The Song of the Past

I hate it when people say that time flows like a river. It simply isn’t true. You can kneel down by a river, and watch it part around rocks and ripple when something falls in. You can reach out a hand and scoop up some water, and watch a small part of the river go still in your hands. A river is tangible. You can manipulate it. You can take a small pocket of it away and watch it go still. You cannot do this with time. There’s no way to watch how time works, how it curves around space and ripples with events. You can’t reach out to touch time, to grab a piece of it away and watch it halt. I wish that I could. 

Sitting in the attic of my grandparents' old house, I felt that sentiment especially strong. The light coming in through the window broke and mended around old spider webs and all the thick dust floating through the air. Old boxes and chests piled up to the ceiling, and the chandelier that was hanging down no longer worked. The previously white rug looked yellow, and the white leather sofa was cracked and dry, with books and journals piled on top of it. I walked over and picked up one of the journals, flipping through pages of my grandma's louping handwriting. It was kind of her to leave her house to my parents. It was even kinder of my parents to let me have it. The mortgage was paid off, and I just had to worry about paying the hydro and water bills. Eventually I would come to update the furniture and repaint, but that was far away in the future. 

I put down the journal and made my way over to one of the boxes. I stretched up as high as my short body would allow and grabbed the top box off of the nearest pile. I set it down onto the floor and opened it up. The top was piled with crinkled old newspapers, probably to keep the contents from breaking. After discarding those, I found an array of odd objects. There was a porcelain figurine of a girl in a bonnet carrying a vase of yellow flowers. There was a soapstone carving of a bear, soft and cold to the touch. There was a pretty white flute that looked almost brand new, with blue snowflakes painted delicately over the shaft. Curious to see if it still worked, I brought it up to my mouth and gave it a huff. 

The sound that came out was not the sound of a flute. It was low, guttural, and as fierce as a roar. It was as loud as a gunshot and as deep as an ocean. It was earth shattering, as though it could split the ground in half and make the sky fall. I dropped the flute to the floor, gasping for air, hands shaking and chest heaving. That sound wasn’t natural. I felt like I messed with something I shouldn’t have. I felt like I woke something that should’ve stayed in bed. 

Up ahead, the air in front of me shifted and swirled, clearing away the dust and spiderwebs, turning from clear light into sparking beams of impossible colour. The streams of light collected into one bright ball, turning as though it was rolling, but it stayed in its place, suspended in the air. Coming from the ball, I thought I heard the sound of a flute. Not the sound my flute had made, but a light, high whistle carrying an eerily upbeat tune. I looked at the flute by my feet in confusion. It definitely was not making any noise. With shaking hands and weak legs, I crouched down and picked the flute back up. I hoped it would reverse whatever I just did. I wanted it to make all the lights and sounds disappear, but I didn’t. The ball still spun and the tune still carried, but now I held a flute in my hand. 

I thought that maybe I would be able to switch the ball off somehow. It was probably some sort of projection, which didn’t explain the song but it at least explained what I was seeing. If I could figure out where the light was coming from, I could then flick the projection off. I stepped forwards and ran my hand through the ball. 

The ground fell out from underneath my feet and I was falling through a cloud of blue. It felt like when I was at the top of a roller coaster, then plunged down so fast I was popping out of my seat. Except this was a lot worse, because there was no seat and no guarantee of safety. My stomach fell into my throat and wind rushed up and wrapped around my ears so it was the only thing I could hear. My entire body was so frozen and rigid I couldn’t even scream. It felt impossible to fall this long. It was like the ground didn’t exist and there was only me and gravity locked together forever. 

Miraculously, the fall switched gears and my body started being tugged upwards. I felt the air solidify around me, thickening into a jelly-like consistency. The blue turned bluer and my skin burned hotter. A flash of blinding white flashed behind my eyes, and my feet hit solid ground. Little spots of white danced around my vision like fireflies, and I fell to my knees, gasping for air. My hands tangled in long grass, and the spots cleared away enough for me to be able to make out that I was in a field. Long weeds tickled my skin, and the sun shone down furiously. Everything smelt like one of my grandma’s Green Air candles. I pushed myself up and got off the ground. All around me, as far as I could see, was a field of long grass as high as my knees. There were no trees, no distant roads or buildings, and no other people. There weren’t even any clouds in the sky. Everywhere I looked was endless green and blue, as vast and terrifying as the ocean. 

There was a quick pop sound, and I looked up just in time to see a burst of unnatural sparkling blue. The flute fell out of nowhere and plunked me on the head. I yelped as the cursed object tumbled to the ground, getting lost in the grass. 

“Damned flute,” I muttered to myself. I crouched down and retrieved it from the grass, twirling around in my fingers. I took another look around me, and reached down to touch a blade of grass. I needed to make sure that everything felt real, I needed to know it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t recognize where I was in any capacity. If I started to think about how I got there I would shut down completely. I needed to figure out what to do next. 

The flute in my hands seemed to hum in anticipation. I didn’t see any other options, so I raised it to my mouth. I prayed that I wouldn’t be teleported to the bottom of the ocean and blew the flute again. It sounded like a normal whistle. Nothing happened. Nothing at first. 

I groaned and put my head in my hand, convinced I was lost in a never ending field forever. I had no way to escape. I was going to lose my job if I didn’t get back home soon. Why didn’t I think to bring my phone? I always had my phone. Just as I was going to collapse in the grass out of self pity, the ground started to rumble. Nothing good ever came out of rumbling. I wrapped my arms around myself protectively as the ground shook beneath my feet. My knees gave way, and I fell forward. I tried to keep balance on my hands and knees. The ground shook harder, and I swear I could hear rocks shattering and earth ripping. I squeeze my eyes close and give into the ground. I lay with the flute under my stomach and my hands over my head until it all stops. 

And it does. After what feels like a thousand years, the ground goes still and my brain stops shaking and my breath goes back into a steady rhythm. I pushed off the ground, grass lines embedded all over my bare skin where my body was pressed against the earth. What I saw in front of me was almost as startling as the earthquake. Risen from the dirt was a round hit, moss and crumbly rocks covering the walls of bark. It barely looked big enough to fit in, and the entrance was merely a small hole in the wall. I wondered how the inside wasn’t filled with dirt and worms. Through the hole I was able to make out short bookcases and a chair. The inside was dark and unlit, and the last thing I wanted to do was go inside. Spinning, I took in the fact that I was still in an empty grass field. There was still only grass and blue sky for miles, not even a tree. It was only me and the hut. It seemed the only thing I could do was go inside. 

I fitted myself through the hole and almost bonked my head on the ceiling when I stood up straight. Anyone over 5”5” would’ve had to crouch. My grandma wouldn’t have had to. She was even shorter than me. One side of the room were just books, with an old rocking chair placed in front of the short shelves. Along one wall was a pile of instrument cases. It looked like there were a couple of guitars, a violin, something smaller and rounder than a violin, and an open, empty flute case. That was all that was in the hut. There wasn’t room for much else. Curiously, I walked up to the flute case. Not allowing myself to be hopeful, I put the flute inside. I held my breath. 

Nothing. 

I sighed and turned to the bookshelf, and once again, the ground gave way beneath my feet. The whole process happened again, the falling, the tugging, the panic. It was a little easier that time. I was ready for it, but it still left me feeling queasy. My feet hit the ground and I was back in my grandma’s attic. My attic. I heard a pop, and stepped aside as the flute fell from the sky and onto the old wooden floor. Strange. Strange strange strange. I didn’t know what just happened, but I didn’t want to think about it. Not at all. I started passing back and forth, rubbing my hands together. It was a nervous habit. I focused on breathing and loosening my tightly wound nerves. I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know if I wanted to understand. 

I passed by my grandma's journal and that’s when I got my idea. Writing helps people process, right? I hastily grabbed. A few boxes and started rummaging through them, making a huge mess as I went. I didn’t stop until I had a pen and a bunch of paper. I sat down on my grandma’s couch, took a long breath, and I started to write.