The bell music that turns the trees
In a clearing in a field there sat a Carillon, a tower with bells in it that played music. The Carillon rose hundreds of feet high and hundreds of yards away in all directions there lay a forest of old oak and birch and maple trees and their leaves were the truest shade of green that the sun could show. Between the forest and the Carillon there was only grass, uncut and wild and untrodden and spanning all the distance between.
The day was a day in late October and out from the forest there walked an old man. He carried hammers with him and a bag with pages of parchment hanging out. He stood at the edge of the forest and rested for he had walked long and far to get there. He leaned against the the trunk of a tree and gazed up at the tower and its smooth unbroken lines of gray stone and the bells hanging off the rafters in the open air hundreds of feet high. He traced with his eye the angular stair way that led to the top and dreaded the walk up. He breathed deeply and tried to enjoy his last moment of rest before his work began but he could not because the thought of it drove all comfort from his mind.
He placed his hands on some knotty old roots on the ground and pushed up. He slung his hammers and parchment over his back and set out into the field. The grass hit against his face and stung his eyes so that he walked with his face turned upward and his arms stretched out to see his way forward. He counted the minutes as they turned to an hour and the tower grew taller and taller in the distance and he wished it to be over. And then as noon approached over head his hands came to touch the gray walls of the carillon and he was tired and his baggage was heavy and it pulled on his shoulder and made him slouch forward to carry the weight. The stairway lay ahead and upward and the old man felt his way toward it and climbed.
The horizon changed as he went and the tree line sank beneath his eyes and all the true green canopy of the forest stretched out to the end of the world where it vanished in a line of eastward sunlight. There was a small balcony past halfway up and he stopped there to catch his breath. The straight lines and solid stone had been unchanged by myriad centuries of wind and rain and the old man wondered if this would be the time that bells did not sound true. He turned his gaze upward and pressed his back against the railing and leaned slightly back outward so that his head and shoulders were hanging out over the ground seventy or eighty feet below. He pushed back more almost to the point where his balance was lost and from there he could just see the underside and clapper of one of the largest bells. He did not see rust or weakness in that one bell and he was glad for it.
On this balcony there was also a door and the stairway continued upward from inside. The old man went in and walked up several more flights of stairs and then he came to another door and inside it would be the keys that played the bells. He pushed on the door and it did not open though he expected that and got both of his hammers out and beat on the hinges in a drumming fashion until the door finally opened. He went in and what little light there was came down from the rafters and the bells and he saw that there was not much dust in the room and that the keys looked playable.
He pulled the parchment out of his sack and sat it near the doorway so that it would get all the light it could. And when it had gotten enough light and it began to glow he played the melody written upon it. He balled his hands into fists and pushed down the little levered keys and the bells began to chime pure and true in tone.
The melody was simple to play for he was no great musician. He thought of himself more as a minder than an artist and it fell to him to mind the Carillon. But all the same he played the melody. Five notes falling down over and over. A F D Dflat Bflat. And these notes rang together forming a chord and a melody at the same time and it was rich and sad and the old man played it over and over until the the whole miles of forest in all direction heard it.
And when the trees had heard the music they sighed and a wind blew through and the day cooled down. Hundreds of miles away farmers were working in their fields and they all heard the faintest ringing noises. Their thoughts turned wistful and they remembered their childhoods and happy memories and they were sad that they would not be that young again.
And then the old man stopped playing and he let the notes ring. He sighed and let his fists rest on his lap. The playing had shaken loose clouds of dust that fell and glimmered in the sunlight. He sat at the keys and coughed and breathed. Then when the very last tone of the lowest bell had faded out. He got up and collected his hammers and parchment and went and shut the door.
He walked out onto the balcony and he looked out at the forest below. The sun was now past overhead and it would set in an hour. The trees were still green and this worried the old man. But there was nought for him to do about it. He had played the Carillon and the bells had sounded. But whether true or not he could not tell. He shuffled his pack on his shoulders and set out for the evening. He moved north through the field and the grass still hit his face. But he came to the edge of the field and the trees and the sun was very nearly set. So he moved into the forest and sat his bag down in an a little hollow in an old beech tree. And there among the trees he made camp for the night.
His fire was small but it gave off just enough light and warmth. The old man stared into the coals and wondered and worried. He looked up and saw the leaves were all still there and green. He pulled his clothes tight and slowly fell asleep with back resting against the old beech tree. He dreamed that night for the first time in a long time.
He dreamed of his home long ago and far away and of his father and mother kissing him and putting him to bed. He dreamed of their smiles and the way they whispered “I love you” and told him he was special. In his dream he smiled and grabbed for them. But their faces pulled back and he lost them in the darkness. As a baby in his dream he fell asleep happy and unafraid that they would ever die or not love him. And as the old man was asleep and dreaming a wind blew through the forest and put out the last flames of his fire. And the beech tree’s leaves shook loose and they fell around the old man, gently touching his cheek.
He had trouble getting up in the morning. His dream had been so sweet that he wanted to continue sleeping. But he opened his eyes and breathed and pushed himself up. He gathered his bag and after finding north he set out walking. As the day passed a breeze blew through the forest and it chilled the old man. He walked all day and came to the outer edge where a great plain opened up to mountains in the north.
He walked on and did not look back. He walked on away and behind him the breeze blew harder and it shook loose the leaves of the trees. He did not see that they were turning from green to red and from red to orange and then from orange to brown and black or that overhead the canopy was thinning and forest was dying.
The old man walked away to the mountains in the north and he did not see the turn. He did not see the bell music ringing true.
