"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." -Henry David Thoreau, Walden
The first time she heard it-the music that had no title, the song that had no words-Isa was six years old, and had been conveniently "misplaced" by her family in the village. She took every opportunity to escape on these small adventures, every chance to kick off her hard shoes and run free. Her bare feet stumbled upon the rain-soaked earth; the summer storms had come early that year, much to the farmers' dismay. The silver broach poked out of the mud like an early star with a purple gem buried at its heart. It was the very broach which had, the day before, adorned the cloak of Ashan, the master of the year's annual carnival.
Like the rains, the carnival had descended early upon the village, crashing down in a wave of merriment, drunkenness, and general festivity. Ashan and his kind were everything the village farmers were not, and yet the fascination sparked by the six-day exchange of both worlds kept the traveling show coming back each summer when more profitable cities dotted the region to the south and west.
Isa knew that the broach would be missed by its owner-such a precious treasure would not pass unnoticed for long. She knew also where to find him, though of course most of the children were forbidden from visiting the carnival at night. This fact was conveniently forgotten as she scooped up the mud-covered star in a sticky fist and trotted in the direction of the green and gold tents staked out at the edge of the village. There was little on that land that could be of use to the farmers, and so it was the only place the villagers would allow the carnival to stay. It was here the people came-mostly at nightfall-to take part in the festival, but more than that, to have their curiosity satisfied.
Crawling beneath a tent flap of soiled canvas, Isa entered the back of the main tent and paused to watch the curious scene unfolding before her.
The carnival master sat in the center of the tent on a raised wooden platform, his cape spread out grandly around him, rustling softly as he moved. The broach was the only thing missing, though if he noticed its absence he gave no sign. He sat at the head of a long line of eager faces, both young and very old. As each person passed by, he spoke briefly to him or her, smiled, and gestured to something in his lap. Isa strained her eyes in the dimming light but could not see what he held. Each person then walked away, some in a daze, others in deep thought, seeming to concentrate hard on something far away. All looked slightly different than when they had entered.
Biting her lip anxiously, Isa crawled from her place in the shadows and joined the line. She recognized several faces she knew and those her parents knew well, but no one spoke, and most were careful to avoid the eyes of everyone else in the cramped and eerily silent space.
The line shuffled forward as the evening shadows outside lengthened into night. Undaunted, the carnival master ordered candles lit all about the tent, and the odd, silent procession continued for what seemed like hours. Stepping onto the platform, Isa tried in vain to wipe the mud-splattered broach clean as the dark eyes of the carnival master finally fell upon her. His smile was soft as he gazed at the rather bedraggled child, and he held out a grateful hand for the broach, which Isa presented to him with as much formality as a six-year-old could manage.
Still not speaking, he gestured gently toward the mysterious object in his lap. It was a small, lacquered box with smooth, worn-down edges and swirling patterns of linked circles carved into the lid. He lifted the lid gently, reverently, and Isa waited for what magic would come out. It was then she heard the music.
There were no words that would fit the melody; she found herself almost grateful for that, as it left the music somehow untainted, untouched by anything other than the ears that were there to hear it. It was beautiful and exotic music that would forever echo teasingly at the edges of her memory, but she would never be able to reproduce it. Later she would describe it to others as being a bit like birdsong heard from far away, and gone before one can fully appreciate it.
The melody ended with the closing of the lid, and Isa blinked, looking at the polite but blank faces of those around her in line. She looked at the carnival master-the way she often looked to her parents-a child again, confused and seeking guidance from those who knew best.
"It is the music that speaks to the soul, child," he whispered in her ear. "Yours and yours alone…remember that." He smiled, and the broach-newly restored to its former place and beauty-flickered in the candlelight.
Isa turned away and left the tent, her feet instinctively finding the path to her home. Her supper would be cold, and she would have to explain where she'd run off to this time, but somehow it didn't matter. The music lingered in her mind, and she was content.
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