The Nightingale, The Good Man And The Witch With The Heart of Purest Diamond

THE NIGHTINGALE, THE GOOD MAN AND THE WITCH WITH THE HEART OF PUREST DIAMOND

 BY WILLIAM MARDEN

(c ) 2014

     Once upon a time - and yes, children, I know that it is utterly out of style to use that opening but everything that has happened had to happen once upon a time - there was a nightingale who could sing the stars down from the sky, the fish out of the sea, and the freckles off a red-headed country girl.

     This nightingale looked much like any other until it opened its beak to sing and pure joy exploded out of its throbbing throat.  

    Its song captivated mothers walking children through parks under the watchful eyes of plainclothes undercover detectives staking out the area for muggers.

     Its liquid notes of heavenly joy brought smiles to the faces of burnt out black men sitting in their undershirts on upturned packing cases around the sooty remains of package liquor stores in sections of major cities where a white face hadn't been seen since the last riot.

     Legend has it that at least one major country music star - rumored to be Willy Nelson but no one will ever know for sure - offered the nightingale a king's ransom and five percent of the gross on all CD, record and concert proceeds to go on the road with him, but the nightingale only flew on one night, leaving the singer, his entourage, the roadies and groupies and accompanying press disconsolate for at least a week. Rumor also has it that the singer was tempted to skip his next several engagements - so depressed was he by the nightingale's departure while the singer slept - but the IRS came by to remind the singer of his obligations and the show went on as scheduled.

     The nightingale flew on because he was - after all -  a wild creature and had no use for Manhattan townhouses, Ferrarri's, front row tickets for "Cats", standing reservations at Spago's, or a yacht on the Mediterranean. Champagne made him sick and cocaine made his throat sore, so the lures of the rich and powerful had no claim on him.

     He was only a bird, and the cliche bird brain had to come from somewhere, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise that one winter evening as he was enjoying the balmy breezes on the posh island of Siesta Key off Sarasota, he got it into his head to fly north and check out the scenery.

     As might be expected, he ran into snow, ice, and sleet around the North Carolina border and by the time he reached the outskirts of Pittsburgh he was nearly dead with cold, exhaustion, and air polluted with a rich mix of hydrocarbons, industrial solvents, carcinogens, and enough different poisons to kill larger individuals than a medium sized nightingale.

     As he fluttered to a sidewalk, ice forming on his wings, a gang of pimply teenagers began throwing rocks at him. Most missed but one hit the side of his head and he spiraled to a crash landing on the icy walk.

     As the nearest of the boys began racing toward him brandishing a stolen spiked litterstick, the nightingale opened its beak to sing out a warning and a call for help. But no sounds came out. It strained to its utmost, but not a peep uttered forth. The cold and shock had taken its voice away.

     As the cruel boy stood poised over the nearly frozen bird, lifting the spike to impale it against the sidewalk, a large fist swung out of the gloom alongside the juvenile delinquent's head, sending the youth flying off the sidewalk.

     His companions, who had prepared themselves to attack the interloper, took one look at his blue uniform and .38 police special in his holster and suddenly found urgent business elsewhere.

     The nightingale's savior - for it was no other than a member of Pittsburgh's finest, kicked the fallen youth hard and muttered "Get your fucking ass off the public property, asshole before I make you another asshole."