It was the find of a lifetime. It was encrusted in black mud—not made from black dirt, but ordinary sepia river earth mixed with blood. The blood came from the whistle’s deceased creator—and no, I am an opportunist, not a murderer—Ochivan, the best of the best when it came to truth whistles.

The body was gone long before I arrived on the scene. Indeed, I had no expectations of discovering anything, let alone a priceless voicer of the truth. Yet there it was, in a mound of dirt. I think I heard it calling to me, but that was likely my imagination. Did I say that I was an opportunist? Make that a romantic opportunist.

Even caked with mud, I could tell what it was. I mean, who doesn’t know what one of these looks like? The uneven wingspan of the sound chambers is like nothing else, even when the outline is softened and stretched with a coating of dirt. That it was one of Ochivan’s was also easy to recognize: the energy of its creator was still with it. It fairly danced in my hands. It seemed happy to have been recovered.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Of what possible value could such a device have in the hands of someone like me? It was not as if I could command it to sing the truth. I am no justice. And even if I was, the whistle had not been created or tuned for me. In my hands it was nothing more than a handsome curiosity.

Handsome, that is, once I got it back to my place and got it cleaned up. I was looking forward to beginning. That is, by the way, my chief gift in this world. I can take something that is old, broken, misused and bring it back to its former glory. Some folks think that’s a silly profession. Others appreciate being able to handle and use an object with history.

I carefully wrapped the whistle, mud and all in my neckerchief and headed back to the hut. My mind was full of all the steps I’d try to first clean, then, if necessary, restore the whistle. I felt it best to be especially careful removing the dirt. Ochivan’s spirit was certainly in the whistle, but it might also be residing in the mud and it might have opinions about whether it wanted to be separated from the object and in what way. Blood was a tricky matter. Even the smallest trace could be a strong influence, and the amount here was substantial. I knew only that Ochivan had died, but none of the details. Knowing what had happened might help me decide how best to go about the cleaning process.

Back at my workspace, I quickly cleared the workbench. Next I set my precious packet down and peeled away the wrapping.

The whistle vibrated, then began singing a happy little melody. How it was able to do that, I cannot say. It was still encrusted with dirt which I would have guessed would prevent it from producing any sort of melody, even if it were normal for a whistle to be able to produce any sort of sound without anyone at least blowing into it. Yet I know that it was not my imagination. I think that if I had any ability to sing, I would have sung along. Instead, my head bobbed and I smiled and perhaps a little out-of-tune humming may have escaped with my breath.

I was too amazed to do anything but watch and listen as the music got louder. I wondered if my neighbors might be attracted to the sound and whether that might be good or bad. I’ve learned since that they did hear it, but no one has admitted to coming closer to my space to investigate.

The music got quite a bit louder than I would have expected was possible for a whistle, although I recognize that whistles are inherently loud. But this one was creating music with no help from anything, or anyone that I could discern.

Then the song stopped. The pile of dirt on my workbench collapsed as if there was nothing left inside to hold it into the shape of a whistle. Fearing at first, I carefully poked at the dust with a feather. When I found nothing, my movements got more aggressive. What was left on my bench was a pile of dried mud. The whistle was gone.

Had this been any other object. I think my mood would have been very dark. But I had just experienced a kind of joyous magic that lifted my spirit and all I could think was, “Thank you. You have brought my spirit to a place it has not been since I was a small child. Thank you.”

I still hold that feeling in my heart. I don’t know where the whistle has gone, but I hope that it is a good place. Or if it is not, that it will use its music to do there what it has done to me.