“I hate St. Patrick’s Day! It gives the Irish such a bad
reputation!” JenniAnn mumbled as she sat down, ironically enough,
at
the pub in Idlewild, Dyeland. A few of the
occupants heard her and laughed.
Margherita, the barkeep, smirked. “And so what’ll you be having
then?”
“Shirley Temple, on the rocks,” the woman answered back.
Margherita set about preparing it but continued chatting with
her. “So what’s with this anti-St. Paddy’s day attitude?”
“I
don’t know. Just… it seems like once you hit 21 people
expect you to go out and get royally smashed. If you don’t, you
look a bit… well, boring. It’s so bizarre,” JenniAnn
explained. “Thanks,” she added once she had her drink.
“Ah so you didn’t always harbor such feelings? Cause I seem to
remember you quite enjoying March 17, 2000.” Margherita smiled.
“2000... What happened that… Oh…” JenniAnn blushed and then
glanced over to a photograph on the wall.
*~*~*
Glen of Goodness, Asteri, Dyeland on
March 17, 2000
St. Patrick’s Day in Dyeland that year found a merry party of 20 or so
gathered in the Fields of Gold. An old man sat telling Irish
folktales while his wife, Sibyll, sat beside him, singing along as
befitted the tales. Minute
by minute, the couple was getting their audience more and more
enthralled. Their sons and daughters sat on either side of them,
flutes, pipes, and more ready.
“And so she wanders the Orkney Isles still, forever
young, forever looking for her lost love, forever singing to
him,” the Storyteller finished and glanced out at his audience.
They stared at him, captivated, a few brushing tears from their eyes in
sympathy for the sad fate of the heroine
of the story. “Kids, give us a reel to cheer the girls up a bit?”
he asked his sons and daughters.
And they played a merry reel and everyone danced until they were quite
content again. Then one woman pushed a girl towards the family,
whispering something into the blushing girl’s ear.
“Anything I can do for you, JenniAnn?” Sibyll asked kindly.
“Well, I, umm… wrote this song. And Janie there wants to hear but
my voice… well, it ain’t the voice
of an angel. Could you? It’s about Andrew,” the
teen-ager asked, holding out the leaf of paper on which her labor
of love was written.
“She thinks he’s real,” someone snickered.
“He is!” the girl declared. “I saw him on TV!”
There was some sympathetic laughter all around.
“Well, I mean yeah obviously on ‘Touched’ but this was different.
There was this reporter doing an interview
with an angel who turned out to be a demon and Andrew really
appeared! On the news!” JenniAnn insisted.
“Dear
God, the poor girl…” Sibyll thought but only smiled, took the
piece of paper JenniAnn held out and began to sing.
“There is a fellow most dear to me
And it's sweet Andrew I long to see
His eyes more green than Erin's fields
And it’s to him my fool heart yields.”
*~*~*
Unbeknownst to the St. Paddy’s revelers, a figure walked only a few
yards off, among the trees and forget-me-nots,
wild roses, and daisies. He was a melancholy soul, a bit on edge
having finished a hard day’s work. He’d been to the Glen before
and remembered its quiet peacefulness. In fact, except for two
or three families the entire world seemed unoccupied. That’s why
he was surprised when he heard a voice. And not just a
voice. One singing a song, with his name in it! No… it
couldn’t be.
“Andrew’s hair’s more golden than the Irish sun
His heart is gracious, befitting an angelic one.
His bonny voice speaks words forever true
As he tells of God’s enduring love for you.”
Hearing it again, Andrew was sure he’d heard it speak his name. The
blue angel forgot his distress, blushed, and then laughed.
He’d told Monica of this place and was now sure his friend had had the
song sung as a joke to cheer him. He knew better than to think it
was her singing! So he moved out of
the darkness of the trees and into the fields.
*~*~*
The Storyteller looked up as Sibyll sang and squinted. There was something
blue approaching their group. At first his aged eyes
couldn’t make the figure out but as it came closer he thought it a man,
clad in jeans and a blue shirt. He thought it odd since Dyeland’s
male population was very small, he and his sons making up a good
portion of it. The rest of the company was still focusing on
Sibyll and her lovely voice when he gasped and jumped
up from his seat. This was no man. He was staring at the
approaching figure of the angel
of death!
Everyone turned around and saw Andrew approaching. Several hearts
soared, others seemed to stop beating entirely for a brief
moment. One poor girl saw the ground
rushing at her as she began to faint.
“It’s John!!!” Margherita, who was first to recover her voice,
screamed. This led to an onslaught of autograph requests and
Janie, the
journalist of the group, hurried to grab her camera and began
flashing photos.
“Oh! No! My name’s not John. Nor Dye,” Andrew managed
to get out.
“I suppose it’s Andrew then?” Jess asked, bemused.
“Well yes,” he answered.
Silence fell on the group then.
“I heard that song and my name in it and I thought it was a friend so I
came to see what she was up to. But I guess it wasn’t Monica’s
doing at all,” Andrew explained, looking a bit ill-at-ease seeing the
shock his appearance had caused. “Can I ask your names?” he asked
politely.
There were introductions all around. The group was torn on
whether to believe the stranger or not but saw no harm in simply
divulging their names.
“You seem honest but… it’s kinda hard to buy. So tell us, Andrew,
who was your first assignment as an angel of death?” Jess asked
after the introductions had ended.
“Abraham Lincoln!” Andrew answered proudly.
“He only needs to have watched ‘Beautiful
Dreamer’ to know that. Ask something more difficult,”
Felicia suggested.
“Okay, umm, what’s your least favorite holiday?” Jess tried.
“Halloween!” Andrew and several of the girls cried all at once.
At that Felicia produced some photos of Chiwawa dressed up as Andrew
that previous Halloween. Andrew looked at them with a curious
expression.
“Try again Jess,” Karen suggested.
“I
am an angel, I promise you that.” Andrew insisted and gave his
most angelic look.
“Oh… It’s him, it’s him. I know it!” JenniAnn called,
for the first time peeking out from behind Sibyll’s shoulder where
she’d dashed after seeing Andrew approaching. Margherita had
winked at her and JenniAnn knew the woman meant to tell Andrew it was
her
who had written the song. So she’d been determined to slink away
before the angel found out. But she felt Andrew was at risk
of being subjected to an all out interrogation if she didn’t
speak. “I told you he was real. Trust
him,” she added shyly making eye contact with the latest arrival.
He smiled kindly at her. “Thank you, uhh… I’m sorry I didn’t
catch your name.”
“Cause she didn’t give it. This is JenniAnn, she wrote the words
to the song you heard me sing,” Sibyll informed causing JenniAnn to
turn
bright red.
“It was lovely, thank you. To both of you.” Andrew answered
graciously, blushing a bit at the girl’s obvious appreciation as her
gaze flitted about but repeatedly came back to him.
The group began talking excitedly, astounded that the fictional
character they loved was not only real but there among them.
Andrew readily accepted the
invitations to return for many other Dyeland (he was amused to
learn what the country had been dubbed) functions. Then the
Storyteller, Sibyll, and their family struck up with another song for
thelast
dance of the day. Then the revelers left, excited to share
the news with those not among them that Andrew was real.
*~*~*
“And that’s how it all began with us and Andrew,” Margherita looked
fondly at the photograph that Janie had taken that day of the group in
the fields.
“Yeah, maybe St. Patrick’s Day can be quite nice,” JenniAnn admitted.
“Did you ever tell Andrew that there was more to the song you wrote?”
JenniAnn blushed again. “No and I think I’ve told Andrew enough,
he
can do with out it I’m sure.” She laughed a bit then.
“Ah so he doesn’t know…” and the barkeep began to sing quietly.
“His tears are more heart-rending
than a banshee’s wail
But through it all his spirit doth, with strength, prevail.
And if Andrew were here I’d but one thing to say
That I shall ne’er cease to love him til my last day.”
“Yep, that’d be it.” JenniAnn gave a small smile, remembering the
enamored 17 year old hurriedly penning it during her study hall.
“I won’t tell him,” Margherita promised.
“Thanks.”
“What
are friends for?” she replied with a smile and pat on the hand
before refilling JenniAnn’s glass.
“To Andrew,” JenniAnn toasted.
“Slainte!”
(Photo Credits: The photographs used on this page are from "Touched by
an Angel" and owned by CBS Productions, Caroline Productions, and Moon
Water Productions. They are not being used to seek profit.)