The Flute Player

We were finally the big guys in town. The king’s rule didn’t extend to our small town, as we were hundreds of miles away from the capital, and so true power over our town had passed from gang to gang until our gang finally won authority for ourselves just an hour ago. It was an easy fight, nobody having trained in anything and our numbers having doubled theirs, so the twenty of us left feeling like big men.

We were all guys who lived in the town. We weren’t the richest. Our clothes had dirt, and after this fight, blood on them, and more frequently than not they were ripped in some way, shape, or form. We were a rather rough breed of person, and didn’t really know much of the goings on outside of the town, having lived in the town for our entire lives. As a result, we were largely ignorant to things that didn’t immediately relate us.

Our town was fairly small, and didn’t attract much talent. It consisted of a small complex of unorganized houses made of mud brick, straw, and occasionally wood or stone, along with a small market area for people with stands to sell their produce and a tavern for people to drink. People who had mastered any discipline, whether be it crafting or sword fighting, were few and far between. Most of those who were good at something had left for the capital or some other large city. There were not even any blacksmiths or any other skilled laborers, and most people got crafted goods from merchants that would take trips to cities. Most of the people who lived in the town had families that had lived there for generations, and in general as a community we were largely isolated. Only because of the lack of finesse or skill in general was our rather rough gang able to take control.

We still took our taking of the town it as a big deal, however. To celebrate, the boss led us to the town tavern, where a flutist was playing for customers. The flutist was wearing a fairly ragged white shirt and generic brownish pants that were fraying at the bottom. His hair was fairly shaggy. Contrary to the player, the flute was beautiful worked. It was made of bronze, and the long instrument was ornately etched. A large amount of work, effort, sweat, blood, and tears must have been put into the making of that flute. Such a thing was very rare in our town, and by their looks of amazement, none of the rest of the gang had seen anything that complete and detailed in their lives as well. The music the flutist played was the most beautiful and enticing that I had heard. The sweet melodies the flute played were accented skillfully with trills and the flutist’s fingers flowed like water in a river. The boss, having never seen anyone so skilled at anything, didn’t know how to react to the music.
It was a small tavern, and held about 40 occupants. Our gang immediately filled it to maximum occupancy, and a few men left to leave us their seats. The tavern owner, seeing our weapons to our sides, came to the conclusion that we were probably the new group in control, and rushed to get us free drinks. It was the correct thing to do.

So we sat down at the tables, mixing in with those already there. In the country, it was a fairly common thing to sit next to people you didn’t know. I sat next to a man wearing a fairly nice purple tunic who was drinking lazily, not intimidated by us. He was strongly built and leaned back, appreciating the flute playing. He exuded a rather powerful aura, and so we didn’t give him much trouble. The gang mostly knew who to mess with, and who not to mess with. The boss sat on his other side.

“This flute player is probably the best I’ve seen,” said the man with the purple tunic, nodding his head appreciatively to the music.

“Really?” replied the boss sarcastically.
“Well, look at it. I’ve seen quite a few flute players in my lifetime, and the tone he plays shows that he has become familiar with the instrument to the point where its innermost cavities are found by his air. The synchronization between his fingers and air shows a control of his own body and attachment to his flute. I’ve seen a good many flute players, and this one is one with his instrument. It’s an extension of his body.”

“Well, I don’t like him,” said the boss. “Just look at his clothes. They’re so ragged. He looks more like a pauper in the street that found that flute somewhere and eventually found out how to work it. I’m gonna guess he stole that flute.”

“Based on the way the tavern owner got you those drinks, I wouldn’t say you have the cleanest profession either,” laughed the laid-back young man. “Who knows? Maybe it’s his most prized and treasured possession passed on as a treasured gift. Or maybe he had spent his life working to save for it. Either way, it seems it’s something he values more than his own body, clothes or cleanliness.”

“Regardless of how he got that flute, I don’t like him. He just gives off this aura I don’t understand,” replied the boss to the young man.

The drinking continued with light talking, and the flutist continued playing his melodies. The young man kept nodding his head to the tunes appreciatively, while the boss seemed to get more and more riled as time went on. Then the flutist got up.

“Why’d the music stop?” asked the boss aggressively, trying to find anything to criticize the flutist with. Unfazed, the flutist continued walking.

“Sometimes nature calls,” said the young man in the tunic. “There’s some bodily functions man cannot live without, unless of course, you aren’t human.”

This made the boss angry, but he wasn’t able to form a calculated enough judgment about the power of the young man yet, or he had already determined that this young man was someone that should not be angered.

The flutist nodded to the young man, and as the flute player left to go to the outhouse to relieve his bladder, he left his ornately carved flute on his seat.

Even though the boss seemed to not want to anger the young man, he still did not want even more to seem passive about the situation.
“Let’s show this ratty little flute boy what we can do,” said the boss immediately. Not eager to see what proceeded, the man with the tunic left the tavern.

As the flutist came back, the boss grabbed the flute, and attempted to smash it against the ground. However, the flute remained in pristine condition, refusing to dent, bend, or break in any other fashion. Even after repeated tries, muscles bulging, the boss could not get the flute to yield. Ignoring this, the boss then flung it behind himself.

“What are you gonna do now?” asked the boss. It was hard to tell, but it was fairly clear with focus that he was attempting to hide that he was more than slightly perturbed by his inability to harm the hollow metal rod.

The flute player did not respond. This brought new life into the men, who seemed to have previously feared the flutist, and felt awkward during the boss’ troubles with the flutes. The rest of our men, encouraged by the flutist’s apparent lack of dangerousness or aggressiveness joined in on the attack.

“Yea, what cha’ gonna do now?” repeated a smaller mousy member.

After receiving no response, the smaller member punched the flutist, and soon after the other men joined in, beating the flutist black and blue.

“That’s right,” said the boss. “There’s nothing you can do about us.”

We left the bar, and looking back, I saw a sigh of relief on the tavern owner’s face that we left.

Afterwards when we went to the tavern, the flutist was not there. The tavern owner was sad because the flutist had generated so much business for the short time he had stayed, but the owner didn’t dare question the gang. However, when we inquired, the tavern owner let us know that the flute player said that he would go to the city.

“There are lots of opportunities to learn and people to know,” the flutist had apparently said. The tavern owner said he had wished the flute player luck but also warned him not to come back for his own sake. We eventually forgot about the flute player and wrote him off as a thing of the past. The boss took it as meaning the flute player was afraid to come back after being beat up by us at the tavern.

Settling back into the rhythm of life, we went to enjoying our new position of rule over the town. It was a good time. In exchange for protection, the people would give us food and goods, sometimes including nice things from the cities, such as nicely made spoons with animal designs or other things in general it had been hard to get our hands on before.

Unfortunately, our quiet rule over the small town ended in only a year. A year later, the boss was jumped by a masked man with a black pole outside the tavern. He called for help, but was incapacitated soon after.

When we got to the scene the boss was already unconscious, and the scene was oddly peaceful. The trees moved lazily in the wind and birds chirped as if nothing had happened. The only evidence any violence had happened was a bleeding unconscious man lying on the ground in front of the tavern. Above him, the masked man wore all formerly white clothes: a white scarf to cover his head except his eyes and mouth, a white shirt, and white pants. However, the clothes were dirty with brown, black, and red splotched all over them, to the point where the noticing fact that they were once white required detailed observation.

We stood rather dumbfounded as a group of 19 men not knowing what to do. The man was obviously very skilled and we had no idea how to react to the situation. The small mousy man, being perhaps the most timid of our group, had his mouth open and gaping in disbelief that our boss, who he had provided the closest worship out of all of us, had been defeated and fallen to an unknown masked stranger. Apparently sensing this, the masked man turned toward the small mousy man and charged.

The pole vibrated with a clear “dong!” as the masked man knocked out the mousy man with one well placed blow. After pausing slightly, he began going after us as well.

The 18 of us left saw what happened, and ran for it, sprawling out in all different directions. However, it was no use. The man was too fast, and had mastered the rod to the point where he used it effectively to move himself as well as to fight with, which made him faster than all of us. He moved swiftly, like a dancer with a baton. Those unfortunate enough to be closest to him at the time fell to blows rhythmically placed in perfect harmonious motion. The man was one with his weapon; it was an extension of his body.

We ran as fast as possible passing through to the other side of town. I had started running in a group of about 7 people, but about a minute after we started, I noticed we were losing people. One by one, the masked man was taking down each person in our pack, so in the trail behind me I saw 5 perfectly spaced unconscious bodies, each with 20 meters between them. The man next to me then went down with a “dong!” and I put in speed for one last attempt at escape; hopefully the masked man had gotten tired.

I made a wrong turn and saw a dead end, filled with empty boxes and trash people had tossed quickly approaching. As I turned around, a perfectly timed blow hit me on the head and I went down.
I was lucky, though. Unlike my companions I had not lost total consciousness, but I was unable to move. It was an unusual situation. In the moment that my head felt the fuzziest my mind felt the clearest. The man must have been from the city if he was able to master the discipline of fighting with a simple rod to that point.
Through the small opening of my eyelids that I no longer had energy to open or close I saw masked man remove the casing from his rod. He then began a one man concert, playing the flute in the most secluded area and the smallest audience.