And just as that thought crossed his mind, so did the pipe. He was kneeling on the path, on the grass, looking down at the tiny hole the pipe had made in the snow. A black hole in the snow and a black hole in his heart. The pipe was lying to one side of him, in the snow. It was lying there, black and shiny and full of blood.
A pipe and a blood-soaked hole in the snow. How many people, he thought, had been sitting on the path by the lake, looking at the same view he was, with the same thoughts in their heads? He got up, took the pipe, and threw it far into the wood. Then he sat down on the edge of the path, his feet touching the edge of the ditch. The blood kept running over his hands. He put the pipe away and picked up a little piece of snow and held it against his tongue. And he thought he had found a better life than those people, who saw themselves as gods. His life was not a god’s life. He was poor and he’d had to become a thief and he was lying to himself. His life was a pipe, a piece of wood. No different from anything else.
When he had collected himself again, he sat in front of the lake and played. The piece he’d been thinking about was a piece of life and its end. So many thoughts. So many pieces of life. And for each piece he made, there was also a piece of death. A piece of death lay in the woods, on the path, under the ground, and a piece of death lay beside him, in his coat. He saw the people who played pieces on the board of life like he saw the wood where the piece lay. Some people had the most pieces, the richest pieces, while others had only tiny pieces. And it was these people who had a greater claim to life, they thought, and the people with nothing had nothing to claim, so they were the poorest of the poor. But the players who had the most pieces—no matter how few—had the same claim to life. If you could see the pieces that belonged to him, he’d be right there, just as surely as the ones who played pieces on the board with the most pieces. And perhaps they had more of life’s claim, if they had worked for it, or if they were poor. He hadn’t. The wood and the pipe had given him life, that was true. He played a piece, and the piece sang with more than music. He was a piece of life, sitting on the bench, playing the piece, that’s what he was. And it was his fate that he would have to die one day. When a game was over, a piece was lost. And that was the only thing he didn’t understand about the game of life. That it ended so quickly. He thought he could play this piece forever, perhaps for thousands of years. He had never known life so well as he did now, while playing his piece, but the thought made him sad, that it would have to end. That he wouldn’t have the pleasure of playing it forever.
He had played his piece of music again, he was still sitting there. The music from the pipes was beautiful and he was moved by the piece, but there was something else inside him. A song in the woods, a song about death. He thought of the piece as a death song and didn’t feel comfortable with it. When you’re about to die and sing about dying. When you can see death coming.
But he thought he would be able to change this song, and play a song that would cheer him up. So he played the same piece again, and sang the words of the first song.
The first time he played the song, his friend had accompanied him on the flute. This time the piece had come out by itself. He thought the music had come to him as he sat there on the bench by the lake. He was alone now. And he would have to die one day.
He had the death song in his mind. He could see the lake and the woods from his seat on the bench and it all seemed like a fairy tale. One story and the same plot all the time, the same scenery as in the beginning. He thought the music had come from some fairy tale. Maybe one of the fairytales his mother had told him when he was a child.
Sometimes she’d read aloud, and when she read the fairy tales, he would be allowed to go into the forest. He’d sit in the forest, a long time, he thought. And when the fairy tale was over, he’d sometimes stay in the forest for hours. The world felt bigger in the forest, and more magical.
“You don’t need to tell me what fairy tale you’re from,” his mother said. “I know what it is. I’ve been there, and the woods look like that.”
There was a large old tree in the woods by the lake. He didn’t know what kind of tree it was. He was afraid to go too close to it. He could hear the wood cracking under the tree. If he broke one of its branches, it would fall on him.
He was sitting there, the flute in his hands. Then he stood up, picked up the flute, and played the song the death song.
The sound was beautiful.
But it was the death song.
He thought it was the death song that he had brought with him from the other world, the one where the birds were. The one he’d been born into. The death song.
He felt an ache in his arms, his chest, his throat. A pain in his chest. He was sitting there in the snow, by the lake, on the path, on the ground.
He closed his eyes.
He was cold.
A long time passed.
Then he felt something wet on his face.
Blood.
The world had changed.
He heard his mother’s voice.
“Is the boy in the forest?” she said.
“The boy from the forest,” his grandfather said. “Who’s been staying there for so long.”
Then he woke up.
He’d been sitting on the bench by the lake when the music came. And then he’d come home. He’d been playing and singing and had lost his way in the snow. He was cold, his teeth were chattering, he was freezing to death. He’d been sitting there in the snow, listening to the death song that had been inside him all the time.
He’d sat there on the bench by the lake, his eyes fixed on the snow.
“I was the one who fell asleep,” he said. “I dreamed I was dead. I fell asleep in the snow. And I heard a sound. A death song. I thought it was a bird. Then I saw a bird, on a branch. But it didn’t fly away. It stood there and looked at me. Then it sang the death song. It sang a death song to me.”
Then he looked at the flute.
“It was my fault,” he said.
“Is the boy in the forest?” his grandfather said.
“Yes.”
“We’ve searched the forest, and the lake. You can come home now.”
He looked up.
The forest was a long way away.
“Is the boy in the forest?” his grandfather said.
“We’ll come to get you in a little while,” his mother said. “You’re not going to die. It was just a dream.”
“What was a dream?” his grandfather said. “I can still hear the flute playing. And I can still see the lake.”
“It was just a dream,” his mother said. “Now the dream is gone.”
“The song was still inside of me,” he said. “I could hear it.”
“I think it was just a dream,” his grandfather said. “You’re so quiet. What happened?”
“It was a bird,” he said.
“A bird,” his grandfather said.
“I don’t understand why the bird didn’t fly away,” his mother said.
“You can’t change it,” his grandfather said.
“The flute was there,” he said. “I could hear the music.”
“It was the same music you heard when you were in the forest,” his grandfather said. “A song about a death. It’s in your head.”
Then they went home.
When they left him there, he went back to his tree in the forest.
“That was a nice flute,” his grandfather said. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it in the woods,” he said.
“I haven’t seen it before,” his grandfather said.
“It’s yours,” his mother said. “You can take it.”
He walked back to his home with the flute in his hands.
His mother had forgotten to make soup for dinner. He didn’t say anything about the flute. He went to bed as usual.
In the middle of the night, it was winter again, he went outside.
It was a quiet winter, a winter without storms, a snowy winter.
He sat on the bench by the lake.
It was summer, in the song, it was summer. And he remembered. He was a boy who grew up in the forest. He remembered a boy with a flute who played a death song on a summer’s day. He was going to die. And he sat there in the forest listening to the flute and the song.
He was wearing his brown coat. It was warm by the lake, although the winter had been a long one. He’d been sitting there on the bench for three days, alone. He was sitting there thinking of his friend from his childhood. He thought of the flute player and how he played the flute. He could see the man sitting there in the forest. But his friend didn’t see him. His friend was wearing a coat like his. A blue coat. He was thinking about the man in the forest, and how his mother had once told him about the man. The man had gone to the woods and disappeared. He’d stayed in the forest for some time, until one day he’d come home. And he’d died in his bed. He’d fallen asleep with the flute, that’s what his mother had told him. He hadn’t been in the woods for long, maybe a day or two. And that was where he’d met his death.
He thought of the man in the forest.
He was wearing a coat like his.
He saw him as a little boy. He had the flute with him. He was sitting there playing a song. A song that he would never learn to play.
He’d never get to play the song.
His mother had said he was too old for the flute now. And that the boy in the forest had grown up. He was a grown man, he was a man with a flute, and a blue coat.
He heard his mother calling him.
He was cold, he’d been sitting there for a long time.
It was snowing, it was snowing.
He got up and went home.
It was spring. It was warm.
When he got to the forest, it was a different forest. He wasn’t the same person he’d been before. He looked around. There were houses and roads where there had once been a forest. The snow was gone. He didn’t see any trees. He looked to where he’d heard the death song. It was gone. It was a beautiful day. It had been a spring day.
He went home.
His mother had made a cake. He ate his cake in front of the fire. Then he went to bed.
He went to sleep. He was tired. He slept.
He was lying down.
He was tired.
He had been a flute player in the summer.
Then there was a sound in the woods.
He saw a man in the forest. He was carrying a rifle.
The man was looking at him. He was in his blue coat.
“Is the boy in the forest?” he said.
The man pointed the rifle at him.
The man had been there in the forest. He’d heard the death song, he’d heard the flute. And he’d heard the song that said he’d had to die.
“Was it you?” the man said.
He was trembling.
The man looked at the flute.
He had grown up to be an old man. He was wearing his brown coat. He was wearing his boots and trousers, and a shirt.
“It was me,” he said.
“It was you,” the man said. “Why did you never come back?”
“I went to the end of the lake,” he said. “I went down to the forest, and then I went down to the end of the lake. I left my coat and my boots and trousers and the shirt I was wearing there. And the flute I was playing.”
He put his hands over his face.
“Why did you never come back?” the man said.
“I heard the death song,” he said. “And I saw the man in the forest. He was so sad.”
The man nodded.
“What song did you play?” the man said.
“He didn’t die,” the man said. “He’s alive.”
The man with the flute didn’t look like the man he’d known in his childhood. He didn’t look like the man he’d once known. He didn’t look like anyone he knew.
He put his hands over his face.
“The tree’s waiting for you,” the man said.
He turned around.
The man with the flute was waiting for him. He was waiting for him in the forest.
He would sit on a bench by the lake, playing the flute.
“I’ll come back for the flute,” he said. “I’ll come back for the flute in the summer.”
He put the flute into his pocket.
Then he went back to the forest.
It was a warm spring day.
He was sitting on the bench by the lake.
He was playing a song. He was playing a song about spring.
The man was sitting on a bench with a little boy.
“I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll come back for the flute.”
Then he walked out of the forest.
The snow had melted. He was carrying the flute in his hand. He didn’t see the tree. But he was hearing the wind, he was hearing the song the wind was playing. It wasn’t a song he’d ever heard before. He couldn’t understand what it was saying. He went home to his wife and children.
And in the summer, he went back to the forest.
He was sitting on the bench by the lake.
He was still playing the song.
The man was still sitting on the bench. He was wearing his blue coat.
He saw the man who was looking at the flute.
He could hear the song the man was playing. And then, he woke up from the dream.