Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time
It is a miracle indeed, though it never appears in an instant of shining like a lightning bolt. Healing is more of a memory of how it was, to know that now it is better. Healing is a rare opportunity — a hope that drives a spirit beyond where a body can go. Healing is a ceaseless driver through failures and falls, and of course, that horrific dependency on a caregiver who seems relentless in his giving, though maybe only for pity’s sake. And in these times, it seems the whole sake of me is only for pity.
The little monk never knew anything of me except my neediness. What will he do with his pity for me when I have my strength and the power to rise up as I choose, and to walk, and move, and go out in the day whenever it is convenient? Will my simple gratitude be enough?
Thank you, God. Thank you, little monk.
I will soon be an intruder here. Though I hope I can be useful.
On this new morning the little monk brings in the flask of goat’s milk to share as always, but today he also brings me a stout stick washed in the sea, smooth and clean to be a walking stick. He must believe that I will be walking soon. He seems to welcome my new freedom — maybe it is his freedom from me, also.
I’ve pierced arm holes in the linen grave cloth he once lent me as a blanket, so that I can wear it as a simple tunic. I’m sure he notices that I have this plan to clothe myself with the linen grave cloth he assigned to me when he thought I was a dead man. I removed the draw cord at the hem opening and it serves as a cinch at my waste to draw the new tunic up to a walking length. So now I have something of earth to cover my wounded nakedness. If I should take up this walking stick and rise up and leave this hovel, at least my healing wounds will be hidden.
So, I choose this overcast day to venture outside for the first time because the bright sun would be blinding after so much time in near darkness. I’ve seen very little of the outside but a blur of light on the most beautiful days and the circle of gray, or night’s darkness in the smoke hole at the top.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 