The Lost Years: The Musical Box

Prologue.

One day, in the wood of an old forest the door of a rundown shack was opened. It was quite a queer event since the door had not been opened in many, many years. The smell inside the shack was stale and an odd metallic scent permeated the air that was stuffed and pressed into its walls, for none of it had escaped for who knows how long. There were things hung up in the rafters, strung from the walls and strewn across the floor. Old things, of a different time and age, of a different place and time.

Of course, how foolish of me. First I must tell of the one who had opened the door. His name was Simon Careem, and he was just a boy. He was short but well-fit, his fair blonde hair hung low and brushed his shoulders, grime was in between his fingers and all across his face and hair, his clothes smelled old and dust was sure to puff from the fabrics if struck. He was a curious boy. And he was about to embark on an adventure.

When he stepped inside the room the floorboards creaked and bent beneath him. The sound of music came from somewhere in the shack, faintly, and the music brought forth a beautiful melody. "So it's true," he thought. Around the town (a village, more like) in which he lived, there was one rule, and that was to never venture into the old forest for it was "haunted." There had been stories of old ghosts and ghouls and creatures that roamed the forest, of kidnappings and most unfortunate events, and of an old shack that played ancient music, never ending, never ceasing, never striking a dead note. "Well," Simon thought, "I've found it," and crept deeper into the shack.

Of course he was not allowed to do such a thing, since it was the one rule that was laid in the village, but Simon hadn't thought much of it, he wasn't -- unlike most of the villagers -- afraid of what was beyond the outskirts of the village in an old wooded forest. And even though he was not abiding by the rules, no one would catch him since all the others were following them. (I trust you don't disobey the law, but in Simon's case, it may have well been for the better).

Searching amongst the old, dust covered means on the floor, Simon looked for the source of the marvellous melody. And it was when he lifted slab of dark, rotting wood that he found it.

There lay a box of bronze, that almost seemed to glow amidst the darkness of the shack and the music softly came from it. The music was smooth and soothing but could surely carry to far off places. Picking it up and rolling it around in his dirtied hands, Simon looked the box over and examined it, it was beautiful. Carved into it were meticulous inlays of well-thought patterns and intricate symmetry, the box seemed to change as the music played, and it did. In the direct middle a symbol stood prominent; three solid bronze squares with a single line horizontally crossing in consecutive order, the sort of symbol that, if you seen it you'd wondered what it had meant, or what it represented. Inside the box, in places that could be seen from the outer layer, little clockwork gears no bigger than the smallest of coins spun slowly, slowly, in casual synchronicity in order to produce a most beautiful melody. And then they changed position, to slowly transition into a new tune without breaking key, ever so smoothly.

Watching the tiny gears work, Simon stepped outside of the shack and into the fresh forest air. Pausing for a moment, he fiddled with the box in his hands. On the right side of the box it with the tips of his fingers Simon wrenched out a thin latch and the music ceased, perhaps for the first time in its existence. He scrambled to restart the music and pressed the latch back in, but it didn't work, then he tried to open the top, but it was locked. Disappointed he looked again at the gears and saw that they had stopped, stuck in mid-movement, wishing to move again.

Without thinking he looked back at the rundown shack and then toward the open forest and marched into it, clutching the little musical box. He wrapped it cloth, and fixed it neath his coat, and made his way back to the village. He had to find someone to fix the box.

Chapter 1.

He walked over stumps and roots and wet mossy grass. The morn was yet young and the dew sparkled in the morning light that dispersed through the tall, tall trees. The chill of dawn was still in the air as the blazing sun began to rise, Simon pulled the coat he wore tighter to him, hugging in the warmth and waited for the sun to bring more of it. The walk from the shack to the edge of the forest didn't take long, but it was dreadful, since he'd rather stay in the forest as long as he could, because it was simply where he'd rather be.

You see, the village in which he lived was not much of a place to live, the streets were torn to rubble, the houses were boarded up and kept secret and the people stayed away from each other, minding his own business, to each his own. The village was gloomy and grey and depressed every last bit of happiness out of a person, especially if one was an orphan like Simon. (I'm sorry, I had forgotten to mention that a while ago).

His mother and his father had died when he was much younger, and now he lived on his own, where ever he could; on a street (which was not too cozy); in a stable (which were scarce and smelly, not to mention), or just about anywhere he could rest his head. But he, being the character he was, looked for the best in what he had. He was content, but he was alone.

Anyway, we must get back to what he was about to do.

When he got back to the village the sun was shining, which was disheartening in a way. The sun could do so much more, if only it had land to prove it's beauty. He walked on, through the potholed rubble called "streets", and knew exactly where he would go to resurrect his broken musical box that was stuffed underneath his coat (which was no longer useful for warmth, since the sun had risen). He made his way to the village square.

The square was mainly used for the bartering, selling and buying of goods; food, fabrics and other such trinkets from merchants that were anyone who wanted to sell. It was loud there, from the shuffling of the feet, and the hustle and bustle of moving villagers. The talk was not chit-chattery, but more bickering and bantering of impatient barters. Just past the busy square, along what used to be called a "sidewalk", was a small shop that was rarely used, because the shop keeping business was a lost act. Simon frequented the shop (in the times before this story began), and had grown quite fond of the man who owned it.

The man's name was Mr. Krately, he was an old man who had seen many days and it seemed, by his warm demeanour, that when he was Simons age he had had a much happier life, at least he acted like it. Simon always wondering if it was so.

Stepping into the shop, Simon shut the sound of the noisy villagers with the ding of a bell and the shutting of a door. He chuckled at the little bell that rung, as he always did, it was a funny sound. Around a corner of a tall, melancholically stacked shelf Simon turned to the counter at which he most often found Mr. Krately. In a moment, he appeared and stooped over the counter to see Simon whose eyes just grazed the surface.

With a warm smile, the type that made ones eyes disappear, the old man spoke to Simon with his low, aged voice. "Hullo, m'boy!"

"Hello Mr. Krately," Simon said with a smile of his own, "how are you today?"

"Oh just fine, thanks for your asking. What bring you here today?" Usually the only thing Simon had come to he shop for was a friend to talk to. Mr. Krately enjoyed a little company, and so did Simon. Despite the difference in their age, he and the old scruffy man had become great friends. But today Simon had come to the shop for something other than friendship, as you know.

"I have something that's in need of a fixing"

"Is that so?" The man said, the smile had faded from his face with a spark of interest. "What have ya?"

"It's not much, just an old antique (is that a word?) I found in the woods."

"In the woods?" Mr. Krately asked, "more things for a young boy to do than wander off in them woods." And a guttural chuckle came from his thin body shaking his feeble shoulders, that may have once been strong and willing. That was something else Simon liked about him, though, his humour about serious matters. He never questioned why he went in the woods, or explained the rule he had broken, or stated the consequences he'd face if caught, but realized that he was just a boy with no guidance, a foal with no mother. A simple rule like not being able to explore what the woods had to offer was quite folly to begin with. It was in a boys nature to explore (especially in such a boy as this), to be adventurous. That's what childhood is about, isn't it?

"No," Simon grinned, "not quite, sir." And the man omitted another faint chuckle.

"Now then, let's see here what you have."

So, naturally, Simon pulled the wrapped up box out from under his tattered coat, placed it on the counter (which was quite hard to reach) and slowly began to unravel the fabric surrounding it. As soon as the cloth had revealed what lay underneath the expression on Mr. Krately's face had changed. It never dropped, nor lifted, no fear or amazement in his eyes, just a plain look of puzzlement.

He fixed his a pair of thick rimmed glasses on his elongated nose, and leaned back, scanning the little bronze box. And then he turned the box on its side. The side with the symbol, which had previously been facing Simon. And then his face really changed. Not a plain look of puzzlement anymore, but of shock. The kind of face one makes when they've just remembered an important date that they'd missed. "Come with me," the man said, not looking at Simon, but at the door from whence he came. Simon followed him, not knowing what he had gotten himself into.