Green Book Of Meditations Volume 6 The Books of Songs - Student ...

“Like that story you just told,” he trailed off. His eyes were
still on me, embarrassed, but determined.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded, sucking his lip.
I stared away into the stars between the swaying leaves.
Laughter from the lingerers drifted through the night.
“If someone you know, or you yourself, wanted something
badly enough to sell their soul for it, then I would certainly be
willing to talk to that person.”
“It isn’t me,” he said quickly. “It’s my girlfriend. She…
She would probably rather tell you herself.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
“Yes, I do.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
I considered this.
“Could she meet me at the Bubble and Squeak for lunch on
Tuesday?”
“I’ll tell her,” said he, breathing heavily. “I can’t believe
I’m doing this. My name is Sam, by the way.” He grinned. “I
guess everyone knows who you are.”
I forced a dry chuckle.
“Pleased to meet you Sam. You should smile more often-
you look old when you are serious.”
Sam laughed and turned back to his wine. The cluster
across the flames thundered their giggling way into a final chorus
of The Rattlin’ Bog, and I stared off into the stars above the
treetops. They winked back, which was all they ever did, leaving
me to guess at the meaning.
Chapter Two
The Bubble and Squeak was a friendly little café not far
from the university. It had been established by a widowed British
matron who had cheerfully wedged her way in between the
clothing stores and simply out baked the competition. She
employed a small clan of students and mothers, kept university
hours, and was willing to cook anything one cared to name. They
really did serve bubble and squeak, if you could order it with a
straight face.
Juliana Spring found me at my table by the wall. She
greeted me by name and I stood, surprised to find her so tall.
“Miss Spring, hello.”
“Sam told me all about you,” she began as we sat, and I
grinned, imagining that conversation.
“Are you hungry?”
Her pale face shook slightly.
“Not really.”
Long fingers fidgeted with something at her neck as we sat,
her eyes staring, jumping away when she saw me see them. I
watched her hands and realized they held a crucifix.
I leaned forward, speaking gently. “I do not bite.”
Juliana started and blushed faintly.
“It’s not that. I just don’t know how to begin a conversation
like this. I feel like Faust!”
“Faust sold his soul to the Devil,” I smiled. “I am just an
ordinary man.”
“Then how can you buy mine?”
I looked away to the budding maples outside.
“What did Sam tell you?”
420
“That you were a druid, that people seemed to trust you. He
told me about the story you shared on Saturday and said he
thought you might be for real.” She was looking straight at me
now, a question perched upon her eyebrows.
“Have you slept since he told you?”
Her dark hair rippled as she shook the head beneath it.
“Then you should definitely have some food in you.”
We ordered and she told me about herself. She was twenty,
a sophomore at the university, and had loved dancing as a child.
Her father delivered sermons at the Revivalists Center a few
hours south and wanted her to become either a teacher or a nurse.
She relaxed as we ate, and a bit of color emerged in her heart
shaped face.
“And what is it you want?” I asked when only her coffee
was left.
Juliana’s body straightened and she looked me in the eye.
“I want to play the harp.”
I blinked.
“Do you have one?”
“My grandmother gave me one when I left for college,” she
nodded. “Dad wasn’t going to let me keep it, but I told him I was
dating a medical student and taking English classes.” Her eyes
dropped. “He doesn’t know we’re living together.”
“Have you got a teacher?”
“No. People have shown me different things, and I have all
sorts of books, but to hire a teacher you need money. My father
will only help pay for what he sees on the tuition forms, and I’m
working half time already to cover the rest. I practice all the time
though…”
“How much?”
“Whenever I can. I have to pass my classes, or Dad will
have me home, and I have to work to pay for them, but I still play
a bit every day.”
“Then what do you need me for?”
“Because, you see. I don’t just want to play. I… I want to
be the best in the world.”
On the walk out front students passed in threes and twos,
giggling or serious, free and careless. Discoursing passionately
on things they would forget completely a few months hence.
They had all their options open, these people outside; there was
not an irrevocable commitment amongst them. None of them
were ready to sell their souls.
“Why?” I asked Juliana quietly.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Since when? You are twenty.”
“My whole adult life- since I was ten years old.”
“Why?” I repeated softly. Her eyes were hazel and very
clear.
“When I was ten I heard a record of harp music at
somebody’s birthday party, maybe in the adults room, I don’t
know. I don’t even know what piece was playing, only that it was
the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. That night I started
dreaming music. It was so lovely, and I knew it was harps. I
thought I was listening in on Heaven. In the morning I could still
remember some of it, but there is no way to describe music like
that, and nothing I could do to reproduce it. I told my Dad, and
he said it was a vision sent from God to urge me on to a good life.
I told him I wanted to play like the angels I’d heard. He said that
that was foolish arrogance and that I could be damned for even
thinking such a thing.
“I tried to stop wanting it, to do what he told me, but the
dreams just kept coming. Sometimes it’s as if I don’t even sleep,
but just lie awake listening all night long. In church sometimes I