There was something magical about that old violin. Some people said it was brought to Earth by a fallen angel who gave up eternity and a golden trumpet, just to listen to the music that echoed from the worn and tattered strings.
In the small town of Melody, the folks passed down the tale of that old violin to next generations, but zealously guarded its secret from the prying eyes of outside curiosity seekers.
No one really knew exactly when the tale began, but for as long as anyone could remember, there had been carefully chosen custodians, some say, granted by the very angel who brought that old violin to the town.
The first caretaker was a man named Amos, who never spoke. He was one of the old-timers who had been born and raised in Melody. No one ever knew his last name but they did know that he had never learned to read or write and had never been able to hold a steady job. He settled for a wandering lifestyle, albeit within the confines of the town.
Amos had some age on him and it showed. His steel-blue eyes were cloudy, like the sky before a summer squall. His small, delicate hands were showing the crippling signs of arthritis and his craggy, weathered face bore the wrinkles of many years of homelessness and some said, hopelessness. He was a tall man and the years had taken their toll. When he meandered around, it was with stooped shoulders and it looked as if each step he took was excruciatingly painful.
Every day, Amos walked to the middle of town. It may have been for the warmth of the sun but many folks thought that maybe he came because it made him feel a little less alone. Word had it that one day, he sauntered to his usual spot at the corner of Fifth and Main and found that old violin. He picked it up and began to coax the most hauntingly beautiful music anyone had ever heard. It was the kind of music that left no doubt in anyone’s mind that there had to be a higher being.
The heart-piercing timbre of that old violin seemed to have healing powers. The more Amos played, the straighter his fingers became and his eyes began to clear. He stood tall and proud as he and that old violin serenaded the townsfolk.
Soon, anyone with an ailment wondered if they listened to the music and their faith was strong enough, would they, like Amos, be miraculously cured? Even the doubters, having heard the music would say, “Oh, my. How can you hear something that beautiful and not be forever changed?”
Every day at noon, Amos picked up that old violin and began to play. The owners and patrons of the near-by stores walked out onto the sidewalk to stand and listen to the soul-stirring arias. Some of them wept. Others stood in stunned silence as if waiting for the Heavens to open up and welcome them home.
Amos could play that old violin like it was a Stradivarius. The townsfolk believed that they had been given a gift and it was not for them to question any means of that old violin, nor did they ever question Amos.
The next spring, Amos vanished and the music ended. That old violin was found lying on the corner of Fifth and Main, with one string hanging loose and a lone feather resting beside it.
To be continued_____________________