The Music Box Chapter 1

The Music Box.

 

Chapter One

 

Visiting Great Grandmother.

 

          Miya did not look forward to Saturday mornings. That was the day her mother took her to visit her great grandmother, or Granana, as Miya called her. When they first arrived, Miya was lifted up to give her Granana a kiss. Miya hated this. She complained to her mother that the old lady smelled and had a hairy chin.                 

          "You may be old like that one day," said her mother. "And you might like your only great granddaughter to be nice to you."

          Miya was placed on a chair next to the old lady’s rocking chair and told to stay whilst her mother tidied the house. Granana slept most of the time these days, and it was hard for Miya just to sit there. It would not have been too bad if Granana had ever spoken, but all she did was mumble to herself, even in her sleep.                    

          The only pleasant part of the visit was when Granana did wake up, pick up her walking stick and point at the music box on the dresser. This was a signal that Miya was to go and carefully bring the music box over to the rocking chair. She would have dearly loved to have wound it up and opened the lid to listen to the tinkling tune that it played, but Granana insisted on doing that for herself.                       

          Miya got very impatient as Granana slowly wound the little key round, mumbling to herself all the while. Miya was fascinated by her great grandmother’s fingers. They were all bent and knobbly.  Miya’s mother told her that her Granana had arthritis in her hands, which was what made them so cruelly twisted..

          "It is very painful for her, especially in the cold weather. And if you think they look bad, then you should see her poor feet."

          Even so, Miya wished the winding did not take so long. She counted the turns. "Ten," she announced.

          Granana stopped winding and slowly put the box on the little table next to her rocking chair. Then, she settled back in her chair, and then, and only then, was Miya allowed to open the lid. The music began to play.

           Miya sat and watched the box, her chin on her hands. She loved to look at the beautiful carvings on the side of it, polished by years of handling.

           She was fascinated by the little round platform that came up when the lid was open. She thought that it looked like a tiny stage. Sticking up through the stage were some little wires. These went up and down in time to the music.

          Granana always did the same thing when the music began. She nodded her head and moved her hands in time to the music. She also tried to move her poor crippled feet with the music. Miya sometimes fancied that Granana was trying to dance

          When the music finally stopped, Granana sighed, reached over, and closed the lid. Miya then very carefully put the music box back on the dresser. Granana usually went back to sleep then.

          Miya once asked her mother about the music box. Her mother had smiled and said, "I will tell you the story one of these days, but not yet."

          Miya thought it was strange that one person should have so many names. The old lady was great grandma, or Granana, or grandmother depending on who was talking about her.

          Miya thought it even odder that no one ever called her by her first name. Miya did not even know what it was.

          So it was that when the old lady died, Miya shed only a few tears.

          A few days after the funeral, Miya’s father brought home the rocking chair. "This is too good to throw away," he said. "But everything else in the house is well past being of any use."                              

          He looked down at Miya. "Oh, I had forgotten about this. Your great grandmother wanted you to have it."  From behind his back, he brought out the music box and handed it to Miya.

          She squealed with delight.

 

"Be careful with it," he warned. "It is very old, older even than Granana, and I do not think there is anyone now who could mend it if you break it."

          "Oh, I will, I will," promised Miya. "I will put it on the table next to my bed and listen to it every night."

          Her mother added, "Well, do not turn the key too many times."

          "No," Miya said. "Granana turned it ten times."

          Her father opened the lid, but the music did not play, nor did the stage turn.

“It needs winding up to make it work,” said Miya.

Her father closed the lid and said "I have often thought that there ought to be a figure on that stage. There should be one that moves with the music, after all that is what those wires are for."  He pulled at his bottom lip as he did when he was thinking. "I  wonder if the toymaker in town could make one for it."

          Miya was surprised when her mother snapped, "No! Never!" and took the box from her father’s hands.

          That night, when she was being tucked up in bed by her mother, Miya said. "Why did you shout at Dad over the music box?"

          Her mother joined Miya in her bed and said, "This is a long story, so I am going to be comfortable while I tell you. I suppose you are old enough to hear it now. Your Granana told your grandmother, who told my mother, who then told me. One day, I hope you will tell it to a daughter of yours."

          Miya giggled at the thought of her having a daughter, but settled down to listen.

“This happened a very, very long time ago,” Miya’s mother began. “The poor crippled child, Annie, hated being called that. ‘Just because it’s true,’ she used to say, ‘doesn’t mean people have to keep reminding me.’”

It was true, though. Annie was small for her age, and one leg had been much shorter than the other since birth. Her parents lived in a tumbledown shack at the edge of the village. Not long after she was born, her father left.

“Good riddance,” her mother had said, and that was that.

Just before Annie’s eleventh birthday, her mother died. After the burial, Annie overheard the village elders discussing her fate.

“She can’t live in that shack alone,” one said.

“If she could walk properly, she could work at the palace,” another added.

“Perhaps an orphanage?” suggested a woman.

Annie didn’t wait for them to decide. She gathered her few belongings and slipped into the forest. Her uneven gait slowed her, but the villagers were still arguing when she vanished from sight, and she doubted they’d bother looking for her anyway.

She limped along until she found a narrow side path leading to a cottage in a clearing. She hesitated, then pushed open the garden gate. A flock of rooks exploded from the trees, cawing so loudly she nearly fled. But she swallowed her fear, walked to the door, and knocked.

“Come in,” said a harsh voice.

Annie stepped inside. The room was dim and dusty, almost as dirty as her old shack.

“Well? Don’t stand there letting in a draught. Close the door and come here.”

Annie obeyed. An old woman in black sat in a high‑backed chair by the fire, watching her.

After a long silence, the woman said, “And what do you want with the Witch of the Dark Forest?”

“Oooh!” Miya burst out. “Was that Calizone?”

“No,” her mother said. “Calizone is the witch now. Back then, the witch was called Mentiri. And if you keep interrupting, we’ll never finish.”

“Sorry,” Miya whispered, settling down.

Her mother continued.

Now that she stood in Mentiri’s cottage, Annie wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. Still, she managed, “If it pleases you, ma’am… I need a spell. Or a potion.”

Mentiri cackled. “Let me guess, to make a boy fall in love with you?”

Annie blushed. “No! I want to be graceful and pretty. Like the dancers in the Royal Ballet.”

“Come closer,” Mentiri ordered.

Annie stepped forward. The witch took her chin, turning her face this way and that.

“Walk to the table and back.”

Annie limped across the room and returned.

“A hard thing you’re asking,” Mentiri said.

“Can you do it?” Annie asked.

“I think I could,” Mentiri said slowly. “Yes… it would be an interesting experiment.”

Annie’s face lit up.

“But there’s payment,” Mentiri went on. “You’ve no gold, I suppose?”

Annie shook her head. “No. But I can work. I can clean, cook, wash, garden, anything.”

Mentiri looked around the filthy room. “Well, the place could do with a good cleaning. And I do like to eat.”

She thought for a long time. Annie waited, hardly daring to breathe.

“How old are you?”

“Eleven tomorrow.”

“Then here’s the bargain,” said Mentiri. “You’ll work for me until your eighteenth birthday. No complaints, no running away. Do everything I ask. And on that day, I’ll make you a dancer. Agreed?”

“Oh yes, please!”

“Good. Start by cleaning the windows.”

Annie worked hard. Her little room off the kitchen was warmer than the shack had ever been. She kept it tidy and always had a bunch of flowers by her bed. She cooked for them both, grew vegetables and herbs, and learned to sew. Mentiri brought in meat, though she never said from where.

When visitors came, Annie was sent to her room. She often heard quiet voices through the walls, but she never tried to listen. She didn’t want to risk her chance of becoming a dancer.

Mentiri spent her days making potions and writing them in a great book. Some were for love, some for warts, but the one Annie found most interesting was the cure for pain. She watched carefully whenever Mentiri made it.

One day, while Mentiri was away, Annie gathered the ingredients and made a little for herself. When her back ached from gardening, she tried it, and the pain vanished. She kept the mixture in an old bottle she’d found.

Time passed, as it always does, until her eighteenth birthday. Annie knew the date from the large calendar Mentiri kept pinned to the wall.

She rose early, put the kettle on, and made Mentiri’s morning tea. The witch had been out most of the night and looked tired.

Annie waited until she’d taken a sip.

“Well?” Mentiri snapped. “Have you nothing to do?”

“I’m eighteen today,” Annie said.

Mentiri peered at her. “So you are. Remind me, what was meant to happen?”

“You said you’d make me a dancer.”

“So I did,” Mentiri said. “Fetch that box from the shelf.”

Annie brought a beautifully carved wooden box.

Mentiri rubbed her hands together. “There’s a tiny keyhole here,” she said, showing her. She opened the box, took out a small key, fitted it in, and closed the lid. “Ten turns. You do it, my hands are too bad.”

Annie turned the key ten times.

“That’s enough,” Mentiri snapped, snatching it back. “Too many and you’ll break it.”

She lifted the lid. A tinkling tune filled the air.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Annie cried.

“You like it? Good. You’ll hear it an awful lot.”

She waved her hands and muttered strange words. Annie vanished, and on the tiny round stage inside the box, a miniature ballet dancer appeared, moving in time to the music.

“Well, you wanted to be a dancer,” Mentiri said with a laugh. “And so,

 you are. And a dancer you’ll stay until the music is started and stopped again  by a man in constant pain.”

She closed the lid, put the box back on the shelf, and sipped her tea.

“I suppose I’ll need another maid,” she said. “Ah well.”

Those were the last words Annie heard for a very long time.

“Oh!” Miya cried. “What a horrid thing to do.”

“It was,” her mother agreed.

Miya yawned.

“Someone needs sleep,” her mother said. “I’ll finish the story tomorrow night.”

“The witch won’t come to take back the music box, will she?” Miya whispered.

“No, my love. Mentiri has been dead for many, many years.”

“But what about Calizone?”

“She won’t come either. She has far more important things to do than worry about an old music box.”

She tucked Miya in and left her to sleep.