The Gift

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They both shuffled into the church, hidden by the sheer number of people. A pew near the back was always a good place to sit if you wanted to listen during certain parts of the sermon, and tune out during the rest which you'd heard hundreds of times before. Especially at Christmas, when every priest and lay brother seemed to preach about the same thing yet still managed to contradict each other. And besides, sitting at the back of a church was always best if you didn't want to be noticed. Sit, duck your head, look like you're praying, everyone'll leave you alone.
Of course, Zac never mentioned his ideas on what he liked to call 'Stealth Church-Going' to his oldest brother; all he'd earn himself was a whack upside the head.
Isaac was pretty easy-going about most things, usually the first to find the comic side of anything. But when it came to church, he was dead serious. Anybody with a death wish, just pay out church-going in Ike's hearing.
Most of the family thought he took it just a little too seriously. They all tried to avoid going to church with him. Tay especially, mostly because he hated big crowds, but also because he hated getting into ecclesiastical debates with his brother. Zac knew Taylor was of the mind that 'I'll respect your beliefs if you respect mine', and on that point, they agreed.
But Zac, unlike the rest of their family, did try to go to church with the Isaac, the main reason being to watch him. His older brother was the only person he knew who prayed looking up to the sky, as opposed to bowing his head. And the look that kinda came over his face when he did pray, was just . . . well . . . it was kinda . . . just . . . it was hard to explain. No matter how stressed out or tired he was beforehand, given half a minute in prayer, he was relaxed, calm, even serene, with a tiny smile of almost . . . knowing, turning up the corners of his mouth.
Zac had always said his brother should have been baptised a Catholic.

*
Pebbles littered the dusty road. Her callused feet barely felt the stones bruising her hardened heels. She was a long way from the urbanised towns of money and cigars and bitumen; time had seemingly forgotten her small town of El Araguaia. If not for the camp of Americans always coming and going, it would be easy to forget that an entire realm of existence lived and loved outside her own insular little world of corn and rush huts.
There was one thing she missed inside her small rush hut, the sound of human laughter. Huérfana was what they called her, but she'd often heard the Americans refer to her as an 'orphan'. Whatever words they used, she knew they all meant the same thing. She was a child alone, with no family to care for her, and no friends to speak of. Whilst the women of the village gave her food out of pity, none would have her inside their houses. The children, following the example of their parents' hostile civility, shunned her. Often she would sit quietly among the reeds that surrounded the waterhole, and for hours on end watch the village children swim and play with the pale children from the American camp. Many times she'd tell herself that today, she would join the fun. She would dive into the cool water and participate in the games that whiled away the hours just that little bit faster –
Even after a year, she was still telling herself the same thing.
"Ow!" a sharp sliver of rock burrowed it's way into her toe. Hopping slightly, she made her way to the side of the road and sat down. Perhaps her chewed nails would be enough to dig out the tiny but painful stone chips.
– And she would have joined in, had she not been afraid. She just didn't have the courage to chance shattering what little hospitality she received from her uncaring village. It was the unspoken agreement, that the women of El Araguaia would provide her with food, and she would not interfere in the lives of El Araguaia's people. What if the village children rejected her? Jeered her efforts at trying to fit in? Ran back and told their parents an embellished tale of her 'insolence'? Fear was a strong enough deterrent to keep her isolated; an outcast in the only home she'd ever known.
A few moments passed before she found the will to focus on the movement that distracted her blurring eyes. At first, she wasn't quite sure what it was. The sand shifted weakly, too big to be a scorpion, too short to be a snake. A soft, almost painful chirp told her this animal would do her no harm.
As gently as she could, she brushed away the sand from the bird's ragged, but still beautiful, white feathers. Immediately she saw why the poor songbird lay sprawled in the dust, unable to move. Its left wing lay at an odd angle to the rest of it's body, easily distinguished as broken. The warm day made her worn shawl unnecessary; she slipped it from her shoulders slowly, murmuring the words to an old lullaby so as not to startle the injured creature. Mindful, she gathered the bird from the sandy ground and carefully wrapped it in the threadbare, but soft fabric she'd woven with her own hands. Settling as best it could, the songbird accepted it's journey, travelling in the warmth of the girl's small hand.

The market was alive with the calls of merchants and villagers alike, selling their wares to the masses who'd come to buy. She usually never noticed the din of pushy voices, but it was greatly disturbing her patient, obviously not used to the overwhelming hum. Muttering gently to the bird, she quickened her step, heading for the quiet quarter of the market, searching for the stall she knew was there. It had been a long time since she'd sort out Ysabel. Many thought the old healer was daft, a practiser of the old ways, worshipping false idols of the native faith. But she knew Ysabel, the sure hands and soft words that had soothed so many of her childhood hurts, both before and after her mother had been bitten by a demon snake.
The smell of sweet, exotic herbs signalled her arrival at the apothecary stall of Ysabel.
"Maria child! What brings you here on such a fine day?"
"Hello Ysabel," whilst the words were formal, her smile was not, "I was coming to the market today for corn and some more wool, but on –"
"Corn and wool? Child, where on earth did you find the money?"
"I sold three of my mother's blankets to one of the American women,"
"Did she pay you what they were worth?" Maria's mother had been one of the finest weavers in the area. Before her death, she and Maria had often come into the markets to sell blankets and rugs and hangings, and they had made a modest income on Maria's mother's talent. When Maria's father had left them to pursue a career in the theatre, promising that one day he'd return famous and take them all to live in Quito. Many years and they'd not heard a word from him. Living alone with her child hadn't seemed to bother Maria's mother, indeed she seemed happier than she ever had been with her fickle husband. And Maria had adored her. In Ysabel's opinion, God had been exceedingly cruel in taking Maria's mother away when she was needed so much.
"The lady liked them so much, she paid me almost double what they were worth! I still have mother's loom, if I can start weaving, then maybe I'll be able to buy my own food and not have to rely on the women of El Araguaia,"
"That is very good of you child, but why are you telling this to me?"
"Well, actually Ysabel, I . . . I found a bird on my way here. It's wing's broken, and I was wondering if . . . well. . . ."
"If I could mend it?" the girl nodded, turning on the old woman pleading brown eyes. Many times she'd brought wounded animals for Ysabel to heal when her mother was still living, but the woman had always paid her for the work. Maria had nothing to give bar her own company. But it was her eyes that moved Ysabel's heart, too deep and knowing for a child of her years. How could she say no? "Very well child, I will help your bird, but I'll need a cage to keep her in, to make sure her wing heals properly, and I cannot afford one," Ysabel's generosity was always tempered with practicality. As much as it pained her to ask Maria to give up part of the money that would see her gain a dignifying slice of independence, Ysabel had to make a living and couldn't survive on other peoples' goodwill alone.
Maria absently fingered the pouch of coins at her belt. She had no qualms, and happily gave the sucres she'd intended for wool to a basket-maker, who had a rush and twine birdcage for sale. Depositing the cage safely with Ysabel, she then went off to buy her corn.
The bird she named Blanco, on account of it's white feathers. In it's small cage, it accompanied her everywhere, watched as she scrimped and saved to buy wool, to feed her mother's long-unused loom, gratefully ate the loose corn she offered from her own plate, twittered quietly at the night stars as she lay down to sleep, and once a week made the trip to Ysabel's apothecary stall for a gentle inspection of it's healing wing and strengthening body.

December passed quickly for Maria, tirelessly working at her mother's loom, learning it's individual habits and producing blankets and rugs that every day came closer and closer to her mother's standard. She had inherited the weaver's fingers. Blanco was well on the mend according to Ysabel, and she was glad of the songbird's company. When her mother's loom wanted to rest, she would sit outside her small hut, Blanco by her side, and watch the villagers decorate their small church with tinsel and lights. It would be beautiful come Christmas.

And it was.

Maria had sold the last of her blankets to an old poor woman, down to her last few sucres. Thus she'd given it to the woman for less than half what she'd hoped it would fetch. Without thinking, she'd bought more wool and what was left over she spent on corn. Blanco's cage in one hand, balls of wool and corn inside a basket in the other, she was half way back to El Araguaia before she realised what she'd done.
Horror stopped her mid-step, and the temptation was there to sit down right there on the road and let the tears have their way.
The Christmas Eve service.
It was tonight.
The blanket she'd virtually given to the poverty-stricken old woman had originally been intended as her Christmas offering, to lay at the foot of the manger now resting by the church's small altar. Any sucres she could have given were now in the hands of the merchants. The Father of their church would consider it an insult if he saw her laying unground corn and balls of wool at the feet of Mary's divine child.
"What do I do?" it was unthinkable that she not give an offering, such impiety amounted in her mind to being almost blasphemous, "Blanco, what should I do?"
Blanco. . . .

Shame kept her from entering the small church, filled to bursting with both villagers and Americans of the nearby camp. From the confines of her hut, she lay on her own tattered blankets and strained to hear the Father preaching to his extended congregation. Of course none of the Americans would entirely understand what the Father was saying, they couldn't speak fluent Spanish.
He spoke of Christ's birth fleetingly, instead praised endlessly the virtues of the Madonna. Considering it was their Father, this was not entirely surprising; he openly admitted to putting more faith in the Virgin Mary's divine mercy than God's divine justice. Perhaps it was his way of confronting the often chilling thought of spending time in Purgatory, to suffer and be purged of earthly sin. The rest of the sermon was similar to every other Christmas Eve sermon the Father had given, ending on the reminder that offerings of faith could be placed at the foot of the manger. Many of the villagers saved giving their offerings till the end of sermon, to show off the quality of the goods they gave as testaments to their faith. The finest cloth and weaving was the bulk of offerings along with bowls of delicate fruits and fares, offset by vials of sweet perfumes, semi-precious gems and the rare flash of gold or diamonds (kindly donated by devoted American Catholics).

It was almost midnight before Maria found the courage to walk the short distance from her hut to the church. In her hands, she carried a rush and twine cage.
Guided by the light of the moon and two tall candles, she pushed open the church door, and nervously approached the altar.
How dare she come to the feet of the Lord with nothing but a shabby bird! She could almost hear the condemning voice of the Father bearing down on her. That he devoted his entire life to the Church and still offered the finest gifts to the babe was a favourite argument of his. Maria had long wondered whether pride was a sin where priests were concerned.
The darkness was her cloak, hiding her great shame from the prying eyes of the village. Blanco was the only companion she'd had since her mother had died, and she hated giving the bird up, but the bird was all she had to offer. All the town would see was a plain bird in a plain cage, nothing fine or spectacular or wondrous as befitted Our Lord God.
Shifting a pile of rugs, she rested the cage on top of them, by the head of the child. Perhaps Blanco could sing to the babe, ease his fears and help him slip back into the peace of sleep. As the songbird had so many times for her. Perhaps her gift would not be so unworthy after all. . . .
Unable to stem the tears any longer, she sank by the manger and wept.

A beautiful voice interrupted her tears.

Maria. . . .

She jerked her head up at the sound.
"Wh . . . who's there?" the sound that issued from her throat was shaking; she couldn't quite tell whether it was from her previous sobs or from the strange half-fear that lodged in her chest.

Maria, what brings you to me?

Spilling from the darkness, the Voice was sweet. Kind. Compassionate. And understanding. She could hear the smile.
The corners of her mouth lifted. Love infused this Voice. An accepting love. A benevolent love. A love bestowed on one's children.
"I come to give offerings to the babe,"

Why the tears?

Even her shame was lessened in the pure, ambrosial light of this loving Voice. Still, her head bowed slightly.
"The gift I bring is unworthy of the lady Mary's child, but it is all I have,"

Do you offer the cage Maria? Or what is inside it?

"Blanco,"

If the bird is your offering, open the door and let me see.

Her hands trembled, but she did as the gentle Voice asked her. Blanco took a few awkward steps, then hopped onto the perch Maria offered, her two fingers. Tenderly easing it out of the cage, she held the bird up to the Voice.
Launching into the air, Blanco glided on the warm air up into the rafters, flying on a wing that had healed as good as new.

She heard the midnight bells ringing from the larger towns all around El Araguaia, and so did Blanco. Joining the bells exultant adoration, the bird began to sing.

No words could ever recapture the delicate cascade of notes that comprised one small bird's song of rejoice, whose beauty outshone every offering laid at the manger.

You have offered to me a priceless gift, the freedom of one of my creatures. Bless you Maria.

The Voice's blessing brought tears of rapture to Maria's eyes; she felt blessed a hundred times over just listening to the sweet aria of the bird she had taken into her heart.

*
Sitting in the darkened corner of little church, seeking to hide from his parents' anticipated anger – for the cheese he'd left out last night, that had subsequently been nibbled half away by small animals – a wide-eyed little American boy watched as a girl, only a few years older than he, left the church; a look of tranquil joy gracing her Incan face.
He could barely believe what he'd seen and heard. Asleep on the hard wooden pew, the girl's entrance had woken him; he hadn't noticed the bird until she'd propped the cage up at the head of the manger. The reason for her subsequent tears had eluded him, but that had very quickly been forgotten. A pale misty blue light had slowly descended from a high window, falling softly over both the manger and the girl; it might have been his imagination, but he thought he'd seen the faint outline of a man standing over the altar, speaking.
The Voice.
Somehow, every word the dulcet Voice had spoken, he'd heard. It was a sound that put his whole being at ease, it filled him with an unusual feeling of calm and contentment, almost divine.

Maria, what brings you to me?

Do you offer the cage Maria? Or what is inside it?

You have offered to me a priceless gift, the freedom of one of my creatures. Bless you Maria.

The man standing over the altar, existing within that beautiful blue light, had reached down and gently touched the girl's forehead. Before he'd receded away with the light, the boy thought the man had looked over toward him. Had smiled at him.

Hearing the Voice had put him at peace. With a clarity of perception missing in many other eight-year-olds, he knew how worried his parents would be when they found him gone. He stood up and made to leave, but not before whispering to the crucifix standing on the altar.
"Thank-you,"


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