There are children bustling with ambition, children jumping and yelling and in general annoying all grownups, and then there's Jason Keesler. If you looked in the dictionary under the word quiet you'd thoroughly understand this boy, and for a good reason. He stuttered so badly he was embarrassed to open his mouth when he was around most others. Jerry was his only bosom buddy and had been since the first day they started school together.

Today Jason was alone in his room fighting off the deepest depression he had ever known. Jerry's dad was a pilot for a major airlines and had been offered a lucrative position in the company, three thousand miles away. The transfer was completed in four days and now the young stutterer sat in solitude feeling sorry for himself. His counterpart, his best friend, was gone.

Mothers have an innate sense of problems affecting the souls of their offspring and seeing the state of mind Jason was in asked him to help with the shopping. Moving around inside any store was not his idea of fun. Most females thrive on their ability to spot and purchase everything at a good sale price, but the male shopping repulse gene was as deeply embedded in Jason as it was his father. He'd rather devour a pound of broccoli, which he hated with a passion, than spend five minutes in the confines of a store. But in his young heart he knew his behavior was of concern to his parents so he consented.

While his mother was in the store shopping for a pair of black slacks he wandered into the shop next door. This was not a shopping store, it was a browsing store, and must have opened recently for he had never seen it before. He looked around as any good browser would and halted in front of a wooden fife. He wondered how anyone could carve such an instrument from a single piece of wood. He could almost hear distant music the instrument was playing while it was sitting there in the glass case. An elderly gent behind the counter silently slid open the glass door and removed the fife. As he passed it to Jason he put his index finger to his lips. A sign that Jason was to remain mute. The lad took the instrument in his hand and marveled how little it weighed. He fought off an impulse to place the fife to his lips and blow into it to see if he could make a sound resonate through it and come out sounding like something someone would want to hear. He could only imagine the number of people that must have felt the same way he did but instead of battling their feelings placed their lips on the instrument and blew into it. He was hesitant until he saw Rupert smiling through his bearded face and the look in his eyes said, "Go ahead, it's safe."

He placed the fife to his lips and instead of one note floating from it numerous notes escaped in the form of a melody. Notes that must have been locked inside for two thousand years and were eager to make an appearance. His fingers ran across the holes in the fife as though they were frequented by a musical phantom. The shop was empty except for the kind old man and his aged body was swaying in time to the music. But how could this be? Jason was not musically inclined, not that he knew of, and this music was as soft and sweet as the tones that came from the throat of Connie Tyson the soloist who sang each Sunday when he went to church with his parents.

When the last note exited from the fife Jason tried to pass it back to the kind old gentleman but he wouldn't accept it.

"That was the most beautiful music I have ever heard. It would be a sin to separate that fife from someone who can play it with such feeling. I can't take it back and sell it as new now anyhow, you've already used it, and I can't accept any money for it because you have already paid me for it with a song. I guess you'll just have to take it with you." Jason started to speak but once more the kind old man placed his finger to his lips. "T..t...ttha...thank." Jason still tried to force the words from his lips but knew conversation wasn't necessary when the old man rested his hand on Jason's shoulder and shook his head up and down.

Jason joined his mother in the store next door and when she had completed her shopping and paid for her purchases, they departed for home. During the return ride he placed the new toy to his lips and blew gently into it. His mother cocked her head so she could hear better the euphonic tones flowing from an uncomely piece of wood. At song's end she turned to look at him and wondered where he had learned to play so well. As far as she knew he didn't own an instrument, had never taken a lesson, and when she saw what he was playing hoped he hadn't paid too much for it. It was definitely a home made article that someone had carved from a tree limb, but the music was beautiful. To Jason it was the best looking, best sounding, musical tool he had ever seen in his life.

The following Tuesday night Jason's father was on the phone talking to the church pastor. The church deacon had fallen and broken a hip and the pastor was asking, almost begging, Mr. Keesler to assume the duties of the deacon. Without thought Jason walked by playing his fife and his father politely asked him to play somewhere else. He couldn't hear the preacher. Jason wasn't playing anything particular. He was just blowing into the fife and enjoying the sounds that liberated themselves from the ancient wood. He removed himself from the presence of his father and retiring to his bedroom, closed the door. He wasn't disturbed by his father asking him to leave. He knew what a distraction it could be when he was trying to talk to Jerry on the phone and his little sister disturbed them.

Jason had been in his room about fifteen minutes thoroughly enjoying his new found talent when his father walked in.

"What was that song you were playing when you walked past me downstairs?"

"I...re...re...really w...w...asn't pl...pl...play...ing a..a..song, Da...da..dad. I. ...was j...j...ju...st b..b..blow..ing in...into t...t..the fi...fi...fife and I wa...wa...wasn't p...p...pay...ing any at...at...tent...ion to...to wh...what I pa...pa...played."

"Reverend Weeks thought it was beautiful and wondered if you'd play for him in church some Sunday."

"I w--w---would if I c---c---ould, b---b---ut I do---dooo---don't e---ven re---re---mem---ber w---wh---at it w---was. I j---j---just b---b---blow in an---and the mu---mu---music c---c---comes out."

"See if you can play along with me," Mr. Keesler said as his tenor strains filled the room with words Jason had heard many times before in church.

"On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross," sang Mr. Keesler with all the enthusiasm and feelings of a soloist and Jason joined in as soon as the first word left his lips. To his own ears Mr. Keesler had never sounded better for every note was crisp and perfectly toned. High notes that sometimes bothered him or made his singing slightly flat were as easy to reach as low notes. In the middle of the song Jason's mother and sister came into his room and added their voices to the beautiful old hymn. When the song had been completely sung Jason's fingers kept up their movement and the others sang as he played, Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

"That was really beautiful," the singing trio agreed when they had finished the song.

"How did you learn to play so well?" his little sister asked.

"I do---do---don't know." Jason said forcing the words past his lips. "I---I---p---p---p picked up th---th---fife and it p---p---played."

"Please let me try it?" his sister begged. He handed the fife to her and she mimicked the way he had played, but not a single note came from the fife. She blew into the hole several times and finally got the piece of wood to expel an awful sounding noise.

"I don't know how you can get music from that thing," she said passing it back to him.

"Play something pretty for us," his mother said sitting down on his bed.

Jason put the fife in position and gently began to blow. Heavenly notes, sweet, soft, all pleasing to the ear, filled the room as three music lovers sat spellbound by tonicity they never knew existed. For an hour they sat and listened to the softly played notes or at times their bodies swayed to a tune they had never heard.

"That is absolutely the prettiest music I've ever heard," his mother said as she reached over and kissed her son on the forehead. "Tonight is when the choir practices at the church for next Sunday. Why don't you see if you can play with them?"

"Ifff---Ifff---you wa---wa---want me to."

"I'll call the pastor and tell him," his dad volunteered. "I've got to meet with him tonight anyhow. You can ride down with me if you want to." Jason shook his head in the affirmative.

Mr. Cashdollar was the leader of a musical jazz group that called them selves The Note Pluckers, a choir that answered to the name The Angelic Voices, and was also the music teacher at Nicetown High School. There wasn't an instrument made he couldn't strum, beat, or blow into without producing some kind of musical note. He was actually a big-time musical genius content to live and play in a small-time country town.

Connie was there practicing the solo she would be singing the following Sunday and was about half way through the hymn when the Keeslers walked in. Jason couldn't help himself. As soon as he heard the melodious notes rippling from her throat something compelled him to put the fife to his lips and blow softly into the opening in the instrument. The little piece of carved wood produced sounds that were angelic and enhanced each note that Connie voiced. The rest of the choir stood in silence as Jason and Connie played and sang together and the female vocalist knew she was being inspired by a small child.

When the hymn was finished, and without hesitation, she began to sing a song from Avita. The small childish fingers manipulated the hole in the fife and followed each note in perfect time to the words being sung. Connie had never sounded better in her life. She reached each note, high and low, and was amazed how easy it was for her to follow the sacrosanct notes being produced by the lad. When the last note faded away the church members stood in silence and Jason thought it was because they didn't like his music, but that was not the case. Most of the women in the choir had tears in their eyes and were frozen in place by the lad and his fife.

Mr. Cashdollar asked to see the wooden instrument Jason's was holding in his hand.

"May I try to play it?" He asked.

"P---p---please d---ddd---do," the lad slowly answered back. The choir leader placed the fife to his lips and blew into the hole. He fingered the scale a couple times and played a short tune he had written years ago. There was no comparison between the sounds he produced and those Jason had played.

"You are really gifted with this instrument," he said passing it back its owner, "and I can't figure out how you play it. Did you take music lessons?"

Jason shook his head no.

"What makes your music so unusual is the fact that you shouldn't be able to play it at all. The pitch of a fife is usually A-flat and this instrument, the way you play it, can be any pitch you want it to. I don't understand how you can do that."

Jason hunched his shoulders and turned his palms upright signaling he didn't know either.

The pastor asked Jason if he'd play in church next Sunday and the youngster said he'd be happy to.

The choir leader also asked Jason to become part of the high school band.

"I---I---I ca---can't." Jason stammered. "I---I'm o---o---only in th---th---th---third gra---gra---grade."

"I can easily handle that problem," Mr. Cashdollar answered, "and I'll see that you get credit for it on your report card. I'll even pick you up and drop you off when practice is over."

"I---I---do---do---don't n---n---need to pra---pra---practice." he said and seeing how he was struggling to answer questions his father spoke for him.

"He can't read music because he's never had a lesson in his life. I don't know where his musical gift comes from but he surely has one. Take him to practice one time and see if you think he'll fit in."

"The band will meet on the football field tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock. Can he be there?"

"I'll see to it he's there," a very proud father answered.

The following day Jason and his father were the first people to arrive at the football field. They were seated in the first row of the bleachers talking dad and son stuff for about twenty before anyone else arrived. Everyone was in casual dress as this was only a practice performance. A couple of the older students knew Jason and said "Hi" to him as they passed and he waved in recognition of their salutation. There were three flutist and three fife players in the band and not one of the half dozen had ever heard Jason play, or even knew he could. Mr. Cashdollar hurriedly got the band into their regular position and introduced them to their newest member, if he was capable of playing with them.

The first song they were to practice and march to was John Phillips Souza's Washington Post March written by him in 1889. It was a lively tune and the marcher's feet would be doing double time to keep in rhythm with the music. Mr. Cashdollar situated Jason with the other fifers and as the drum major's baton was raised and lowered the band moved and played as a single unit. As the first notes filled the stadium air the newest member of the band blew smoothly into his fife. The music emitted from the handmade instrument was pure in tone and soon every person in the aggregate was following the lead of their newest member. Every foot seemed to move a little faster, each step was a little higher, and each face smiled in acknowledgment of a master musician.

But into each life some rain must fall and metaphorically Jason was standing in the biggest cloudburst imaginable. His legs were too short and his lungs not highly developed enough to keep up with the others and play at the same time .

"I hadn't thought about him being able to keep up," Mr. Cashdollar admitted once Jacon returned to his father's side, "but I need him in the band. I've never heard anyone play like he does."

"Is there any way he can sit on the sideline and still be part of the band?" Jason's dad asked.

"I'm not sure but I guarantee I'll find a way to keep him with us." Turning to the rest of the band he asked, "How did you like his music?" The response was exactly what he had expected, a loud roar of approval.

"I'll find a way to use him."

During the time the band was on the field repeating their performance and trying hard to achieve perfection, the football team had donned their protective gear and was anxious to start their rigorous practice. Their upcoming battle this weekend was against West Sudberry High School and Nicetown High had only defeated them once, the year they started playing football, eighteen long years ago. The band practiced until it was time for their heroes to replace them on the field. Jason and his dad sat on the sideline to watch the football players get into shape for the up-coming game.

The first play was one they had repeated a thousand time. The quarterback threw the ball forward ten yards to Willie his favorite receiver.

Life, in her endeavor to be fair, usually endows each living soul with one special gift; only one. Willie was blessed with exceptionally good fast hands but his body had failed to inform his feet of the blessing and they moved with less than desirable speed. There was, however, a freshman named Lenny on the team who had feet as fleet as Mercury, but whose depth perception was so distorted he couldn't locate a ball unless someone placed it in his hands.

Willie caught the ball and started running and at that precise moment Jason had the urge to play. He put the fife to his lips and blew and the music landed on the ears of quick-handed, lead-footed Willie. The timing of the music was faster than his feet were accustomed to moving but somehow he knew he had to match the beat of each note. He lifted his feet and put them down so rapidly every player in pursuit was left following far behind. He was like a car, using gas, having someone inject ether directly into the carburetor. The run not only astounded the runner it also baffled all his teammates.

"Why haven't you run like that before?" coach Brazzle asked when Willie returned to the sideline after completing his run.

"I don't know, coach. I heard something inside my head that made my feet move faster."

The couch told the men to huddle and repeat the previous play. They did and if possible Willie was faster than before. The coach could hear Jason playing and listening to the tempo made him wonder if the music somehow had something to do with Willie's new-found speed.

"I really need him at the game," he said to himself.

One o'clock, on a glorious Saturday afternoon, Jason was there as part of the band. Mr. Cashdollar had located him on a special stool in the middle of the stadium and the little fife player played as the band marched around him. There wasn't a foot that wasn't energetically tapping or a body that wasn't rhythmically swaying when Jason played, until he played the National Anthem. In unison the people rose to a standing position and the stadium was as silent as a spider sitting near her web waiting for a meal to emerge, except for the harmonious tones that were being admitted from the fife. There wasn't a whisper of a breeze in the air until Jason sounded the last note and as it reverberated throughout the crowd the flag stiffened and held its position until the note faded.

Nicetown High was fortunate enough to win the toss and the team captain elected to receive the kickoff. To the last individual the followers of the Sudberry High School football team were on their feet when their kicker drove the ball flying through the air to the two yard line of their oft-beaten adversary. It was plucked from the air just prior to four of their team preparing to pounce on the receiver. Jason, now sitting on the sideline, had his fife to his mouth and began to play an enraptured tune. With the agility of ballet dancer the receiver avoided being tackled and with the speed of a hungry cheetah headed down field zigging and zagging his way through those trying to oppose him.

The Nicetown crowd was on its feet long before the runner crossed the goal line for a swifty ninety eight yard return. The field goal attempt was good and Nicetown players did something they hadn't done in many years. They led seven to nothing. It was time for the visiting team to receive the kickoff, which was not a good kick by any stretch of the imagination, and it ended up on Nicetown's own forty five yard line. Sudberry's speediest receiver caught the football and nestled it in the crook of his muscular arm. With the speed he was noted for was he was off for a sure touchdown, or rather what everyone expected to be a touchdown. Jason had the fife to his lips again and Lenny was in hot pursuit of runner and ball. Six yards from a touchdown the runner was positive he was not being pursued so with one hand he lifted the ball above his head as a victory signal. Lenny, only inches behind him, reached out and removed the ball from the somewhat startled runner's hand and reversing his direction was half way up field before the surprised opposing team realized what had happened. Most of the players from Sudberry High were certain they would score a touchdown and were either sitting on their bench or headed back in that direction. It was an easy task for Lenny to run over the goal and score for his team. The field goal attempt was perfect as the ball split the up-rights dead center and Nicetown led by a score of fourteen to nothing.

The Sudberry High football team was starting to fume. They had only been beaten once by this team (and that was so long ago none of the students playing now even remembered it) and were now experiencing one of the worst shellackings in their school's history. They were really suffering the agony of defeat.

There was a skinny gaunt Freshman attending Nicetown High who was six feet eleven inches tall, weighed a hundred and seventy pounds, and was naturally dubbed with the nickname Stretch.

The Nicetown kicker must have left his kicking ability locked up in his house somewhere for the ball he booted went higher in the air than it did forward toward the oppossing goal line. This was the opportunity the Sudberry team had been waiting for. A short, straight-up in the air, kick and a speedy run to the goal line would add a number to the scoreboard for them. But this just wasn't going to be their day. As the football tumbled earthward and the receiver lifted his arms preparing to grab the ball and hug it to his chest, Stretch reached up and caught the ball in one hand. He was not the speediest, nor the most graceful, member on the team but he had completely surprised his opponent. The home team rooters stood and cheered, some even laughed, as he frolicked down the sideline looking like a hungry giraffe hurrying for a meal of acacia leaves.

He placed the ball on the ground behind the goal posts and made a low bow as he acknowledged his first standing ovation. As before the ball was kicked and passed between the up rights making the score an astounding twenty one to nothing. The Nicetown rooters were going berserk. They screamed and yelled for the home team and they remain standing most of the game as their team added score after score to the board. The final score, fifty four to zip, was the highest numeral ever posted on Nicetown's scoreboard.

At game's end all those in attendance happily or unhappily, depending on which school they cheered for, started to evacuate the stadium. Everyone, that is, except Jason. Over half of the bodies were outside when he stood and blew into his fife with all the pressure his lungs could force through his lips. The noise was as shrill and disturbing as finger nails being scratched across a blackboard, only amplified ten thousand times. People covered their ears with their hands and separated themselves from the piercing, ear penetrating, noise as fast as their feet would carry them. And Jason's family was no exception. As the last person disappeared from the stadium a dark object appeared in the western sky traveling at a tremendous speed.

Jason lowered his fife and vacated his position just a couple minutes before an unseen disaster struck. A thirty year old satellite had fallen from its orbit and streaked directly to the spot where Jason had been previously sitting. It dug a hole in the ground twenty feet deep and exploded into millions of pieces of hot flying shrapnel. The impact was so great the stadium shook for a couple seconds and collapsed to the ground. Laying there like a downed giant and duplicating the walls of Jerico.

Jason had reached the tar path leading to the parking lot when he felt a tremendous blast at his back that lifted him into the air and blew him forward. The lifting wind came and left as swiftly as an arrow in flight and Jason gasped for breath when he slammed into the earth. He experienced mother nature's natural anesthetic and visited the world of darkness. Had he been unlucky enough to remain awake he would have suffered unendurable pain caused by the splintered fife sticking through his throat. When consciousness returned he knew someone was holding both of his hands, and that somehow made him feel secure, but try as he might he couldn't force his eyes open. His body was aware of many different unliked sensations. His eyes were sore, his breathing labored, his head felt bandaged, and his throat unusable. He could hear and understand the conversation going on in the room but it was highly muffled.

"Well it looks like he's back with us," he heard from a voice he couldn't recognize, and a "Thank God" from a voice he had heard all his life; his mother's.

He slipped his right hand free and with his thump and index fingers indicated he wanted to write something and was quickly furnished with a pencil and paper pad.

"Where is my fife?" he scribbled in words that were nearly unreadable.

"The fife is gone," his father answered. "It was the fife that hit you in the throat and nearly killed you. It was deeply embedded in your neck and partially shredded. The doctor had an awful time removing it."

"Get the pieces before they throw them away. I need them," he wrote.

"It's probably too late already," one of the nurses said. "I think they were put in the trash and dumped into the container outside. I'll try to find them but I don't believe I'll have any success." She hurried off to locate the shattered fife and returned in a trice with parts in hand.

"It was lucky I decided to check the operating room first. They were still sitting there waiting for someone to dispose of them," she happily said as she placed the fragments in the patient's hand.

"Why do you need the pieces of the fife?" his mother asked. She never received an answer as Jason squeezed the wooden shreds in his hands and peaceably drifted off.

Time drags, especially for a youngster accustomed having freedom of movement, but Jason was content to rest and tolerate his body's healing process. A week had passed when the doctor removed the bandages from his black and blue tender eyes but the gauze and cloth around his throat stayed intact. After a fifteen minute examination by the doctor to ascertain his patient's eyes were healed enough to tolerate light his family was allowed in the room. They played games with him that didn't require vocal comments, or told him about things going on in the neighborhood that they thought he might find interesting.

As it has been written of old, time heals all wounds and now it was time to remove the bandage from his throat. The doctor removed the gauze and checked the spot where the fife had penetrated the skin.

"This looks good," he said after his careful check. "Can you talk without it hurting?"

"I don't know." Jason very slowly answered.

"How does it sound?" the doctor asked the parents.

"Clear as a bell and I didn't notice any stutter," answered a rather surprised, and pleased, mother.

"Did he stutter before?" asked the curious surgeon.

"He was so bad, doctor, his words were hardly definable." "I'm glad he lost his stutter but I'm afraid I'll have to operate on him again in a few months. There was a very tiny, almost microscopic, sliver of wood in his throat that I missed. We just discovered it today on an Xray." "I'm afraid I can't let you have it, Doctor." Jason said as audibly as a voice teacher. "That little sliver is still serving a purpose, I think."

"And just what is it that you think it's doing for you?" "I could never play a fife until I got this one," he said pointing to the broken pieces on his bedside stand, "and I've never been able to sing because I couldn't carry a tune in a ten quart pail. Something was in my head telling me how to play the fife and that same thing is telling me I can sing."

"Did this thing in your head tell you why you can sing?" the skeptical physician asked.

"Somewhere I was told we have two pair of vocal cords, a false one, and below them a real one. When these cords vibrate they cause a sound formation and the stretching or shrinking of muscles gives us pitch tones. Somehow the angle decides if our voice will be high or low."

"That's wonderful, Jason, and it's correct," the doctor said. "While I was operating on you I was describing to a young intern what I was doing and how things worked. Subconsciously you must have heard me."

"Did you tell the intern that the fife lodged in my throat stretched the throat muscles and I can sing lower than almost anyone else?"

"No, and I doubt that you can." "Did you tell him I can sing an octave higher than anyone else and in fact can go so high only animals can hear me." This caused the doctor to laugh. "I wish it was so, Jason, but it isn't."

Jason opened his mouth slightly and produced a note so low it caused the water in the pitcher next to him to form ripples. Then he slowly sang through a range of notes that would make a bass, tenor and soprano proud to utter such sounds. Without warning he quickly blasted out the sound the fife had played when it cleared the stadium and held it for only a fraction of a second which was too long for those present.

"I can go much higher than that, Doctor, but I'm afraid I'd break your glasses."

"You've convinced me," the doctor smiled. "Your throat looks wonderful and if you want to you can go home tomorrow morning. I need to keep you here tonight just to be sure it doesn't become infected."

"Thank you, Doctor, for everything," Jason said knowing in his heart he'd be fine. "Mom, Dad, Sis, you should go home for awhile too. I feel a little tired and I'm going to sleep for awhile. There's no sense of you sitting here watching me nap." They knew the youngster was right so they each kissed him and headed for home.

"We'll be back later,"his mother said to him as she walked out the door. Jason just waved goodbye.

When the family arrived at six o'clock that evening Jason was not in his room. They asked the nurse at the desk if their son had been moved and they were told he was in the cafeteria. They headed in that direction and they could hear him long before they could see him. When they entered the area about half the hospital staff and nearly as many hospital patients were listening to him sing. The notes that escaped from his throat were heavenly and in their own way therapeutic. Those sick people that listened to him were oblivious to their pain while they swayed to, or just listened to, the joyous, young, voice.

Jason finished the song he was singing and turned to his younger sister. The song she liked the most but couldn't master with her tiny voice was the National Anthem so Jason sang it just for her. Goose bumps rose on every arm and when he finished his sister ran to him and hugged him as tightly as she could. Tears ran down her cheeks.

"That was wonderful, Jason, and even prettier because you sang it just for me. Do you think you can still play the fife?"

"I doubt it, Sis. The fife has already served its purpose four times and it still has one last thing to do."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first it gave pleasure to everyone that heard it. Second, it gave a warning signal that saved a lot of lives. Third, it stopped my stutters and forth it gave me a pretty voice."

"What will the fifth thing be?"

"Right now I don't have the slightest idea, but I think I'll know when the time comes."