Gibush Training and Bagpipe Girl
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| The Gift, by Drew Doron Noll, All rights reserved © |
The sound of wailing broke the silence one evening, as I sat
on the deck watching the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea. It emanated from
the nature reserve nearby, but wasn’t the typical howling from jackals that we
had all become used to. It was a sound as distinctive as bagpipes from
Scotland; and … as a matter of fact, it was exactly that, but it was coming
from the darkening woods of Baron Rothschild’s burial plot, Ramat Hanadiv. The
sounds carried over the crisp air in a ghostly manner, as if they didn’t exist
on the same plain that I sat within. It was exciting and spooky at the same
time. I thought, then, of making it a painting, or of writing about it, or even
hiking into the woods to follow the sounds over the hills and through the
trees. Someone was out there, wondering perpendicular to the trails, playing with
the Universe. The sounds faded, eventually, but would return occasionally as
the seasons changed and the green began to sprout. Other times the sounds would
erupt unseasonably, and the rumors began to ruminate throughout our sleepy
neighborhood enclave. It was a girl, I heard, she was tall and blond, she was
playing bagpipes, she was an apparition … I heard. I spoke of it too, to my
children and friends, and to others. I passed on the stories I’d heard, and I
passed on my own experiences listening to the wail wondering across the setting
sunlit shrubs in the nature reserve.
My son had graduated from high school and was now training
hard to get into the IDF. He would disappear into the nature reserve and run,
do pushups, find a tree to do pull-ups on, and walk through the bushes carrying
a log over his head, challenging his mental and physical abilities as far as he
could push them. I told my son about Bagpipe Girl, like I’d told others, so I
wasn’t surprised to find out that he’d also heard of her … and heard her
playing in the woods, as well. Bagpipe Girl was becoming famous throughout our
neck of the woods. Someone said she was from Benyamina, a town nearby; another
said she was from Zikhron and that she played bagpipes professionally. I
pictured a parade, then, meandering down the Midrakhov, our local walking
street that overtook the founder’s road in the middle of our town. Bagpipe girl
was the leader in my vision, parting the crowds of tourists as the parade
progressed down the cobblestone paved hill, followed by high school marching
bands and stilt-walkers, as if the Purim circus had come to town.
Bagpipe Girl also entered my son’s repertoire of stories. He
told me once of his encounter with Bagpipe Girl. He had a perplexed look on his
face when he told the story, like he wasn’t sure it was the same bagpipe player
that ‘he’d’ heard stories about. When he told the story it was a matter-of-fact
kind of process, with my son explaining how he just decided to walk towards the wailing
foreign sounds he’d heard emanating from across the nature reserve. Then he
began to express frustration as he relayed how he topped the hill in front of
him, all the while carrying the log over his head, and then realized that Bagpipe
girl was still beyond the next hill’s horizon. So he continued on, the sounds
consuming the mist around him, towards the eerie music emanated from somewhere off
in the distance. He climbed up the next hill, watching the trees round over as
the horizon flattened them all into visually rolling plains. Then he looked
down into the next forest depression, the valley below. Bagpipe Girl was still beyond
sight and understanding … it had to be
the next valley over … he must have thought, so my son trudged on, and with log
overhead he put his back into solving the mystery once and for all.
I know the woods throughout the nature reserve intimately,
having walked off-trail for years now, attempting to discover dens of jackals, hyenas,
and moles. I’ve seen gazelle grazing and galloping, and I’ve seen families of
wild boars trotting into the underbrush away from foreign interlopers. A
variety of ants, scorpions, and dung beetles are always underfoot in the nature
reserve, with birds of prey, their predators, circling above. The central
gardens, where Baron Rothschild and his wife are buried in a cave, I’ve only had
the opportunity to visit once or twice, but I know every section of the garden’s
exterior wall, lined with shrubbery and electric fencing to keep out the ‘wild’
animals. There are bush trails made by wild boars foraging for grubs, then entrenched
by visiting cows from a nearby ranch to reduce foreign vegetation and weeds in
the reserve. I have spent time maintaining these pseudo trails, moving wayward
stones and clipping encroaching branches, so have a good idea of exactly where
my son and Bagpipe Girl met that day.
Like wondering planets hovering with atmospheres bouncing
and circulating, my son topped a hilltop bristling with trees … then the vista
before him opened wide—a wide expanse between trees from horizon to horizon. The
clearing unveiled itself, spotted with stones, lonely shrubs, and rotting
branches, only to feature Bagpipe Girl placed in its center. She was wholly
alone, and entirely happy. Surprised, she lowered her instrument from her lips
and stared. My son did the same. He had anticipated Bagpipe Girl; so … with an escalated
heartbeat, and an endorphin/adrenaline flooded bloodstream, my son’s
jaw dropped, as did the log over his head. They stared at each other and a
knowing smile crept upon their shared face. My son learned that Bagpipe Girl
had brown hair and was of a normal height. I know this because I, much later, also
witnessed her stepping from between the bushes with her instrument toted aside.
We, too, had a smile, but I sense that it was a different sort of smile. The
face that my son shared with Bagpipe Girl was unified into a collective grin.
Atmospheres had collided and a knowing wonder had been set free. The moment was
momentary … then my son turned, as did Bagpipe Girl, and they both disappeared,
once again, into the shade of the forest.
My artwork is currently showing in the group exhibition: Tehudat Zehut - Resonance of Identity, organized by Ramat Hanadiv, that explores spatial identity and regional sustainability. Please come and visit the various exhibition sites around the region!
