Week 11 Storytelling: The Magic in Music

“Happy Birthday!” Olivia’s father boomed as he walked through the kitchen door, a large wrapped parcel in his hands.

Smoke from the candles Olivia just blew out still lingered in the air as her mother began cutting pieces for everyone.

Olivia’s eyes lit up at the size of the package. Her father set in on the table in front of her and she immediately began tearing off the wrapping paper. Pieces flew everywhere as her parents looked on with loving smiles. Olivia unwrapped an old leather case. It smelled musty and was practically falling apart at the rusty hinges. Hesitant, she looked over at her father. He urged her on with a look and, with much difficulty, she unlocked the case and swung it open. Nestled between two layers of silk was a fiddle.

Now, to the eyes of a ten-year-old, the instrument was no more than a weird-looking guitar made of wood and string. But the instrument was in fact one of immense beauty. Etched coils and curves followed the outline of the fiddle. At the middle of the instrument, a young woman’s face was carved with skillful detail. Despite its obvious age, the thing boasted a smooth, finished surface. The strings seemed to glint in the light like fine, silky hairs. And Olivia sat staring at it, unimpressed.

“But, I don’t even know how to play,” she began to whine to her father. He just chuckled and moved closer to pick up the instrument himself.

Fiddle

“Ah, you’ll learn in no time, my dear. I was just as unskilled as yourself when I first got it. Though I’ll admit, most of the time I felt as though it made the music on its own.” He gently began to play, producing the saddest, sweetest sound Olivia had ever heard.

Over the next few months, Olivia began to practice every day. She learned at an almost alarming rate and, before long, was playing almost as well as her father. Her mother was astounded at how quickly she picked up the skill, but somehow her father was not surprised. 

Some years later, Olivia's father became very ill and passed away. Devastated by the loss of her father, she could not even think to pick up her beloved fiddle to play. Weeks went by and it sat in her room, collecting dust. Eventually, she moved it to the back of her closet. Seeing it was a constant reminded of her father and his absence. 

One night, not long after her father's death, Olivia lay in bed. The sun was slowly falling below the horizon and the stars began to twinkle gently in the sky. Drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, Olivia heard music playing. Thinking she was dreaming, she let the soft, sad tones lull her into a peaceful safety. She did not cry or smile, but just lay quietly. The music became louder. Olivia opened her eyes. Was she awake or was this a dream? She couldn't tell. The music was coming from her closet. She silently approached the door and opened it. The music suddenly stopped. She looked curiously into the closet but saw nothing. She shrugged her shoulders and closed the door. 

She turned to lie back down only to find a young woman sitting on her bed. Slightly startled, Olivia jumped back against the closet door. The young woman started up. 

"Please, do not be afraid. I am not a stranger. In fact, we know each other very well. I am Lyla, the gift your father gave you many years ago."

Olivia looked at the woman skeptically. "Are you trying to tell me you're a fiddle?" she asked. 

Lyla chuckled. "I suppose it does sound silly, but it is the truth. Or partly, anyways. I am a human, undoubtedly. But I reside in the fiddle. The one you cherish so much. The one your father cherished so much before you." Her tone was sympathetic and warm. 

Olivia's skepticism faded at the mention of her father and tears brimmed her eyes. 

"Please do not cry," Lyla pleaded. "I loved him too, very much. Never before had I been played or cared for so lovingly and carefully. Only you have proven to be a more attentive caretaker."

The two sat on the bed in silence for a few moments. "Would you like me to play your father's favorite song for you?" Lyla asked. Olivia did not respond, but lay down in silence and closed her eyes. 

Lyla put her hand over Olivia's and began to hum a familiar tune, one that Olivia's father used to sing to her when she was a child. With that, the two girls both drifted into sleep to the swell of the sweet, sad song.

~~

Author's Note: This story is based on "The Magic Fiddle" from the Indian Fairy Tales unit of the Untextbook. In the original story, a sister lives with her seven brothers and their wives. As a result of a curse the women had placed on the sister, she drowns and is transformed into a Bonga. (At first, I didn't know what a Bonga was. However, Laura informed me that they are basically a kind of spirit or fantasy-type creature. They can be almost any kind of spirit). She then reappears as a bamboo and is cut down and made into a fiddle. The fiddle ultimately ends up in the hands of the chief and, every day, the Bonga girl would come out of the fiddle and make dinner for the household. Eventually she is caught by the chief and somehow she became both a human being and a Bonga and they married. 

I decided the twist this story a little bit because when I read it I thought,  "How awful would it be to be stuck in a fiddle? To be an object and be passed around without any say?" Here, as in the original story, she doesn't seem to mind being in a fiddle. And even more so in my story she embraces it. I tried to think of a good reason why the Bonga girl would reveal herself to someone, despite being in the family for so long and never doing it before. I thought if she had a connection with Olivia, it would make more sense as to why she appeared before her. So, I added in the tragedy of losing a father. The part about appearing to Olivia in a dream (or was it?) added a fun mystical aspect. 

Bibliography:
Indian Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs (1912).