The Legacy of Caleb Warner

It's gun metal grey hulk of a body cast a dirty shadow over the
town. It had been standing on the outskirts of town for as long as any
of us townsfolk could remember. Tales of the great man that had come to
Chicago River and built this had filtered down through the generations,
but no one had ever really known for sure who he was. The legacy of
this great man stood like a talisman over the town. Not one of us had
ever gone inside and learned what it was for. It stood empty and
waiting through time......until now.

Something unknown had drawn me from my bed tonight and had made me walk
slowly, almost as if I were sleepwalking to where I stood now. For days
I had had a strange feeling, something anxious and tense had been thick
in the air. As I gazed up at the towering structure, my eye for the
first time took in the etheral beauty of the sight. The pale, watery
light of the moon glinted on the gun metal grey fibreglass surface,
painting areas where even the constantly shifting sand had feared to
settle with a silvery glow. As my glance traveled ever skyward,
following the dark, taut coiled wires that could almost be called
strings, I involuntarily took a deep breath and held it. All my life
had been spent in Chicago River and I had glanced at this structure
every day of my 35 years and yet until tonight I had never noticed it's
true beauty.

I stepped closer to it's side tentatively, not wanting to spoil the
ecstasy of the vision. I suddenly noticed a small door in the side,
almost hidden by it's own shadow. Something metallic shone dully on the
surface. I moved even closer, having to take a closer look at what I
had discovered. In the centre of the door was a plaque made of the
lightest metal I had ever seen, partially obscured by dust was an
inscription. Using my hand like a cloth I brushed away at it until the
words had been unveiled.

The Worlds Largest Working Guitar
Made by Caleb Warner

1985

Hundreds of questions immediately began to fly around my mind. Had it
really stood untouched for 198 years? What was a guitar? And whatever
it was, would it still work after all this time? I shook my head trying
to clarify my thoughts, no matter how stupid it sounded I knew that the
answers to all my questions lay beyond the door. Without any hesitation
my hand grabbed at the handle; the door wouldn't be locked, whatever
had bought me here tonight would have known that. The door opened
without as much as a small squeek of protest.

The interior of the guitar was darker than the night outside. For some
reason, though, I felt no fear. As I stepped into the darkness, past
it's threshhold, tiny lights all around me began to glow, sparkling
like tiny stars in the dark expanse of the ceiling. I moved forward
again, further into the room, behind me the door slammed shut, the
sound echoing around the room. This was it, there was no going back
now. My pulse began to race, thudding in my ears. Gradually underneath
the thudding I heard something else, low and vibrating softly and
definitely not eminating from my body. The volume of the sound
increased, filling the whole room with an echo. Almost immediately this
was joined by evenly spaced high, twanging notes, their sound running
up and down the scale. Glorious music filled my mind, this was what I
was bought here for, it had wanted me to hear this, the melodies of the
gods.

Then it dawned on me. I was going to be meeting those gods sooner than
I had ever planned to. I tried to open my eyes and run, I wanted to get
out of this tomb but I was rooted to the spot. It's vibrations and
strength intensified. The chords growing sharper and higher, the
music's rhythm forcing my heartbeat to keep time with it. It was
nearing it's end and so then, was I. The notes flowed smoothly through
every cell of my body, it's cuban rhythm pounding faster and faster.
The last beat boomed, ending the harmonies as suddenly as they had
started. My stressed heart ceased too, exploding suddenly against my
ribs, torn flesh and warm blood splattering my lungs. This was the
end.

The people of Chicago River would never forget the sounds that had
woken them that night and would never find the body of Joe Caninhan,
that lay undiscovered in the heart of the guitar for an eternity.
Killed by the sound that had bought him so near to his paradise.