The Little Drummer Boy’s Gift

Billy didn’t look up when his burly older brother, Thomas, barged into their shared room. Though deaf and dumb since birth, Billy could sense the presence of others. It was one of his secrets.

“Working on your drum again, I see! You know, this may be the dumbest idea you’ve had,” Thomas signed to Billy while shouting, “second only to the idea that wisemen tipped you off that a King was going to be born in a manger in Bethlehem. Mom and Dad think you’re nuts too. Hearing voices is a fantasy of yours.”

Thomas’ sign language was sloppy, but Billy got the message. He wished he hadn’t revealed the Magi dream to his parents, but it was too late now.

 “They’re tricksters,” his brother continued, “if they even existed you couldn’t hear them. After all, you’re deaf and dumb.”

 Billy knew what he could and couldn’t hear, and what he chose not to see.

Thomas’s taunting hurt, and though only six years old he’d adapted to the ridiculing of his jealous siblings, their stinging slights often brought tears to his eyes. He continued to stretch the goatskin across the wooden shell of his drum.

Known in the neighborhood as “The Little Drummer Boy,” Billy had a gift, a talent for playing the drums, creating music that astounded and befuddled listeners. He played notes and tunes that only he could hear, ones that the Magi had heard as well, and therefore summoned him to follow their lead.

Neither his parents, nor his bother or sisters, knew of his plan to sneak out before dawn and follow the Magi’s summons, a commitment to the six-mile walk from Jerusalem to the site of the inn and manger in Bethlehem where he’d play for the newborn baby and his parents.

Dinner at dusk consisted of bread and olive oil, a few grapes for each, and a small piece of fish divided equally among them. Whatever fish Billy’s father caught were sold at market, but on occasion he’d surprise them and bring home small tilapia to roast and serve with their staples.

Billy went to bed satisfied and full of excitement for the day and night that lay ahead. He barely slept and eventually stopped trying, slipped on his small robe, leather belt, sandals, and after hoisting his drum onto his back and tucking the drumsticks into a fold in his robe, he tiptoed from the hut.

Certain that the music would be revealed to him, a mystery he embraced, he began his journey to Bethlehem. The sun rose and with it came the stifling heat. Sweat poured from his brow and blurred his vision, but he never lost sight of his commitment. At one point, while a flock of gulls flew overhead, he stopped under a fig tree, picked a few low-lying figs and listened as a woodpecker pecked at a sycamore tree just off the path.

The simple pulsating beats began to create a melodic string of notes in his soul, a composition that brought a smile to his face and prompted him to start skipping along in unison. His lips moved, and though he couldn’t hear himself moan and sing to what his soul was composing, he could feel the rhythm reverberating in his head, exciting his lips and tongue to join his legs in an impromptu dance and chorus. He began moving his arms to the beat that only he could hear—a dress rehearsal without sound but one filled with joy and celebration.

There were hills to climb, vast stretches of desolate landscape to traverse, but Billy kept moving, swaying and listening to the musical notes as they filled his time on the road. Other pilgrims, all heading in the opposite direction, waved as they passed, and some moved to the edge of the path, at first not knowing what to make of the strange little boy’s dancing and singing. The little drummer boy was oblivious to their wariness, nor did he notice that the passersby soon stopped, transfixed by his jubilant behavior.

That must be it, he thought as a lone star shone brightly above the thatched roof of a large hut. And off to its side, surrounded by a few cattle and sheep, a lamb and three saddled camels, stood a small open structure. A lone candle cast a shimmering light on the inside of the cramped structure. He squinted and could see a girl cradling a baby with a man standing beside them.                            

He paused in the shadow of the large building. Am I enough? He thought.

There were times, too many he knew, when he resented how Thomas loved the sound of his own words. But now, as he approached the dimly lit, hay-strewn hut and its occupants, he envied his brother’s ability to hear his own voice.

The words of the Magi returned to him—Come, a newborn king to see, our finest gifts we bring, to lay before the king, so to honor him—and then he added his own: “Little baby, I am a poor boy too, I have no gift to bring that’s fit to give our king. So, shall I play for you?”

He took a deep breath, and while repeating the words in his mind, moved out of the shadows into the dim light. He swung the drum around to his belly, adjusted it and the leather strap to which it was attached, and then with a drumstick in each hand began drumming his gift to the King.

Pa rum pum pum pum

Pa rum pum pum pum

Pum pum pum pum

Pum pum pum pum

Rum pum pum pum

Rum pum pum pum

The sheep, lamb, and oxen began raising and lowering their front legs, keeping time with the music. Three well-dressed men stood next to three seated camels—the Magi, he knew—and all watched as he approached them.  

Billy thought about closing his eyes, both embarrassed and hoping to hear the notes with greater intensity, but then the girl held up her hand and nodded to him. Mary, he thought and wondered how he knew her name.

Pa rum pum pum pum

Rum-pah pum pum

The infant King’s eyes opened wide, and with tiny arms outstretched in Billy’s direction, he smiled at him. Billy poured himself into the music, and as their eyes met, tears of joy began streaming down his little drummer boy’s cheeks. The King had come.

*lyrics courtesy of Katherine Kennicott Davis

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