Gnarled fingers danced a solemn minuet across a dark fingerboard, bounding and pirouetting across strings. The fingers, which looked so old and decrepit that it was a wonder that they could even hold an instrument, much less play it, gracefully kept time with the accompanying music emanating below them. They seemed to be in no hurry between steps in the dance, yet managed to make each downbeat that the music demanded. A small crowd soon converged to listen to the music and watch the dancing digits. As the music gradually grew more and more frenzied, the dancers picked up the pace as well, keeping stride with each note and giving up small steps for great leaps across the wooden dance floor. As the piece reached its conclusion, the fingers trembled in appreciation of the fine melody, paused, then bowed heavily towards the fingerboard, synchronized with a sudden pause in the final, resonating chord.

Modest applause was drawn from the audience around the shabby old man, whose long, grizzly hair threatened to swallow the lute-like instrument in his lap. His clothes were layered and many, but all of them were old and faded, with threads sticking out where colorful designs might once have been. He had no shoes or any sort of covering on his feet, but kept them warm by folding them into his knees. He smelled of old wood, as if he shared the scent of the lovingly worn instrument that he cradled in his crooked arms. The only things that shone with any color on the man were his bright gray eyes. Despite the usual banality of this particular color, the gray in the man’s piercing orbs glowed like bright red cherries, shone like the deep blue of a clean lake, and had the fierce quality of a sunflower’s yellow, all in its own particular hue. Far from blending in to the insipid image of the man, the gray eyes leaped out like polished silver nuggets.

Three small children gathered near the front of the crowd were the first to comment.

“Wow! That was amazing!” exclaimed a little girl. A deliberate smile crept from the old man’s thin lips.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” inquired one of the young girl’s companions, a peasant boy of similar age to the girl.

“C—can you t-t-teach me?” stammered the third member of the young entourage: a very young boy, perhaps four years younger than his comrades. A few scattered laughs came from other audience members who had heard the child’s request.

The old man continued his smile and beckoned the youngest to come nearer. He spoke with a deceptively full voice, rich in baritone and accented with a tone that reminded the child of warm, flowing apple cider.

“Do you know what this is?” asked the voice, almost as if it were separate from the old man. The little boy shook his head.

“This instrument is very, very old. There are few that still exist today.” The old man let his hands slide down the strings, releasing them at the end in a sharp pluck, which sent a ringing chorus through the still night air disturbed only by the amiable chatting of the dispersing crowd. “You would be hard pressed to find another one to suit you, young master.”

The boy giggled at his new title, but his face then instantly returned to his sobriety. “So where did you get it then?” demanded the child.

The old man’s smile grew broader and he gestured to the remaining listeners to come closer, for it was not to play music that he had come out tonight.

“To tell you of that, I need tell you of the instrument’s first owner. His story is one of injustice, sorrow, and triumph.” The little girl raised her hand tentatively.

“Could he play it as well as you?” she asked carefully.

A deep laugh of honey came from the old man. “Oh yes, he could play as well as I. Much better, in fact, milady.” The young girl blushed at this last term and buried her face in her older companion’s shoulder.

“Please, sir. Tell us the story,” begged the smallest child as he sat, cross-legged, and listened with eager anticipation.

“But of course, young master. It began, as many tales do, a long time ago, in a kingdom that no longer exists, in a place that no one remembers…”

It began with a man who came from nowhere at all into the capital of the Kingdom. The Kingdom was a vast, outstretching empire that commanded great wealth and great power throughout all of the neighboring lands. The Kingdom’s coffers overflowed from lucrative trade that flourished everywhere its flag flew. But its most amazing markets were in the capital, a city that surrounded the king’s castle that drew artisans and merchants from every corner of the world with the promise of customers that could not buy enough. Citizens of the capital needed everything: exotic foods, exquisite jewelry, useless knickknacks, flashy clothes, beautiful paintings. They were obsessed with purchasing anything so they could brag to their neighbors that they had bought it. And it seemed logical to them, for in their capital there were bounties of marvelous things to buy. But very soon, people not only bought things they didn’t need, but things they couldn’t use. Blacksmiths bought contraptions that would plant their carrots for them without the slightest chance of ever being involved in raising any type of vegetable. Bachelors bought golden jewelry and, without a woman to give it to, simply stored it away in a drawer. It was complete chaos, but a small tax meant that the Kingdom’s wealth was extraordinary because of it, and the King encouraged the growth of this irrational practice whenever he could. As the nonsensical buying continued, the rooms underneath the palace that held the Kingdom’s wealth filled to the brim with gold. The citizens of the Kingdom were peaceable and content with their prosperity, and there were few challenges to the ultimate authority of the King.

But then the man came. One day, in the middle of the biggest square of the biggest marketplace in all of the capital, a man sat beside a fountain and began playing his instrument.

His music was enthralling, breathtaking, mind-blowing. His rhythm was immaculate and his pitch perfect. His songs halted anyone who heard them at once, and the only movement that was seen after he started playing was people moving in order to hear him better. His first song that day, a galloping melody that coursed through the veins like quicksilver, was simple in difficulty yet played with such emotion it seemed that the instrument in his lap would burst of energy. Yet for anyone who doubted his technical prowess, his second song was a complex piece at which even the most skilled virtuoso would quake. His fingers were hummingbirds, darting from note to note on different strings at impossible speeds. He finished the second song, quietly slipped his instrument under his arm, and dissolved into the speechless crowd.

After a moment’s silence, the bazaar broke out into a frenzied, curious mob. Merchants, buyers, visitors, and beggar children all wanted to know more about the mysterious musician. Who was this man? Where did he come from? Where did he learn to play so well? What music was that? What instrument was that? And, the most asked question of anyone, will he come to play again?

The next day, an anxious crowd gathered around the same fountain as the day before. Instead of the usual boisterous cloud of noise that enveloped the marketplace, everyone spoke in low whispers, and when one man involuntarily coughed, he glanced around nervously was ashamed as if he had disturbed a temple service. All sales had stopped hours ago; no merchant paid any attention to attracting buyers. Everyone’s attention was focused on waiting for the musician. So great was the crowd’s tense anticipation that no one noticed when the same musician weaved through the crowd and took his seat beside the fountain in the middle of the square. It was only when he began to carefully tune his strings that people realized their object of attention had arrived, and eagerly pointed out this fact to their neighbors. Somebody tried to start a round of applause, but was angrily hissed into silence by someone who better understood the solemnity of the situation. The musician began to play.

And oh! how he played! Those people who had been there the day before were shocked anew. New audience members who had been brought by friends or family became believers on the spot. His rich melodies intertwined like ivy, climbing up further and further until blossoming into a glistening arpeggio that made the audience’s eyes gleam. This series of broken scales led into a second song which flew from chord to chord, bringing with it the hearts of all of listened, and allowing them to descend again on a slow refrain to close the movement. Finally, he played a third song of bittersweet tone that made older listeners think of lost summer loves and younger audience members dream of a romantic flight with a future love. The last few notes rang like church bells in the quiet air as the musician, once again satisfied, slipped back into the crowd in a direction that no one could determine.

After the miracle of the street musician occurred twice, news spread rapidly. Fathers told mothers, who told their children, who told their friends, who told their parents, who told their friends, and began the system anon. Merchants closed booths and took a day off to hear this holy musician. Some people camped beside the fountain in order to get the best spot for the concert. Schools called holiday, parents left work, and, for the first time since anyone could remember, the market stopped.

“Your highness!” called a messenger, speaking in the proud tone of being about to deliver terrible news that only the most talented messengers can deliver. The King glanced up from his royal table. He stretched back in his chair, rolled back an article of his imperial garments, and lazily extended an arm towards the courier to acknowledge him.

“Yes? What is it?”

“The market…has stopped, sir.” The King blinked once, slowly, nary an unintended movement on his face.

“Excuse me?”

The messenger cleared his throat, stood up straight, and proudly delivered the horrible news.

“No one is selling anything. No one is buying anything.”

At this last sentence, the King was up and out of his chair, which was pushed back with such force that it rocked precariously before managing to right itself again. All pretense of control had disappeared from the King’s face; now, his jowls quivered and his eyes reddened. He took a sharp breath.

“Why—how—is no one buying anything?”

“A street musician, your highness.” The messenger had a death wish.

“Excuse me?”

“A street musician has appeared, and everyone is too busy listening to him play to buy anything.”

The King’s rage faded slowly as he regained his composure. He pulled his chair back up to the table and calmly sat back down.

“What do you suggest, then?” asked the King simply.

“Me, your highness? I am but a humble messen—“

“I know what post you hold, messenger. I asked you what you suggest.” The King looked up pointedly.

“Um…well…I would simply wait a week or so, your highness. He will soon run out of music and crowds will bore of him. Then the market may go back to the way it was before. We are certainly wealthy enough to afford a short holiday.”

The King nodded curtly. “Very good. We shall do just that. You may go.”

The messenger, pride returning like blood back into a cramped limb, marched away, confident in his good standing with the King.

A few seconds later, the King called out to a guard.

“Yes, your highness?”

“Have that messenger who was just in here given twenty lashes of the whip.”

“Uh…yes, your highness, though may I ask why?”

“Because I am in a good mood, because I think his plan will work, and because the blacksmith has not yet finished the new executioner’s axe.”

The pattern of the musician continued on each day he played. He never played the same song twice, nor were his songs recognizably by any famous composer. His performances increased in length by one more song each day, evolving from a few minutes of heavenly melodies to hour-long concerts that were attracting most of the people in the capital. The musician never faltered, never made a mistake, and never spoke. Nor could the audience ever figure out where he vanished to after a recital; he simply seemed to join the throng and become one of the listeners, indistinguishable from anyone else. The enigma of the mysterious street performer added to his allure and spawned a wave of imitators that tried playing guitars and lyres in other corners of the city. But none of the imposters had his distinctive instrument, and none of them could play as well as he.

A week passed. The crowds became larger, the concerts became longer, and the musician played on. The King churned like a violent undertow under calm water. He looked out the window of his high tower and seethed as he saw stores closing, fumed as caravans stopped coming in long trains through the city gates, and bristled as the gold stopped pouring into his coffers. The only opening booths were made to provide shade for other audience members, the only convoys coming in to the city were drawn by the tales of the miracle musician, and the mention of gold came in the form of expenses By the tenth day, he had had enough. He roared out for the captain of the guard.

“Yes, my liege?”

“Today, after this…street cretin plays his songs, I want your guard to hunt him down and arrest him. Understood?”

“Yes, your highness. It will be done as you wish.” The captain started to leave the room.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, my liege?”

“Execute the messenger.”

But the guard could not find the musician. Just as the people of the capital had searched for the street performer before and after his daily concert with no success, the guards combed the mass of listeners after the musician’s recital and brought back nothing. No description, no fleeting glimpse, no sightings of an exotic instrument that resembled a lute. There was a new captain of the guard the next day.

The new captain tried posting soldiers around the square before the musician’s recital. Alert guards scanned every inch of the plaza to try and prevent the arrival of the city’s mysterious enchanter, but they were very surprised when they heard the soft sounds of tuning strings behind them, where the street performer sat on his marble throne before the teeming crowds. The guards returned to the castle empty-handed like the search party before them, and it was much more difficult to fill the open captain position this time.

The exasperated King paced in his tower, occasionally stopping to peer down into the square where the musician played. It was the next week, and the toll of half a month with no income was becoming evident in the depleted treasury. Countless searches had yielded nothing about the man, and the King’s frustration was shown in the growth of open cabinet positions. The King shuddered at what he realized he must do. People of the city obviously supported this street rat. The King had tried to keep his plans to jail the performer secret and beyond the eyes of the people, but the peasant managed to elude him again and again. The only way he could catch the man, the only way to bring the economy back again, was to arrest the musician while he played—in plain sight of the populace. A very dangerous action, for the King risked strong public displeasure; a riot seemed unavoidable. But no act within memory had stirred the people into organized dissent, so surely such a trifle as arresting a street performer would not cause any disconcertion. Yes, the more the King thought about it, the more he realized how silly it was for him to worry over such a thing. The people would forget about the player by the next day. In fact, he would be there himself to oversee the arrest and speak to whatever audience had gathered personally. The King leaned back in his chair and barked out the orders, confident that his plan would be a success.

The next day came. Crowds had grown epic as word had traveled, and many people from all over the Kingdom made up the audience as they waited for the musician. The sun shone bright today, but a steady breeze whisked away much of the heat and kept the square comfortably cool. There were no clouds in the sky.

Just as every day before now, the musician came from the mass of the crowd, completely undetected, and sat by the fountain and began to tune. All conversations within the audience immediately ceased as the showed him the utmost respect while the soft ring of the plucked strings seemed to play a melody with the wind, even before he began a song.

When he was finished tuning, he began his first piece. It was a simple theme: a proud, optimistic march that, although decidedly happy, was determined and forceful in its message. It gave the audience a sense of power and worth and made more than one person in the crowd stand just a little bit taller. From this easy melody the performer intertwined melodies that danced with the theme and sang along majestically when there was a refrain. Grace notes and supporting rhythms fleshed out the song into a whole orchestra coming from one instrument. Despite their differences, each of the lines that the musician played were in perfect unity, working together to create a breathtaking movement that most would argue was his best yet. As the final chords flew into the sky, the audience let out a collective sigh as a revelation seemed to pass through them all.

It was at that moment that the King’s carriage turned a corner into the square, a squadron of guards shoved their way through the crowd, and the musician, as he had always done at the end of his concerts, calmly and quietly tucked his instrument under his arm. The head guard’s voice rang clear over the shocked populace, describing the street performer’s conscious and hostile attacks against the well-being of the Kingdom and sentencing him to a lifetime in the dungeon. Two guards held the musician firmly and led him to an armored carriage. Yells and cries of anger began to rise as the people saw their messiah calmly being taken from them, building as a steady crescendo as the mass of people protested against the injustice that they saw.

The King came forward and stood at the place where the musician had always played. He gave a command of silence to the crowd and took out the prepared speech his scribe had made him which described the strength of the Kingdom and the glory that it would always have. The paper the speech was written on shuddered in the breeze, but the King held firmly, crimping the proclamation where his hand strangled the parchment. He inhaled sharply to give the first words of the speech and looked out at the people.

The audience had, indeed, become silenced, but it was not by his command that they held their tongues. He faced a sea of glares, an ocean of flared nostrils as the populace looked upon the man who had given the order to arrest and defile their only source of being that they had ever known. The King, a strong, fearless dictator that knew how to bend the masses to his will, felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and onto the wrinkled speech that he held, shaking, in front of him. He awkwardly cleared his throat and spoke a few lines from the homily, then, deciding that the audience had heard enough for the day, walked very quickly back to his royal carriage and urged the driver back to the palace.

It had only been two hours when the mass of people assembled in front of the palace gates. The King looked out into the darkening sky to see the last glow of the sun touch upon thousands of audience members who stood without speaking, pushing, or any other sharp movements. They were not armed with conventional rebellion armaments, although a few carried torches in order to see when night did fall. The King could tell that most people carried objects indistinguishable in the dusk, but the unmistakable outlines of pitchforks and spears were not visible. He peered out of his tower window, high above his subjects, and wanted to scream, wanted to yell at the people obscenities and threats to make them leave. But his voice was taken by the sheer scope of a single unit of people—thousands and thousands of people—gathered together and waiting.

It came first from a woman in the crowd. She began to sing the melody of the last song the musician had played. Her voice was as a church bell on a still winter morning, and it rang clear all the way to the King’s high tower. Next was a man who carried with him a guitar. The rich chords accompanied the woman’s clear voice and were followed by a flutist who circled around the woman’s melody without detracting from the main theme of the piece. One by one, every person in the assembly added their own part to the song. Some had instruments such as lyres or violins; many merely had empty pots or pans that they beat upon to give a percussion line to the orchestra. Some sang along, some hummed, some danced with bells to accentuate their movements and add more music to the night air. But everyone was together, everyone participated, and everyone made something beautiful.

The King up in his tower yelled, for he knew not what else to do. He screamed and cursed, trying to drown out the music. He tried to cover his ears and block out the symphony of people. But when his voice had died from too much yelling and when curtains shielded his ears, he still heard the music. And the King wept, for he knew it was beautiful. His arms dropped to his sides and his tears dropped to the cold, stone floor. As the tears dropped down, the King noticed something odd about the golden ring on his finger. It was vibrating most intensely along with the music. As the chorus swelled, so, too, did the frequency of the ring, vibrating the very bones of the King’s hand. As he looked around he noticed that all the gold in the room was vibrating. Piles of gold coins spilled upon the floor as the specie rattled against the table and stone. Coffers were overturned by the violent shakes as the orchestra outside grew louder and louder; chests burst and golden jewelry split the precious stones they held in two. And as the song grew even louder, the King realized the danger and ran down the stairs of the tower to the lowest level in the castle only to witness what he had sought to prevent.

The treasuries that held the Kingdom’s wealth—all in gold—quaked and pulsed until the masonry could no longer take it and gold bars and coins crashed through the stone walls. As these walls collapsed, so too did the walls that they supported. Floors were rent by the force of tons of rock crashing down, and ceilings were torn by falling chandeliers from upper floors and great pillars that tumbled upon them. One tower of the palace simply toppled over into the moat as if it were made of wooden blocks and a child had given it a slight nudge. Other towers fell into the castle, crashing through more rooms and leading to more chains of destruction. Above all the noise of stones tearing and walls falling, the distinct ring of the gold could be heard as it added its own line to the song that still was being sung.

The King sat in the wreckage of his palace, cut and bleeding in a few places, but not seriously harmed. Dirt and dust marred his royal velvet clothes, and his crown lay tossed to the side. He sat examining his golden ring. His fingers felt the smooth surface that no longer resonated, for no one was singing. The gold had been spilled onto the ground along with the castle, but it lay there untouched by the hands of the people who had scattered after the Kingdom’s collapse. The King breathed deeply, slid the ring back on his finger, and looked slowly at the sight of desolation that surrounded him. Dust clung to the air, unwilling to return to the ground after such an assault, and made it very difficult to see. Yet it was out of this hovering cloud that the musician came. He walked patiently with his instrument tucked gently under his arm. He walked over to where the King sat. The musician did not speak, as always. But he looked at the King with pity, and the King looked back devoid of any anger or hostility towards the man that had toppled his empire with a single song. The musician silently placed his revered instrument into the lap of the broken King, and then the man turned and left, vanishing in the mass of dust.

The children listening to the tale were awestruck. People who had gathered to hear the tale murmured amongst themselves. This near-silence persisted for several moments until the youngest child realized aloud,

“I do not need the instrument.”

The old man smiled and nodded slowly and deliberately. He then rose from his seat, the firelight glinting off of a single golden ring, and began to walk into the inky night to find someone who did. As he went, he played a simple-sounding song that was proud, optimistic and made more than one person who heard it stand up just a little bit taller.

Peace begins with a smile.

Mother Theresa

Greece has passed, and once again we have set to sea.  New conversations, new thoughts, new pictures, same people.  To the black sea we say, as we haul our lines away.  With little to do, apart from classes and ship-work, we read and play.  Perhaps Indiana Jones will grace our eyes today.

Movie night!  Indeed, long time since our last one.  Apart from that, I loved Greece, with its beautiful architecture and thin winding streets.  Its donkeys graced my pictures and its castles gave me a place to explore.  I would love to go back and explore more of the country, meet more of the people, and enjoy more of the culture.  We happened to dock quite near to “Socrates Tree” which unfortunately I was unable to get to.  Eh, its just a tree right?  We had an amazing tour through most of Rhodes on the third day, allowing us to explore everything from an old castle to a chapel perched on top of a mountain.  I enjoyed the church the most, but really felt it in my legs after I climbed to the peak.  Another highlight of my Grecian experience, was my exploration of the hidden tunnels below the walls.  While you aren’t supposed to be down there (no light, you have to crouch to get through them, damp walls, bugs, etc.), myself and a couple friends brought a couple flashlights to a small entrance that we had found the day before.  That’s when the fun began.  While we found little down there, the sheer experience of exploring hundreds of meters of winding tunnels below an ancient city in complete darkness with no idea where we were going was simply, stellar.  It was the first (and possible only) time I will ever make a paper trail, and in the end the whole group was glad of it.  As it goes, Greece boils down to being my most favorite port thus far in the “I want to return” category.  Indeed.

April 27

He knows not his own strength, he who has not met adversity.

Ben Johnson

Arr maties!  Finally our beautiful ship has caught up with the rough seas of yore.  Waves crash over the bow as we haul on lines, setting sail for the future.  What it may bring, we do not know, nor care.  For we live in the present; for we live our life, alive.

Time: 0200 hours:  Just got up for watch, grabbed my foulies, harness, and a jacket.  I am ready to go.

0220 hours: Not enough warm clothes, so I return to my cabin shivering in my shoes.

0230 hours: I mount the bridge stairs, thinking myself ready to begin my 30 minute test of endurance.

0235 hours: It’s going well so far, as long as I keep my face out of the whipping wind.  I have only lost the feeling in my toes, which is to be expected when wearing keens.

0245 hours: Alas!  The cold is slowly attacking me, its grip tight around my body.  I can feel the winds icy gaze sharp against my back.  It subsists for a moment, before remounting its assault; it has beaten my outer-defenses, and soon my skin will be feeling its harshness.

0250 hours: Can I survive the next ten minutes I wonder?  I swear against the wind, and hope for quick relief.  The cold has slid into my coat, and down my shirt.  My skin feels as if it was on fire, the cold is unforgivable; the cold never pardons those who hide from it.

0300 hours: Where is my relief?  She must be late?  Perhaps the cold has already got to her?  Perhaps she is asleep.  I yell across the ship, “Is she coming?!”.  I am now moving around like a mad man, desperate for warmth.  The light of the mess explodes into the night as a hatch opens.  I shiver my relief and swear against the cold once again.  Perhaps I let myself go crazy for a second, perhaps not.  It is only a dark memory among many, perhaps it was only a dream.  No, it was real.  I know it was real.

0301 hours: I fall against the hard wood, and fall asleep instantly.  Other watch mates shiver in their sleep around me.  One might say you could see the cold in that room.

0345 hours: I wake up in a cold sweat, my fingers are gone.  I feel for them with my palms… why can’t I sense them?  Springing up from my uncomfortable position I rush to the sink and pour hot water over my ten digits.  The feeling returns, and in relief I go back to my wooden bed.

0356 hours: My inner clock chimes, watch is over, my eyes fly open and I move, zombie-like, to watch change.

0401 hours: I hit my bunk, asleep before my head touches the pillow.

In less interesting news (for most) I have started working on a possible design for a new travel website.  The client is secret right now, but she is an amazing writer and deserves a place to present her astounding work.  Hopefully my design will help her do so.

April 28, 2007

This is one change-filled year neh?  First Shri-Lanka, then Dubai, Eritrea, Israel, now Ukraine; jeez, it’s crazy!  So, we are a’ heading back to Greece, Athens in fact, which is exciting however it’s sad that we will miss Ukraine.  Apparently due to harsh weather we would be unable to spend more than one day there, had we gone.
As for myself, I am quite excited to visit Athens and the Parthenon; however, many of the other crew members are quite dismayed.  So, this being my last journal entry before Greece, well, there ain’t much to say.  Talk to you soon? 

Oh and before I forget, I never want any of you guys to EVER complain about laundry.  I have gone three weeks now without laundry.  (If I miss my next laundry day due to port, it will be my fourth week.)  It’s getting bad.  So yea, no complaining; laundry is a privilege.