Song In The Moonlight

The night was dark, a large cloud had covered the sky, and the stillness of the wood surprised the musician. All he could hear were the crickets chirping at the distance, and the occasional bull-frog. The resulting aura was something that could have softened even the most sullen and ill tempered person. The musician, however, was not very moved by the seemingly heavenly scene around him. The air around him was of a man sick at heart. His stride, like his mood, was heavy and had a trace of sadness in them: he walked as man who had nowhere to go would. His mind, as you might have guessed, was elsewhere.

The musician was extremely well known. He was famed throughout the land for unforgettable tunes and lyrics that could put even the land's best poets to shame. He had hundreds eager to learn under him, and had just received the highest honour possible from the King himself. He was, as would be obvious by now, at the peak of his career. However he was also extremely ill at ease. If there was one man who was not satisfied with his work, it was himself. He looked down at the plaque he held in his hand: the token of the King and a sign of his success as a musician. Not for the first time that, he felt unworthy of it. His music, he mused, lacked something. However, try as he might, he could not put his finger on it and that irritated him.

Looking up, he noticed the cloud had passed by. He sighed and continued to walk through the wood. The journey was dark because of the overhanging trees but occasionally there would be a clearing and the moon would break out, and the diamond studded backdrop could be seen clearly.

After many sleepless nights, the musician had decided to visit the Zen Master. Renowned for his knowledge and wisdom, he was the final word in most people's troubles. The musician would have gone to him earlier, except the Master was also famed for his puzzling, sometimes cryptic, answers. However, without any further options, the troubled musician had decided to meet him. The Master had heard his story, and thought for a while in silence. Finally, he uttered the following words:

"I always remember the woods at night -
The fragrance of the jasmine flowers,
The simple cry of the nightingale."

The musician had left disappointed, the mystical koan doing nothing for the better to his mood. Finally, disgruntled with everything, the musician had decided to go for a walk in the wood. He sighed again as the trees fell back, letting a sudden flood of moonlight into yet another clearing. And it was then that he heard it. In one of the trees beside him, the nightingale began its tune. A simple plain cry, as the koan had said. The tune was not much compared to most the musician had written, but suddenly, he realised that in it, there was more worth that all his songs put together; for, realised the musician, in it was what his songs lacked.

The nightingale had no audience but the crickets and the frogs; far from the glamorous audience most daytime birds had, but yet it sang a song; a beautiful song; a song that did not care about its audience. The beauty in its song, the musician realised, was that it could be sung deep in the forest - in the moonlight, where no one could hear it - and still be beautiful.

The musician realised where he had gone wrong, and he realised that the song of the nightingale was far better than anything he could hope for. He looked down at the plaque again, shook his head, and grinned slowly. He knelt under the nightingale's tree and buried it there. Then, without a second glance, turned around and left. Behind him, the nightingale did not seem to be perturbed by the loss of its only fan; it continued singing far after the musician had left the wood.