thought every other boy had one) he was speechless, rooted to the spot. Two against one and he was the one to be different. The other two boys, secure in the knowing that they were usual, normal, were curious and then other curiosities took their attention, like how high up the wall could they jump from. Donal tried to join in to look as normal as possible and, to his worried mother, it looked as if the momentary freeze-frame of her worst fear almost never happened – a fleeting flash of gold, inquisitive looks and then on to the next adventure.
Not so for Donal. He immediately knew he was odd and nothing could take back that moment. He was stuck, doomed and forever ... ah, different. To have not continued romping with the normal boys would have made his difference even greater so he leapt up as if nothing had happened and joined in the fun. In fact, he was not to be outdone, jumping from the highest, running the fastest and being the funniest. His new difference gave him wings while others had only legs.
In the wisp of that moment, forgotten by others, was born the urge to excel and, hence, to expel any difference that may be perceived, no matter how tangible and permanent it may be. In that moment, a new Donal was born ... actually, in that moment, a Donal died and two new Donals were born. The normally-happy-but-slightly-sad Donal was no more and in his place there appeared, like the hydra’s head, two quite divergent Donals.
One was aghast, shocked and saddened at his relegation to the underworld of the dark monsters of not fitting in, with the cavernous jaws of flame and censure ever ready to devour him. There was nothing to be done but keep running, for the dark creatures of judgement – all scaly skin and hacking claws – had no compassion or reasoning and could never be mollified. So Donal II lived in constant fear, his mind crashing through the dark forests of his ancestors, not knowing how to stop or where he was going.
And Donal III? Well, he was the body in the bright world of sunshine, the successful, glorious achiever who wowed and amazed all he met. While Donal II was furiously paddling in circles, Donal III was gliding effortlessly with a smile and sure direction.
So Donal went both up and down, with nothing for the middle way. The spectre of being different sent Donal II underground and Donal III to the heavens.
Donal II took to walking beneath the mushroom stalks, with the moles and badgers. The light of day and the busyness of the world never stirred down here. All was quiet, warm and safe. However, though the creatures were gentle and friendly, they weren’t people.
Meanwhile, Donal III took on the world with a flourish and excelled in everything he needed to. Though humans were around him, in admiration, none were there with him or for him. Or so he felt.
He stopped telling his mother the little secrets a little boy tells his mother. He stopped sitting and walking with his father, as a boy is proudly inclined to do.
His father’s calling thrust the family to the forefront of village life and Donal performed where he must. He developed the most beautiful of voices in the choir and his voice, soaring above the harmonies below, brought one to tears and smiles. Though his father resisted making him the head chorister, for fear of favouritism, Donal’s talent made it impossible for resistance to last very long. So he would sing, impress and move people and, after the service, would disappear out the back door and go home or to the woods alone.
The horse was the only means of transport and, like all necessities, he deemed that he must be supreme on his pony. At the village fetes and county fares he would perform with daring, skill and grace – the envy of the men and the adoration of the women. After he had vanquished the competitors on horseback and the women in their hearts, he would suddenly be gone, like the mist in the morning sun. Many might want to shake his hand or touch him sweetly but, already, he had vanished to be alone.
We don’t know if word got around about his golden belly button and nor did he. But ye and I, like him, must assume that the stories flew about that he was not altogether normal; that he was special, different, odd and apart from mere mortals. Taking himself into aloneness kept the noise of those chattering tongues from his ears, kept the awkward questions away and, most frightening of all, kept away those who might ask to see his mark of difference. It must be hidden, at all costs, and so he took it with him to the dark and quiet places people would never be.
In the woods or the barren heaths he would make friends with animals, birds and insects, with his trusty pony beneath him. His greatest friend, that quiet inner voice that grew into an angel, was with him whether running away from or at the world. He was much comforted by the words of reassurance and support his angel uttered and, with that kind being, he thought he’d never be sad or alone.
But he was, he discovered.
It touched him in the pit of his soul, just behind the golden belly button. At first, he didn’t notice it. It continued to grow from a dim murmur, once in a while, to a constant gnawing that could not be ignored. He finally had to acknowledge it, one day, and it did hurt. Its tentacles reached down to his bowels and up around his heart, making his heart a little heavier each day.
He asked his angel, constantly, for help with this deep angst, this slowly growing pain, and he heard no answer. Ye and I know that the angel did answer but he was deaf to that which he did not want to hear.
Coming Of Age
In the village of Golden Valley … indeed, in all villages of the Golden Valley and probably beyond but no one knew as none ventured that far … those with Golden Fingers held a special place in peoples’ hearts. Some of these Golden Fingers were attached to gnarled hands and hefty arms and were suited to farming tasks like ploughing, wall-building and shearing. Some Golden Fingers were attached to accurate hands and strong arms and could carve fine furniture, musical instruments and ornaments. Some Golden Fingers flew along hemlines and through button-holes with scissors, needle and thread. The tasks these Golden Fingers found themselves enjoying were tasks born into them at birth … probably before birth, for all we know … and the sinews, muscles and bones knew of their tasks before a baby’s first fist-clench.
Those whose fingers were more lead than gold lived at the bottom of the heap unless they had been gifted Golden Brains and could lead the village pries (as prayers were called in those far-off days), as Donal’s father did. Donal had a Golden Voice but no Golden Fingers or Brains … or so no one could discern. As you know, brains can only be judged by those wise enough to set brain tests and, as there was no one possessed of such cleverness in Nantwich of Golden Valley, Donal could not be tested and so his brain was deemed to be as dim as each person judging its cleverness.
So, in the village of Nantwich, where there were Golden Fingers and one Golden Brain (his father, who dared not suggest a pedestal for his son) Donal was thought to have no talents save for that of his voice which, as all knew, was no talent at all as it neither sheltered, fed nor saved anyone from anything.
He had reached the ripe young age of sixteen when young men are captivated by the ripening bodies of young women and by the prospect of entering the world of men. It is a time when they must divorce their parents and marry their peers, hanging about in groups pretending to be those they have recently divorced. With all the answers to the ills of the world, they so clearly see the stupidity of their parents and clamour for change in everything. But Donal knew little, if anything, of this, and he wondered what the older boys were doing, laughing and strutting amongst themselves while groups of girls did the same in their particularly girly ways. He wondered at the way boys and girls looked at each other oddly, smiling stupidly, while he passed by to his sanctuary of the sweet and silent hills.
He had long since divorced his parents while still living with them in the same house. Conversations were stilted, awkward, and that deeper part of him longed for his younger days when ease and happiness reigned in the home. But it didn’t as long as his parents held doubt and uncertainty in their hearts – doubt and uncertainty about the goodness and rightness of their beautiful boy. They tried. My gosh, they tried but, no matter how ha
rd they tried, they could not keep judgement at bay. Donal felt this though he could not put words or coherency to it. They didn’t entirely accept him and so, to him, the world rejected him, though he must continue to live within its restrictive and uncomfortable walls.
Then, at this defining age of sixteen, when boys-trying-to-be-men must adhere themselves to an occupation, Donal took the only logical course available. With his angst fuelling the need to run, he made his decision. Against expectation, he rejected his father’s calling and flew on the wind. He may have reflected, later, that he really did take his father’s calling but on a horse rather that at a pulpit. Like all young people, he secretly yearned to be that which he so roundly rejected.
As we know, it is only people who are less attached to the things and relationships of this world who are able to take the biggest risks – they have little to lose and so they stride boldly where others fear to creep.
Being a minstrel, a troubadour, was seen as a risky, and therefore mysterious, vocation. Donal set forth on his pony, Toby, his only possessions attached to the saddle, in the hope of finding habitation and, moreover, habitation that housed people who were