The Curious Flute: A Fable

There once was a young flute who wanted nothing more than to hear the music it played.

“It is not for you to hear,” said Father Flute, who sat beside him on the dusty shelf. “You are an instrument. Let the boy do the playing. Let the wind pass through. That is enough.”

The young flute thought it strange—he had no ears, of course, and yet, he could hear every word his father spoke. Just not the boy. Not the music.

“But it isn’t enough,” said the young flute. “Not for me. I want to know what joy sounds like—why the boy’s face lights up when he hears me. I want to know what I sound like.”

Father Flute gave a slow shake. He was older and heavier, with silver keys that no longer gleamed. “Wanting more than your purpose,” he said, “is how instruments go mad.”

The little flute turned away and gazed out the window.

Below, in the wide green yard, children danced in the sun. He could not hear their laughter, but he saw their faces—smiling, spinning, shining. How the boy loved to play him on days like this! How gently he placed him to his lips. How carefully he pressed the keys. Even the boy’s breath seemed like joy. The notes, he imagined, were just like sunshine.

On the shelf beside him sat a small blue teacup on her saucer. She was chipped on the rim, and wise in the way old things are. Her handle curled like a question mark.

“Teacup,” the flute said, “don’t you have magic in you?”

The teacup blinked. “Not the kind you’re thinking of,” she said. “But perhaps the kind you need.”

“I want to hear the music,” whispered the flute. “Just once. Is there a way?”

The teacup tilted slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “a wish is stronger than the rules. And sometimes, when the wish is true, the wind listens.”

That night, darkness settled over the parlor. The young flute slept. Father Flute snored.

But the blue teacup lay awake, watching the trees outside begin to move.

The branches thrashed. The wind rose to a howl.

The window flung open. A cool gust swept through the room and rattled the shelf. And then, just as quickly, the wind was gone.

The teacup gazed at the young flute. He looked the same—still and sleeping. But she knew what had happened.

She need only wait until morning.

In the room beside the parlor, the boy stirred beneath his blankets as dawn broke through the window.

He sat up slowly. And his body felt strange—not slender and hollow, but warm and heavy.

He found himself reaching, a hand to his chest, a hand he had never had before, and found no holes. No keys. No curve of wood.

The boy blinked. He breathed. He touched his lips. Grabbed his ears.

“I am the boy,” said the flute. “I am inside his body. My wish has been answered. Oh—bless the wind. Bless the blue teacup!”

Without another moment, he ran into the parlor.

He went first to the blue teacup to thank her, but she looked different. No crack shaped like a mouth. No movement.

“Father Flute!” he cried. But Father Flute was still as stone. Neither spoke.

The boy—who was really the flute—felt his heart begin to beat wildly. And what a strange feeling, to have a pulse, to have something warm thumping inside you.

He picked up the flute that had once been him and held it close, certain he would now achieve his deepest desire.

“Perhaps the boy is inside it now,” he mused aloud. “As I once was.”

Then he placed the flute to his lips, covered the holes he remembered the boy covering, and blew.

A long, sour note rang out.

He tried again. Another. Still off—thin and sharp, like a bluebird that had forgotten how to sing.

The boy sighed. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right. So he ran to the kitchen, where his father sat at the table sipping coffee.

“What’s wrong?” the man said, setting down his cup.

“I don’t know how,” said the boy. “Will you play it for me? I think I’ve forgotten how.”

“You’ve played every day since last winter,” replied the father; and he looked very confused.

Still, seeing his son’s eager, unchanging expression, he shrugged and took the flute.

He pressed it to his lips and played.

But what came out was not music. The sound was hollow—even more sour and thin, as if something inside it would not let the air pass smoothly.

“Hmm,” the father muttered. “Something’s not right.” He inspected the flute. “Cheap,” he concluded at last. “That’s the trouble. These new ones—they’re never made like the old ones.”

He gave it one final glance, then tossed it into the trash bin. He closed the lid.

“Wait!” cried the boy, but the father exited, shutting the door.

The boy rushed to the bin. As he did, the window flew open.

Wind swept through the kitchen.

The air circled the boy, spun him in circles until he was so dizzy he fell. His head hit the floor.

All went black. 

Above him, the light flickered. The air stilled.

On the floor, the boy didn’t move.

And in that moment—again—something changed.

The young flute first felt the rush of cold, then the hollowness. He was himself again, in his own body.

And he was in the trash.

Apple cores. Banana peels. Crumpled napkins surrounded him. Pudding smeared his mouthpiece. Worse, his body felt colder, emptier than ever, nothing like the warm pulse of the boy he had just been.

This was certainly the lowest moment of his life.

He had wanted so badly to hear the music. And now, because he hadn’t listened to Father Flute, he would never even feel music again! The magic had broken him, he thought. And he was now useless, completely forgotten.

But then a crack of daylight shone. A hand reached in. A familiar voice came.

“I’m not sure how I knew you were in here,” said the real boy, “but it felt like…I had been in a place quite like this myself.”

And gently, the boy lifted the flute into the light.

He went to the kitchen sink, cleaned off the pudding and the banana smears, and, without delay, he brought it to his lips.

He played.

No sour notes came. No confusing trills or thin wisps. Just breath—warm and bright—moving through the flute like wind through an empty tunnel, like sunlight over water.

The flute didn’t hear the music, of course. But he felt every note in a way he had never before, in the way that returning home feels, knowing that everything is just as it should be.

That evening, the flute rested once more on the shelf between the Blue Teacup and Father Flute.

“You wished for more,” said Father Flute, who had spoken long about the matter with the blue teacup. “And more was given. But your body, little one, was not the same without you. And neither was the boy’s.”

“Old magic,” explained the teacup. “The natural sort. It stirs now and then, but nothing works quite right when it’s out of place.”

The young flute was quiet.

Perhaps, he thought, feeling and listening aren’t much different. Perhaps it is all a matter of perspective.

At last, he spoke. “Flutes may have no ears,” he said, “but I can feel something. And that is plenty enough.”

Father Flute nodded, smiling at his son.

And in the fading light of the window, the little flute gleamed.