The Lute Player

I don’t know where this short story came from but it kept bouncing around my head, desperately wanting to be written down. I had no true purpose in writing this, other than my muse sending it to my hand to write. Perhaps you can find meaning in it and let me know?

Mosby tended to the bar, desperately trying not to acknowledge the man sitting at the table in the back corner. Of course, the effort was futile. Just knowing the man was there drew Mosby’s gaze, making instant eye contact with the man. Tradition held with the man returning Mosby’s gaze with a tilt of his head. The man never seemed to age or change in any manner. He was always dressed in black pants, shirt, vest, and boots, which blended in with his long black overcoat. On his back was his lute, the instrument of his trade.

The man never did anything deliberately shady, but that alone seemed to cause goosebumps along Mosby’s arms and neck. The lute player kept to himself in the darkest corner of the tavern. Mosby never saw him walk in and only ever realized the man was there when he was already sitting at his table. At least, it seemed like the stranger had a permanent reservation for that particular table. Mosby tested his theory over the course of a few years by marking the table’s underside and moving it. None-the-less, he lute player never failed in finding his table unoccupied, just like the table made a conscious effort to reserve itself.

Mosby came to another conclusion over the years which was that customers weren’t even aware of the man’s presence. That is, until the stranger assumed his right to take his lute and perform on top of the table..

The stranger never identified himself nor did he make a move to garner attention before playing. He just took his place on top the table, and began to play. What ever magic the stranger strummed on his lute would stop the tavern, still as stone, including Mosby himself.

For an entire hour, the Tavern was treated to a spectacular concert, where the mere melody from the lute dulled senses and spread an eerie sense of calm through each soul present. It extinguished brewing fights, connected lovers from across the cross the room, and made the hardened soldiers weep.

It was nothing short of nirvana. When the music ended, the lute player left in the wake of a standing ovation. But as soon as he left, sensation returned with a slap in the face. A break from all worry, pain, stress, and other scars bearing the memories of life would then return, slicing through the heavenly bliss. But for an entire moment, everyone enjoyed just experiencing and living in the moment.

The man never spoke, avoided tips, and only ever acknowledged Mosby with a final head-tilt before jumping from the table and disappearing within the crowd. In his wake, he left people broken and seeking comfort amongst others. Mosby never could tell if the man was a gift, a curse, or both. Nor were there ever stories of the man appearing elsewhere.

He seemed to belong to the Tavern more than he belonged to the world. But why, Mosby could only speculate.