The Story of Song

I don't normally deviate from my reflections about work. But it's the new year, and a good friend of mine recently told this tale to me. I loved it so much I asked if I could share it here. She agreed, on the condition that I type it up (she told it to me, and hasn't written it down), send her a copy, and add it to the long list of ones I tell at work. Since I was planning on doing all of that anyway, it was an easy deal. So this is the Story of Song. I hope you all enjoy, and have a wonderful new year.

Once, many years ago, there sat a village nestled deep within the hillside, surrounded by emptiness, cut off from the world. And one day, in the middle of this village, an infant appeared. She had hair the color of darkest night, skin so pale one could see blue blood pumping furiously beyond it, and a voice like the wind's song. And that is what the villagers named her: Song.

Some said Song was a child of Wind and Night, a half-goddess. Some said she was the abandoned offspring of gypsies or travelers. All agreed she did not belong to anyone in the village, for no one in the village had coloring like hers. And so the entire village raised her. She spent her years passed from house to house, never having a home. The villagers did their best by her, offering her food, clothing, an education, but they were perplexed by her quiet, still nature and the deep thoughtfulness in her eyes.

Song grew up to stand a full head above the other village girls. Where they were light and bright, she was dark and deep. Where they smiled and shone, she watched in the stillness of the shadows. She was awkward around people, awkward around herself, and eventually as she grew older the villagers began to feel uncomfortable around her.

It was providence, then, that led to the village elder passing on into the other world. He left behind no family, just a small cluttered cottage right on the very outskirts of the village. The townsfolk offered this cottage to Song, and eagerly she accepted. After that, she no longer watched from the shadows—she watched from the windows.

Song spent a long time clearing the cottage out, and in doing so stumbled across a pile of canvases and paints long forgotten. The girl, now a woman, never hesitated—she simply began.

She painted small, beautiful girls smiling up at tall, handsome men. She painted families laughing together, weddings, love, joy. And people began to notice.

It did not take long for Song's fame as an artist to spread, and soon people were traveling from around the country to buy her art. All loved its beauty, and at first, Song hoped that through her art she would become more accepted by the villagers. But this was not to be. Instead, her fame and her success seemed to make her stand out more. No one realized that the scenes she painted were reflections of the intense longing in her own quiet heart. They simply saw beauty.

And then, one morning, just as the sun was rising over the hills, a woman walked into Song's shop. She was small, with hair like the sun and skin kissed by it. Her eyes shone bright like the stars themselves, and indeed, this was what she was called: Star. Star looked around at the paintings, making small noises of appreciation as Song looked longingly at her delicate beauty, her paint-spattered hands twisting around themselves nervously.

Finally, the woman turned to Song.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “But they are not what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Song asked. “I will do my best to help.”

The woman smiled a smile so like the sun that Song was momentarily blinded.

“I want truth. Truth and possibilities. Can you do that for me?”

Song hesitated for a moment, thinking. And then she pulled a piece of paper from the large stack beside her and began to draw.

She drew herself seated before two mirrors. In one mirror, the reflection showed Song how Song saw herself—too tall, with eyes set just a hair too wide, and skin just a touch too pale. In the other mirror, Song drew herself as she longed to be: small, delicate, beautiful. But when she showed this to the Star, she frowned.

“This is not truth or possibilities. This is just perception. Try again.”

A little frustrated, but eager to please, Song took a new piece from the stack. This time she drew herself, still too tall, eyes too widely set, still too pale, a pair of travelers who looked just a hair like her turning their backs, walking away, abandoning her. Just beyond the hills, however, Night herself reached loving hands toward Song, and the Wind was beside her, stretching out toward their daughter, who she loved. Pleased, Song showed the sketch to Star.

But once more, she frowned.

“This is not truth or possibilities,” she said. “This is just perception. Try again.”

Annoyed now, annoyed but determined, Song took another sheet. Over and over she drew. She drew herself rejected, accepted, loved and hated. She drew her parents as Guardians, as mortals, as demons and as angels. And always she drew herself too tall, too pale, and eyes just a hair too widely set. And every time she turned the page toward Star, the women would frown and say:

“This is not truth or possibilities. This is just perception. Try again.”

All day Song drew. She did not even notice night had fallen by the time she reached the last page in what had once been a large stack of papers. She hesitated only now. She was drained of all of her pent-up emotions. To her, it was as though she had nothing left.

And yet, she drew. First with light, uncertain strokes, and then with gaining confidence. She drew herself, still too tall, too pale, eyes too widely set, being pulled downward by grasping, greedy hands. At first glance, these hands were nothing special, but a closer inspection would show them to be Song's own hands, paint-spattered and calloused. The Song in the picture struggled against them, reaching desperately for a huge staircase that spiraled up and out of the picture.

A staircase made of mirrors.

And in those mirrors, Song drew herself.

At first, she crawled, hand over hand, up the glistening stairs, glancing back in fear at the greedy, grasping hands. Gradually she rose, still looking back, her shoulders hunched inward, eyes wide and uncertain.

But slowly, as the staircase rose, so Song's reflection straightened its posture. The shoulder became set, the spine uncurled, and gradually the reflection stopped looking back at the hands and instead upward into the heavens. The chin tilted upward, and a small smile began to form on her lips. And at the final reflection, Song moved proudly, assuredly, ever upward. And in this reflection, Song found herself drawing herself as she was: still tall, but with the grace and poise of a queen. Still pale, but with mysticism, not sickliness. Still with wide-set eyes, but they added an exotic touch to the confidence in the reflection. And Song wondered if maybe she was beautiful too as she laid down her charcoals and turned the page to Star. And Star looked at it and smiled.

“This is truth,” she proclaimed, laying one slender finger on the grasping, greedy hands pulling Song down. “And this,” she continued, tapping the staircase. “this is possibilities.”

And Star looked up into Song's eyes, and there was such depth, such wisdom, such love there that Song wondered how she could ever have mistaken the woman before her as a mere mortal. And the woman's lips parted, and she spoke just three words more.

“Make it so.”

And Song blinked, and Star was gone.

And she was never seen again.