Galileo the Metronome was once content to sit upon the piano and click. Day after day, the old-fashioned wooden device observed Cadence the Composer play the piano and rehearse with his string quartet. The violin, especially, sounded like the most beautiful thing Galileo had ever heard.
After all, he thought, he had strings of his own.
He wanted to do more than tick and click all day. He wanted to make music.
For hours on end, he sat on Cadence’s piano, keeping time with his pendulum-swinging arm. Cadence turned him on and off, adjusting his beats per minute as needed for each new piece.
But inside, Galileo was about to burst. He couldn’t take it anymore. Cadence used him only for his strict rhythm—never for expression, never for melody.
“You are such a necessity!” Cadence said one afternoon, tapping Galileo affectionately. “I would be lost without your steady tempo.”
Yet as Galileo listened, he considered that no one played music at an exact tempo anyway. He himself couldn’t keep perfect time with Cadence’s expressive pieces. He longed for someone to draw sound through him—true sound—just as a bow draws song from a violin.
Then, in a sudden rush of movement, Cadence accidentally knocked Galileo off the piano with his elbow. The metronome hit the floor with a crash and shattered.
“Oh no—my lovely Galileo!” Cadence cried, gathering the scattered pieces. “What will I do with you now?”
He set the wooden parts gently into the trash can beside the piano.
“I’ll stop by the Music Store tomorrow for a new metronome,” he said. “Maybe one with blinking lights.”
Galileo’s pieces lay among crumpled papers and chocolate wrappers. The broken metronome ached worse than ever.
The next morning, Cadence’s young son, Winkel, peered into the trash and spotted Galileo’s pendulum arm sticking out. He dug through the papers until he found every last piece.
“Well,” Winkel said, “you’ll never click like a metronome again. But maybe… maybe I could make you into a violin.”
Winkel carefully glued the wooden pieces back together. Then he pulled four violin strings from his pocket—he always carried spares, just in case—and stretched them across Galileo’s neck. He used the metronome’s legs as tuning pegs, tightening the strings to exact pitches: E, A, D, and G.
At last, he thought, he would be able to make music. He felt certain the accident had been for the best.
By the time Winkel had transformed Galileo into a tiny violin, Cadence had already replaced the old metronome with a new one.
“You’ll be as rare as a Stradivari,” Winkel whispered. He even crafted a miniature bow from Galileo’s pendulum-swinging arm.
Please, play me, Galileo begged silently. He imagined the sound waves forming at the friction of the bow against his strings, traveling through his bridge, filling the air around him.
“Here, Dad,” Winkel said, placing the tiny violin—Galileo—into his father’s hands.
“How special!” Cadence said. “Thank you, son.”
Winkel lifted the tiny bow and set it to Galileo’s strings. And at last, the former metronome made music—real music—and has never stopped since.
And Galileo had finally become the music he always kept time for.
Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters
LOGLINE
When an old wooden metronome longs to make real music instead of keeping time, an unexpected accident and a young boy’s imagination transform him into a tiny violin who finally fulfills his deepest dream.
PITCH
After Galileo the Metronome is accidentally broken and tossed into the trash, the composer’s son, Winkel, digs through the wastebasket to save him. Using spare violin strings and the metronome’s own wooden parts, Winkel rebuilds him into a tiny violin. When the family plays him for the first time, Galileo—once limited to ticking time—at last becomes an instrument that makes music.
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