The Music Box
By Pallavi Kidambi - September 30, 2007
By Pallavi Kidambi - September 30, 2007
The Music Box
“What should we do?”
“What do you think we should do?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Hopefully a valid one.”
“Well it isn’t and I demand satisfaction!”
“Oh you want to duel eh?”
“To the death!”
“If death is what you wished, you could have had it hours ago my friend.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that the ‘situation’ you faced earlier could have left you to the birds, really.”
“Oh, well if THAT’S what you think!”
“It damn well IS what I think!”
“If you hadn’t…”
“Hadn’t what? HADN’T WHAT?”
A hooded figure appeared out of the midst.
“Oh WHAT are you going on about NOW?”
“Hello Thomas! Well you see here…erm…well…I...I…I’ve damn well forgotten what we were arguing about, really.”
“Well then I suggest you two shut up then! Can’t a person get some bloody rest around here without you two arguing about stupid things your brain can’t even have the hopes to remember?”
“Sorry mate. We weren’t thinking about other people.”
“Yeah that’s the fault of this whole damn world.”
“So did you just come here to tell us off or are you here for a reason?”
“I’m here on official business actually.”
“Official business?”
“Right, I’m delivering a package here addressed to a Mr. Finley.”
“Mr. Finley? You mean that strange bloke who lives up Wither Lane?”
“Yeah that’s right. I may finally get a chance to look the old bugger in the eye.”
“My cousin went up to old Finley’s place once. Never saw the poor bloke again. They say he knocked on Finley’s door and a hand came and up grabbed him in broad daylight and everything!”
“Do you s’pose that’s true?”
“Naw, I think old Finley wants people to be scared of him you see.”
“Why would he want people to be scared of him?”
“So he can be left alone of course! I bet I’ll be the first one to visit him in oh…about seven years.”
“Seven years? Has it really been that long?”
“So what do you s’pose is in that package? Money? Jewels? Killing utensils?”
“No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. It came from a company that manufactures instruments.”
“What kind of instruments?”
“Instruments of torture?”
“God I hope not. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if you know what I mean.”
“Oh no Thomas! You aren’t really considering going up there are you?”
“I have to! I’ve been looking for an excuse to see old Finley, and here’s one right to plop on his doorstep!”
“So you’re going to go then?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Well then, nice knowing you mate.”
“Yeah, so long.”
“Oh come off it! I’ll be back before you know it!”
* * *
Early the next morning, Thomas quickly made him way up Wither Lane with friends bidding him farewell along the way. Thomas didn’t know what to think. Was Mr. Finley really what everyone said he was? Or was he just a cranky old fellow that just wanted to be alone. Whoever he was, Thomas was going to find out soon enough.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Thomas rapped on the door several times before a faint noise was heard behind that door. Then a voice came. It was coarse and raspy like it hadn’t been used in years.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Post. I have a delivery here for a Mr. Finley.”
The door opened and Thomas finally got a look at Mr. Finley. He was a cheery looking fellow with chalk white hair and wide rimmed spectacles. His knickerbockers went up to his chest and he carried an air of satisfaction of the world around him.
“A VISITOR! For ME? Come in! Come in! Oh this is delightful! No one EVER comes to visit me! I haven’t got a clue why! The last time someone visited me was about seven years ago and he loved this place so much he decided never to leave!”
Mr. Finley let Thomas inside his mansion. Every inch of the walls were covered in fine art of the rarest kinds. He had the most expensive hand crafted Persian rugs and marble floors. Whoever Mr. Finley was, he was very rich indeed.
“Is that my package? Oh my heavens! I’ve been waiting AGES for it!”
“Erm…yes it is.”
“Well don’t just stand there! Please, sit down!”
Thomas was taken back. He didn’t expect Mr. Finley to be this nice after all the horrible comments he had heard about him. Why, this man was a very nice person! He felt comfortable in his presence. Mr. Finley opened the parcel. Inside was a tiny music box. Mr. Finley turned the side of it and the music started to flow out of it. It was a melancholy tune with minors and majors linked in a bittersweet harmony. Thomas was nearly moved to tears when he heard it.
“It’s a pretty tune isn’t it?”
“Oh yes sir it is.”
“Come with me son I want to show you something.”
Thomas followed Mr. Finley into an enormous circular room with high ceilings. There were shelves and shelves covered in every kind of music box imaginable. There was a table on one side where Mr. Finley would construct his own music boxes and a model of a music box so you could see the inner workings of the magnificent machine.
“This, is my collection. I’ve gathered music boxes from every nook and cranny of the world. Each one has the most unique and beautiful melody I could find. It’s been my passion collecting music boxes ever since I heard my first one when I was a wee lad. This one you delivered me was particularly difficult to get my hands on.”
So Thomas and Mr. Finley sat by a roaring fire and listened intently to the marvelous music boxes. Thomas could finally appreciate the music of these little machines. There was a wonder to them. Each one of them spun a tale of adventures long forgotten. Mr. Finley kept him up into the wee hours of the morning engaging him in stories of his travels to find various music boxes and Thomas happily sat and drank every word and music note in.
* * *
When Mr. Finley finally passed on, Thomas made it his mission to finish his music box collection. He would never forget the joys and wonders Mr. Finley had taught him. Thomas just hoped that someday someone could appreciate the beauty of these machines as much as the old bloke down Wither Lane did.
“What should we do?”
“What do you think we should do?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Hopefully a valid one.”
“Well it isn’t and I demand satisfaction!”
“Oh you want to duel eh?”
“To the death!”
“If death is what you wished, you could have had it hours ago my friend.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that the ‘situation’ you faced earlier could have left you to the birds, really.”
“Oh, well if THAT’S what you think!”
“It damn well IS what I think!”
“If you hadn’t…”
“Hadn’t what? HADN’T WHAT?”
A hooded figure appeared out of the midst.
“Oh WHAT are you going on about NOW?”
“Hello Thomas! Well you see here…erm…well…I...I…I’ve damn well forgotten what we were arguing about, really.”
“Well then I suggest you two shut up then! Can’t a person get some bloody rest around here without you two arguing about stupid things your brain can’t even have the hopes to remember?”
“Sorry mate. We weren’t thinking about other people.”
“Yeah that’s the fault of this whole damn world.”
“So did you just come here to tell us off or are you here for a reason?”
“I’m here on official business actually.”
“Official business?”
“Right, I’m delivering a package here addressed to a Mr. Finley.”
“Mr. Finley? You mean that strange bloke who lives up Wither Lane?”
“Yeah that’s right. I may finally get a chance to look the old bugger in the eye.”
“My cousin went up to old Finley’s place once. Never saw the poor bloke again. They say he knocked on Finley’s door and a hand came and up grabbed him in broad daylight and everything!”
“Do you s’pose that’s true?”
“Naw, I think old Finley wants people to be scared of him you see.”
“Why would he want people to be scared of him?”
“So he can be left alone of course! I bet I’ll be the first one to visit him in oh…about seven years.”
“Seven years? Has it really been that long?”
“So what do you s’pose is in that package? Money? Jewels? Killing utensils?”
“No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. It came from a company that manufactures instruments.”
“What kind of instruments?”
“Instruments of torture?”
“God I hope not. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if you know what I mean.”
“Oh no Thomas! You aren’t really considering going up there are you?”
“I have to! I’ve been looking for an excuse to see old Finley, and here’s one right to plop on his doorstep!”
“So you’re going to go then?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Well then, nice knowing you mate.”
“Yeah, so long.”
“Oh come off it! I’ll be back before you know it!”
* * *
Early the next morning, Thomas quickly made him way up Wither Lane with friends bidding him farewell along the way. Thomas didn’t know what to think. Was Mr. Finley really what everyone said he was? Or was he just a cranky old fellow that just wanted to be alone. Whoever he was, Thomas was going to find out soon enough.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Thomas rapped on the door several times before a faint noise was heard behind that door. Then a voice came. It was coarse and raspy like it hadn’t been used in years.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Post. I have a delivery here for a Mr. Finley.”
The door opened and Thomas finally got a look at Mr. Finley. He was a cheery looking fellow with chalk white hair and wide rimmed spectacles. His knickerbockers went up to his chest and he carried an air of satisfaction of the world around him.
“A VISITOR! For ME? Come in! Come in! Oh this is delightful! No one EVER comes to visit me! I haven’t got a clue why! The last time someone visited me was about seven years ago and he loved this place so much he decided never to leave!”
Mr. Finley let Thomas inside his mansion. Every inch of the walls were covered in fine art of the rarest kinds. He had the most expensive hand crafted Persian rugs and marble floors. Whoever Mr. Finley was, he was very rich indeed.
“Is that my package? Oh my heavens! I’ve been waiting AGES for it!”
“Erm…yes it is.”
“Well don’t just stand there! Please, sit down!”
Thomas was taken back. He didn’t expect Mr. Finley to be this nice after all the horrible comments he had heard about him. Why, this man was a very nice person! He felt comfortable in his presence. Mr. Finley opened the parcel. Inside was a tiny music box. Mr. Finley turned the side of it and the music started to flow out of it. It was a melancholy tune with minors and majors linked in a bittersweet harmony. Thomas was nearly moved to tears when he heard it.
“It’s a pretty tune isn’t it?”
“Oh yes sir it is.”
“Come with me son I want to show you something.”
Thomas followed Mr. Finley into an enormous circular room with high ceilings. There were shelves and shelves covered in every kind of music box imaginable. There was a table on one side where Mr. Finley would construct his own music boxes and a model of a music box so you could see the inner workings of the magnificent machine.
“This, is my collection. I’ve gathered music boxes from every nook and cranny of the world. Each one has the most unique and beautiful melody I could find. It’s been my passion collecting music boxes ever since I heard my first one when I was a wee lad. This one you delivered me was particularly difficult to get my hands on.”
So Thomas and Mr. Finley sat by a roaring fire and listened intently to the marvelous music boxes. Thomas could finally appreciate the music of these little machines. There was a wonder to them. Each one of them spun a tale of adventures long forgotten. Mr. Finley kept him up into the wee hours of the morning engaging him in stories of his travels to find various music boxes and Thomas happily sat and drank every word and music note in.
* * *
When Mr. Finley finally passed on, Thomas made it his mission to finish his music box collection. He would never forget the joys and wonders Mr. Finley had taught him. Thomas just hoped that someday someone could appreciate the beauty of these machines as much as the old bloke down Wither Lane did.
No comments:
Post a Comment