A Legend is Born.
On the mystical sands of the Gobi Desert I mounted a strong ambitious camel so that I may claim the title of “Best Tin Whistle Player in Mongolia”. Secured between the double humps of my unlikely steed, I pulled my instrument from it’s black wool pouch.
Amidst deep trepidation I exhaled and the music began. Soon after the delightful jig sounded I felt a change of pace in my camel's stride. The ever shifting sands which once frustrated his movement magically transformed into a dance floor. His steps blossomed into step dance as the music lifted his toes propelling us forward. Together we performed a duet without equal beneath the infinite majesty of Khan’s Mongolian sky.
Suddenly the temperature dropped into a bitter frost. The sun retreated, the sky burned red, and the ancient gales attacked our revelry. For, it has been said that the only attribute more harsh than a desert’s climate is its perpetual criticism for artistic endeavors.
The wind, night club bouncer of the desert, punched us and thrust me from my saddle. In a crushing blow I slammed into the ground. My tin whistle snapped underneath me and the metal shards cut deep into my hand.
My camel ran to my aid. I rose quickly as the sands enveloped us in a mighty dust blizzard. I mounted my camel and he galloped forward urging me to continue. Bloodied and battered it looked like my title hopes were over.
But alas, I was born and raised in the Roc of New York and I would not relent. With clumsy numb fingers crusted in sand, I groped my side. From within my coat I pulled my 2nd whistle and blew.
Music sounded.
With every passing note my pains subsided.
As my final cadenza took flight from my whistle, the land of Khan... rejoiced. The battle ended as it began. Winds disappeared, the air cleared, and the Gobi erupted in thunderous applause.
The concert and journey were complete. I dismounted my camel and we bowed while the sky drew the curtain into the night of a new moon.
Now in darkness I looked deep into my champion came’s proud eyes and whispered the name "Bergin" to him. A name oh honor, drawn from the most legendary of all whistle players; the amazing Mary Bergin.
Several days passed. On the bank of the Tuul River, In the hallowed halls of the Genghis Khan Statue a small ceremony commenced. It was there that I was awarded the title "Best Tin Whistle Player in Mongolia”.
I now hold the scroll written in traditional Mongolian calligraphy celebrating my title, complete with the official seal.
(Note: This story contains historical certainties fused organically with genuine blarney)