Presently, the land came to an end, as it has a habit of
doing here in Maine. Now what? Was this it?
Was this all there was? Was this
the so-called gift at the end? I saw
nothing but the tracks of the icy wind on the half-frozen water, and I pulled
my cloak closer about me. It would be
dark soon, and at least the wretched crow would find a quiet harbor for the
night. Then I would be alone with my
thoughts. What a terrible thing that
would be.
I was angry. I have
pushed on and I have fought for far too long.
When I wanted to sit, I stood.
When I wanted to rest, I had run instead. When I wanted to quit, I pressed on in
pain. I had met the Adversary at every
step of the way, and I had met him with equal force that cost me more than I could
admit. And now here I was at the end,
and the Promise was nowhere in sight. “You
lied to me,” I whispered. And the crow
just laughed and laughed, high up in the sky, his raspy caw ripping into what
was left of my heart.
As I turned to go back—I did not want to, but it was the
only way left to go—I saw a man not far from me. He was on one knee, facing the setting sun
with his hands held together. His right
hand was in a fist, and the left hand was cupped over it. His eyes were shut tightly. And he was praying—that much I knew. He was praying at the end of the road. When there was nowhere else to go and no hope
left, he was on bended knee praying, a look of fervent serenity and faith on
his lined old face.
In this cold and desolate spot at land’s end, knelt a man
in prayer, in sublime peace and belief. I
could tell he was a strong man, the kind one gives a wide berth to in Caesar’s
world. Yet here he was in humble prayer,
whereas I just moments before had been in haughty expectation, angry that the
Promise had not made itself known to me.
The raspy old crow was right about me all along. “Caw!
Caw!” he shrieked, scraping his throat in victory.
My heart melted. In
another lifetime I might have thought the look on this old knight’s face was
the glow of the feverish fanatic, of the religious fool. I might have laughed at him because I did not
know the love of the soul back then. But
that was another lifetime, not this one.
Here we were together, although he did not know it. Two lost souls at the end. “Oh, how I wish you were here,” I had said so
many times into the inky darkness of the night, only now to see my desire in
fruition. At the end. Always at the end.
I felt a momentary stab of jealousy because I worried
that he had found something I had not, but I quickly dispelled it. The prayer on his old lined face was enough to
quell the most savage heart. Had I sought
to interfere with this? Did I think I would come between him and his
heart’s desire? No. Even though I was not worthy of witnessing
his supreme act of humility, still I could bow my head and give thanks for this
gift.
Silently, I left. I
do not know if he was ever aware of my presence. The crow continued to follow me. High in the sky in his cold and raspy voice,
he scratched out the words, “You are near and dear to me.” Even the old carrion bird knew. We are naught but two lost souls.
I made it back home just as true darkness was stealing
across the landscape. The house was cold
and dark. I lit the oil lamps, as
always, and started a fire. First with
the tinder, then the kindling, then the wood—hard and sure. It occurred to me as I watched the flames
lick up the side of a piece of birch, that the energy the tree had stored
within was finally being released in the form of fire. One way or another, the energy is always
released—decay, consumption of food, fire in the pit.
And where did the energy come from to begin with? Yes. It
was Him. All along. The tree had stored the Sun within as a gift
for me. On this cold and lonely
day. A gift for me. Surely, I could do the same for someone
else. We are not marionettes in a cold
world, moving haphazardly according to the merchant’s hand. We are precious beings loved beyond measure,
even through our pain. Especially through
our pain. We are condensed sunlight,
reflections of the divine, mirror images.
The King is dead.
Long live the King.
