MAGNIFICENT | Becky Magnolia

Miss Magnolia’s Magnificent Maker Machine:

A Modern Folk Tale

Page 1

For as long as she could remember, the woman had lived alone in a tower deep in the woods. She knew nothing of her past—not even her own name. Day after day, she'd wake, slip on her shoes, collect food from her garden, and return to the top of the tower. This was her life. She knew nothing more.

But one night, on the eve of a new moon, she awoke. Staring up at the wooden rafters, she noticed a strange sensation in the center of her chest. Calm and subtle, yet definitely there, she felt a tug, an ache as she had never known before.

On the following night, it happened again, but this time it felt as if it were moving down to her arms and into her palms like a fast, blue current.

Every night after that, the feeling returned, raw and terribly potent, yet even in its pain, it awakened a sense of curiosity in her, a longing that she had never known before.

One night, the woman woke with the now-familiar ache, but this time in her mind's eye she saw a flash, a memory, a fleeting dream. She was in a village. Men and women were playing, and children were laughing. She saw people using their hands, making art, weaving, painting, and telling stories. There was music all around and tables of food heaped with breads, cheeses, and fruits of all kinds. She knew exactly who she was, and so did they. But recalling this dream made the blue ache stronger.

“Ow,” she cried to the empty room that night as she curled in on herself and fell back asleep with tears in her eyes.

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The following morning, she descended the tower stairs as she always had, but when she got to the bottom, she noticed, for some reason, that she had forgotten to put on her shoes. As she stared at her bare feet, an unfamiliar sound began to thump in the distance. It was a faint, low pulse, beating like an ancient drum. And with it, she swore she could hear singing.

Transfixed by the far-off song, she put down her basket and began to walk barefoot towards it. After walking for quite some time, she came to a tower much like her own. She knocked on the heavy door, and an old man appeared, looking grey and dull, as if he had been asleep for ages.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” the woman said. “I'm from the tower down the road. Do you happen to know anything about that music in the distance?”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, looking straight at her as he talked, but it felt as if he didn't see her at all. With a far-off sadness in his eyes, he said, “I think it's best if you go home.”

She nodded in disappointment, but decided to continue on. It wasn't much longer until she found another tower. She knocked on the door, and a young woman answered.

“My apologies for bothering you,” the barefoot woman said. “I've been hearing a strange song coming from the woods. I was wondering if you knew who is making it.”

The young woman stepped out the door just enough to peer around her yard suspiciously. “I don't hear anything,” she said with a frown, starting to shut the door.

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“Wait,” the barefoot woman said boldly. “I'm sorry to keep bugging you, but I need to understand. Is there any chance you've been seeing things…dreams, visions? I keep dreaming of a place where people live together."

“I really don't know why a sensible woman like you is out here chasing dreams,” the woman said sharply. “I think it's best if you go home.” And with that, she shut the door.

But the barefoot woman pressed on, walking for miles, finding more and more towers, each with a single person living inside. Everyone she met gave her a similar answer, their responses short and sharp. And yet, the dream, the ache, and the music pulled her forward.

After many miles and many towers, her spirit dragging and her feet aching, she gave it one more try. She approached a tower with wild grapevines growing up the sides. A man wearing short orange pants and eating a fat, ripe peach opened the door.

“My apologies for pestering you," she said, her shoulders now slumped. “I've been traveling for quite some time, trying to understand why I keep hearing music and having strange dreams. I'm hoping to find someone who will understand.”

Rather than scoff or send her on her way, he looked directly into her eyes. He looked so deeply, in fact, that for a moment she thought she could hear the laughter of children.

But when she held his glance for a bit too long, he looked away. “I’m sorry, I don't know about any of those things,” he said.

Just as the woman was about to turn away, she heard rustling in the brush beside them. A chirp and a buzz came from its center, and a nearby bush seemed to ignite in a bright, purplish glow.

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“What on earth is that?” she asked the man.

“Oh yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “That thing has been hanging around here for over a month. I have no idea what it is."

They watched as it leapt from bush to bush and landed at her feet, buzzing and whirring like a child's toy. Up close, she could see that it was shaped like an inverted tear. It had no arms, no legs, or face, just a vibration of ever-changing light. The spark then playfully jumped into the woman's hair. It rolled and twisted, knotting it into a wild mass. She swatted at it.

“Yeah, it's kind of annoying,” he said with amusement, spitting the finished peach pit into the yard.

He then furrowed his brow. “You know, I don't recall much of anything these days,” he said. “But I do remember one thing. There was an old man, not far from here, who spoke of dreams. He told stories of a village–a place where music played all the time.”

“Like in my dream!” she said. Upon saying these words, the purple spark jumped from her hair and zipped towards a nearby trail, tearing up a cloud of dirt in its path.

“Follow it,” the guy said with a shrug. “Maybe it will bring you to the village.”

At this point, the woman had nothing to lose. She thanked the man, turned to the spark and said, “Okay, new friend, show me the way to the village.” And with those words, the spark bounded down the path like a puppy excited to be in the open air.

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Together, they traveled. The spark seemed to know exactly where it was going, but also—oddly—it seemed as if it was able to anticipate her needs. When she was hungry, it would lead her to a patch of berries. When she was thirsty, it brought her to a bubbling spring. She didn't need to ask. It just always knew.

The unlikely pair traveled well into the afternoon. But after several miles, the woman noticed something strange: the distant music that she had been following for days had stopped. The ancient oaks around them now rose like skeletons into the air, and the once-cooling breeze was now replaced by a grey, wispy fog that sat heavy in her lungs.

“Hold on," she said to the spark. The woman paused. But the spark kept buzzing along. Behind the trees, she could make out a series of small homes. They were dark, their windows busted out, their shingles rotting.

“This definitely isn't my village. Come on,” she said to the spark. But it insisted on heading right into the center of the town, as if to say this was the exact place they had been seeking.

Scattered about the decimated village, at the foot of a giant magnolia tree, there were pots and pans with broken handles. Tables and chairs lay cockeyed in the overgrown weeds. Long forgotten farming equipment lay abandoned, their cogs and gears rusting into the earth.

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She picked up a rag doll lying in the dirt, and her vision began to flicker. At first, in her mind’s eye, she saw the villagers of her dreams, eating together, playing together, singing together, but then the vision dissolved into a vague, black mass, where shadows and mist replaced joyous bodies and song.

The woman felt heavy, as a cold front of emotions pushed upon her. She could sense the history of the village around; the isolation, the self-abandonment, the progressive severing of souls from the very things that brought them life. They had stopped trusting each other. They had stopped trusting themselves. Overcome by the weight of this colossal loss, a heavy angst came over her.

“What have I done?" she cried out loud, furious at herself. "I left my sensible, safe life for this? An illusion? A fairy tale? I'm such an idiot.”

Despondent and dark, the barefoot woman curled in on herself as she had done in bed days ago. With no imagination left, her spark no longer in sight, she uttered the only word she had left to say:

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Alone.

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With this utterance, the Earth began to soften. It cracked open wide. The soil relaxed around her. And then, as if the great magnolia was doing a job it was always meant to do, it unfurled its sleeping leaves, brightened its buds, and reached its roots up from the ground, pulling the grieving woman deep, deep down below.

She did not fight. She did not resist. She simply allowed the great tree–the great earth– to swallow her whole.

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We do not know how long the barefoot woman remained in her earthly cocoon, but there she stayed, Quiet. Contained. In the earth, there was no yearning, no drive, no blue ache–just the woman, the roots, and the cool, dark soil.

Until one spring day, under the protection of the silent ground, the silent woman awoke to a buzz and a whir. Around her, the soil began to glow.

The woman's spark had somehow found her and was now attempting to burrow itself directly into her heart center, where the ache had once resided.

As the strange, spritely being and her own inner compass merged, the woman felt a resonance that pulsed beneath her skin. It filled her whole body–a warm presence, melting into the depths of her being. With a smooth exhale, she spoke again,

Alone.

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But this time, in response, the great earth echoed back...

All one.

And in the gentle light of her own inner glow, the woman saw it: the roots, the fibers, the earthworms, the fungi. It was all alive, networked together, woven not just to itself but to her! She was part of it, a singular life force, connected to it all.

Alone and yet all one.

Intuitively, she stretched her arms upward. The tree roots responded in kind, lifting her from the soil. The woman now rose, dirt-covered, bare feet resting on solid ground.

Then slowly, the roots of the tree—like strong and loving arms—gave the woman a nudge, pointing her toward a pile of old spoons, pots, and gears. She watched as the fine, spindly root ends wrapped themselves around an old tin cup. It lifted it into the air and placed it in her hands. More roots appeared, raising rusted pipes, an old drum, and a broken guitar into the air, landing them at her feet.

And then, for a reason that we may never fully understand, the woman, driven by her own inner fire, began to build.

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Piece by piece, mimicking the network she had seen below ground, she wove the abandoned parts together into a living machine.

Not questioning her purpose, she worked all day until a magnificent machine, networked by rusted gears, vines, and copper tubes, stood before her.

As the sky began to turn pink and purple and the full moon rose, she put her hands on her hips and smiled at the mysterious creation, laughing at the absurdity of it all. And then, as if triggered by her amusement, the machine began to shake. It hummed. It quaked.

The large pipes that the woman had tied to the top began to bellow. The machine was making music! Loud and clear.

“My goodness,” she said to the ripe moon above. “My goodness indeed.” And she laughed some more.

That evening, she fell asleep in a bed of leaves to the sound of the machine pumping out airy, gentle lullabies all through the night.

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When she woke the next morning, the woman heard the sound of twigs snapping in the brush beside her. A visitor was approaching.

“Hey there,” a voice said, emerging from the trees. It was the man in orange britches. “I heard the music and followed it,” he said, smiling at the dirt-covered woman.

“Did you build this?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said proudly.

“What is it?”

“Honestly, I'm not sure.” She laughed.

“You know it's weird,” he said. “After you came by that one day, I started having dreams too.” He paused and rubbed his heart. “And I've had this strange ache in my chest.”

The barefoot woman gave him a knowing smile. “Come sit down,” she said, gesturing to a spot in the grass beside the newly forged machine. “I have some wild stories to tell you… And I want to hear yours too!”

And with that, she began to recount this very tale I'm telling you now, starting from her days in the tower to this exact moment with him under the tree.

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As she spoke, the machine started up again, bellowing out a new sort of tune; jovially, playful, alive.

“Whoa,” he said, blinking. “I just saw a flash of yesterday's dream! This is going to sound crazy, but I saw myself in a room like a kitchen with spoons and big bowls and so many ingredients. I think I used to bake bread.”

“You're a baker?” She smiled.

“Apparently!” he said. His whole body glowed.

“Oh, how wonderful,” the woman said.

The man then jumped to his feet with a newfound exuberance.

“I gotta go!” he said. “But I'll be back…”

Before running off, he turned to her and said, “And I'll bring bread!”

Over the coming days, the magnificent maker machine continued to play its magical songs, and people arrived from all over the land. When they came, the woman would bring them to the foot of the magnificent machine, share her story, and the people would begin to remember theirs as well.

Soon, guests were coming and going, sharing their gifts, and arriving with their art, their inventions, their poetry, and their songs.

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One evening, after many months of remembering, all the people arrived in celebration. They built a fire, shared their food, and made music in time with the magnificent machine.

At one point in the night, overwhelmed by the sheer much-ness of it all, the barefoot woman stepped away from the festivities and sat down under the magnolia tree.

The man in the orange britches noticed her, left the crowd, and approached the woman, offering her one of his now-famous peach cobbler muffins. She accepted it with a smile.

As he sat beside her, he noticed a single tear glistening on her cheek. “Have you been crying?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but tonight it's not quite sadness. It's bigger than that.” She smiled gently. “Somehow, I can feel it all.” She paused and looked at him. “You know, I've never felt so whole.”

“Me too,” he said, smiling deeply into her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed the tear tenderly, as if every answer to every question was written inside that single droplet.

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“You've done an amazing thing, Miss Magnolia,” he said.

They hugged and laughed, and then returned to the fire to join their new friends. And together, with the magical sounds of Miss Magnolia's magnificent maker machine, the villagers' songs echoed high into the evening air.

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