The townsfolk thought that surely, the music from that old violin would be silenced forever. How could anyone possibly beseech mournful, melancholy diapasons from only one string?
One year later, a drifter wandered onto the unlikely, mostly untraveled path to Melody. The secret of that old violin had been carefully guarded by the townsfolk, and they were suspicious when this unfamiliar, never-before-seen stranger, seemed to appear out of nowhere.
He had thick, wild wisps of unkempt silver hair and hooded lids that partially covered almost unreadable, yet strangely imploring eyes. His thick black brows hung low and were in stark contrast to that shock of Argentine tresses.
His clothing suggested that he might be a wretched beggar, who had somehow lost his way while traveling through the trials and tribulations of what we call life. He wore tall leather boots with soles held in place with pieces of cloth, most likely torn from a discarded shirt. An over sized belt hung loosely around his waist and from every punch hole in the leather hung a key, causing a soft tintinnabulation when he walked.
Giving every sign of being unapproachable, the townsfolk kept their distance and watched the outsider circumambulate the streets, as if looking for something he had no hope of finding.
Could he be a guardian? Could he be one of the custodians, picked by the angel the townsfolk believed left that old violin in the town of Melody?
He had no visible affliction, as had Amos, Rufus and Old Sooty Sam. This visitor’s only suffering appeared to be loneliness and a lack of purpose. If he was a custodian, could that old violin cure the curse of solitude and abrogate his seemingly aimless existence?
Their unspoken questions were answered when the traveler found himself standing on the corner of Fifth and Main. The townsfolk watched as he looked at that old violin as though it was a long, lost friend.
Gasps could be heard when he picked up that old violin and began to play. Just as before, the mystifying, inexplicable, what had to be unnatural sounds, brought the town to a halt.
But how? How could those penetrating, perplexing, esoteric sounds be coming from that old violin, when it had only one string? With their ever-abiding faith, the townsfolk accepted the unknown, and relished in the heart-moving, overpowering, ever-breathtaking refrains the stranger brought forth from that old violin.
One year later, the curious transient disappeared. That old violin was found on the corner of Fifth and Main, with four strings hanging loose and four feathers resting beside it.
“But Grandma,” Polly said, with disappointment in her voice. “What happened next?”
Grandma smiled and said, “this story has a moral, little one.”
“What moral?” asked Polly.
Grandma looked at Polly and said, “Sometimes the things or the people we think have the least value, are the most truly beautiful.”