The old man had an old name. He had simply forgotten it. But he remembered the important things. He remembered how to tune his guitar. He remembered the lyrics and the tunes. And he remembered that children who made noise needed to be locked away. He had locked such a boy in a tower. But he respected music, so he allowed the boy to make music. But all that the boy made was noise. The boy was beyond redemption. That electronic buggalaboo. The old man hated it, but he endured it. For every noise was music in its own way.
It was a bright morning when he reached the next village. The children found him as they found him in every village he went to. They ran around him and asked him to play songs. Some parents had sent food with the children.
He gathered them all and went to the big tree near the edge of village pond. First, he ate. There was apple pie and fresh fruit. Then he drank the water from the pond. The children sat in a semicircle around him as he tuned his guitar. He strummed a few sample chords, tweaked the strings some more and started to play. He was old beyond his years, but with a guitar in his hand he was young again.
So he sang.
He sang songs about death and honor. About pain and madness. About god and loss of faith. About hard life and harder knocks in life. Then he sang of demons of noise and how the children should not make too much noise, in their home or outside. The afternoon sun slowly turned to dusk as the children sat hypnotized and listened to him play songs.
A young girl from the group got up and asked the old man if he could sing a religious hymn for her. His fingers strumming the guitar stopped abruptly. He looked at the little girl, and beckoned her to him.
"Kid, I am going to give you the best advice anyone will ever give you."
The girl nodded enthusiastically and smiled at him.
"Whenever a musician is playing a song," he got up and raised his guitar above his head, "you SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN!"
The guitar swung down in an arc and wood shattered on skin and bone. The children scattered, scared and screaming like sheep from a wolf.
The old man didn't chase them. He knew there will be time enough to chase them. He had to find the butcher first. He left the broken and bloodied guitar near the tree and started walking.
To the next village and towards the butcher.
Hey readers, I hope all this is not making sense. Because these chapters are, but a part of a bigger picture.
Stick around with me.
It'll be fun.