The Talent of the Howl (by Katherine Catmull)
Sing us a song, Grandma.
Don’t want to. Don’t make me.
Then tell us a story, then.
A story, yeah!
We’d love one, Grandma.
Don’t want to tell a story. Don’t make me.
Do one. You have to do one. A story or a song.
Story or song! Story or song!
Please!
I’ll tell a story, then. I’ll tell an awful, horrid story, which is what you children deserve.
Hurray!
Long ago, long time ago, when I was young —
That was before the MOON, probably.
—when I was young, there was a girl. A girl who loved to sing. She could sing indeed, she was a good singer—not an opera singer, not that kind of voice. Her voice was simple as water, and that sweet.
But when she sang a sad song—ah, then. That girl had the talent of the sad song. When she sang a sad one, her voice pulsed with the blood of her aching heart. Her breath moved like the ocean moves, from somewhere far beneath.
And when she sang like that, then the people stood around her, mouths open, eyes full, and when she was finished, they said, “Sing again.” That girl had the talent of the howl.
A howl! Hahahaha! That means she had a BAD voice!
No, child. A song is a howl, like a dog’s howl, you know.
No it isn’t.
Isn’t either!
Is that right? Then how come when you sing near a dog, he’ll soon begin to howl along with you—at least, if the dog looks up to you, he will. I don’t know how your dog feels about you. A song done right is your whole body howling, like a dog’s body howls and howls. That’s true for anyone, and any song.
But if you’re a true singer, as this girl was—and if you find a song with just the right sadness to it, one that harmonizes with your own sad heart—and if you sing it right, if you sing it true . . . . well, then, as this girl discovered, something remarkable happens. You close your eyes, singing, and the song wraps around you, invisible as glass. The song becomes a container, like a bottle or a boat. And then that bottle-boat bobs along the ocean of time, with you safe inside it.
When you do it right, your howl becomes a glass ship, that carries your worried mind away, far out to sea. 
And it’s such a relief, to leave this hot, bright, noisy place, and find yourself bobbing on the silent-cold and moonlit water. It’s such a relief to be carried away, unable to pause, unable to think, only letting your heart pour from your mouth, and wrap about you, and carry you away.
Oh children: to be alone and silent inside your own heart’s song, bobbing on the waves—it’s a great relief. A great relief. Greater than I can ever say.
. . . .
Grandma?
Is that the end of the story?
It wasn’t very horrible, really.
Sorry. Lost myself a moment.
It’s a relief, as I say, to be carried across the sea by your song.
But it’s dangerous, too.
Because—as this girl discovered—one day, your song may wash you up somewhere . . . somewhere new. Somewhere else.
This girl had a song, a favorite sad song. And one day, as she sang it, and closed her eyes, the song swept her out to the cold sea, as usual. She lay back, singing, and watched the million stars and the only moon, hiding and playing behind bits of cloud.
But then the bobbing stopped, though she was still singing. And she found that she was on a moonlit shore, lit silvery gray, a shore held delicate as a wafer between the jaws of the night-ocean and the enormous black sky.
And on that shore was silence, but for the crunch of her shoe on the gray pebbles, but for the wash of the waves, which is a kind of silence. Absolute silence, and silver-cool beauty. And she never wanted to leave.
But, of course, the song came to an end. And when she opened her eyes, she saw them all standing around, staring at her, saying, “Sing it again.”
Ah, that poor girl. Like the Pied Piper in reverse. Think of that poor piper, the next time you hear his story, and feel for him! Think how dreadful it must be, to be followed everywhere you go by rats and children.
Grandma, what was the song? Her special song, her favorite sad one?
Oh now. It’s an old song, that. You’ve heard me humming it in bits now and then, no doubt. I never try to properly sing it, anymore. I can’t sing it the way that girl did.
Is it that one that goes ‘O come the wild dead leaves’? I know that one.
That is the one. Clever girl, Lacy, that is the one indeed.
At any rate. For one whole year the girl would close her eyes and sing, and return again and again to her island. The song made a glass ship, and her breath was the wind in its invisible sails.
What was it like, on the island.
It is hard—it was hard—for the girl to describe. Because when you’re on the island, you see a thing, but you forget its name. You forget whether it’s of any use to you, and whether it’s a good thing or a bad. You only see it, you only see what it is. All the noise of words and saying and choosing and judging is left behind you. You only see the great beauty of the stone, the shell, the sea-grass, the star. The great beauty of the moonlight scattered and trembling on the water. And no words, no words. All the words gone quiet.
That sounds stupid!
So totally boring!
I think it sounds wonderful.
Dumbface Lacy.
Ya dope.
Then what happened, Grandma?
And then . . . And then, after a while, she lost the knack of leaving, when she sang. She couldn’t make her bottle-song-boat, anymore. And the people went away, and didn’t say, “Sing again.”
Why did she lose the knack?
Oh, well. I’m not sure. She just got out of the habit, I suppose. Because one of the pied piper rats, you know, —they weren’t really rats, of course, I mean one of the staring faces when her eyes opened—well: it was a kind face, and a handsome one, with long dark brows over smiling green eyes. And he persuaded her to give up the glass boat, and the island, and to give this hot, crowded, noisy life a try.
And it was worth it. Or for a while, at least, she found it was.
But she never saw her island again.
But Gran. It’s so sad. She really never got back to the island?
Lacy! Stupid!The song didn’t really take her to an island. She just went in her mind, Grandma means.
Is that what I mean? Thanks for telling me. Shoo the lot of you now, I don’t have all day to stand telling ancient stories. Children and their “sing me a song,” as if to sing a song wasn’t to . . . Lacy. Girl. Did you hear me say shoo? Why are you still here?
Girl?
Speak up. Words.
Grandma. Teach me that song. Please.
What . . . What song do you mean, you silly child?
I know the girl was you. Teach me that song, ‘O come the wild dead leaves,’ that song that makes a boat or a bottle. The song that carries you across the sea..
But why? Why would you want to learn such a sad song?
Because I’m no good here. You know I’m no good here.
Oh, Lacy.
I’m not. I’m not meant to be in this place, it’s too loud and bright, it’s not my place. I can’t bear it here, Grandma, I want to go the island with you. And I think I might have the talent, too, the talent of the howl.
But girl, even if we could. Even if we could go, what about the pied piper of it? You forget the coming back, and the people saying sing it again, sing another? There’s always the coming back.
Maybe this time we could stay, Grandma. If we sang it together. If we made a harmony. Maybe that would make the ship strong enough to stay on the island, far from the hot and the noise. Only cool and gray and moonlight.
Child.
There’s no green-eyed boy for either of us, to keep us here. I’m too young, and Grandpa died a long time ago.
Child, oh child.
Come on, Grandma, sing, too. Just sing it with me—probably nothing will happen. I’ve heard you singing. I’ve been practicing, only I don’t know all the words. Listen: ‘O come the wild dead leaves of fall/O come the coldest rain. . . .’ Then what?
‘For summer lies as dead as he/And he’ll not rise again.’ O girl, you take me back, and you make me think of . . . but we mustn’t . . .
‘O come the wild wet winter snow/O come the prickling ice. . . .’
‘For love’s laid deep beneath the ground/And that was summer’s price.’
Now we sing together. Eyes closed, Grandma, and hold my hands. ‘O come the yellow buds of spring,/O come the melting snow. . . .’
‘But come for someone else than me/For now’s my hour to go.’
‘But come for someone else than me/For now’s my hour to go.’
‘But come for someone else than me/For now’s my hour to go. . . .’
Grandma! LACY. Dinner!
It’s DINNER you guys. MOM SAID COME!
Weird, they were here like one second ago, I could hear them singing some stupid–Oh! Jeez, here you are. You scared me! Didn’t you . . .
What? Are they . . . Wait. What are they—
They’re pretending. Come on you guys. It’s obvious you’re pretending.
You’re not scaring us.
You can’t fool us, we know you’re just playing. Come on, or I’ll POKE you—
Yeah! We get fair shot to poke you, if you’re supposedly . . .
Holy . . .
But . . . something’s really wrong. Something’s really, really . . . what’s happening? What’s wrong with them, what’s—
Go get Mom. Go get her NOW.