The Wishing Flute

Once upon a time in Illiodd,
(where thick is the air and damp is the sod),
a giant king was crowned.
He didn’t do much but stomp around
and was known to grind bones,
known to enjoy stew of small girl and boy.

His castle is in the clouds, over there,
at the foot of the Mountains of Despair.
Just past the Foothills of Forgetting,
where Banshee roam and all’s unsettling.
In the black castle of the giant king
it’s always night and no birds sing.

Surrounded by woods outside of time,
(wicked creatures wander through those pines),
the castle rises in the air.
Many children get lost in there
then wind up on the Giant’s bill of fare

The black castle sits where chill wind moans in fits,
where goblins creep and everyone weeps.
There is no getting out without letting
yourself get lost in Foothills of Forgetting.

Once a little boy named John
egged his parents on and on
and drove them half out of their wits
with his ferocious, childish fits.
He never would do what they said
and made them feel they’d lost their heads.

Whenever they tried to reprimand.
His behavior was really out of hand.
Of one thing than warned him more than all else
more even than of goblins, trolls or elves,

“Never go into the wood”, they said.
“Never, ever! Be very afraid!”
John didn’t listen. John didn’t mind.
He wanted to see what he would find
if he went just a little, tiny way in.
He was not seen again.

John soon met giants who prepared to bring
the boy to the black castle of their king
where it’s ever night and no birds sing.
John cried, “NO! I don’t want to go!
Don’t grind my bones! I want to go home!”

They said, “You’ll come to know
that refusing to be pliant ‘neath the grim whims of giants
invites a wealth of hazards to the health!”
In a manner most rude, John was quickly subdued.

John stayed for weeks. He stayed for days.
He stayed, and stayed and stayed and stayed.
“They’re fattening me up”, he thought to himself.
“They’ll eat me by Christmas!” With great care and stealth
he plotted and planned to get back home.

He plotted and planned and feared for his bones,
but there was no getting past those Foothills of Forgetting.

Then one night John overheard
the King and Queen exchange words:
“It would be tragic if the boy discovered magic”.

You see, King Giant, without dispute
had something magic, a luminous flute.
When slipped to his lip with a blow like a sigh – he’d fly
so high he’d come face to face with the moon in the sky.

The flute, (which usually played sweetly shimmering tunes),
was magic because it was made all of moon.
It would be a key tool should John wax seditious
because the moon grants wishes.

I’m sure you know how star wishes go,
your wish only comes true if no one knows.
Well, the same goes for a boon from the moon
but you must first charm her with a tune
and furthermore, you must be sure
of exactly what you’re wishing for.

What’s more –
to get a wish from the moon you must even the score
by giving her something she wishes for.

At the time, John didn’t know these rules
but began to understand that giants are fools
who often underestimate.
So their dinner sometimes escapes their plate…

Like most fruit forbidden, the flute was kept hidden,
(most often in the billow of Queen Giant’s pillow);
but King giant occasionally couldn’t resist
playing a tune and making a wish.

He kept his wishes quiet.
He said “No!” if John asked to try it,
and repeatedly said, (of flute to boy), “It’s not a toy!”

Christmas night, King Giant made an oversight,
(as giants sometimes do
when full of brew and dubious stew),
he dozed off with the flute beside his shoe.

John whispered, “With a wish I’ll be saved!
I must be very, very brave.”

He never knew how close to stew he was,
suffice to say he’d no time to pause,
side dishes were patiently sitting in sauce
the night John took flight.

As Queen Giant slow heated the pot,
King Giant’s flute became the flute John got.

John learned to play that very day,
then the magic waxed tragic.

Feeling proficient and ready for wishes
he tramped right down to the center of town,
then wished and piped so loud,
he drew a large crowd,
a crowd of giants passing by.

They were suspicious of flutes, boys and wishes.
They ranted and chanted with rage, “When we were your age!”
They said they wanted to eat and that he looked sweet,
(and they didn’t mean nice, they meant well spiced.)

He wished to go home as hard as he could.
He promised the moon he would always be good
She only gleamed and winked her beams.

John cursed the coldly withholding sky.
He screamed and cried, “I want to fly!
I want my wish you stupid Moon”
The passers by declared him a loon.

John stomped his boots and on the flute
piped a scream dreamed to shatter the bold cold sky.
He blew and cried, “Why can’t I fly, why?
I’ll never get home oh my, my, my!
Without magic there’s no getting
past the Foothills of Forgetting!”

You’d think the passers by would have loved it,
all that pain going public.
No, they disapproved.
They were not amused.
They knocked boy and moon tune flat.

After that?
They dismantled the flute, grabbed him by his boots
and insisted they’d roast him like Christmas goose.
John saw no escape. He’d be served up with grapes.

“The moon has to be magic”, he thought aloud.
“I know you’re magic”, he screamed over the crowd.
They said, “Quit your din!” and began closing in
“Please moon”, he said, “I don’t want to be dead.
I want to go home to my room and my bed.
I’ll never wander in woods again.
I’ll be your very, very best friend.”

Hoping the moon would behave as planned,
John raised one quite small, flute less hand
and his voice, like a lasso, swirled up through the sky.
Too quickly to wonder or question why, John started to fly.
And stars shot down like hail, sharp as nails
into the eyes of giants passing by.

Soon – John was face to face with the moon

She said, “Wishes turn stings when made public things.
There’s no going home I’m afraid.
But -- a piper waylaid nonetheless must be paid,
I can grant a wish you haven’t made.
And speaking of payment, there’s a fee,
a cost for getting a wish from me.
I’ll give you this choice – a wish for your voice.
Such beautiful tones! I want them for my own.”

“I can’t go home?” John cried in dismay.
He was never sorrier for running away
than at that moment – never indeed.
He could think of nothing else he might need
but his room and very own bed.
The moon just shook her head

“But,” he said, “I need my voice.
Can’t you give me another choice?”
The moon remained quiet.

John decided he’d try it.

“I wish for the flute” he said with a smile,
after thinking a long, long while.
“I bet I could even wish – well, I won’t say,
but if the flute’s mine, I’ll have a wish every day.
What better substitute
for a voice than a flute?”

Sometimes he flies right over there,
far over the Mountains of Despair.
He pipes into the chill winds wail.
Sometimes, when there’s a westerly gale,
his tunes find a way of getting
past the Foothills of Forgetting.

What happens then?
That’s another tale, this one’s at it’s end.
But you’re quite right in the night
if you fear you hear a sonorous ominous tune.
It’s John slipping his lip to his flute all of moon.