The Test

The music box had been my Great Great Grandfather's. He had packed it carefully when his German family emigrated to Australia. It had made it through the sea voyage and the rough journey along cart tracks to the Ballarat Goldfields. It had sat on a little table of a modest home, the front of which was a shop that sold general goods. Often customers, tired miners and the wives of tired miners would pause to listen to its soothing melody and ask "What is that?"

"The music box." My Great Great Grandfather would say. The customer would linger for a few moments, then depart with a slight smile, back to a life of extreme hardship, with little hope of riches.

The Gold Rush continued, some great discoveries were made, and wonderful riches were accumulated by the few. There was also great sadness and poverty. For those that suffered, a trip to the general store for bread or milk was a moment to escape, for always, the tinkle of music would reach their ears and take them away, even for a moment.

One day, the door banged open, and in came a prospector with wild eyes. Onto the counter he slammed a gold nugget, as big as a child's hand, glinting heavily.

"Eureka! At last! More gold than I could ever hope to find! I am rich!" My ancestor looked on in surprise. No one had ever displayed their good fortune before.

"This nugget is three pounds in weight! It was the first among many to be unearthed and I am saved!" The Miner looked about the shop, and behind through the door into the house. "The sound of your music box has kept me going when at times all I wanted to do was die. The Sweet melodies follow me to my diggings, and rest me to sleep. This nugget is yours! With one condition, I must have the music box, It symbolizes my good fortune, it symbolizes me! I must have it! Where to is the music box?"

***

160 years later, the music box sat on a table in front of myself and my Son. We both regarded it silently but I could feel him burning with questions. The silence suited the moment, until my Son could stand it no longer. "What happened!?" With a heavy sigh, I related the rest of our family legend. Tapping my fingers on the music box, a music box I had never opened.

***

"The music box was my fathers." My Great Great Grandfather replied. "On its drum are the notes of Amadeus himself. I cannot give you the music box, it represents me and my family, my family before, and my family to come."

The newly rich prospector grew scarlet, and shook with indignity. His swarthy looks, dark hair and beetle brows marked him as a Welshman. In his rage his dialect burned. "Where to the music box!? Here is a nugget worth thrice your shop! Worth a thousand times your Music box isn't it! It must mean more to me than you! I have found a fortune because of it!"

The German in my ancestor came to the fore. He was a short man, and had a shock of magnificent blond hair that at times glistened like a golden crown. It made him seem taller, and when he approached the Welsh miner he did it slowly, letting his controlled anger build with each step. The Welshman diminished as the German spoke slowly and deliberately, his own dialect escaping - the only indications of anger.

"Dass is not your music Box! Das music box is mine!"

***

I looked at my Son, I remembered how I felt when I was told the story, the feeling of elation that one of my family had stood his ground, stood by his principles even with an offer of wealth. I wondered how he would regard the Music Box when the story was finished.

***

The Welshman looked upon the tough little German. At last, the outraged miner picked up the nugget and hurled it, it struck the cheek of our ancestor, leaving a peculiar scar. "Look You! Curse your music box! Curse all that hear the melodies on its drum, curse the hand that opens it! Curse you German, keep the music box and the nugget, and curse you."

For months our ancestor searched for the Welshman, for he wanted to return the valuable gold nugget. Until he had returned it he said, he could not open the music box. "Whilst we hold the nugget, the curse lives!" He said it to anyone who would ask to hear the music of Amadeus Mozart, and soon, people forgot the music box, and the General Store became another General Store which declined in tune with the decline of the Gold Rush.

***

My Son was lost in thought. Finally he asked not about the music box but the gold nugget. I felt a eerie sensation slink up my spine. He was still young, just fifteen, of course a gold nugget was more interesting that a curse on a music box, but a great regret leapt upon me when I looked into his eyes, perhaps I should have given it a year or two before telling him the family story. He was a dreamer, and like all dreamers he didn't know what he wanted and was subject to whims and fascinations that were placed in front of him.

"The nugget disappeared, we don't know what became of it. Thrown or sold." I tried to end it there, but he could not shake the thought of the precious gold nugget.

"What if it is in the music box?" It was the question I had dreaded, for temptation had found a place to rest and I feared it would win its battle.

"No, it can't be in there. Don't you remember what I have told you? The music box is cursed, it hasn't been opened for generations! Don't you fear the curse of the Welshman?"

"That's just a story!"

"So is the gold nugget." He ignored me and picked up the box.

"It's heavier than it looks!" he gave it a rattle. "There's something inside, did you hear?!" I grabbed his hand to still his next move.

"I'm warning you Son, if you open that box great misfortune will come your way." My tone was harsh and angry and he pulled back, seemingly ashamed.

"I'm sorry, I won't open it, but what if?"

"No what ifs. Open it and be cursed."

That night, I lay sleepless in bed by my wife. The hours passed slowly, the witching hour especially, and just as I thought my Son was saved, a soft music reached my ears. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in the simple picked notes of an intricate and clever music box. A rendition of Piano Concerto no 21, so incredibly beautiful, I paused to listen to the exquisite melodies before weeping. My son, was the first in a line of five sons to have failed the test. He was cursed, but not because of the fictitious Welshman and his curse but because he put the idea of gold before the lessons of his fathers. He was greedy, and I was certain he would lead a life of disappointment because of it .

By Andy Parker