The old man who was in love with a song.

There was once a little town in the middle of wide open plains. Unmarked on maps, and near impossible to locate. Unless you knew where it was. The nearest town was miles away, almost three days journey by foot. The town’s remains might still be there if you were keen enough to have a look.

When it was still there, it was beautiful. The town circled around a small lake. Outside looking in you could not see the lake for the colourful brick houses and the shops densely dotted around it. A few trees were closest to the lake, competing for space with the houses.

The town folk depended on the lake for their resources. Though there were not that many, the ones who lived there led a happy life. They fished from the lake and harvested crops on the town’s outskirts.

Summer was a pleasant time; pleasant breeze, pleasant smells, pleasant sounds. It was wonderful time. They went about their daily duties, a few even venturing out to other towns to barter for other supplies. Some went to the nearest woods to hunt, and collect food to last for the winter.

Winter was not a nice time; unpleasant winds, no smells, but at least pleasant sounds still remained. The sounds of singing. During winter, the lake froze over and much of the town froze with it. Clear blue glass. It tinkled in the sunlight surrounded by the white mess of snow. The townsfolk didn’t venture outside much during the wintertime except to the town hall. Every night when the sun went down, the members of the town gathered there. They huddled together and sang to pass through the cold winter days.

First they would wait and chat amongst themselves, then when the grandfather clock at the end of the hall struck nine, the town’s mayor in his lovely baritone began to sing a note. Everyone would then follow suite, singing the same note, before suddenly breaking into different notes, and then different songs, with different keys and different tempos. But the feelings the songs brought forth were warm. From the outside, if one cared to listen, all notes converged to sound like a long endless note, like how the many layered sounds of a bell converge to a single tone.

Sid Pikerson was ten when he decided he did not want to sing. He just was not very good. In fact he was what the others called ‘downright atrocious’. His neighbours around him would snigger and mock him. Some others would think themselves kind by drowning him out with their own beautiful voices. His own parents sang their songs much further away from him, placing him amongst the town’s other children. To make friends. They said.

One day Sid felt that he had enough. Enough of sniggers, enough of funny looks, enough of pity, enough of song. He snuck out. Out the back door, when no one was watching, and decided he was going to play on the lake.

During late winter, the ice was often thick enough that the townsfolk would amass out of their homes in thick layers to fumble and laugh atop it. Kids would fall over, couples would hold hands and slide about. Everyone would be laughing at themselves and each other. No one would be laughing at him. He liked that a lot better than singing. Sid wondered if it could have been one of those days.

The music was still very much audible, one continuous melody streaming out of the town hall. He tried to hum along to the constant tune, wondering what note it could be and kicking up snow as he made his way to the front of the town hall. All in all he did not hate music. He just did not want to sing. Suddenly he heard a noise and stopped in his tracks surprised.

The cold bit into his bones and the water did not stir, frozen in its place, and in the middle of it all was a girl. Clad in a white dress and white shoes. Dancing, dancing, to the singular tone from the town hall.

How beautiful, he thought. He had never seen her before. He was sure he knew all the children in the town. He was ten. She looked a bit older, well, a lot older than ten. She was beautiful. That he was sure of. It was like seeing the sun glow soft at night, unexplainable and enchanting. He was a boy though, and no poet. So all he did was stare. Then he wondered if they could play together. Standing on the edge of the lake he called out to her. She did not respond. She just continued on, dancing and dancing.

Maybe she cannot hear me. He could probably make his way out to her. If she was dancing on the ice, it must be thick enough to walk on.

He took a step forward. Another. And another. He was getting closer. Then his foot fell through the ice, followed by the rest of him. He screamed as he plummeted into the icy cold lake. As he lost consciousness he thought he could see the girl rush towards him. Shimmering, shimmering. Holding out her hand to save him.

When he woke, winter had long gone. He awoke on a bed in a small dark room. The curtains were drawn back and there were birds chirping outside. His throat was dry. He began to cough, and found water next to his bed. After sitting up for a few moments a doctor walked into the room.

What happened to the girl? He asked the doctor. The doctor checked his eyes with a flashlight and asked him if he felt hurt anywhere. What happened to the girl, he asked again. The doctor said there was no girl. He must have had a fever dream. The boy wanted to rush out of bed to look for her. He had no strength to. His parents rushed in, and they had no strength left to scold him. You should have never left. Why did you leave the hall? They cried into his small frame. What happened to the girl? He asked again and again, but his voice was buried beneath his parent’s wailing.

A few days later he searched everywhere for her. He knocked on all the houses, walked as far out of town as was allowed. She was not anywhere. No one saw her, his parents said eventually after his hundredth time of asking. People rushed out when they heard the ice break and you scream, and there was no one on the water but you. His parents were worried. They tried to make him stay inside. He didn’t want to. They brought him to the doctor again. His hallucination from this episode might leave him in a mess for a while. It must be because he doesn’t have any friends. The boy didn’t want any friends. Keep him under watch, lest he do something else unprecedented. He will get over it soon. Not to worry, age will make him forget his imaginary friends and past misdeeds.

The next winter he was kept under close watch.

The next winter the same.

He never sang. He didn’t even open his mouth. His parents encouraged him best they could to join in. Look at how much fun the others are having. He could not bring himself to. He tried a few years later, but everyone still coughed loudly and stared at him, or tried to drown his voice out with their own beautiful tones. They tried though not to giggle and snigger. After all, it was the poor little boy. Poor in the head, who knows if he would plummet himself into the lake again.

Why would you sing when no one wanted you to?