I wander through the busy streets, loud with boisterous merchants and bustling with market-goers. I push my way through the crowds, all the while receiving the dirty looks I have grown to ignore. Natives and foreigners alike would cast their judging gazes upon me or intentionally plow me down, causing what few coins I have to scatter into disarray. Here was no different than any other small town or excited city to which I have traveled.
I never consider myself to be a beggar. True, I ask, or rather pressure people for money out in the streets. However, what little money I receive, I earn. I sing and dance every day, allowing my voice to ricochet off of the surrounding architecture and cobbled streets. In fact, I take pride that I can travel the country alone, whereas many women cannot even set a foot outside their homes without an escort. I am strong and fearless, brave, and determined to edge my way to the richest of the rich, past the scum and low-life, through the gypsies and vagabonds which I call my people, and over the upper classes, so that I and I alone sit on the world’s top.
At nights, I allow myself to dream of the person I will become. I will be richer than my creative mind can imagine, and the continent will become my own backyard. I will become an aristocrat without being a lady with a man at her arm; no, I will be content in solitude, only servants at my side, fetching me platters of food I can never name, or throwing extravagant parties for whom only the rich and wild will attend.
These days are far away, and the night seems even farther. For now, I wade through the mobs of shoppers to a bend in the street through which all people must pass to reach the market. Here, I lay my brown satchel on the ground, top open to any change one might spare. Backing away slightly from the bag, I pull out two egg-sized shakers, wooden ovals filled with rice and beads, from the folds of my violet skirt. Within seconds, my shakers are casting smooth rhythms throughout the archway, my voice loud and clear alongside it:
“I’ve traveled far,
And oh, so wide.
But nary before
Hath seen my eyes
More beauty than
The lily, so sweet,
The fairest of the fair.
Its colors painted with
The most meaningful of care.”
I continue to sing, dance, and shake, but few give me any acknowledgment, much less, stop and donate me a spare coin.
When much of the day has slipped away, the sun setting in the west and the satchel before me having fewer than three bronze pieces, I tuck my shakers away and reach towards my bag. As I start to lift my head again, I notice a pair of gnarly feet in new sandals resting right in front of me. Beginning there and trailing upwards, I scan the man as I straighten to look him in the eyes. He is an elderly but rich fellow, not sure on how to spend his vast amounts of money that he could spare. I have always had a way of categorizing people at first glance, and he was just the kind of man that I was hoping I might see.
“Packing up for the day, uh?” the man grunts, almost incoherently
I tilt my head and gaze intensely yet subtly into his eyes.
“Not if we can make a deal,” I suggest slyly.
“Ah ha,” he chuckles, “Open to a little bargaining, uh? I like that. Say, why don’t you play another one of those songs for me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
The man swipes a shiny gold coin from his pocket and holds it close to my face. It looks so new that I can practically see my own reflection in its glittery surface. I can see it now, my first gold piece, leading to my second, tenth, hundredth, thousandth, just between an old man’s twisted fingers. It seems to put a gleam into my eyes, and he grins.
“So, is it mine or yours?”
“You got yourself a deal!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I pull out my shakers, as he had pulled out his coin, and fill the air with my voice once again.
“Bells in the towers,
Ringing their noble tunes,
All throughout the hours,
For the sun and the moon.
Clergy in the churches,
Praying their faithful hymns,
Clutching their crosses,
Blessing women and men.
A faithful time, a sweet lullaby;
God and the angels
Guiding from on high.
A faithful time, a dear tender song
That all live for and long.”
The man had started to jig alongside me in the middle of the song, even in his elderly age. Not many are privileged enough to see such joy in the later years of life, and when one does, it tends to grab their attention.
Before long, a large crowd is surrounding the man and I, clapping their hands and stomping their feet, as I had always hoped might happen someday.
When the song ceased, many are applauding, and a few flip coins into my satchel. I thank the crowd, or at least those who listen to my gratitude, but the man deserves my thanks the most. Turning, I was expecting to see his bearded face and wrinkled, creased forehead behind me, but he is gone. I cannot see him in the bustle leaving the marketplace. No name or no other words were given to me; just a small, golden coin in the depths of my satchel was my reminder of him. But in that moment, I care nothing for the coins in my bag. Never before have I felt this weight lift from my heart: no desire for money can overrule my desire to thank and praise this man. Yet, if he had wanted the thanks, or to be sought out at all, he would have stayed beside me after the crowds had left. He had not. Smiling out of gratitude for the man and simple happiness, I gather my belongings and seek the nearest road out of town.