They arrived without fanfare, though they were dressed for it. One by one, they emerged from the folds of the early morning into my misty garden. Creatures of fur, claw, tusk, and hoof. Each robed in velvet and brocade, each carrying a violin that hummed with more than music.
I don't know where they came from. I'd never met them before, but some part of me recognized them all the same.
Thorne, the Boar, smelled of smoke, freshly turned earth, and secret things that only grow at night. His hooves left glyphs and symbols in the soil as he searched for a spot to make himself comfortable. The melody he played pulsed with survival, a song built from bone memory and bitter root.
He played what must always be remembered.
Virella, the Wolf, moved like moonlight through a locked room. His mournful eyes glowed with the images of secret maps. They were maps of places I’ve only seen in dreams and misremembered moments from the past. His music had no true beginning, no end. It was best described as a misty, winding trail of breath and instinct.
He played what must always be followed.
Halbard, the Bear, bowed gracefully and low before beginning. His coat was heavy with charms. His fingers, thick but graceful, drew forth aching laments wrapped in subtle warmth. His was the music of lost things that are desperately missed once they're gone, as well as those we've forgotten to keep remembering at some point along the way. It was the music of grief.
He played what must be respectfully mourned.
Malgore, the Goat, did not bow at all. Instead, he smirked before glancing into the four corners of the garden, as if to make sure the entire morning was listening. And then he played something that turned the air inside out. It was a vaguely dissonant melody I knew and feared. A secret I hadn’t meant to keep.
He played what must be known. Eventually, but only in due course.
None of them spoke, even to one another. And their impromptu concert was brief. Just one short but perfect piece each. Maybe the music was meant to be a gift. Perhaps a warning or even an aging mirror that could be made bright again with care and polish.
I suppose that is for them to know and me to contemplate.
When they were done, they vanished the same way they had come. There was no drama or urgency. They didn't make a single sound more. But once they were gone, the entire space felt rearranged in a way I could not define. Sometimes I think they were reminders that even in the elegant places you're sure you've successfully tamed, a certain wildness still remains.
That wildness makes music. And if you're wise (and very lucky), you'll listen.
* This entry is part of The Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long ritual that includes writing, remembering, and return to self-clarity.
