The Flutist

The long sorrow of the flute stretched across the parched ground of the caravan camp into the hearing of travelers in exhausted sleep. They were from the high country and the flute's song was no sorrow to them. Instead they heard the sound of rushing water breaking up ice patches and creating a channel for fresh water to rush down mountainous slopes to green valleys. They awoke with flute sounds transformed into restored energy. Their camels were soon ready. But the solitary player of the flute, tossing since dawn in restless sleep, no dream nestled in his mind, awoke to dust and a confusion of movement. It was a weary musician who arose, clutching his flute and bag, and joined the last component of the caravan, stragglers all, wearily treading the silence of the parched ground.