Omar Tamer was near the top of the rise, looking down across the Ein-Gedi Valley, with its red boulders and tufted bushes. The goats were still grouped in a herd, grazing the succulent hackberry leaves near the old ruins. His thirst nagged, but he had to eke out his supplies for a bit more, so he just pressed his lips to his bottle and let the tepid water soak them for a few seconds.
For comfort, he sang a melody in praise of Allah, one he would perform at the evening meal. His talents were always in demand, and his grandmother proudly proclaimed he had the sweetest voice in the town.
Across the world, in the Amazon rain forest, the damp air echoed with the melodies of the Yanomami. Clear amongst the voices was that of Daza, who sang the strange words only shaman can understand. He says they are the songs of the xapiripë, ghostly spirit guides.
Síofra Walsh was singing too, eight thousand kilometres away in the backstreets of Dublin. She sang to her babe as they trudged the rain-sodden pavements to her bedsit in Jamestown Court. She lived in one of three, two-storey blocks, one of which is boarded up, council warnings stuck haphazardly to the thick marine ply.
As she rounded the corner, Daza stepped into a clearing, and Omar crested the hill. There before all three was a tall, white-robed figure. It lacked hair, but its head bristled with short, purple tipped protuberances, with a fringe that grew longer above its overly large and dark eyes.
“Do not be afraid,” it sang in the language of its audience. You are the best singers in your world. Can you come with me to my home-world and perform for my people, Pran Ynzi-Jinker?”
He held out his hand and Síofra stepped forward, scarcely believing what was happening.
“Only you,” said the being. “You must leave the infant.”
“I can’t leave my baby behind,” said Síofra.
“I only sing for my family and Allah,” Omar said proudly.
“I will come with you spirit, for surely you are a wise xapiripë,” said Daza. As he walked into the clearing, a golden haze surrounded him.
The being faded and left Omar and Síofra standing, staring into emptiness.
Daza sang for the Pran, and it was pleased, rewarding the old man by granting him any wish that was in its power.
Daza thought for a while, then said, “I enjoyed singing for you, xapiripë, but now I would like to go home and sing for my grandchildren.”
“You could have had riches, longevity, or eternal youth,” said the Pran. “But you only wish to go home. You are a very wise man, for love has no price, and home has no peer.”
And with that he sent Daza on his way across the lightyears, home to the tribe, who coincidentally, never wanted for food again.
