Once upon a time lived a crippled, old man. This man lived on a remote, isolated meadow, scattered with poppies and blooming, tiny white flowers he knew not the name of. Each morning of his aged life started and ended the same way. He awoke and forced his tired eyes open and casted off the dark, cloth blanket from his body. He brought his bare feet onto the cold, dusty floor, reached behind him and took a hold of his blanket and began folding it neatly. He placed it on the corner near the wall and patted the blanket in satisfaction and appreciation. Now that the warmth of the blanket was tucked away until the fall of night, he proceeded towards the kitchen to brew tea. Though he did not have electricity and very little light was available to him before sunrise, he was so accustomed to items being in the same place everyday that he did not worry about tipping pots over onto the floor or tripping in the dark. He dipped a pitcher into the bucket of water he collected the day before from the stream in the nearby forest and shuffled over to the tea kettle resting above the fireplace and poured the water in it. He bent down, his knees cracking, to a small stack of wood and bundle of twigs. He pulled out a handful about the length of his forearm and snapped them in half. He organized them until they resembled a tangled mass of twigs and carefully placed small amounts of dried moss in between the holes. He grabbed a few pieces of chopped wood and stacked them on top in a precise manner. He struck a flame and placed the object in the prepared wood arrangement and watched it closely, in case it failed. This morning it did not. He nodded, yawned and plopped onto a cushion on the floor and waited for the familiar shriek of the tea kettle that would mark the true beginning of his morning.

While waiting, a knock on his door startled him. He flinched and glanced sideways at the door. Who could this be at such an early hour, when even the sun was still sleeping? He frowned thoughtfully and attempted to straighten his sleeping attire. He walked towards the door and cracked it open just enough for one side of his face to see the stranger. A bit of wind rushed in, chilling him. He was not expecting a cold morning.

The stranger was a finely dressed young fellow, with a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to his back. He wore a dark, golden tunic with twine as his belt and dirt brown pants that were rather tight on him. He, too, was barefoot. His countenance was friendly and his posture, relaxed. The old man studied him closely, his forehead creased in confusion.

"Yes?" he asked tentatively. He saw no other weapons attached to the youth's body and his mind was eased slightly.

"I have come to learn the ways of the Flutemaker. I heard he lived alone in a cottage near a forest. I was told to look for a field of poppies and when I found one, I would not be far." he looked at his surroundings, double checking, and smiled widely. "The news is true, then. You must be the famed Flutemaker." He held his hand towards the man, expecting a handshake.

The man looked at it and did not take it into his own.

"I no longer carve flutes, traveller, nor do I take anyone under my tutelage. I am sorry to inform you, especially after your journey." He was surprised at the youth's words. He was famous? And given a title of Flutemaker? Why, he has not made one since...

"Ah, is that so? Perhaps you could allow a weary boy to have a peek at your remaining flutes?" he asked hopefully. "I am known as Liophan the Lithe, but please call me Lio." His hand was still waiting innocently and expectantly.

The man, assured by the boy's smile and his joking manner that he would not harm him, he opened the door wider and shook his hand. "You must have come far, though you do not seem tired. Please, come inside. The morning is cold."

Just as the boy stepped in, the tea kettle shrieked, making him jump slightly. His eyes widened at the sound until they spotted the small, round object and he laughed at himself. "I thought I stepped in a trap!" he exclaimed, but remembered his manners and calmed himself quickly. "Thank you for your hospitality. My feet were about to freeze."

The man shut the door and stared at him in wonder. "Why are you with no shoes?"

"I heard this was sacred ground, that you never wore shoes to feel nature's carpet beneath your feet, that you were in touch with the earth itself. I heard you could make grass grow just by talking to the ground!"

"I do none of those things. I am not the man you hear of in the city. Or from wherever you hail." He paused. Just what were people making him out to be? Such madness. He did not feel comfortable of the boy's close possession of his weapon. "I have a workbench you can lay your weapon down on." He gestured towards it.

"Ah yes. Thank you." He carefully lifted the weapon strap from his body and placed it on the table, not wanting his arrows to spill from their quiver, which was in disrepair. It had a hole large enough for one arrow to slip through; eventually the whole quiver would be empty. The boy had sewn a piece of leather over it to compensate for its condition. He sighed, reminded of his sorry equipment. He hoped to win enough of the Flutemaker's friendship and trust for him to receive a beautifully, almost flawlessly carved flute to buy a custom-made quiver. "Did you make this workbench? It is rather sturdy looking, comparable to those I have seen in blacksmiths' shops."

The Flutemaker glanced at it and nodded, unaffected by the boy's attempt at flattery. "Yes. I am making tea; it will be ready soon. You may stay until the sun rises, which will be soon. The weather will be warmer then. I must go about my day, as well." He opened the cupboard in his kitchen and brought out a glass jar of dried herbs, no doubt gathered from the forest. He pinched a good amount and sprinkled them in two cups. He laid the cloth that acted as a lid on top of the jar and secured it with hemp string.

"Very well. But I must ask...May I hear you play one of your flutes?" Lio took the tea gratefully, treasuring its warmth. "I am sure you still play, even though you do not create." He was eager to know of the old man's secrets, but he mustn't let his motives show.

"Why should I, when you have not asked my name? You want to learn my ways, as you said." He took a sip of his tea and sighed at its familiar taste. "Of course, I do not teach now."

Lio frowned at the old man's logic and did not argue. He tried to keep sarcasm from bleeding into his voice. "Forgive me, Flutemaker. I do forget my manners. What shall I call you?"

"Arbayim." He said quietly, as if his name was painful to speak.

Lio did not press further about the man's flutes. He turned to one of the windows. The sun was almost here, as the cottage had brightened. He looked at his tea, which he had not tried. He never fancied tea, but to appease the old man, he lifted the cup to his lips and swallowed. He grimaced at the bitter taste.

The grimace did not escape Arbayim's sight, and he chuckled.

"Not to your liking, I see."

"I am not used to it, either." He sheepishly grinned.

"The sun is showing her face. It is almost time."

"Yes, it is. Thank you, Arbayim, for your hospitality." He said lightly. "And the tea, of course."

The Flutemaker nodded once and moved towards the door. "Your bow and arrows are on the workbench."

Lio cursed him for remembering. He was planning to purposefully "forget" them to have an excuse to come back. "My, am I forgetful today. Thank you." He went and retrieved them and shifted his bow on his back comfortably, along with his quiver.

As he stepped outside the threshold of the cottage, he said, "I am glad you are alive, Arbayim, that the news of your existence was true. May you have sunshine on your paths. I shall not visit you again, for I have no reason to return." He paused, letting his words sink in. He did not even see or hear the flutes. What a waste of travel. He shall have to find some other way to acquire an equally valuable item to pay for a new quiver. "Farewell, Flutemaker."

"Journey well, Lio." The man closed the door silently and locked it.
***

He waited until next morning to begin his day. He felt Lio would be watching him from the forest. By then, he trusted Lio would be truly far from his cottage and on his way home. As he said, there was no reason for him to return. Little did he know that Lio stayed hidden among the tree tops, waiting. Lio was sure that the man still played. What else could he do with his time?

After his morning tea, Arbayim shuffled outside, barefoot, towards his beloved field of flowers and marveled at the picturesque sunrise that bathed the land in a warm, golden light. He walked among the flowers of the meadow, letting his fingertips graze the tips of the taller blades of grass. He looked admiringly on the multitude of flowers and bent down to gently rub a poppy's petal between his wrinkled fingers. He smiled at the gifts of the earth and cared for them deeply. He did not rip them from the rich, untainted soil and from their neighboring flowers only to assign them as a decoration in a simple, glass vase next to a cracked window of his worn cottage. The man was content with observing how their petals fell silently on the earth during the winter months and how, in the spring and summer, they swayed in the wind, subservient to the forces of nature. The wind was kind to them and to the trees.

He sat down, cross legged in the grass and pulled out from his pouch a pan flute. The wind blew, as if encouraging him to play again. You must move on. You'll not see her again. Even she has moved on.

Arbayim bowed his head in anguish, remembering the day his wife stormed out of their home, her fiery hair billowing like a cape in the wind, her belongings nearly tumbling out of her arms. He wanted to help her so, but his pride and anger at held him fast. Leave then, he had yelled. I care not, and keep away from me.

He did not think she would take his words to heart. They had argued about something so simple, so foolish. He had said something insensitive, so much that it sparked a fight and caused her to leave. He remembered the terrible sound of the smashing of plates and watching them shatter into dozens of porcelain shards, both of them hurling curses at each other but both afraid to physically harm one another, and finally the sound of her packing her belongings... Her absence left a ghastly wound in his life, in his peace, and it remains unhealed. It was now a deep chasm, filled with the longing for the feel of her delicate fingers brush across face, her peal of laughter when he tried to mimic her, the warmth of her embrace.

He stroked the pan flute, running his thumb over the smooth, meticulously measured pipes, and across the soft leather binding. He carved this flute, his last flute, in hopes of her return. This was hers, the only belonging she did not come back for.

Arbayim summoned his will to move on, long overdue, and brought her flute to his lips. He blew softly, unsure, and out of practice. The sound produced was not beautiful, or somber, like his other flutes. It was too quiet, like that of his home. He shook his head and tried again. This time, the sound was more familiar, and it carried across the meadow. He changed the notes to match the melody in his mind and played more confidently. His tune soared with the wind, to Lio's ears, who smiled quietly.

This was the tune of a man who was recovering from a loss; this was his way of healing. To disturb him would be unfitting, to steal from him, cowardly and cruel. Lio climbed down soundlessly from the treetops and left the Flutemaker in peace. His quiver could wait.