Departure

Sheer unimaginable loneliness.

It struck at the moorings of his soul, casting him adrift, a ragged open scar that drained him, his being pouring from it onto the open ground, drowning him in grief. His life seeming to spill from him with each breath, pulling hard at him, making it impossible to move or stand. Emotionally and physically exhausted, he sat where The Fates had left him, burning in a high altitude sun seated on the stoop in front of a small dusty, empty, simple hut, the only structure around that he could see. He looked in all directions, seeing dozens of paths that converged on this place, like spokes on a wheel, as if it was a desired destination, crossing the open rubble strewn field all around him. The mud daubed hut had walls unadorned over a base of faded light blue paint with white flowers trimmed along the edge. Several runs of rope and string with swaths of colorful cloth tied dancing like pennants ran from a stick on the top of the hut to end secured fragily beneath rocks some feet away. The stoop on which he sat painfully was a paled red, with more sun bleached mud slathered on top that failed to level it, its sharp texture poking through his thick woolen pants. He was a weary, handsome, chiseled man of some forty-five or fifty years, weather dried and smoky, with wind abused skin, scarred with nooks and crannies, each with its own story, scars that ran long and thick, others runnning tightly together like rows in a field. He sat beneath a brimmed hat tossed askance over a thick wave of close and messily cropped hair, cousin to an unintended beard, unsure of itself bristling across his face. He was struck hard by the intense lonliness of being here, somewhere along the walking road at the base of some unknown valley deep in the mountains, whose glacial tops rose thousands of feet high all around him, caving in on him. He knew no one among the handful of nomads he could see, spoke no languange they knew, and had no idea quite how he had managed to find himself here, let alone how to move on. Again and again he endured the intense ache in his heart, second only to the bodily pain and stench that enveloped him, dragging him down, and down again.

Angered, he pulled off his hat, scratching his head hard with both hands, then rubbing it to waken himself, feeling pain and ache with every motion, then abruptly pulling the hat back down snug before the wind and sun took what was left of his sanity. He recalled that moment only a few months ago in Bombay when this sounded like a dream of a lifetime of adventures! Travel to Tibet and see the Roof of the World, cross it, and live life to its fullest, coming out on the other side! It had started well, all excitement and laughter, parties with beautiful women swooning to hear the imaginary tales of their adventure to come, the departure all jaunty and joyful with expectation. The weeks passed and the shiny came off, no more joy, only anxiety as the middle bogged down when Samuels died of dysentery in Sikkim, and the end falling off when Umbart along with Eddington perished in the collapse of the glacier wall on the approach to this unknown valley. Now he was alone, disappointment and loneliness deeper than he had ever known or thought possible was the only voice he heard. He had fallen himself in the search for their never found bodies, and had struck his head from which he still suffered terrible headaches and periods of nausea and double vision. He was miserable.

He had no idea of the date, how long he had been invalid, who had cared for him before he woke alone in this hut, no idea where he was, how to go about leaving, or in which direction to go. He had lain there, in his own filth, capable of and caring for no more movement than to roll from one side to the other, before he woke today, realizing he was not where he thought he should be, learning quickly that he did not know where he was nor how long he had been there. From where he sat, everything was up, juxtaposed with the notion that really, nothing could be lower. His gaze rose to the windswept and snowy mountain ridges all around him, his burgeoning and cloying deep despair bringing first soft then violent sobs, making his head pound until he vomited nothing. After some moments he caught his breath, wiped the snot from his nose and looked up, feeling eyes upon him. Across the scrabbled path he saw the very short, stout, bent old man with an equally aged and bent donkey that seemed destined to tip over, burdened with a wooden cask on one side balanced by a large heavy wooden trunk on the other. The old man was himself laboring under a heavy sack tied with a thin rope over his shoulder, several layers of colorful woolen cloaks and a pointed woolen hat with a curious tuft on top, pulled over his ears, its ties swinging untethered under his knobbled chin.

The old traveler was watching the younger old man, unmoving, then reached out his hand and beckoned come, once. Without waiting for a response, he renewed his slow journey in the direction Armand felt surely was not the way he had thought to go. Feeling no sense of urgency, he looked around, gathered his few things, lamented his soiled clothes, and stood uncertainly. He looked down the path seeing the old man and his donkey hobbling away and turned to follow. He was dead tired, sick and sore. He realized he could not recall when last he had eaten or drank. None of that bothered him. He continued to be wracked with waves of grief that consumed him, threatening to incapacitate him, making his other worries meaningless. His despair deepened. Was this now hope, direction, and with each step, possibly home? He wanted more than anything for the fears to stop, the loneliness and grief to leave him, and to be home... just home.

The night comes darkly

The night comes darkly
with the dawn of dusk.
Fire and light running to the west,
shadows and ghosts on the wind from the east.
As nightfall comes
so too the whispers of trusts broken,
of personal hells loosed,
and of dreams untethered.

The night brings solitude,
silent moments that lurk in coyed hearts,
deep emotions slipping seamlessly
from the soul of unrequitedness,
to the heart of regret,
for things done, not done,
things undone,
and things felt impossible.
As it ebbs and flows,
the night brings peace to those
who sleep and forget.
For the rest,
their's is but to lament.

The morning comes
tentatively, tenuously, tenaciously,
awakening the fair and the ugly alike.
The day comes and takes,
leaving little time for gentler tidings,
leaving no notion,
to wonder for the night
that had slipped by unfettered,
and to find it coming again,
at days end
a stranger that comes darkly.

The dark comes nightly,
the morning follows,
and life is lived as it should be,
not as it would be.
Seek joy,
that the days find warmth and light,
the nights remain asleep,
and the passion silences the lamentations.
Be joy,
that you are the music that fills the halls
where the dying seek love
and the living seek solace,
and the night that comes darkly
retreats to the souless.

Illusion of thought

It rose first as the twilight of a thought, but as the moments passed, he began to think of it in more solid forms, a block of plain granite being struck with hammers, creating negative space, filling the void of the idea with a more concrete image, the chisel into the softer aspects, finally polishing the most delicate parts. He ran upstairs to the light. He stood alone in the empty room, devoid of inspiration, or distraction depending on his mood. His was a short visage of a middle aged man with a moppish bundle of thick wavy hair, darker than the unlit stairwell that lead to this brightly lit room, dressed plainly in khaki pants and a T-shirt that welcomed the challenge to void warranties, and well worn sandals. Seamless, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, all brightly lit, painfully but coldly bright, making one stand silent with eyes closed, the red image of his retina's blood supply burning into his mind.

The brightness forced him to focus his thoughts, from their usual random stammer to a cohesive discourse. This notion of free will... where does a thought actually come from? Did I chose a thought, or did it just come to mind? From where? Why can I not stop them if they are mine to control? Why do I like blue, or mexican food, or classical guitar? When I decide in my mind between things, did I choose? The voice that is talking to me now... if that is my voice, as I am talking in my mind, to whom am I talking? Why do I not choose my next thought? Is my subconcious in control, my consciousness just an illusion? He asked me to chose a city. Boston, no, Paris. Why Paris, not Boston, and of all the cities I know, why these two? Am I free to chose cities I do not know? Why does a murderer murder, while another does not? Could the murderer, with its mind shaped by genes and experience, can it really take a different path, do something different in the same circumstances? Or was its decisions forced by its physiology? Am I making choices, is choice, free will, real, or is there only the illusion of choice? Do I choose what I will do next, when an fMRI can show the decision formed seconds ago, before I was even aware? My subconcious chooses before I even know I will choose! What about the things I do that I did not want to? How do we know what, who, is in control? Which am I, cause or effect?

He opened his eyes...

Allow

Those moments in our life
when we awaken to see what is
rather than what we wish would be.
We choose in that moment
the value of truth over illusion,
to sustain the perception
or live and love what we are
who we are,
as we are.

In those moments we define ourselves.
We believe we choose who we are,
who we will be,
but more
we choose for others who they are.
We may wish to be
but we are only that which others allow.

Without us there is no they.
No one for they to draw themselves upon
deciding who they are,
who they will be,
as they choose for us
who we are,
who we will be.

For this, no one IS without another.
If no one is there to see,
to hear,
to feel,
we do not exist.

Carefully choose
who you allow others to be.
Above all, allow.

 

Ryujin

Toshizo had walked this road before, when the sky was clear and the sun warm, but now the winds were high and the days dreary. Such was the spring of the Doldrum Years, wet, cold, and without respite. So little solace along this lonely road, dark for the canopy overhead, and the river of mud that wound its way through the Sentinel Forest. He lead his horse having become stiff and sore with the hours in saddle. It felt good to walk, though each step was treacherous. The horse seemed to welome the break, having no more energy than he did, and so their pace was slow and determined. Weary, it would be evening soon, and the end of day, the beginning of night.

They watched him pass, listening to the wind as it weaved through the trees, parting over the walker and his horse. The man was dressed simply in leather and wool, clean but travel worn. His horse well saddled, encumbered only by the sword that hung ready at the front, his bags lashed securely to the back. This was no ordinary soul, but one capable of defending himself should the circumstances warrant. They had no ill intent, but their curiosity lead them to match his pace, and they watched.

He felt the prickle of conciousness, the inner voice that spoke not of anxiousness or fear, but alertness. He did not sense danger, but he knew he was watched, by three, no more than five. He admired their swift silence, moving through the woods, a lesser man would not have been aware, but he was no ordinary man. He knew of these folk, the inhabitants of the Sentinel Forest, though he had never seen one, no one had. There were no tales of fierocity or malice, but then there were no tales of greatness or cleverness either. The tales were of uncommitted mystery. No one feared them, but no one knew them. But there was something else that scratched at the edge of his senses, something he was not yet quite aware of. He continued his way.

They knew he was a ranger, one of the King's men. They knew he was in danger from the presence on the far side of the next hill, but they did not feel compelled to warn him. They had no doubt he would manage, and felt no kinship, but they wished him no harm, for they knew if things were reversed he would protect them. And so, they raced ahead, and passed the word to stir the pot, to make the hidden known. They had no love for the presence.

Further up the road, the man in the dark hooded cloak waited, knowing the ranger was approaching. His gloved hand ran down the nobbled, thick, irridescent skin of the dragon on which he sat, a war saddle between his knees. It was between his leathered fingers that the dragonslayer struck, splitting dragon flesh and bone, bringing the beast to its hindlegs with a fiery roar that burnt the treetops and illuminated the evening sky, casting its rider to the hardscrabble ground, and bringing the ranger's lightening sword to bear.

The ranger stopped, sword in hand, and waited. The presence was discovered, and it was angry.

The Regret of Age

"There was a time in my life when I knew everything and was unaware. I was unafraid, random, energized and free. Now I am aware, and know nothing, find fear is a bedfellow. I am controlled, weak and shackled," he said. They sat quietly for a moment as she mulled over his words. A light breeze played musically upon the leaves, the sun sprinkling down through the fresh green that spring had brought with the rains. They sat gathered beneath the old oak of the field, on a tapestry of fine woven wool, the old man in an armed chair.

"Is this a good thing, to have grown in this way?" she asked pensively and with reservation.

He chuckled. "Much like this gnarled old oak, I grew as was necessary. What sets me apart from the tree is regret. It follows oddly, dear, that who one wants to be is shifted to what one becomes by the forces that limit your fates." His gaze moved across the sky to her lovely face. "My dear... the tales of gallant men and women who stand against the storm, who bravely speak out their thoughts with abandon, who act freely unconcerned of the judgment of others, we tell those tales and raise these people up because that is what we imagine we are, what we wish was right. And yet, we spend our lives denying these paths to one another lest others become our better. We become what we sow, rather than what we dream, and believe in the fairy tales that say we are great. Those tales are what our dreams are made of. But this life, we make this life miserable in our efforts to bring others down so we may lift ourselves up. For what purpose? This dream an illusion. One never can hold it without losing everything else in one's hand..."

"You might be called cynical, grandfather... ", she offered.

"Yes, perhaps by the young who have not been burned in the crucible of experience and age."

"I plan to be brave!" the younger of the two women exclaimed.

"A truly great person will tell you, my love, that they want not to be brave, for when you a brave, people want to hurt you. Whom the gods will destroy they first call great. That is where courage is born, and I have no doubt you are courageous, but you will be hurt grievously if you are brave", he replied. The younger woman smiled, stood and hugged him tightly.

"You are a wise man, grandfather... but I will be brave nonetheless."

"Thank you my dear.... but that is where the regret comes. For I have not been brave. When life offered me moments for bravery, I chose instead to remain silent. I chose not to be hurt, or to have those who love me be hurt, and instead chose the lower road. I don't know that this was brave, or good."

The young man, leaning against the tree spoke for the first time, "M'Lord... Sometimes minor aggravations must be borne in silence for the greater good."

The old man looked into the younger man's eyes, "Aye, Sir Trent... but what is the greater good? To lay down when one should stand, for personal safety and imaginary freedom, or to stand and risk all so that others may find long lasting peace and true freedom? I have remained silent, and lost personal peace to gain momentary freedom. For what purpose? I regret."

The younger man nodded in respect, seeing the tear that gathered then made its way down the old man's face. He loved this man, more each day, for what he had done, noticed by few, that gave them all life, that even now the old man seemed to have forgotten.

"I think, old man, that you have been more courageous than you might allow...".

At the Dagger's Edge

Of course it was an awkward moment. Sensio in this situation at all was odd. That Vitani stood so close behind him, also uncomfortable. It was the knife in Vitani's hand pressed against his neck that made him feel most curious and out of sorts. As if being an Italian in Spain wasn't curious enough. He needed to get some control over his life, he thought.

"He knows you for the godless heathen you are, Sensio!"

"He has know this since I was a child, Vitani. I doubt this has suddenly come to his attention and warrants my having to kill you," Sensio said softly. That he was speaking softly made Vitani more anxious than Sensio's threat. Sensio had already planned Vitani's death despite being at the dagger's edge. That Vitani was not dead already spoke of their friendship, and Sensio's discipline. He pushed Sensio away forcefully. Sensio stepped away, turned slowly, his hands rising in an offering of non-retribution. Vitani knowing Sensio as an honorable man, and his friend despite their roles, lowered then sheathed his dagger.

"I mean you no disrespect, Sensio. But he sent for you, and you did not come."

"What could he possibly want that warrants this foolishness?"

Vitani stepped to then sat at the low table, spread with a small breakfast of wine, cheese and fresh bread. Sensio rubbed his neck lightly. He remained standing, alert, knowing Vitani was not likely alone, but with whom he did not know. He did not fear his friend, but he did not understand why the Monsigneur had sent Vitani for him this time. He never came at the Cardinal's bidding, something the Cardinal had long let go of. Something was wrong, and he was wary. The Inquisitors in Spain were unfettered of late, and fear ruined the day. Anyone whom someone had crossed was capable of being named a heretic and quickly taken to God's fiery justice.

Vitani shrugged his shoulders, "Perhaps if you came to Mass, you would be at peace and not so suspicious. I am the Captain of the Cardinal's Guardia. I am told to go and return with Sensio del Milenaisea in shackles, so I went, and here I am, though not sure I wish to return. It could ruin my breakfast."

"Surely the Cardinal knows I would not come, even with you. And we have no doubt you could not compel me," Sensio replied thoughtfully. He had unconciously made his way to the large window, his unfocused gaze passing over the widening vista below, filled with a morning sunlight as it was evey morning this time of year. A cart filled with wood pulled by two men struggled up the road to the villa. He ran his hand across the moss on the sill, enjoying its cool velvety smoothness. It calmed him. He needed calming.

"True," Vitani said idly, "He tires of you knocking over his fires."

"You mean the ones with people on stakes over them?"

"Yes, those fires. You are a good man, the city knows you, respects you, and admires your voice for their fate. But you have been named a heretic, and this the Cardinal knows: you are an annoyance he can no longer allow. He is aware that if you are found you will be burned and there will be anger. If you are not found, he will burn the city to find you, and there will be anger. Anger either way, but the flock is always angry about something, and one way ends without you as the thorn in his crown. Needless to say, that is the ending he prefers. He does not love you, Sensio, no more than he loves your brother, the King, though you did not hear me say that. He knows that to bring you to Tomas de Torquemada will rip this city apart, and yet he cannot let you continue your godless ways, knocking over his fires and saving people from God's fate. He wants you to come to him to confess."

Sensio raised an eyebrow with a smirk, "Seriously?"

"No, of course not," Vitani said mockingly. "He knows he will be denied by you, and that the city will be burned." He pulled his dagger out and cleaned it's blade on the table's edge. "What does he care? His home is in the country." Vitani began eyeing Sensio's breakfast.

"Hmm... seems I have a new purpose," Sensio said, turning, crossing his arms and legs, leaning with his back to the window, watching Vitani watching his breakfast. He could feel the rising sun's warmth across his broad shoulders.

"He feared as much. You know you cannot kill Father Tomas. He knows that you cannot. At least he believes you will not."

"We all know I can, and that I must. Its not dying afterwards that is the trick, a small wish, a matter for a moment's thought before action," Sensio said matter-of-factly.

"Ah... I think that is what keeps him awake at night. A Prince of the people who does not fear his death, yet plans well to avoid it." Vitani poured himself a cup of wine, and cut off a piece of the cheese that was Sensio's breakfast, now apparently his. "Even the Pope fears death...", Vitani continued, "Faith is always nervous. The more faithful, the more nervous."

"You are eating my breakfast," Sensio protested distractedly.

"The least of your worries. So now, what to do, what to do?"

 

In the end it will be morning...

He put his beer down with a thud. "Ya know, I'm not so fond of this thinkin' thing. Seems to me thinkin' is what got together this mess we find ourselves in. If there'd been no thinkin' just shootin' and slashin', the thing would be done and I could be nestled in some bosom. Thinkin's the thing that screwed the lot of us!"

"Ah, Jenoah, I can see how thinking ruins the whoring and partaking, but its thinking that has allowed me to keep your head upon your shoulders so that you might continue with the 'slashin' and shootin'.' "

A third man joined the two, pulling up a chair, tugging his long beautifully brocaded coat in place, saying to the comparatively desheveled chap, though he was speaking to the Captain,"Honestly, Martin, it's 'shootin' and slashin'', get it right chap. You should know these things by now, Royal Navy Captain and all. I have no idea how the two of you find yourselves together, considering one is a male trollop, and you, well, Martin, you are not."

Martin smiled and took the hand the giant of a man offered as he sat. "Bartholomew! I heard you died!"

"Many have tried, few have succeeded!", Bartholomew laughed.

Jenoah smiled and also shook the man's hand, which was gentle though it could crush the equally strong Jenoah's paw like a nut. His old friend was solidly built, and it is said that many have tried to kill Bartholomew, that he had died a few times, and yet, here he is.

"Captain Martin rudely asked me my opinion regarding this'n operation we are about to bestow upon the Spaniard. I think its a waste of men, time and effort, is what I think, but I too see no way around it. Honor is a terrible reason to die."

Bartholomew chortled, "Jenoah, you are always of one opinion. If it keeps you from the ladies and the wine, then its a waste of time! I am not sure that is what Martin wants to hear... surely you have an idea?"

Martin smiled, and offered, "Bartholomew, Jenoah feels that we should sail as Nelson, 'Straight at 'em'! I have the notion he is quite right..."

Bartholomew was not impressed. "If you'd like we could save you the trouble, and sink the Fianna right here at the pier, and Jenoah could get to his rightful business!"

"Jenoah, I think I agree with Bartholomew. A direct attack would end not with your debauchery, but with your feeding the fishes."

Jenoah smirked, understanding. "We will feed the fishes at the end of the day anyway, why not guns ablazin'? I think the Spaniard is wary of trickery, and the straight on attack would unsettle him. He has his fleet, you have the Fianna and Hermes, two frigates against several ships of the line. Remember Captain, the victory here is not in the sinkin' but in be in the delayin'!"

"Hmm... your point is a good one, Jenoah, and bears more thought. Leave us, if you will, and thank you for your time." Martin watched as Jenoah nodded at Bartholomew's parting words to the officer, and left them alone, rejoining his motley friends.

"He is not a learned man, but there are few lieutenant's with his experience. I should have kept him..."

Martin leaned back in his chair,"For what, Admiral, to follow you around like a puppy? He would drown himself to end the misery."

Bartholomew nodded, "As I have wished to drown myself many a time since this business began. Sending my friend to his death. Jenoah is right, and you know it. You will not survive this nasty business, but you must do it. Your affairs, and those of your men, they are in order?"

"Yes...", Martin replied, solemn now, "Yes. Only the unmarried men are to remain."

They sat silently for a while, watching those men as they paid life its last respects.

Bartholomew spoke first. "Do you think they understand, that they all will most certainly die in the morning? That they are being sent to the slaughter so others surely not as worthy may live?"

Martin remained still for a moment, staring across the room, a silence Bartholomew knew well to wait through. "I think that what they know is that life is short and miserable with death, that this is their life, and that when it ends it ends."

Bartholomew lifted the glass of red wine to his lips, "Ahh... but that's the trick, eh? When it ends, to not end it badly..."