How do you rise above adversity? Do you believe in happy endings?
An Ancient Tune
A benevolent royal family had reigned over the small island nation for centuries but one night rebel forces stormed the castle. The next day in Market Square, the horrified subjects watched as first their beloved king and then the entire royal family were beheaded. Blood stained the cobblestones.
Overcome by fear, the people shrived in the dark as the oppressive dictator drunk with power built shrines to his ego. They clung together comforted by one hope. Rumour held that the royal family wasn't dead. A child, the youngest son, had escaped sailing over the sea, safely, to a foreign land.
"Have faith," the people whispered in the dark, "He will return to us."
They had shared this hope for over forty years.
Yesterday, word had quickly spread that the ailing dictator had finally died. His regime was over.
The people gathered in Market Square under an ocean of blue sky. In the centre of the square, a teenage girl placed her violin case on the cobblestones. Feeling fearful, the dictator had treated entertainers harshly—seeing them as a threat, she pulled her bow tentatively over the strings, but she saw no soldiers rushing her, heard no commands to stop, so she began to play an ancient tune her grandfather had taught her. She was joined by another violinist and another and another. Soon an orchestra of strings filled the square with music. Nearby, an old man started to sing—accompanying the tune. It had been so long since their lives had been filled with such joyful sounds that the people stopped immediately to listen.
In a far corner of the square, a twenty-something woman in faded jeans and a souvenir tee stepped onto a small wooden box.
My dad worked hard. This I knew. This I could see.
A few people listened—out of a sense of hospitality, rather than any real interest. By her dress, they knew she was a tourist.
His navy overalls had two black stains on the knees and I wondered, did he kneel in dirt? His overalls smelled of rot. But he never slouched or grunted like the other fathers. he always carried himself proudly, with an air of nobility.
More people joined the small crowd that had gathered around her.
Though he had the long, slender fingers of a pianist, they were covered by small cuts.
After work, he spent what seemed like hours scrubbing his hands. But when he was done, it was time to play. He'd cross his legs and stick out a foot. I'd climb on and he would bounce me up and down.
"You are a prince riding a coal-black stallion," he told me—in his thick accent.
Where there had been no more than ten people listening, there were now twenty.
He served me tea in little cups. "One cube of square or two, my lady?" He'd ask.
At bedtime, he'd spin yarns so grand about a little prince disguised in rags.
The old man stopped singing and joined the crowd.
Our neighbours would cut through my dreams with their yelling, roaring car engines, and loud music, but my bedtime stories were always about the little prince.
Her voice filled the square.
I never dreamed my dad was reminiscing about his boyhood on this beautiful island. I never dreamed that he was a member of your royal family. But before he...
Her voice choked.
My dad told me... It took all his strength, but he told me.
She straightened her back and held her head high.
I am your queen.
And, oh, how the people cheered.
On this Blog in October...
