The island of forgotten people was a place where everyone danced. The moment the soft morning light touched the peak of the towering mountain, people would gather in the town square. Men would come out of their small cottages in black coats and their best tattered tie. Women sashayed from their doorways, pausing for effect with their pearl necklaces gleaming in the buttery rays. They would bring a broom and sweep their porches, though anyone would agree they looked foolish with their long dresses dragging in the dust. Once they saw the men approaching, they would sweep slower with distracted eyes. With eyes wandering from work, there would often be the sound of a broom hitting the wooden slats of the porches followed by a flushed face before hastily picking up the handle again to resume.

 

If an outsider looked upon the scene, really it would seem quite awkward. No one talked. Not even the birds dared sing. Birds, like all the townsfolk, had their eyes intently focused toward the mountain. Until. The valley erupted in a single sound.

 

Bong

 

Brooms hit the creaky porches fast as light would travel as women scurried down their porches, adjusting the folds of their dresses in a flurry. Leaving the thresholds of their homes as if pulled by an invisible string.

 

Bong

 

Men quickly spread out around the small square, holding their hats so they didn’t fly off in their haste. As they reached a predetermined spot, they would put their left hand out, palm up, with their right hand behind their back. Waiting.

 

Bong

  

The square was a catastrophe of moving bodies, women finding a male partner and placing her hand in his to prevent others from stealing the man. It was only when her hand was placed inside his when you could hear each woman’s sigh of relief. With every sigh though, another woman became increasingly frantic as another partner was taken and she had to change directions to find someone available before the mountain bell ceased its chimes. Eventually, the bells grew quiet and the villagers were placed, scattered through every square inch of space in the square as their world became still once more. Bodies vibrating with anticipation yet struggling to be motionless caused the air to be filled with an energy that seemed to fuel their surroundings.

 

As men and women waited with bated breaths, a new sound began to fill the silence— music. 

 

Every day there was this music. Starting sweet and light like a crisp summer breeze then growing stronger. From every nook and cranny of the mountain around them came notes that filled their heads with sweet sounds of melancholy. The melody seemed to wrap around and embrace them before pushing them off still feet. Swaying slowly first, the village people began to dance.

 

Soon the square was consumed with swirling bodies and the dust from their moving feet. The notes ran deep cutting into the very core of the lost men and women. If you looked closely, you noticed every man and woman’s eyes were closed. In fact, their face showed no sign of tension from the exercise and steps, but instead peace. Every villager’s face was so relaxed, high off feeling something they couldn’t remember.

 

As the music began to swell, the memories started rushing through their minds filling them with visions so tangible it was uncertain whether they carried truth or not. As if transported by the notes, the village people exited their physical bodies and became one with the memories that flooded their heads. Each visual experience was unique for every single person, though they never communicated to find out.

 

Lives they couldn’t remember came upon them once more. Visions of long lost family and loved ones were simply faces they couldn’t place. But while their minds evaded recollection, their hearts burst with peaceful joy and longing. The faceless, nameless people were given vitality with every sweet caress of the invisible violins. Whether it was truth or lies filling their head, such sweet bliss it was to remember something—anything— they forgot to ask these questions. And even so, who would answer? The music answered to no one. Such sweet medicine it was to no longer feel any emptiness in their cores.

 

Of course, the music never lasted. Slowly, surely, it grew softer and so did their recollections. Until the music finally stopped and they could no longer remember anything at all. Such incredible loss felt for reasons unknown. Yet, with that loss there was always something lingering. A feeling deep in their guts, of happiness. They could never identify this lingering thing, though in the past they tried to grab it and hold on. This only made it leave faster though, so the villagers never touched it, never tried focusing on it. They opened their eyes only to make their way back to their individual houses, and open their doors. Women ignored the fallen brooms lying on their porch. Gliding like ghosts inside, they would go to the old couch in their foyer and sit until the feeling finally faded. Until it was quiet once more. Temporary bliss that managed to sustain them only sapped their souls. Like every high, the bittersweet experience folded in upon itself as the villagers crashed into reality. Such was an experience they couldn’t resist.

 

Oddly enough, there was a solitary person who never came to the square. Far down the line of shabby houses, only one stood out, with bright blue shutters and yellow flowers in little planters underneath the window sills. The dirt was dark and rich with leftover footprints embedded within it. The mysterious mountain bells did not dictate the owner of this home as she awoke every morning before the other villagers started gathering. Donning her bright yellow gloves, worn from such continual use, she would make her way down her creaking porch steps slowly. Each step has a different potted flower which she made sure to keep healthy and blooming. Humming a tune even she couldn’t place, she knelt in the cool soil and tended to the flowers she loved so much. When the other villagers gathered and the mountain music began to play, she only hummed louder, not breaking her concentration. 

 

The woman had even given herself a name, Rose, for the sacred bush she had cultivated. The stray cat she found sprawled out, starving on the village road she named Fish, for his favorite meal she brought him. Together, they created and cultivated, walked and wandered together filled with a peace of their own making. Existence on the island wasn’t lonely while they had each other and she found contentment in her daily rituals of gardening and exploring. She hardly remembered the times when she would gather in the square to dance, consumed with a temporary high. It wasn’t until she found Fish lying half dead on the road and could not ignore the plight of the poor creature. After that, resisting the mountain music became easier, and she started finding peace in the land around her. Day by day she would wake up and start her day caring for the garden she grew herself. And so day by day the power the mountain held over her would fade. 

 

And after the mountain music ceased and the villagers collapsed in their beds, she would pause her work, sit back, and breathe in the sunny day.