"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal."
1 Corinthians 13:1
The Eavesdropper
Ultimately, it was the tinkling. It reminded him of sand rolling across itself, swept inward and outward by salty waves. Salt made a sound too, but more like glass. This was the metallic twinkling of young stars, before they ever thought about their finale. Oh to live so long that life could fully be enjoyed without the ever present consideration of what is to come next….
At first he assumed that it was the stars. The early evening snowfall made that make sense. The stars often danced more loudly following an evening snow. What men mistook for twinkling was actually the tinkling of tinfoil bodies in fluid motion—gliding across the pondy blackness of sky. Oh how the stars love snow—and fireflies. And so, the eavesdropper knew that on the occasion when a star grew so excited as to no longer be able to contain the fit of energy within itself, that star would leap into a grand jete—streaking brilliance across the sky.
He followed the tinkling, even after realizing that he was far beyond the stars; the sound drew him in. The pavement burned as his feet touched down against the crusted oily rainbow of its surface. How could something be so beautiful and ugly, so hard and so easily blemished? If it weren't for the tinkling, he'd turn back.
The sound grew louder and perhaps more furious, beautiful yet desperate. Angry comets darted like desperate mice—blindly chasing and racing toward one another, narrowly yielding. One moved more slowly, reminding him of the great beasts; steady, calm, reflective. Another bore against it pushing it forward and then away with its beaming lights. How magical, he thought. How menacing too….
He moved with caution, careful not to slip, careful to avoid, mindful of man. And how conflicted his heart became when he found its source: the tinkling—an extended arm, human in strength and frailty, the bell, metallic and cold in the winter's air, yet full with the warmth of ten thousand stars. His heart leapt, and his feet glided just above the steaming sidewalk.
Just as the bell became clearer, so too did the hums. His heart swelled and swam with them, vibrations too shallow and too deep. And that is when he remembered why his visits were so few. The loudest hum was boastful. It met the tinkling bell with a hearty gesture that, were it also humble, would have reverberated like a symphony. Fortissimo! But no, it was not so.
"God bless you, Sir,"the man with the ringing arm said.
"Yeah. Whatever," the man who proved so clamorous replied. His money did not clink as it fell into the pail. His effort had extended as far as a reach inside a pocket, and a quick drop.
No one felt the eavesdropper’s presence--although at times they did. He darted past the man just in time to guide the paper safely into the pail. Paper does not clink. And while it would bring about much good, this particular contribution was not given with generosity. Intent would make it so—but it was not to be—not in this case. The man clattered through an opening and disappeared, never bothering to return to that moment. Still, his hum hung dull and thick. Stagnant, it lingered behind him, an unfortunate human quality.
The hums were what kept so many like him away. Away meant at a visible distance, of course. Despite his age, the eavesdropper’s eyes remained keen. Prayers perforated the cacophony, making it safe to observe from afar. Still, young ones sometimes ventured close to Earth, curious to see for themselves the ones so loved—the ones called "man." But even they quickly tired and grew pained by the incessant hums. Their ears were tuned to pick up even the faintest sounds—the whimpers of infant rabbits, orphaned in their nests. The nuzzling of a child at mother's breast. Eavesdroppers gravitated to heartsounds. But while they intercepted the whizzes and whirls of first love, the cries of pained loss, and the giggling bubbles of reciprocated friendship, the phenomenon of the millennia was the humming of hardened hearts. A compounded discord, the hums disaggregated, plunked in sharps and flats, loudly broken.
Perhaps foresight compelled the eavesdropper to follow the man. Curious compassion, a spiritual gift of sorts, most characteristic of his kind. The search for human redemption always their mission, incessant hope their vice. It must be foresight which fueled such endeavors. Why else would one invest in something as fickle as man?
Necessity drew the eavesdropper in--out of the familiar cold--deeper into the chaos. Eavesdroppers drew comfort from the believers. Like the stars, they too shone through the darkness--visible even to the broken--most visible among them. Oh if they knew the warmth of a world united--a world of believers--a world full of hope. The eavesdropper remembered; of course he did. All eavesdroppers remembered.
A strange music piped in from the false sky. While the lyrics, he deciphered, celebrated the season, few of the voices rang pure with earnestness or goodwill.
As if by taking his hand, the family greeted him. Amid the hums, four bells rippled, not always in harmony, but at least in contented and mutual tune. The elder man, the Grand Father, as they called him, walked behind his son and his wife. Seated between them, their daughter. Her young heart trilled with excitement almost masking the heartcry emanating from the family surrounding her; almost disguising her yellowing skin, the cap pulled tightly over her balding head. Despite her illness, she insisted on choosing for herself. She insisted on filling the shoebox with her own fragile hands, and why shouldn’t she? What was there to fear?
Oh how he wished to stay in their company. How he wished to watch her choose others before herself, to watch her family embrace her selflessness, as they too proved selfless. But, he knew that he must follow the man, and while he would not see her, her heartsong and those of her family would float above the hums, as long as he was careful to listen. And, oh, the eavesdropper was careful, always mindful, to listen.
As he caught sight of the man, the eavesdropper also heard him, his grumbling heart completing a task, fulfilling a job--joyless. Could there be a more miserable sound? How could the pain of human suffering be more resonantly conflicted? The eavesdropper knew.
Only the eavesdropper saw the girl slip the package into her jacket. Careful to avoid the machines watching from the false sky, she’d carried the package to a more remote, and more congested part of the room. No one bothered to watch the girl with a jacket too thin and hair less than clean. There were too many pretty things to bother. The lyrics of her heartsong told the story. Pained, the eavesdropper tuned in, although it hurt him so…
The clanging of a teacher who knew the girl would not have a gift to exchange at the holiday party. The teacher whose kindness jingled as she slipped the wrapped gift into the girl’s desk before school. The wink when the girl and her teacher knew what no one else did and the flutter of realization. A crescendo as the girl accepted a gift in exchange. A slowly building clash of symbols as the walls of her heart fell. She knew that she could not repay the kindness; if only she knew that she did not have to….
But the noise proved almost unbearable, almost, when the eavesdropper heard her final chorus--the chorus that said she must repay the teacher’s kindness--even if she could not truly pay. The heartsong of a girl conflicted, knowing she should not steal, wanting to repay the debt. The eavesdropper pushed against pain and endured a final blow. He threw himself against the girl’s back. For her, it felt like no more than a draft, the breeze of a door left open, but enough to cause the package to drop unseen onto the floor amid the bustling feet. Just enough for the girl to realize her chance.
She slipped through the crowd. The eavesdropper watched as she passed the man, the silence of her reflection, momentarily canceling his hum. In the passing moments, he’d wandered from display to display, uncertain what the perfect gift could be. Like so many gathered in this space, he too held a list.
“Hey kid--” he grabbed a shoulder and pulled.
The boy turned and smiled, even at this stranger. “Yes sir?”
“Do you know what this is?” he pointed to the first item on the list--the thing most coveted by shoppers this season--the reason most were gathered here on this night.
“Oh, yes sir. That’s the toy of the year! Every kid wants one…”
“Yeah, where is it?” He cut the boy short.
Just as the boy began to answer, “See that line, Sir?” his mother repeated the stranger’s action, turning the boy by his shoulder.
“I told you not to wander off! What on Earth are you doing? You knew we were just here for my cigarettes, now come on! I don’t have time to follow you all over God’s green Earth….” The eavesdropper stared at his own feet, overwhelmed by noise.
“Yes ma’m,” the boy answered. “Sir, that’s the line for what you want….” and he turned and followed his mother, dutifully, away from the line of strangers. There was no money for the toy at the end of that line. All he could ever hope to receive was a shoebox, filled by a stranger, but that was infinitely more than he would ever expect.
Just as the eavesdropper wondered why he'd bothered to visit at all, he heard it—the bell. Not the tinkling silver bell that mimicked the stars, but one as bright as the Star of Bethlehem—as resonate as Santa's sleighbells—as clear as a child’s dreams on Christmas Eve and as determined as the shamash candle. Outside, this tiny jingle bell, plucked from black sooted snow that crusted in the gutter, now lay coveted in the hand of a child. A penny, discarded or disregarded, sang like treasure.The boy turned from his mother and sped to the man whose arm rang just above the hums. And as that penny dropped into the pail, it rang victorious above the heartsongs of men. His sister, with the coat too thin and hair less than clean, smiled--understanding that a debt unpaid resounded more clearly than a wrong justified by desperation. And two bells rang in harmony. Even the stars took notice, and one, ancient and now completely full, took his leave--exploding forth in a brilliant parade across winter sky. This was why--why he ventured so far from the stars, so close to the hearts of men. Ultimately, it was the tinkling.
Copyright © 2014. Carrie Ellen
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