copy of the flute had been found. The story given as a warning. A local potter was enamored by the story. He dreamed of the flute. He made the flute on a new moon night, in deep shadow. Sightlessly his hands tried to shape the flute. The clay was not right. He felt blood was needed. He cut his hand. Mixed the warm liquid into the clay. He made the flute. He shaped it as his dreams directed him to. The wood, the child, the gaping maw. As he fired it his heart twisted and burned. He felt terrible. He was fevered, sweating, and exhausted. He was obsessed. The flute cooled. He was found with the flute clutched in his hands. It has never been played.

Will anyone notice if I break it? Do I care? It has to be broken. The dream warned me. I looked around. I was alone amidst the dust and weathered displays. I lifted the top of the display. I set it aside gently. I used my sleeve to pick up the flute without touching it. Somehow it felt much heavier than it should. I almost needed a second hand to pick it up. I turned to drop it on the floor. I was going to stomp on it and kick it until it broke.
"What are you doing with that?" The volunteer had just stepped in and seen me. He grabbed the flute. His face froze. His face became relaxed in an odd way. He slowly raised the flute and played a note. I was glad I had put earplugs in. I felt unimportant. I felt like I should die. I wanted to kill myself. I tried to fight it. He failed. He set the flute down and climbed out the window. It was too far to fall safely. With the ear plugs in I did not hear anything as he went. I knocked the flute to the floor. I stomped on it and kicked it into the wall until it finally broke. I swept the pieces up and later put them in a bonfire. The flames flickered with odd scents and colors. I kept the earplugs in until the largest fragment left was smaller than a nickel.