Once, long ago, in the Black Land, lived a man named Ptahmose. Ptahmose had three sons, one of whom he hoped would succeed him in his position of Overseer of the Singers of the God in the temple of Ptah in the city of the White Wall, Men-nefer. His family had served Ptah as overseers for tens of generations and there had never been a time when temple music had not run hot in his family's blood.

From an early age, Ptahmose taught his sons to respect the instruments of their family's trade -- especially the drums used to announce the God's presence on feast days. As Ptahmose watched his sons grow, he began to despair that any would be inclined to the family legacy, and so he decided that upon his death, he would leave each son a drum from the temple storehouse. Hopefully, the God would smile on one or more of them to do the right thing.

In time, Ptahmose's ka went to the horizon with the blessed spirits of his ancestors. As it had been provided for, on the day of the funeral, priests from the temple of Ptah presented each of Ptahmose's sons -- Ankhmaat, Shai, and Nebnefer -- with a temple drum. The priests solemnly explained the drums' purpose and their father's final wish, then left the house and headed back to the temple.

Nebnefer, the youngest son, scooped up his drum and headed for the roof, so he could examine it more closely in the sunlight. After turning the drum over and over and looking at it from all angles, he was disappointed. It was an old drum, worn in places, painted but flaking, and its sound, while rich, spoke of years of use. Nebnefer decided immediately that this silly old drum wasn't going to be good enough for him, if HE was going to play it. So he headed for Ptahmose's workshop, gathered up paints and pieces of wood and leather, and set to work.

After a few hours, Nebnefer proudly appraised his instrument. In truth, it was difficult to tell it was the same drum the priests had given him; it was shiny, all the parts one played were new, and he'd replaced even the lacing on the outside for carrying -- who needed that old beadwork, anyway, when he had colorful cords, like those he'd seen Syrians use on their drums in the foreigners' quarter? Excited, Nebnefer sat the drum on his lap and started to pound.

Not much sound came out. For some reason, the drum had lost most of its voice. Nebnefer tightened the skin and made more modifications, but couldn't seem to achieve the same sound his drum had originally made. He was just about to throw the drum away and start a completely new one when he heard interesting music coming from outside.

Shai, the middle son of the family, walked into the workshop with a proud grin, banging happily on his drum. He glanced over at Nebnefer sitting quietly and stopped. "What's wrong, Neb?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in the garish shell of his brother's recreated instrument.

Nebnefer immediately began to smile again. "Nothing at all," he said brightly. "I was sitting here deciding what else I should do to my drum. Isn't it wonderful?" He held it up to show his brother, determined not to be outdone by his elder sibling.

Shai smirked. "What did you do to it? It doesn't even look like a drum anymore."

Nebnefer refused to be baited. "Sure it does! I painted it and replaced the old parts with new ones," he began. "It's a lot better now. It's got a Syrian lacing, and I painted it the colors that Mother's pots are, the ones from Keftiu--that blue is really popular. And see?" Nebnefer tapped the drum head, and a sound unlike anything Shai had ever heard came out. "It looks just like I want it to. It even sounds like I want it to. Isn't it great?"

"Shame on you," said Shai. "Father left us a wonderful gift and you took it apart and messed it all up--"

"Father left me a piece of junk! It's my responsibility to the God to make sure whatever He gets is the best and newest," Nebnefer snapped back. "If I were the God, I wouldn't want to listen to the same old drum the same way for thousands of years anyway! I'd be bored!"

"How do you know what the God wants and doesn't want?" Shai shot back. "How do you know He'd be bored?"

"How do you?" argued Nebnefer. "I suppose your drum is better, then?"

"Of course it is," Shai said proudly. "I asked the priests about it. It's been in our family -- our family alone -- since it was made, by our ancestors," he declared. "This drum is mine. It's mine because my family made it, and I'm not going to let anyone else touch it as long as I live, because it's too precious for anybody else to defile."

Nebnefer looked at Shai's drum in a new way. "Can I play it?" he asked, reaching out.

"No," Shai replied, pulling away from Nebnefer's inquisitive fingers. "I'm tired of being second in everything, so I've decided only second sons will play my drum," he explained. "I'll wait until my second son is born so I can teach him, and he'll teach his second son....and...."

"That's stupid," Nebnefer interrupted. "What if you don't have a first son, let alone a second son? What if it takes a long time or you die before you get to share the music?"

"It is not stupid," Shai argued. "I will have at least two sons. And my second son will keep my drum safe, too. Second sons are the only ones who should play drums, anyway. Your mess of a drum proves that."

The discussion degenerated quickly into an argument, and the brothers were nearly to blows over whose drum was superior, when suddenly both stopped. Outside, carried on the balmy summer wind, came incredible, beautiful music, being played on a single drum.

"What is that?" Nebnefer cried.

"Where is that music coming from?" Shai echoed, both brothers bolting for the workshop door.

A little down the path, under a tree, sat their older brother Ankhmaat, with the third temple drum set lightly between his knees. A crowd had gathered -- priests, members of the family, neighbors -- even strangers. Some knew how to play drums, others knew little or nothing of music at all, and still others had never even heard a drum, but had been walking by the house and felt compelled to stop and listen.

Shai and Nebnefer took a seat and watched as Ankhmaat shared his drum with everyone, passing it around until everyone made a note or two. While every pair of hands touching Ankhmaat's drum made slightly different music, there was no doubt that the instrument they all held was a true instrument of the God.

At dusk, the group broke up and the three brothers sat alone in a circle, with their drums at their feet. Nebnefer and Shai could not take their eyes off their older brother's drum, wondering what magic he had conjured that all of the village seemed caught up in it. Finally, Nebnefer spoke up, rubbing Ankhmaat's drum thoughtfully.

"How is it, brother, that your drum sounds more wonderful than mine and you have drawn more of a crowd than Shai?" he asked. "Well, I know why Shai didn't draw a crowd," he added as an afterthought. "He has this silly idea that only second sons are allowed to play drums--"

"And how about you and your plan to change the drum into something else so it will be better?" said Shai, starting the argument afresh. "How can a drum be made to be anything more than a drum? As if it will even make music, now that you took all the pieces apart and--"

Ankhmaat began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Shai snarled.

"Tell us," Nebnefer agreed, glaring at Shai.

"You've both forgotten," Ankhmaat began, tapping the drum at his feet, "that this is no mere musical instrument. It belongs to the God and is holy. And, maybe even more important than its sacredness, it is more than a drum."

At Shai and Nebnefer's bewildered looks, he continued: "The music this drum makes is the legacy of our family, the history of our people. And more than just our family, or me, or either of you, it is a symbol of the God and the country our God calls home. It's more than just an object -- it is a being. You have to treat your drum with respect, if you expect it to treat you with respect. Locking your drum up in the storehouse silences its voice to the outside world" -- he glanced meaningfully at Shai and then looked to Nebnefer -- "yet so will too much new paint and flashy ornaments, instead of the original pieces from the master musicians of long ago. A drum is what it is because it was made that way, but it remains that way only so long as you let it."

Shai looked down at his drum. "So, I should share my drum with everyone?" he said.

Ankhmaat nodded. "The music doesn't belong to us," Ankhmaat reminded him. "It belongs to the God, and to all His children, no matter who they are."

Nebnefer could not be consoled. "I thought I had a good drum by making it mine, but even with these new pieces, it still cannot compare with yours, Ankhmaat," he sobbed. "This is a nice drum, but it's not the drum my father left me. What will I do?"

Ankhmaat smiled. "We could build you another, like this one," he offered, holding out his drum. "Come, Nebnefer, I will help. Shai, I will help you find people to play with--and the three of us shall make a family of drums to keep the music of Ptahmose in Kemet's ears."

Quietly, the three brothers headed for their father's workshop.