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Subject: (Teresa) "Songs of Thanks and Praise" (Solstice Party, no sex)
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SONGS OF THANKS AND PRAISE
by Teresa Birdsong
"Look who's here, everyone!" someone said. Then another voice
added, "Teresa! We didn't know you were coming!"
"Well, since Teresa means 'the harvester', I thought I'd put
in an appearance," I said. "Should be a lot of stories to gather up.
How's everything going?"
"The party's just getting started," the first speaker said.
Of course I didn't recognize her--how could I? I'd never seen
any of these people before, had I? I wondered how that woman knew who
I was. Funny, I had pictured all the men as tall, dashing gentlemen
wearing impeccably tailored suits and the women as classic ideal
beauties, like Cleopatra or Helen of Troy.
"Care for something to drink?" she asked.
"Is that cider very strong?" I said. "I don't want to pass
out before things get hot and heavy. Gotta save my strength and all
that, you know."
"Save your strength?" A great big guy was asking. I leaned
my head back and looked straight up. He looked fairly tough to me,
wearing that plaid shirt and old jeans. But not altogether
threatening. Besides, he was grinning. "What are your plans for this
solstice evening?"
"I don't know," I said. "Thought I would just relax here for
a while and meet everyone. Was I supposed to make plans? I'm new to
all this. I mean, I've never actually been to one of these affairs,
only read about them."
"Right now we're waiting for Ceilti to light the bonfire and
then all of us are going to dance to open the festivities," he said.
"Want to join us?"
I looked him over more closely as he drew nearer. Hmmm. Not
bad. Wonderful deep voice. I started planning.
"Sure," I said. Then I spoke to the rest of them. "Would you
like to hear a story while we're waiting?"
"What? You tell US a story!" A little bald-headed guy was
laughing. "We're the ones who tell stories for YOU!"
"I know, and I love them. But I've got this one story to
tell. Indulge me. You can even review it if you want," I said.
Then a skinny little woman wearing a leather miniskirt and big
black boots yelled at them.
"Pipe down, you pinheads!" she shouted. "Quit laughing. I
want to hear Teresa's story."
And they did pipe down. So I told my tale.
---------------
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a woman was
traveling down a dirt road. Her shoulders slumped and her feet
dragged. She was cold, tired and thirsty because she had been walking
all day, following the directions given her by some folks in the last
town she'd come through. She was a musician, a troubadour, and she
hoped to find generous and appreciative patrons in the next village.
Night was near and she worried that she might not find shelter. Then,
in the distance, she saw a faint light. Its flickering gleam enticed
her, beckoned her. Intrigued and curious, she hastened toward it.
As she approached she thought it strange that the light didn't
grow in brightness. When she reached it, she found it partially hidden
by the branches of a tree. Close by the tree she found a group of men
and women who surrounded a kettle of hot, fragrant soup. They were
reading manuscripts and books or scribbling lines on paper. They
must, she thought, be the group of maverick writers she'd heard about
from someone on the road. So intent were they on their work that they
didn't notice her approach.
"Hello," she said, announcing herself. "May I share your
soup?"
One man looked up and smiled. "A visitor! Please join us.
We've plenty of soup here. You're welcome to all you need."
He motioned to another man to bring a bowl and he gave her a
generous portion.
As he handed it to her, he said, "Sit. Rest. Eat. You're
obviously hungry and tired."
Someone brought her a tattered old pillow. She put it on the
ground, sat down and began to eat. "Thank you so much. Are all of
you writers?"
"Yes, we gathered here to write and discuss our stories," one
woman answered. "Meeting together helps us perfect our craft. We try
to help and learn from each other." She looked at her companions.
"Maybe she can help us decide."
"Oh, I'd be happy to help you. Decide what?"
"We want to know which of our stories is the best. Are you a
writer?"
"No, but I can read. My mother taught me."
The woman glanced at the others around the fire. Some were
murmuring to each other and gave the troubadour questioning looks.
The man who had first greeted her gathered up five manuscripts.
As he handed her one of the stories, he said, "We haven't been
able to decide which story is the best. Perhaps a visitor could judge
for us." The other writers shrugged their shoulders and nodded their
heads in agreement.
She finished her soup and began to read. After she finished
the very first story, she had tears in her eyes. "This is the best,"
she said, "because it made me cry."
But they handed her another one and urged her to read. She
returned the second one, chuckling, and said, "This is the best
because it made me laugh."
They still weren't satisfied, so she read another.
"This is the best," she said, "because it gave me hope."
Of the fourth story, she said, "This is the best because I
learned something new."
But the last one was good, too. "This is the best," she said,
"because it made me remember."
One of the younger men asked, "You can't decide?"
She looked at the group apologetically. "No, all of them were
wonderful. I'm sorry I couldn't decide. I want to help you because
you are so kind to offer hospitality to me, but I can't say which one
is best. Each story was like opening a marvelous, unique gift. May I
give you a present in return? I would like to sing you a song."
She stood and centered herself, feet front and flat, hips and
shoulders aligned, her head pulled to the night sky. She began to
sing a song of thanks, a song of gratitude for the kindness these
people had shown her. Her lungs filled with air, and then the sound
began at the base of her spine, went up her back in a tingling wave,
emptied into her arms and chest and finally focused through at the top
of her head. It was a song like the twinkle of a star, light and
clear, full of trills and frills, full of grace. She imagined the
notes dancing in the air as they left her mouth. Her soprano voice
filled her body. The music enveloped her as it swirled in the air.
She sighed when she finished. She sat down, but no one else
moved or spoke. The writers all stared at the troubadour. Had she
offended them? Was her gift improper somehow? One of the women
slowly smiled and then she spoke.
"Thank you," she said. "We may never decide whose story is
the best, but your song has inspired me to write a new story."
"I'll get more paper," another woman said.
"I'll get some ink for us," someone else said.
The troubadour rested as she listened to the sound of quills
scratching on paper. Later, she went to the entrance of the camp and
found a ladder. Placing it against the tree, she climbed it and
positioned the lamp so the light could be seen more clearly. As she
looked at the horizon, she could see silhouettes moving toward the
camp. More visitors, she thought. Maybe they saw the light. She
hoped they could read. And sing.
-----------------------
My throat was dry so I gulped down the rest of the warm cider.
I felt a strange sense of relief after finishing my tale. I looked at
my companions. They were all smiling. One man grinned broadly and
winked at me. One woman had tears in her eyes.
"Teresa, will you sing us a song?" the man in the plaid shirt
asked.
"Yes, of course. I have always wanted to sing for you, to
give you a gift in my own way. But I know a song we can all sing
together. The words are simple. Would you like to join me?"
So we sang a song of praise together, warming our spirits, as
the bonfire flared to life.
---THE END---
Teresa may be reached at poat98@hotmail.com
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