Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Thoreau’s Music Box

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 18

We had come down from the hills and found ourselves in a cemetery at the foot of Bedford Street, and it was called Sleepy Hollow.  Among those resting was Henry David Thoreau, whose grave was marked by a simple stone bearing his first name only: “Henry”. 

Someone then remarked upon what Thoreau had achieved, and someone remarked upon how much there was to be learned from the man and his life.

As this when on, our host strayed away and sat on a small stone, no doubt also a headstone of some famous man’s grave.

We walked to our host, and asked the reason for this isolation and this silence.

“You have likely not heard of Thoreau’s music box,” our host said. “It is mentioned in the diary of Nathaniel and Sophia Hawthorne, who knew Thoreau when he was a young man.”

“We have not heard of it,” we said.

“It was a magical music box, which Thoreau spent his life winding,” our host said. “It can still be heard today.”

We sat in silence, and the wind blew in the trees, rustling one thousand needles and shaking one thousand slender branches.

“What does it sound like?” we asked.

“Like this,” our host said.  “Like silence and human voices. Like the spaces behind words.”

——-

We sat for a long time.

“We asked you before by what art mysteries are concealed from us, and you urged us to be patient,” we said.

“I did,” said our host.

“To us that seems preposterous,” we said. “We require answers.”

“Then ask the right questions,” our host replied.

We looked into the trees and the light was gold and grey.  We looked down at the ground, covered in pine needles, and there was a rustle in the boughs of the trees.