It was almost four o'clock, and people were streaming into Willowcreek Parish Church. For the last several months, the daily Evensong had become much better attended than any of the boring services said by Father Joseph, the priest who was in charge of the spiritual well-being of the Willowcreekers. And there was good reason for this! While the very small Church Choir of just seven boys and four men wasn't spectacular compared to what larger cities could offer, it had one asset whose fame was already seeping far out of the parish boundaries, turning the little town into something between a tourist attraction and a pilgrimage destination. This asset was known by the simple name of Tommy. Blessed by a musicality that surprised his parents, since there hadn't been much talent of that type in their family for generations, he had been brought to the church at the tender age of seven to try out for the choir, on occasion on which he had surprised Father Andrew, the choir director, by singing an air from Handel's newest oratorio with his little voice, perfectly on pitch and with beautiful expression. This piece was all the rage in London at the moment. When the baffled director had then asked him if he also could sing something completely different, he had smiled mischievously, and let loose on a tavern song so dirty that both of his parents blushed deep red, while Father Andrew got such a laugh attack that he had trouble telling dead-serious little Tommy to stop that!

Tommy had been made a choir member on the spot, on the condition that he would not sing that kind of ditties in Church, but not even his talent could gain him a fast way around the traditional pecking order in the choir. He had to work up his way like anyone else, which gave him time to mature and refine his skills. He also learned where and when it was proper to sing those tavern songs. But after several years he had grown up to that delightful age when boys already have developed much of the logical thinking and capacity for abstract analysis of an adult, but are otherwise still very childlike and innocent looking. His voice had left behind the feeble sound of a small child and instead taken on that sort of bell-clear, intensely beautiful timbre that typically characterizes the voices of boys who won’t own that voice much longer, and his keen ability to make the most effective use of that voice had not only turned him into the all-time star soloists of his little choir, but also attracted people from many places, even from much larger cities, who often came to hear him sing.

Evensong was a very good opportunity for this. Although it rarely lasted for longer than fifteen minutes, it was a rather informal event in which the choir tried out new pieces, not always everything went perfect, and one could hear them at their best and also at their funniest musical crashes, unlike at Masses, weddings or funerals, at which the choir had just an auxiliary function, singing well rehearsed pieces interspersed with far too much boring preaching by Father Joseph. Since word had gotten around that Tommy was now doing solos almost every day in Evensong, so many people were attending that the little church was getting definitely too small.

Tommy, not being stupid at all, of course noticed that he had a significant following, and with the chivalry that characterized him, he put up with the fact that most of this following was composed of elderly ladies. What he did not like, was when he fell into the hands of groups of these ladies, who then inevitably patted his head, treated him like a cute little baby, left him wet and dripping with all those kisses, and smelling of ladies’ perfume. On the other hand, he loved it when sometimes someone simply shook his hand and congratulated him about a particularly good performance, especially if he noticed that person being knowledgeable in matters musical.

The church clock’s larger pointer reached the vertical position, the bells raised their voices all over the town, and that was the cue for the choir members to take their positions and start their little daily concert. They sang a psalm to warm up, and the rest of Evensong was taken up by a brief cantata on a bible phrase about peace, set for treble solo and small choir, composed by Father Andrew with obvious regard for his little star’s exact abilities and range. Hardly an eye could stay dry in the whole church, while Tommy’s shining voice flew through the vaulted naves, pursued but never quite reached by those of his companions, and many a listener was forced to wonder why those tears kept flowing, despite the jubilant beauty of this music. It’s one of the big mysteries of the human soul.

Tommy himself, of course, kept his eyes dry and his throat clear. He was way too much of a professional to give himself up to overflowing and dripping emotions. But in his very own way, he deeply enjoyed these moments of magic, when his voice and those of his friends hypnotized the four o-clock crowd, and he often felt this funny and almost a little bit scary tingle running down his back, when he noticed that once again he had done it, he had the crowd in his hands to do like he wished. It was a feeling of power he deeply enjoyed, but never abused.

Evensong was the last activity in his formal daily routine, after school and choir practice.

When he walked home after that, which took the better part of an hour, he usually heard the music in his head, or else he kept singing it, sometimes softly, just for himself, at other times loudly, for all the birds in the trees along the road that led to his parent’s farm. The narrow road went from Willowcreek into the surrounding countryside, serving about three dozen farms until disappearing in a big mud hole. Officially the road went on, right to the next town, but the big mud hole effectively cut it in two. He sometimes walked the whole stretch of it, or rode on Hannibal, their horse, but his parent’s farm was about half way between the town and the big mud hole, so he didn’t go all the way very often.

Back at home, he did what farm boys typically do: Help milk the cows, when he arrived early enough, clean out the pigs’ boxes, many other things. His parents, his older brother Martin, and Old Bill, the only hired hand on the farm, did most of the work, of course, but on a farm there is always enough to do for anyone who is willing and able to help. And then Tommy still often had some homework to do for the school. His life was pretty filled out, and he loved most of it. Of course there were also dark sides to it, like Mr. Infinity. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but the boys called him so, among themselves. He was the math teacher at school, and the boys had christened him that way when one day he replied to one boys question, what infinity really is, that this was a concept too elevated for stupid little boys to grasp. Some sort of a teacher! It was water clear to the boys that he simply didn’t understand it himself well enough to explain it, and so they came up with their own explanations. “Something that is always more than anything else”, was Tommy’s proposal. His best buddy John preferred “Infinity is everything, and then some.” Several other proposals were made, and the boys never settled on just one. But they did agree about calling the teacher “Mr. Infinity”.

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In the building behind the church, where the clergy in charge lived and also had their offices, an interesting and unusual but terrible conversation took place not long after the day of the aforementioned evensong. It started with the church choir director respectfully knocking at Father Joseph’s office door, and entering after being invited to do so. “Brother Joseph, you called for me”? he asked. “Yes, Brother Andrew. Please sit down, and make yourself comfortable.”

Father Joseph ordered tea, which the attending nun was quick to bring, along with some cookies so delicate they could only have been made by nun hands. She then left the two priests alone. For quite a while, the polite conversation revolved around the weather, while the choir director wondered why he had been summoned here. After the weather theme was thoroughly exhausted, and a long while of silence, finally Father Joseph started coming to the point. “Brother, I want to talk to you about that boy Thomas Southdale.” Brother Andrew’s face lit up. “He’s marvelous, isn’t he, Brother?” “Yes, he is! Actually I find myself sinning sometimes, in thought only, of course, getting jealous of him. Brother, have you noticed? When I say Mass, a hundred people come, at most, and with some luck thirty are listening. But when that boy sings, the church is packed, and I assure you, Brother, even the pigeons listen to him! This boy can reach the hearts of even the most wicked sinners! While I, despite all prayer and study, find myself preaching right through them, in one ear, out through the other, making scarcely any effect.”

There was a while of silence, and then father Andrew offered, with a smile: “Brother, there is a possible solution to this: SING, instead of saying your sermon!” After a moment of surprise, Father Joseph chose to laugh, and his colleague joined. The former’s laughter was a bit forced, the latter’s was freer.

“It’s not that, Brother Andrew. With the grace of God, I’m humble enough to accept my place. But I think that this boy’s ability to draw people into our little church needs to be preserved.”

The choir director raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, Brother Joseph? Your words sound mysterious to me!”

“It’s very simple”, the older priest came back. “And you know it very well. Your choirboys take several years to learn the trade, then they have a brief prime time, and then nature claims their beautiful voices and renders them utterly useless and totally insufferable for the next several years. But in Italy it has become usual practice to help deserving choirboys keep their beautiful voices for a long time, for the glory of God and the Church, and for the joy of the people. You certainly know what I mean.” And before the overwhelmed choir director could even start to search for a reply, his superior continued: “And despite this action not being well established in our great country, I would very much like to have Thomas Southdale get the simple medical treatment he needs to avoid the loss of his sublime voice. Please find a way to achieve this, without drawing suspicion onto the Church – and before it’s too late!”

Completely stricken, Father Andrew stammered: “But Brother, how can you be sure that it’s nature that claims the voice of boys? Isn’t it God himself? It is written that God giveth, and God taketh away! The glorious voice some boys show is a gift from our Lord, and He takes it away when He sees fit! How could we dare interfere with His actions?”

“Calm down, dear brother”, Father Joseph said. “God wouldn’t destroy the very tool He created so shortly ago to spread His word! Rest assured it must be nature, and that it’s against His wish. Don’t forget we are His tools on earth! When Nature goes against His wish, it’s our duty to act! Do whatever arrangements are necessary to get that boy to the surgeon. Make it as safe, clean, and pain free as possible for him. And above all: Don’t let any suspicion fall on the Church!”

“But Brother Joseph, you cant…”

“DISMISSED!”

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The beautiful warm weather on Sunday afternoon proved to be an irresistible magnet drawing Tommy and Martin to their swimming hole. They had created it themselves, by damming up a small trickle of water that started at a spring on one of the fields of the farm. The hole was just large enough to allow swimming a few strokes before touching ground again, but it was great for cooling off, because the water was so icy cold that dipping into it proved exhilarating. Years ago, when they had just built it, they competed about who could get faster into the cold water, and who could stay in longer. Martin usually was a bit slower to get in, but his larger body mass allowed him to stay in longer without getting too blue and stiff from the cold. Little wiry Tommy instead usually jumped in headfirst, but had to give up the endurance test before his older brother. This remained until Martin got into puberty, which made him very self conscious, and worried that if his newly important balls retracted too far from the cold, they might no longer pop out again. So Tommy, free of such worries for the time being, started winning the endurance tests too!

But this Sunday made Martin wonder about the future of his little brother. It had been months, almost a year, since they had skinny-dipped for the last time, and Martin couldn’t help noticing that lil’Tommy wasn’t so little anymore. When they undressed and Martin risked his first peeks, he saw that Tommy already had to contend with very visible balls, even if he was still whitish and hairless around there, like a two year old calf. What that meant for his singing career, was clear enough to Martin. He wondered if Tommy had ever thought about such matters, but was too shy to ask him. What would happen when Tommy’s voice broke? Other choirboys played an instrument, and turned fully to this aspect of music making. But Tommy didn’t. His voice was his all. Without his voice, he would be nothing, musically speaking. And music meant a lot to Tommy, there could be no doubt about this.

Anyway, for now life was good, and the two boys frolicked in the icy water until they were shivering like autumn leaves in brisk wind. Then they started racing around the swimming hole to get warm, and again Martin couldn’t help noticing that despite the cold, his little brother’s balls had not drawn fully out of sight, like they used to do until not so long ago. Definitely Tommy was starting to come of age, even if he didn’t show it at all when he was dressed.

Very early next morning, Martin got up to help Old Bill milk the cows. Tommy was sleeping soundly, but not for long, because mom would soon enough throw him out of bed and put him on his way to school! Martin had grown up trusting Old Bill more than even his dad, and so he felt he could talk to the old man freely, without the boundaries that usually limit father-son talks. While Old Bill was on his third cow, and Martin had started his second, he found the courage to start, and time was pressing: They had only three more cows to go! “Bill..?” “Yes, boy?” Martin’s heart was pounding hard. “Do you know about those Italian singers that have high voices even when they grow up?”

“Not that I would ever have heard one sing, Martin, but yes, I know that they exist. And also how they do it. It’s not hard at all!” He winked an eye.

Martin wasn’t very sure whether to continue. But then his curiosity was stronger. “Is it true that they get their balls cut off when young? How is that done?”

Old Bill laughed heartily. “Of course that’s how they do it. And it’s done just like with piglets. I do it quite often, right over there, you know! You should talk your dad into letting you help me. You are old enough already.”

A stiff feeling in Martin’s pants confirmed that. Bill was moving in his fourth cow, Martin had also long finished his second, but was gaining time. Then he decided to go for the full move. “Bill, the matter is this: Tommy is growing up fast. I’m sure his voice will break very soon. And you know how good his voice is, how much everybody likes him for his voice. It will be a terrible blow for him when it breaks. So I was thinking, is there any way to get him…” He hesitated, trying to decide between “modified”, “altered”, “improved”, all the words he had seen used in this context. But Old Bill cut his decision short. “Castrated?”, he asked in mild voice. “Yes”, said Martin, a bit helplessly.

Old Bill kept silent for almost half a cow’s time, or so it seemed to Martin. Then he spoke: “Martin, if we were living in Italy, I suppose Tommy would have been castrated years ago, and now he would live in one of those crazy boarding schools the Italians set up just for castrated boys. But here in England, if you so much as mention the idea outside this barn, it’s likely that you will get imprisoned, if not worse. You know better than I do, that every evening London’s theaters are full with people who go there just to see and hear one of those Italian oxen, but at the same time these people cannot get into their thick heads the idea of castrating some of their own boys for the sake of their musical pleasure! No, Martin, forget about turning little Tommy into one of those monsters. We aren’t in the right place to have that happening.”

And after a while he added, very quietly: “Even if perhaps that would be the best for him. He would become a formidable singer!”

Martin milked his last cow in silence, thinking about the future of his little songbird brother. It was hard to admit for him, even toward himself, but he cared a whole lot for Tommy and his singing. He could very well picture an adult Tommy in his mind, singing for the King in London, with his fabulous voice. On the other hand, he had much trouble picturing his always cheerful little brother squirming under a surgeon’s knife.

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Evensong in Willowcreek continued to be a well-attended event. Actually it was turning into a social gathering. People came parading their best horses and carriages, dressed up like for real concerts, and made small talk before and after the music. It wasn’t rare to see people who traveled all the way from London, to hear that famed boy, who was increasingly showing up in London newspapers. So it was no surprise to Father Andrew when a very well dressed gentleman contacted him one day, asking for an opportunity to speak to Tommy on business matters. Tommy was warming the school bench at that moment, so Father Andrew invited the man to attend evensong that afternoon, and meet Tommy after that.

When Tommy heard that someone had come all the way from London to speak to him, he was mightily turned up. But he didn’t really understand what could be the reason for father Andrew to tell him: “Tommy, I think this gentleman is very important, and I beg you to be courteous at all times and accept the deal he might offer you, specially if it involves your moving to London! You are too good for Willowcreek, and believe me, if you stay here, you soon won’t be very happy at all.” It was this last thing that bugged Tommy. Why should unhappiness befall him if he stayed in Willowcreek? He had his family here, lots of friends, the school, and not least the choir! With mixed feelings about that upcoming meeting he entered the church at four o’clock, but the view of the packed room reminded him that for the moment he had work to do! Father Andrew had selected three pieces for this Evensong that really gave Tommy all the chance he could want to thrill the audience, and he did!

After Evensong was over, Father Andrew led him to a room in the building behind the church, where the gentleman from London was already waiting for him. Without saying much, the priest left the two alone, and closed the door.

Tommy didn’t get much time to worry about what to say. The man smiled, came to him, grabbed his hand, shook it effusively, and said “Tommy, I have to congratulate you on your singing. I must say you are even better than what people in London are telling!” Then he introduced himself as Arthur Appletree, which instantly made Tommy forget Father Andrew’s advice, and chuckle. After a moment, he shut up, realizing that he had messed up right at the start! But when then the man with that funny name laughed, Tommy started again, they laughed together, and that definitely broke the ice. “Many people laugh when they hear my name”, the gentleman said, “and those who don’t are nothing but sour apples!” Tommy had to laugh again.

“Tommy, have you ever heard about a certain George Frederic Handel?” When Tommy confirmed and started listing all the music by Handel he knew, the man surprised him again by saying: “I work for him.” Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “Are you a singer?” he asked, and quickly followed up “Or do you play some instrument in his orchestra?”

Mr. Appletree smiled. “No, Tommy, I’m just his secretary and copyist. Most of my work is about copying his manuscripts for the orchestra and choir members.” Tommy stepped back, and sent an admiring glance over that man. “In that case, could you perhaps tell me how on earth you can read his handwriting? I can’t! I probably could read Chinese more readily than that!”

Now it was the man’s turn to laugh. “It’s not that bad, Tommy. Mr. Handel was born and educated in Germany, and his handwriting reflects that. You know, those barbarians over there never learned to write properly. When one gets the hang, it’s simple. But anyway, how do YOU know about Mr. Handel’s handwriting, if I may ask?

So Tommy told him that he had learned a fair number of airs from Handel’s operas, and that a few of those editions had a title page that showed a sheet of Handel’s manuscript. And that he had never been able to make sense of even one word there.

Anyway, after half an hour discussing Handel, music, singing, and related matters, Arthur Appletree finally went forward to make the offer he had in mind: “Tommy, Mr. Handel is a very good composer, but he is in financial trouble right now, because he lacks a good singer who can stand up against Farinelli and Senesino. Since Porpora set up an opera house with them, he’s stealing our public! We cannot compete against Porpora with castrati, because Farinelli and Senesino are the best. So, I thought that if we can put a certain little boy on our stage, who sings better than Farinelli and Senesino combined“, he smiled at Tommy, “we could save our business, make Porpora go bankrupt, give that certain little boy from Willowcreek the time of his life, and a very good wage on top of that!”

Tommy was all torn forth and back by that offer. He didn’t like very much being asked to help destroying Porpora. He didn’t believe that someone as big as Handel really could need him. On the other hand, singing in the Haymarket Opera House in London, with the Royal Family in attendance, was a thrill he really wanted to try! So he agreed.

It was a very different matter for Mr. Appletree to make Tommy’s parents agree, though. Even with the help from Father Andrew, all that could be obtained was borrowing the boy for a week, to bring him to London, introduce him to Handel, and perhaps, if the composer found him good enough, sing on one evening, as a trial. Handel would pay all expenses, plus some extra for the time Tommy would spend, and if the concert actually took place, an additional and quite juicy sum would be due. Any further agreements would be worked out at a later date.

And so it was how an elegant carriage drawn by four horses left the little town of Willowcreek, with an uniformed driver in the front, and a very well dressed man with a funny name inside, in the good company of an excited little boy, who would have preferred riding in front with the driver!

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Tommy’s week in London turned out to be memorable. He stayed at Appletree’s house, who had several children, among them a boy about Tommy’s age, who very quickly befriended the guest.

Tommy had feared his first encounter with Handel. He had heard more than enough stories about the irascible German being rude to his musicians, up to the point of having thrown a primadonna out of a third floor window. So he was pleasantly surprised when he found the great composer to be much friendlier than he had expected. Handel asked him details about his musical experience, then handed him some sheets of music, said “let’s try that!”, and sat down at the harpsichord. Tommy had little choice other than do as the master ordered. He had never seen that piece, but the setting wasn’t any more difficult than other pieces by Handel he had sung before. So he sang it, getting it reasonably correct on the first try. Handel corrected a few mistakes, asked for specific changes in expression, then they did it again. Soon Handel was satisfied, and they went on to another air. Time flew by, and by noon Handel had made up his mind: He would premiere his new opera with this boy in the role of the Greek prince! That was one of the two main roles, and he had written it with a soprano castrato in mind, but now with Farinelli singing for his competitor Porpora, he had to come up with something different! And here he had it: A boy that was at least as good as an accomplished castrato, but additionally had the freshness of childhood on his side! So Handel decided to give the opera’s premiere on Friday afternoon, and instructed his secretary Appletree to purchase the necessary ads in all of London’s newspapers.

That very afternoon rehearsals for the opera started, with the full Academy of Music. Tommy found that he got along very well with both of the other male soloists, but he had some clashes with the only lady in the cast, a soprano who apparently was obfuscated by having to share the stage, and even her register, with a mere boy! They had some duets, in which she tried to sing Tommy flat against the wall. But Tommy, like most boys, was just all to eager to take up such challenges, and fought back in the same way, to the amusement of the other musicians, until Handel had to remind both quarrelers that this was an opera, not a war, and that the prince (Tommy) and his mother (the lady) were actually quite friendly in the plot. Handel said that in his usual, somewhat rude way, followed by a painful silence. Tommy thought he got the message. He stood up, walked over to the primadonna, grabbed her hand, shook it, and offered: “Peace?” The thundering laughter of all the musicians was contagious enough to make Handel join them, while the primadonna was moved in her motherly instincts, pulling the boy against her, burying his face in her vast breasts. Tommy worked himself free, gave her a smile, and went back to his place. From then on, the two co-operated, and the opera took good shape.

During the week, between rehearsals, Tommy found enough leisure time to get to see some of the big city London. His guides were the Appletree children, most of the time. One time also he ventured out alone, or ran away, as the angry Handel put it, when Tommy got thoroughly lost, had to ask for directions several times, and then arrived late for a rehearsal. From then on, he was watched more closely, and wasn’t allowed to go wandering alone through London’s maze of streets.

While the ads were running in the newspapers, several reporters came to interview Tommy. Handel even interrupted some rehearsals to let Tommy give those interviews, which were all-important to draw the people back to the Haymarket, and away from Porpora and Farinelli! It was HIS public, and Porpora had been stealing it! He wanted it back! And so the newspapers carried stories about Tommy almost every day of that week, and when the concert came, the room was packed, while Farinelli had to sing to an almost empty house!

The concert started late, because the Queen had announced her attendance, and befitting her high status, she had to arrive half an hour late and everyone had to wait for her. But that was usual, nobody felt particularly upset. The very fact that the Queen came, was a triumph for Handel, because she had rarely come to the Haymarket after that newcomer Porpora had set up his own Opera house! Handel was mighty worried that his new star would get a nerve attack or something, never having sung in front of that many people, in the country’s most important theater, and with the Queen attending! But his fears were unfounded. Tommy acted as naturally as ever, even joking behind the stage, mimicking the way the Queen moved, and enjoyed every moment of the evening. And Handel was very happy, not only because the public had acclaimed his new opera, but even more because for the first time since Farinelli was singing for his competitor, Handel had had a full house, the money was rolling, and would allow him to pay at least a small part of his huge debt!

Saturday afternoon Tommy arrived back in Willowcreek, driven there in style, in Handel’s big carriage with the four horses, carrying in his little bag a pouch containing several gold coins, which smilingly he delivered to his father. But then he was told that this was obviously his own money, earned through honest work. His father wouldn’t take it! Tommy really felt like a millionaire, even if he had no faint idea what he would eventually do with those coins.

But he did know how to capitalize on his adventures, and could never stop to tell his family, his friends, classmates, and everyone else, all that had happened in this very special week, in which he saved the great Handel!

Of course, Tommy couldn’t even suspect what sort of doubts he had left the good people in London worrying about. The euphoria about the concert hadn’t even completely ended, when Appletree had a serious talk with Handel about financial issues and associated problems. “Sir,” he addressed Handel, “Tommy has made this concert a real success, but it was just ONE concert! We need about a year of such concerts, twice or thrice a week, just to pay all the outstanding bills and wages! You should really make this boy a good offer, and bind him to our company for at least a year!”

Handel walked up and down the room. “Appletree, you know as well as I do what the problem is with boys. As soon as you tie them firmly into your plans, they loose their voices and become useless. I would much prefer to find a good, young castrato instead of a boy. One that has a quality like Tommy, but without the risk to loose it!”

Pensatively, Appletree replied: “Your are right of course, sir, and if you ask me, I don’t think Tommy would last even one year from now. Comparing his state of development to what I have observed on my oldest boy when he grew up, I would dare to say that he has hardly more than half a year left as a soprano. But nevertheless I think you should hire him, on a contract that ends the day his voice fails, and hope for the best. We should even get permission to free him from school for that time. He can catch up at school once his voice has broken.”

Handel laughed. “This is all so stupid. If we could take the boy on a short visit to Italy, I know some people there who could solve the problem once and for all time! Then I would have the castrato I need, better than Farinelli, and with all the flair of extreme

youth!”

“Are you serious, sir? I hope you are aware that such an action would be highly illegal, even if you have it done in Italy?”

Now Handel laughed loud. “Dear Appletree, of course I know that, and I have no intentions of submitting a good English boy to that barbaric treatment. It’s bad enough that the Italians do it to their own boys. But maybe I should travel to Italy and audition some very young castrati there. Maybe I can find one as good as Tommy, and hire him.”

There was a while of silence. Handel sat down at last, absentmindedly sorting through some sheet music. Appletree had a dreamy look on his face. He then said: “Mr. Handel, the fact is, we need a solution to our financial trouble. Either you go to Italy and find a new castrato who can actually sing English, or you hire Tommy for as long as he will last, or you find some other very good singer.” He paused, then went on: “And by the way, what would you do if suddenly Tommy had an accident and showed up here as a freshly made castrato, without you even knowing how it happened? Would you hire him?”

Handel laughed again. “You mean that some angel could swoop down from heaven and do what has to be done, leaving that boy fit and stable? Who on earth would believe that? But yes, seeing the sorry state of our finances, I would try to make the best of that accident! Indeed I would!”

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In Willowcreek Tommy resumed his usual activities. Even if at first he was a bit pissed off when Father Andrew refused to let him sing even one of those beautiful new opera airs during Evensong, he finally understood that they were not very well suited to the church. The little choir in this parish church felt like not much, after having tasted opera in London, but what could he do? He hoped Handel would call him to London for a longer stay, and that his parents would agree! But in the meantime, he sang the sacred music Father Andrew loved so much, went to school like the good boy he was, and did his duties on the farm. He had returned to an almost too normal life, after that week of fame in London.

On Wednesday he got a big letter in the mail, from Mr. Appletree! Eagerly he opened it, fully expecting to find there a contract for the rest of his life, at least. He was disappointed when he found that the main contents of the envelope were about a dozen newspaper clippings, even if they indeed were very positive toward his performance in London! One hailed him as “better than any Italian”, which made him chuckle. Another, coming from a tabloid of rather poor reputation, adventured the suspicion that Tommy might actually be a castrato, and much older than Handel represented him! What an idea! “I don’t need such tricks to sing”, he thought for himself. At least not yet. But the one he liked most was one that painstakingly analyzed his performance, not only mentioning the good aspects of his singing, but also pointing out his weaknesses. When he first started reading that one, he was a bit angry with that reporter, but as he read on, he realized that this man had good points there! Tommy knew that sometimes he breathed at the worst places. It was just so hard to avoid! He ran out of air easily while singing. He decided to take that criticism seriously, work on it, and give that man what he wanted, on the next performance in London, which Tommy was sure would happen rather soon!

The people of Willowcreek were happy to have Tommy back. There had been loud protest, when suddenly Tommy went missing from daily Evensong, and the people learned that their beloved songbird had flown away to London! “These darn Londoners steal everything good they can find in the provinces”, was one of the softest complaint heard. When Tommy re-appeared, he was warmly welcomed, and many people wanted to talk to him, congratulate him, and tell him to never go away again! Specially the old ladies… They kissed him dripping wet and stinking of perfume again. Tommy had become a celebrity to a degree never expected before his London trip.

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One day not long later, while Tommy was walking back home after yet another Evensong, suddenly two figures, completely clad in black and masked, appeared behind a roadside bush. Seeing them, thinking “robbers!!!”, and starting to run as fast as his feet would carry him, all happened almost at the same time. But before Tommy had run even twenty steps, he was caught from behind and thrown on the ground. He called for help, but immediately a big hand over his mouth and nose muffled his screams. He had the two black ghosts over him now, and he tried to kick and hit them as best he could, but they were so much stronger than Tommy, that he couldn’t do much against them. Definitely this weren’t schoolmates playing a prank on him! And he wasn’t carrying anything valuable, no boy around here did, so what could these men want? Were they kidnapping him to ask ransom, taking advantage of his increasing fame? At least he wouldn’t make it easy for them! He managed to bite one of them in the hand, making him holler – definitely a grown man’s voice. But the bite fetched him a spank. Ever more desperate, he kept boxing and kicking the men as best he could, but they wouldn’t let him go! Instead, he got a bad smelling piece of cloth wound around his head, covering his mouth and forcing something inside it. Now he sounded more muffled than a singer in a haystack, and even breathing was getting hard, because that rag covered his nose too! Exhausted, he finally gave up fighting, as one of the men swung Tommy over his back, holding his hands and feet, and carried him away into the field, away from the road, while the other man followed, carrying a little black suitcase. Both men were still masked.

Deep in the field, there was a depression, through which a tiny creek flowed. Tommy was put on the ground there. Immediately he tried to bolt along the creek, but tripped on a loose rock and fell down again, banging his face. There he was picked up by his captor again, who bent Tommy’s arms behind his back, and held him there, half sitting, half lying. The other man stood his suitcase on the grass, kneeled down beside Tommy, and started unbuttoning Tommy’s trousers. This gave the boy renewed vigor and desperation, and he managed to bend around in such a way that he landed his right foot in the side of that man’s head, alas not hard enough to cause much effect on him. The man slapped Tommy lightly, then simply sat on the boy’s knees while finishing unbuttoning his pants. He then pulled them down under Tommy’s behind, underpants and all, got up and pulled the trousers fully down to Tommy’s ankles, where they bound his feet together. He then turned around, sat on the boy’s knees again, and slowly undid Tommy’s shoes, finally removing shoes, pants and all, leaving the desperate boy naked from the waist down.

What did they want to do to him? Tommy had heard terrible stories about wicked men who like to make little boys suffer, by sticking their horrible big things into the boys’ behinds. He had been duly warned to stay clear of such men. But what could he have done? The men had hid while waited for him on the road! It wasn’t his fault to have gotten attacked! Tommy was desperate, partly because of the fear what they would do to him, but even more because he had no clue how he would be able to explain all this later to his parents!

Tommy’s worst suspicion seemed to come true, when the two men now proceeded to turn him into a sort of knot. They pulled his knees up to his shoulders, then passed his arms under his knees, from the inside out, and the man behind him firmly grabbed both of his wrists. Tommy did his best to resist, but he simply was no match to two grown men! They did how they pleased with him. And so he ended up lying with his back in the man’s lap, his arms linked to his legs, completely immobilized by the man holding his wrists, gagged so that he could make no loud sound, and his naked rear sticking out into the fresh air, in the most indecently exposed position anyone can possibly assume! At this point, Tommy was too scared to keep trying to get loose, or to utter any muffled sound. He fully expected the other man to get naked now, and do what his classmates, half joking and half serious, had told him really wicked men sometimes do with little boys!

But nothing like that happened. Instead, the man knelt down next to Tommy’s rear end, opened his suitcase, and started talking. It was the first time he said anything! And it wasn’t much, just this: “Tommy, what I will do to you now will be painful, but it is necessary. Believe me that it is the best that could happen to you. Bite on that gag, be strong, and try not to move, because if you move, it will only hurt more!” That was all he said. Tommy couldn’t imagine why it was necessary to do anything to his asshole, but in some way what the man had said reassured him that at least they didn’t want to kill him, or anything like that!

The man took a rag and a bottle out of his suitcase. He sprinkled a liquid over the rag, and then started rubbing down Tommy – but not at his asshole, as he had expected, but instead all around his balls and their surroundings! It felt icy cold at first, but then started feeling hot, and ever hotter, burningly hot. Suddenly it dawned to Tommy what these men were about to do to him! Of course! How stupid had he been, not thinking of this possibility before! His scare level climbed to maximum. He suddenly launched a new attack, trashing around, trying to get free, hitting the man who was holding him with the back of his head, hoping to get him in the chin, but to no avail. The man only pressed down harder on Tommy’s wrists, and there was no further effect.

To his desperation, Tommy then saw the suitcase man take a small knife out of the case, and carefully wiping it down with the same cloth he had used to cleanse Tommy. He just sprinkled some more of that burning liquid on it. Then he grabbed Tommy’s ball sac, encircling it with his thumb and index finger, and pressing to stretch the skin out. Tommy had done that himself often enough, fooling around, but that was different! And then Tommy watched in fear and fascination how the man pulled the little knife over his ball sac, from side to side. But the shock of pain that hit him, and the sight of blood flooding everything down there, made Tommy feel so sick, so fast, that he shut his eyes, and tried just to keep breathing. He didn’t dare look again, much less when a new shock of pain went through his guts. He started moaning, then crying. He didn’t try to free himself anymore. He had no energy left, he felt too sick. After the third or fourth shock of pain, each one worse than the one before, he no longer registered what was happening to him, except when suddenly the pain also started on the other side of his guts. There was pain all over, up and down, left and right, above him and below him, inside him and outside, the whole world was pain and the dreams too. Everything turned into a blur for Tommy, and the pain was so much that somehow it didn’t even feel like pain anymore, turning into something like a mad swirl of loud noise and fire.

Tommy had no feeling for how much time had passed, but at some point he noticed that everything was silent, nothing was moving. It felt as if he was lying on soft wool. It was like waking up very slowly. He tried to open his eyes, but they were like glued. He tried moving, but his entire body was like glued in place. He kept still. It was cold. He heard birds singing. Finally he was able to open his eyes, and slowly bring things into focus. He was lying in the grass, beside the little creek. The masked men were gone. He was completely dressed, even with his shoes on, but the shoelaces were much too tight. An intense ache radiated from his groin up through his body. After quite a while, Tommy regained enough alertness to realize that the men had abandoned him here. Or were they nearby, watching him, ready to attack him again, and do who-knows-what to him? He chose to stay quiet, as if sleeping, while listening for any noises. But there were none, except for the birdsong and the slight gurgling of the creek. It was evening, getting dark fast, and black clouds announced rain. He felt stiff from the cold, and very weak.

Anyway, he had to get home somehow. What would he tell his parents? Try to hide what happened? That would be hard. Tommy sat up, but that sent a jolt of pain through him. He took a while to regain his breath, then very slowly stood up, and started walking through the field, toward the road, following the tracks made by his attackers. On every step he had pain between his legs. The pants were sticking to the wound, making things worse. Tommy sat down in the grass, very slowly, and removed his pants. There was a brown, dry bloodstain in his underpants. He removed them too, very slowly, because they were sticking in place. Then he took some time to inspect himself. He had a big stitch line down there, following the same line he had seen the man cutting along, and the area was very swollen and painful. He tried to press and poke, and could find no signs of his balls. Of course. That comes from having a good voice, he chuckled. Just like if he were an Italian boy. But in some way this state of affairs gave him a hint of happiness too! He stood up, picked up his clothes, and walked steadily to the road. It was much better to walk without anything chafing over the wound. Still, walking was painful. He would have a hard time getting home!

He had done a few minutes on the road, when he heard a carriage approaching. Quickly he slipped into his trousers. He had been taught to be decent at all times! The carriage was going in his direction. Would they give him a lift? Out of a moment’s decision, he lay down straight across the road. That would force them to stop, at least!

He needed courage to stay there. What if they didn’t stop? Unthinkable. He buried his face into the dust, when he heard the carriage approaching, but kept his left hip in the air, to keep the wound from hurting too much. The carriage stopped, and there was quite a commotion. He heard voices he knew well. These were his neighbors! He suddenly felt very safe, like having left behind a bridge about to fall down. Tommy tried to get up to ask for help, but that was when his forces definitely left him. The pain from the sudden motion hit him so fiercely, that he slumped down again, moaning and then crying. In a moment, the neighbors had recognized him, and noticed that he was hurt. They loaded him into the carriage, very gently, and drove him home.

Of the next two days, Tommy couldn’t recall anything. He didn’t register his arrival at home, how the same neighbors drove back into town to fetch the doctor, how his mother applied cold compresses to his forehead to lower the raging fever, and applied the same compresses between his legs, to reduce the swelling. He didn’t register how the doctor repeatedly applied ointments to his wound, nor did he register when the police came into the house, taking the declarations of his parents, and wanting to interview him. Instead, Tommy had some crazy hallucinations the second day. But then he started coming back, and by the fourth day he was well enough to tell the story. The police came again, and Tommy told them all he knew, which wasn’t much, given that he had never seen the men’s faces, and their hands hadn’t shown any remarkable feature. But when asked if he could possibly recognize any of those men, Tommy was pretty sure he would recognize them if he heard them talk. Especially the one who cut him, who had spoken some. The other man, who hadn’t said anything, not uttering any sound other than the scream when Tommy had bitten his hand, might prove a bit harder to identify…

The doctor, after examining Tommy, expressed his conviction that the man with the suitcase had some medical training. The fact that he had cleaned the operating area and the tools with spirits, and that he had tidily sewn up the wound, was proof of this. This set the police on a raid, investigating all doctors, barbers, surgeons, pharmacists and students of these disciplines, in the wider area, and over the next weeks several times Tommy was confronted to the more suspicious of them, they had to speak, and Tommy was asked if anyone of these was the right one. But Tommy could positively assure that none of these gentlemen were involved in his case. All the voices were totally different from the one he remembered, and he certainly did have a good ear for voices! After two months of investigations, the police pretty much gave up the case. It was the perfect crime. The perpetrators, despite acting in such a simple and crude way, had not left enough signs to allow their identification.

All the police activity around the Southdale’s farm had attracted reporters, and the newspapers had printed the story about the horrible attack on Tommy The Singing Boy over and over. Even some reporters from London got wind of the story, so that soon everyone in the whole country new that Tommy had been castrated. At least, this made it superfluous for him to decide whom he should tell, and from whom he should keep it secret. Simply there was no secret! Even the birds in the trees two hundred miles away knew that his balls had been cut off.

Handel and Appletree obviously knew it too, and Handel made a very good offer to hire Tommy, for one year at first, extendable to successive periods. Even if Tommy was quite eager to accept, his parents vehemently rejected the offer. Tommy was still a young boy, after all, had to go to school, and anyway, what was the hurry now? There was urgency only on Handel’s side, being deep in debt and needing successful concerts. Tommy instead had all the time in the world. He had a lifetime of soprano singing in front of him.

Tommy continued singing in the Willowcreek Parish Church Choir, to the great satisfaction of Father Joseph, who saw his little church getting filled every day. But over time Tommy’s appeal started to wear off. Despite his getting ever better as a singer, it’s not the same listening to a small boys choir having an absolutely outstanding soloist, than listening to an outstanding castrato accompanied by a mediocre boys choir. Very slowly the number of people attending Evensong in Willowcreek got smaller, and the moment came when Tommy quit the choir. He just didn’t fit in anymore. The other trebles at that time were several years younger than him, and the men all had real men’s voices, unlike him.

Martin turned into a sort of part-time entrepreneur and manager. Eager to help his little brother to his deserved fame, he started organizing recitals, offering his brother’s services for weddings, funerals, state events, and one time he even sold Tommy’s services to Porpora in London, to replace Farinelli, who had fallen ill. That enraged Handel beyond all measure, and he swore to never hire Tommy again.

Tommy’s castration changed him profoundly. Or was it just the growing up? Anyway, he turned wiser, calmer, less interested in fame, ever more interested in music, but his spirits were much damped when he realized that of the people who go to concerts, by far the larger part have no idea about music, and of those who do, most have the wrong idea. He learned how rare the pure musicians are, and how widespread musical commerce is. He finally asked Martin to stop bargaining singing engagements for him. He found great pleasure in simple activities like plowing the fields of the farm, in close contact with nature and animals. Tommy had a great rapport with Zheng He and Narses, the two oxen who pulled the plow. Sometimes he sang to them while working.

In the first months after the attack, Tommy was torn between extremes, sometimes thinking that his castration had dramatically reduced him, and at other times celebrating that now his voice, that most valuable thing he had, would never be lost. This bipolarity slowly settled into a fact-oriented attitude, in which he tried to make the best of his situation. By the time people were starting to call him “Mr. Southdale”, or “Southdale Jr.”, rather than “Tommy”, he had completely come to terms with his condition, and didn’t even feel regrets against anyone. He started taking up singing engagements again, but only for small, deserving groups of people, not in the big opera houses. In between, he kept working the farm alongside his brother. With his parents and Old Bill getting older, more of the work had to be done by the young generation. Eventually Martin married, and the young couple naturally took over the farm, but Tommy kept living there for most of the year.

All summed up, Tommy had a long and pretty good life. The very fact that he so rarely sang for a public, made him highly prized and respected. At a time when Handel had to give up his opera business, Tommy was well off, the owner of a nice house in London, and a small farm he used mainly for spending quality time alone, or with a few friends who were very good musicians. Between the walls of that old farmhouse, far away from the city’s rumble and from the disturbing presence of a clueless public, some of the best musicmaking in England’s history took place.

There was only one nagging question, which plagued Thomas Southdale for the remainder of his long life: Exactly who had been behind his castration! It was clear to him that the physical perpetrators had only been hired hands. They had done the job they had been paid for. But who had paid them?

Many years later, Tommy took that question, still unanswered, into his grave.