This short story was the result of a renewed appreciation of fairy tales. This is on all accounts a fairy tale, and it must be enjoyed as such. Apart from a couple of paragraphs more, what is below is all that I have. If I do complete it I will also undergo a serious rewriting. If you enjoy it, please comment in the comments below. And please excuse my free use of archaic diction which I do not fully understand... The Silver Canary Once upon a time was a king whose daughter was his very heart. However, she was not compelled to love him as he loved her because he had let her to her mother and nurses and seen her rarely. And as the princess matured, she grew less and less joyful at the sight of the head of her father, which soon turned from gold to grey. This indifference to the king led to an indifference to the kingdom, and when the king died of a terrible sickness and she was called to marry to provide the kingdom a king, she had no urge to do so. She was given feasts with dukes and princes of afar, and with knights and nobles of her own kingdom, but no desire for love was stirred within her by the faces of any of the men who came to her. Her mother and those who had served her father knew that the dukes and princes would soon cease to come peacefully in hope of reward and begin to come in hope of loot and made this very clear to the princess. But the girl was indifferent to the fate of the kingdom and ignorant of the terrible things that would happen if she did not choose a groom. Finally the day came when the Queen, her mother, locked the princess in a tower of the castle in which no one had been for years, and, setting sentries by the door, told her to submit to the choice of a husband from those princes at the next feast, or else live in the tower for the rest of her life. The princess was given little choice, and after several hours of weeping in the dust of the room she rose from where she had sat against the wall and started towards the door. But as she neared the door she saw out of the corner of her eye a gleam of something silver against the far wall. Walking to it, she saw that it was a bird cage, and in it were the skeleton and feathers of a canary. She knelt down beside it and played with the latch of the cage, dwelling on how the bird might have come there. As she was thinking her fingers somehow came to unlock the little door of the cage and open it. And as soon as it was open, the bones of the little bird inside fitted together again, and grew flesh, and the feathers of it fluttered into place on its wings and back and tail and head, until before the princess’s eyes was a canary who was silver like moonlight and as alive as daylight. She started and gave a cry, and fell on her back, but as she was about to flee to the door of her tower, the canary began to sing, and the princess found she could understand it. It sang: Hear me princess, ‘ere ye flee my voice, Tonight, give cause, thine kingdom to rejoice, Wed thee, then, a husband, Prince Delfine – Or may the travail long be ever thine. The princess cried out, Bird of solemn sight, I quest Thine wisdom not, nor shall it I detest – But knoweth I a Prince Delfine? Yea, verily such truth thou can divine! I conceiveth not the seed of him Who thus affect me, to thy petty whim! The canary flew to the top of its cage and sang again, Harken, thee My Princess, hear my tune, And flingeth not thyself away so soon, Though, princess, his face cannot define, Thy hand be wed this eve to Prince Delfine. Stirring herself from where she had fallen, the princess rushed to the door and shouted over her shoulder: Better it, that thou would fall to dust, And be thyself consumed by thine own must, Neither doth thou knoweth me or see Whom my virgin hand shall playeth me! As the guards unlocked the door and let the princess out, the bird withered, and its bones fell into the very places they had rested. Its feathers floated on the breath of the open door, and some escaped through its mouth while others flew against the wall and became dust. As the guard closed the door, the air was again asleep, and the bird with it. None would breathe this air for a long time.
2 Comments
I wrote this for a story contest... It describes a night I spent camping on the shore of Mount Desert Island, Maine - a night I won't easily forget. I originally wrote a poem on it, but I have not yet finished it. Perhaps you shall see this poem in a later post, but for now you may read a prose imitation of it here. Enjoy! Terrace of the Night
There was whispering. Mist, like an unanswered – indeed, unanswerable – question, hung in the air above the black of the waves and the white of their crests. In the uncertainty of the mist, one may suppose that it was the mainland which whispered in the wind and waves. But it was the open ocean which spoke into the darkness and aroused the mist and conjured it into the air, and it was the breath of the sea which drew in and out as the tides of a battle hidden to our eyes. The voice – that which was carried upon this breath, that which bewitched the sea and the air and the trees, that which tore at hearts and acquired their unique devotion – that voice fell into the cavity in the darkness and made it full. Complete was the darkness and entire was the tapestry of obscurity which was weaved so carefully into the canvas night. And though it was distant and vague, it was alive. It was breathing. It was a creature. Not that in the mist a creature could be discovered – no; the tapestry itself was living, but as a melody is living, as a story is ever-giving. It had thought, and possessed a voice – it was that which could be heard now. The voice was cold, even shrill – but it tethered the heart and implored of the soul some sympathy, and it could not have been called bitter. It tethered my heart – and has not yet let go. I stood upon the terrace of the night, and I discovered the footstool of God, the dock of his might, the doorstep of his glory – and a harbor of his love. The ocean swelled and diminished at my feet like a sonata, strange to our ears and too beautiful to be harnessed by arpeggio or chord. Its melody, surreal in the mist, played among my thoughts and enraptured the depths of my heart. Surely it was a trance which held me spellbound at the fingertips of the ocean, and surely God was there with me in the body of darkness. The marriage of water and sky, ocean and milky way, sea and celestial, was pristine, and the peculiar light with which it radiated was like God’s light in a mountain stream or the glimmer of sunlight on the scales of a fish or the feathers of a bird. Apart from an occasional fissure of lightning – a sudden tear in the fabric illusion of the night sky – there was no light which could be seen by the eye; but light was everywhere. Even in the ambiguity of the mist there was light – light of the kind that is the brightest when all is black; the kind that, although all is black, remains evident, but perhaps invisible. Enraptured by wind and wave, I stood and let the darkness cloak me, and was not afraid. For the darkness brought not the possibility of horrors but the certainty of joy which is unspeakable and content to be so. Spells of this joy came upon me with every wave, with every breath of wind, with every swell of melody, with every glance into the aery mist – my heart was taken. As the mist enclosed upon me, it was into a peace I was thrust. Lighting flashed in the distance – but I would not be touched by it; indeed, it was a wonder I was touched by time. Such a device had no place beside the mist and the magic of the mist. I indeed was captivated – captivated by a Creator and his creation. If wind is able to steal hearts and the ocean can fashion the harp of pristine melodies, how much more wonderful is the will and the song of the Creator. Pour into the darkness; I am waiting, standing upon the terrace of the night. Previously... His head sore and throbbing, Peregrine was forced to sit upon the grass that indicated the side of the road. His thoughts had been awaiting audience, and, as he rewarded their patience, he found his thoughts were dark. Tangled in the mystery were many questions; how could any of them be answered? He hung his head as his thoughts weighed upon him. Prayer was on his lips as he looked to Heaven. His tormenters could not be appeased, for his tormenters were memories. As he sat on the grass in the dark, Peregrine told his mind that he could start over once he had found another town with other human beings. His mind cruelly responded with an image of what had been lost with the arrival of the cows and the departure of sanity from the earth. If only sleep will come, thought he, maybe this nightmare will end. Sleep came, but the nightmare remained. Something was sniffing at Peregrine’s ears; something was licking them! Peregrine gave a start as a cold tongue invaded his face. Opening his eyes, he impatiently awaited the moment when they would regain focus. This end having been achieved, he perceived a pointed snout and canine face. The fur that so flawlessly lined these features was the fiery red of a fox. “Who are you?” Exclaimed Peregrine, obviously expecting some type of answer. His expectations were met when the fox spoke;
“I have been known by many names. You will know me by yet another.” Weary of confusion, Peregrine let this riddle pass unconsidered. He hastily continued. “Why are you here?” As soon as he had formed this inquiry, he asked himself why he had chosen those exact words to form it. His face personified the shock he had received. “You have heard these words before.” observed the fox. “Perhaps you would do well to consider the past.” Still perplexed by his own words, Peregrine attempted to comprehend this statement. “How do you know what happened?” He asked. Had this creature been watching him and his encounter with the cows? If so, had he since been following him? “Upon exiting your lodging you opened a door. Upon opening this door you found it restricted by a certain living being. That certain living being was me.” Sense was not something that many things had made in the last day; when this account had been proved congruent to reality by Peregrine’s discernment, Peregrine was astounded. But it did make sense. Peregrine simply nodded. “So,” he said, “you know what happened?” “I know it all.” After a pause, the fox added patiently, “It is not for me to tell you, however; not at this time at least.” Peregrine, however disappointed he may have been, strove to be satisfied with this answer. The air with which the fox had formed these words had, somehow, discouraged all contradiction or further inquiry, and Peregrine sensed that something about this creature was – to use a vague term – special. His words were tranquil but not naïve. He radiated innocence; not that he knew not what evil was, but that he knew not evil. When he spoke, he spoke wisdom. And wisdom was what Peregrine desired above all else. Midday found Peregrine on his feet searching for more of his kind. The fox followed behind, sometimes disappearing for a moment but always returning the next, and when night was called into existence he curled up beside Peregrine where he decided to rest. Although it was apparent that the sun was absent, morning arrived at the usual time and Peregrine took to the long, dark, narrow road which he had chosen. The fox traveled with him, and the occasions when he left Peregrine’s side were brief and few. They journeyed far into the day, stopping to rest only once around noon, and yet they found no one. Night came, as was evident by a drowsiness felt by Peregrine and, if possible, a darkening of the already black sky. The pair chose an open shed in which to rest. When they had settled down, the fox spoke. “Peregrine; who am I?” “Who are you? You are my only friend.” Said Peregrine, slightly confused. “And?” “And? Well you are my guide.” Although the fox had always followed behind Peregrine, the latter felt that he had been led by the former. “Have I guided you well?” Inquired the fox. “Of course!” “Have you found that which you seek?” Here Peregrine professed silence. An answer was not needed. “Come with me,” said the fox as the door to the shed was pulled open by some unseen force. Peregrine followed the fox to the exit and exited directly behind him. They left the yard in which they had ben situated and stepped into the street. “Look about you; what do you see?” asked the fox. Peregrine obeyed. “I see houses and trees… telephone poles... there’s a streetlight far away down the street, but I can hardly see that… there are some parked cars – ” “Good. Now what don’t you see?” Peregrine hesitated. What was the fox trying to reveal to him? There were many things he did not see: people, signs of life, the stars – “Light.” He said. It was true; no moon shown and no stars were contrasted with the apparent blue of the universe, which now appeared black. The stretch of street in which they stood did not possess a single streetlight; the houses that lined it were dark and lifeless. “I cannot see any light.” As these syllables were uttered, the fox became sullen. “And why can you not see the light?” He asked. Peregrine had no answer, and it was evident. The fox sighed. For a moment Peregrine thought he was on the edge of departure and let out a short cry. But the fox did not leave – as he never had. Something more extraordinary took place. As Peregrine watched, the fox’s mane turned white – it went beyond white – it was visibly glowing. Its radiance penetrated the liquid darkness so avidly, and Peregrine saw it. It did not hurt his eyes; indeed, it seemed that as The Light grew so did his eyes, so that he could absorb every ounce of it. As light was shed on the dark around, it was shed on Peregrine’s fears, and they evaporated. The monster in the closet was revealed to be a broom, and the child, ashamed of his absurdity, let out a small laugh. Peregrine saw The Light; the fox had not gone – he was with The Light, and he was The Light. Understanding became something Peregrine knew; all that he was inclined to do now was step into The Light. This time, as he prepared to take the step, he did not wish to delay. Joy had flowered in his mind, and it’s pollen had spread through this entire body – one more moment and he would be a flower too. Taking a deep breath, he found that he needed not his legs to walk. His heart was beating strongly – seconds separated him and the light. Seconds cannot last forever. Seconds waste away. But Peregrine, as he fell into The Light, knew that he would not waste away. He had finally forsaken his nightmare. Sleep, beautiful sleep had captivated him; his nightmare was over. Morning had dawned. THE END Previously... Rendered immobile for a collection of seconds, Peregrine did not move from the protection of the shrub. As Jonah had waited outside Nineveh, Peregrine now waited out of the cow’s perception. A matter of seconds would bring him onto the lawn (which appeared to have been recently grazed) and into the inevitable gaze of some observant cow. As God had appointed a worm to Jonah’s respite, so he did to Peregrine’s; this worm was time. Seconds wore on; Peregrine knew that seconds wore out. He counted down from twenty. When he found the number one, Peregrine willed his legs to move. And they did. He stepped into the halo of the streetlamps. All jaws ceased chewing. All tongues became silent. Every eye turned to Peregrine. Gazes are not made of ice, said Peregrine’s mind. You are free to move. Peregrine shifted slightly in the direction of the street, the cows, and his plausible doom. The creatures’ silence and gaze remained unbroken. Perhaps, thought Peregrine, they were indeed herbivores (as they had, it seemed, grazed upon his lawn) and wanted nothing to do with him. As they stood mutely, it took little effort to imagine that the cows were simple and ordinary dairy cows, that everyone had slept in, and that there had been a power outage and an eclipse. When a cow spoke, however, any hope for rationality was beaten into chaff and blown away.
“Who are you, and why are you here?” Inquired the voice of a cow who distinguished himself from the others by taking a half-dozen steps away from them. This voice required response. In spite of his fear and confusion, Peregrine developed that response in his mind. It took far too long. “Peregrine…” said he vaguely. That was his name, was it not? He agreed with his mind that it was. Taking notice of the weakness with which he had voiced this word, he repeated it. “Peregrine.” “And why are you here?” asked the cow who had addressed Peregrine. Peregrine, bewildered, replied with silence. “Well then, that doesn’t matter much. From now on your name is Mordred. Remember that. Your name is Mordred.” Peregrine, recovering his vernacular, attempted to form a sentence. All that he was capable of uttering was: “Why?” “Why?” Repeated the cow who had spoken. In that word was incarnate a world of sarcasm and scorn. He mooed amusedly. “Why? Because, if you are to stay here, you must succumb to our ways! You must see the sense in such a request? Do you understand?” Peregrine was as far from understanding as was humanly possible, and his silence reverberated such a case. The cow mooed curtly. “You see,” he said, “your presence here disturbs us. You are like a fly. We are annoyed and insulted by your existence. You would do well to disappear or become more like us so that we may ignore you. Like we would say to the fly: shoo.” In truth, Peregrine had not retained a word that had been said. The general meaning of the words as a body had, however, been deposited in his mind, and, as the situation matured, Peregrine’s composure convalesced. Searching his mind, he found the words he desired. “This is home! I live here!” These words were received with silence and, to the ears of Peregrine, coldness. After a hostile silence, the cow advanced slowly. “Listen,” he said, “you do not belong here. This is our home and has been forever. We are stronger than you, smarter than you, and, in reality, better than you. You are a disgrace. Leave now; if you choose to return, you choose death.” As the cow labored back to his legion of comrades, Peregrine – confused, enraged, and mentally spent – turned to a street that, in regards to what had been his home, led to the least-distant edge of town. Over a thousand pairs of obsidian eyes watched his departure. Peregrine’s eyes, however, lay on the road. This road had no streetlights. This road was dark. This road was the one Peregrine had chosen. It was to be his new home. His head sore and throbbing, Peregrine was forced to sit upon the grass that indicated the side of the road. His thoughts had been awaiting audience, and, as he rewarded their patience, he found his thoughts were dark. Tangled in the mystery were many questions; how could any of them be answered? He hung his head as his thoughts weighed upon him. Prayer was on his lips as he looked to Heaven. His tormenters could not be appeased, for his tormenters were memories. As he sat on the grass in the dark, Peregrine told his mind that he could start over once he had found another town with other human beings. His mind cruelly responded with an image of what had been lost with the arrival of the cows and the departure of sanity from the earth. If only sleep will come, thought he, maybe this nightmare will end. Sleep came, but the nightmare remained. TO BE CONTINUED... Previously... The curtains, which he had put back into place with the intention of allowing the nightmare to fade, flew open, as did the window, the glass of which shattered. Had Peregrine possessed a voice at the present, he would have screamed; the opposite being congruent with reality, he remained silent. No anomaly superseded this abomination, save for the voice of an occasional cow preaching doom with a prophetic “moo.” Peregrine remained in petrifaction for the resolution of five minutes. When his convalescence was evident to the darkness around him, he made an effort to rise. In consideration of the ambient mooing, Peregrine knew that this nightmare would not end of its own accord, and with a sense of imminent and unpreventable horror written upon his face and in his slow, uncertain movements he made his way to the door. He counted the steps. Putting his hand on the door, he painstakingly traced its details to where the doorknob had been in the past. He found only hinges. Navigating confusedly to the opposite half of the door, he found the doorknob. What had possessed it to move itself? His left hand scratching the wood of the wall, he rotated his right hand ever-so-slightly. Had the knob been congested with rust and weighed a thousand pounds the process of turning it could not have been slower. With every minute adjustment, the knob squealed its terror at being grasped and heartlessly twisted. Every scream indicated a hesitation on Peregrine’s account; surely the beings outside had perceived this new and terrible outcry!
Had they perceived it, they took no action concerning it. As the sun slept on, Peregrine cautiously labored at the doorknob. When it had been rotated ninety degrees, Peregrine gave it a faint tug. Nothing happened. A moment’s consideration caused Peregrine to assume that the door had been locked from the outside, and he began to panic. Had the cows locked him in? What vile purpose, then, was he designed to fulfill? A sacrifice? A meal? With a hissed “pleeeease” he put both hands on the doorknob and pulled. No effort of his would persuade the door to surrender. “God!” He pleaded. “Help me!” As these words shaped his lips, a pair of tears would have, had there been light, glistened on his cheeks. He put every ounce of strength that was his to a final pull. The door remained as stationary as the wall. In desperation, he fell against the door. Would he never escape? Was he to meet his demise in the walls of his own room? By a twist of Providence, he turned the doorknob with his falling hand. The door opened immediately. As he found himself on the floor in the hall, he considered the airs that could have incited such imbecility. Why hadn’t he thought to push the door? After all, the doorknob, which was habitually situated on the right of the door, had been found on the left; what could be considered abnormal in a door which by nature opened from the inside opening from the outside? As he found his feet he estimated the number of steps it would take for him to reach the stairs that would lead him to the first floor. His mind’s eye led him to the kitchen and, eventually, to the front door. Peering through the glass, Peregrine was convinced that retreat to the back door would grant him increased safety – or at least prolong his demise. Stumbling through the kitchen, Peregrine found his way through various hallways to the back door. A prayer supplemented his sigh as he located the doorknob (which was found on the left of the door) and pushed on the wood panels. Peregrine gave a cry as the circuit of his door was revealed to be impeded. His breath was cut short as something imitated his cry. With a hastened tug Peregrine pulled the door shut, and in the vague light of an outside streetlamp rediscovered the doorknob and twisted the lock into position. What had been situated directly outside the door – less than three feet away from Peregrine and his fear? A sense of helplessness would have assaulted him had there been a way into his mind. But Peregrine was no longer thinking in a human manner. Incomplete thoughts exited his mind just as they entered; half-formed fears consumed rationality as fire consumes a log. When the fire recedes, the log is only reminiscent of its original composition. Only a miracle can take ash and create a piece of wood. Peregrine, who had, a moment before, discovered his town overrun with cows, believed in miracles. And, in the realm of the metaphysical, miracles are regular. Peregrine, taking no consideration of the abnormal rate of his heartbeat, faced the door, and, thus, his fears. Swallowing a premature wave of remorse, he heard the click of the lock as he twisted it. Another click succeeded the original as Peregrine turned the doorknob. On this occasion, nothing frustrated the door’s swing. The yellow of a slightly-distant streetlight exposed him to the horrors outside – and yet he, Peregrine, was alone. As if taking the first step on an alien planet (as indeed, it would seem, he was) he put a foot down upon the outside doormat. Was there no breeze? Yes – there was every breeze – but each contradicted another to the effect that the air was – not still – but silent. The cows, however, were not silent. Their morbid voices found Peregrine, and Peregrine, dread boiling in his stomach and bubbling in his throat, drew himself out of his only earthly sanctuary. In the house – his home – was incarnate safety and pleasant reality; out here in the yard, despite the fact that it was his yard, Peregrine felt only the immortal presence of fear. All wisdom and common sense told him to return inside and to safety; it was written in the fiery luminance of the streetlights and their effects on the sleeping trees, on the dark grass of the back yard, and the black of a sky uninhibited by human or stellar perversion. Angels seemed to whisper warnings in his ear, but reality revealed these to be demons – and Peregrine knew better than to concede to their advice. Every step he took professed anxiety and dread of the inevitable – yet the concept of turning back seemed to Peregrine not only ridiculous but transgressional. Commitment had possessed him; in it he continued, step by step, around the back of the house and onto the front lawn. Remaining shadowed by a shrub, he hesitated. Before him lay the front yard. Beyond that was the road and the sea of cows. Although he was well acquainted with the fact that these creatures were in existence and breathed the same air as he, Peregrine was nonetheless appalled by the surreal presence of such a number of animals. Rendered immobile for a collection of seconds, Peregrine did not move from the protection of the shrub. As Jonah had waited outside Nineveh, Peregrine now waited out of the cow’s perception. A matter of seconds would bring him onto the lawn (which appeared to have been recently grazed) and into the inevitable gaze of some observant cow. As God had appointed a worm to Jonah’s respite, so he did to Peregrine’s; this worm was time. Seconds wore on; Peregrine knew that seconds wore out. He counted down from twenty. When he found the number one, Peregrine willed his legs to move. And they did. He stepped into the halo of the streetlamps. All jaws ceased chewing. All tongues became silent. Every eye turned to Peregrine. TO BE CONTINUED... This was inspired by Kafka's The Metamorphosis, and many elements may be compared to those in that brilliant work. Unfortunately, The Metamorphosis's themes are less than Godly, and, thus, less than correct. These attributes I have not copied into my work. I have tried my best to make my work, The Revelation, correspond to reality. I have also tried to make it artistic. May you enjoy both the themes and the form! The Revelation P.1
Silence tore at Peregrine’s ears; something was amiss. Where was the static of the summer insects? What had become of the din of the highway? More importantly, where was the sun? Not by the figures of his digital bedside clock, which were flashing on and off with the numerals “12:00,” but by the three hands of his backlit wristwatch did he discern that the sun, which had, in the past, been inclined to rise before the stroke of 7:00, was absent; it was nearly half-past-ten. He called for another living being, and started at the ridiculous noise that was expulsed from his throat. Upon examination, Peregrine discovered that this was his own voice. A distant panic rose up in his stomach; something was very wrong. He attempted to rise from his bed by means of extending his arms. This motive achieved, he paused. And he listened. What he heard surprised him. In fact, the ludicrous idea that he heard surprised him greatly. The darkness that discouraged any movement from Peregrine’s body flooded his ears like ink; that something should be able to penetrate this liquid force seemed surreal and, had someone suggested it, worthy of scorn. What Peregrine heard was a faint mooing – he couldn’t have described it otherwise – and when he had removed himself from bed and pulled the curtains away from his bedroom window, he saw – not a single cow – but a thousand, perhaps a million, standing at odd angles with each other in the street below him. In the amber glow of streetlamps, he could discern the white and black of the common dairy-cow. Had they been situated in an open field, perhaps in the presence of a red-and-white barn and an oak tree, they would have been picturesque; however, these speckled beings speckled the streets of Peregrine’s less-than-rural city. They were far from picturesque. Save for an occasional and quiet “moo” they were silent. Save for their jaws, which were perpetually rotating, they were stationary. What inspired their stillness? It certainly wasn’t fear, for Peregrine did not find any signs of such sickness. It did not seem a pensive stillness, nor did Peregrine sense a question flitting about in the air above the beings below him. No. It was the still of confidence and security. They were still because they need not move, because nothing threatened them, because they let no question hinder them. Peregrine saw this, and was aghast. He stared at the cows, compromising with utter bewilderment by accepting intense confusion. From the lack of light in the windows of the houses that had, on other nights, offered a friendly halo of luminance, Peregrine perceived that human existence was, at least in his area of the world, limited to himself. He was alone; alone in a world of cows. He fell back onto his bed. His stomach felt absent, and he was certain his mentality had been injured. Surely this was a dream, said a voice inside his head. Surely you will wake up and it will all be over. He cursed the fact that this was not the case. Peregrine knew that it was only a matter of time before the cows found him – and he felt certain they would find his flesh appetizing. What motive could have incited a universe of dairy-cows to conquer a city of highly-consumable human beings? In its altogether-rational fear, his intellect began forming altogether-irrational worries. These worries consumed him, and, as his composure waned, he felt something less than sanity trickle up his back. This conceptual arachnid would soon reach his brain, and then – The curtains, which he had put back into place with the intention of allowing the nightmare to fade, flew open, as did the window, the glass of which shattered. Had Peregrine possessed a voice at the present, he would have screamed; the opposite being congruent with reality, he remained silent. No anomaly superseded this abomination, save for the voice of an occasional cow preaching doom with a prophetic “moo.” Peregrine remained in petrifaction for the resolution of five minutes. When his convalescence was evident to the darkness around him, he made an effort to rise. In consideration of the ambient mooing, Peregrine knew that this nightmare would not end of its own accord, and with a sense of imminent and unpreventable horror written upon his face and in his slow, uncertain movements he made his way to the door. He counted the steps. Putting his hand on the door, he painstakingly traced its details to where the doorknob had been in the past. He found only hinges. TO BE CONTINUED... As I get older, so does the world. But as the world’s age is defined by revolutions of itself and the sun, my life is defined by memories – or should I say it was defined by memories. For it no longer carries definition, and I am dead; yes, dead to society, dead to sympathy. Perhaps a few who lay eyes on me say to themselves “I hope I don’t end up like him” or “there’s a fellow who’s done nothing with his life and now wishes he had.” I have done enough with my life, and now it seemed my life has done away with me.
My world has been reduced to a head full of memories, my universe is a patch of sidewalk, on which I am allowed a chair, on which I sit. Reality is constrained to the cars and the hours that go by, neither of which will slow for me. And I sit – just sit – picking grass from the cracks in the sidewalk on which I am situated, as a songwriter would pick a melody. But my melody is broken, its song is nearly over. Soon the music will cease, and – Any joy has been replaced by sorrow, any sorrow, with indifference. I am left alone to my thoughts and the grass. To release myself from my thoughts, I pick the grass. Blade by blade. As I watch it grow, I feel my spirit die. How cruel is this world that it would leave a dying man to his thoughts! How heartless that it should not offer a more concrete companion than the ghosts of a waning memory! This time, as I pick the grass, I take it by the roots. It will not grow again. A man is walking on my sidewalk. I assume he will pass me by, as all others do, but he does not. Stopping at my side, he, after an introduction, asks if I need anything. I remain silent, hoping that my silence would speak more loudly than any words I could form. I wait for him to leave, but he remains beside me – in fact, he kneels down next to my chair, placing a book he was carrying on the sidewalk to his right. He asks me my name, and I give it. With a brief sigh, he asks me if I am enjoying the unusual warmth of the season. He nods as I shrug. Why won’t he walk away? The breeze lifts up his brown hair, revealing a brow that was much less creased than mine. After a silence, he opens his mouth to speak. My eyes are on the ground as he asks if he can pray with me. Again, I remain silent. Upon this silence he asks if he can pray for me. What is so different about this man and his persistence? The peace in which he appears to be immersed? The compassion? The hope? All three? Assuredly it isn’t simple youthfulness that brought about these attributes. I nod my head, and he begins. “Heavenly Father, you know our hearts, and you know what is troubling this man. I pray that you may bring healing into his life, and that he may grow accustomed to your Light. You made the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the dead to rise – surely you can bring life into this man’s heart and bring him to you. If this man has committed wrong, may he accept the forgiveness that is offered to him freely. In Christ’s name I pray, amen.” With a hand placed on my shoulder and a “take care,” he gets to his feet. As he walks away, I slowly dip my head to the sidewalk. I continue to pick the grass. The subtle sound of a breeze playing tenderly with the pages of an open book meets my ears, and I turn my head. On the sidewalk is the book the stranger had been carrying under his arm, and, upon a second glance, I discern that it is a Bible. Gently placing it on my lap, I examine the worn pages; they are covered in highlights and scattered notes. With surprise, I determine that this book was the stranger’s personal Bible, and, upon observing the “presented to” date, that he had had it for what was likely most of his life. And he had left it on the sidewalk – for me? I put it down beside me, and once again turn to the grass. With a second’s hesitation, I work at uprooting the last few clusters. When, amidst scattering ants and scattered dirt, there remains one solitary blade, I pause. It isn’t too late. As an arm that I assume is my own extends toward the final blade of grass, I – what can I do? I will it to incline in direction of the book. This is my last chance. My hand reaches for the book, and my fingers close upon it. It’s now or never |