Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
As I hang my bow with the others the first breeze of early spring turns the winter drear to mist; so now behind us in the eastern sky is the great bow across the heavens. First it seems a vision, with pale, surreal shades of tender color. But the thief sees it too so I know it is a thing of earth. It is both mystical and tangible. The rainbow marks a place where the things of earth cross over into the untouchable mystical. Thank you God.
I’m driven to song – and there are so many ways to sing of the rainbows.
The thief never joined in singing, even in the chorus; he only scowled at me.
My defense, “I thought that song just needed to be sung.”
“That’s the trouble with you, you’re always just singing out loud. It’s very odd.”
“It wouldn’t be odd if two of us were singing. Singing is a privilege of shared wonder. It’s very ancient.”
We walk on in silence toward the village.
[Footnote] This lyric is offered here with the writer’s permission. Happy Birthday, today, Mariah.
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
It’s a long slog in the cold rain. The thief complains incessantly about his load only reminding me he is indeed a thief with a sour attitude. If I choose to help him drag this excess he will rob me while I’m doing his work.
Now we come upon a tree still winter-naked but draped in the bows of hunters or warriors. Each bow is well made, well-tempered ready to be strung for the hunt. I suppose this means we are very near the pagan village.
Without even a wonder the thief leaves his sledge and runs to the tree to gather up the loot.
“What are you doing?” I ask with accusation.
“I’m harvesting bows, Ezra, man. This is the strangest fairy gifting I’ve ever found!”
“I don’t think this is meant as a gift to quill the evils of the underworld. I think we are very near the village and this is where they hang up their bows.”
“Why would they hang their bows on a tree outside the village? That makes no sense. What if robbers come to their village? They would need these.”
“You mean one robber, don’t you?”
“Okay, one robber and a Christian. How will they defend themselves?”
“I think the hanging up of the bows is an ancient symbol of peace. They don’t bring their weapons into their homes because they are telling any visitors they are unafraid. Weapons are a sign of fear. [Blogger’s note] Hanging up weapons is very ancient sign of peace.”
“So they leave their weapons on a tree for their attackers to be armed when they are not?”
“Well, yes, it is a statement of courage.”
“It has to be a trick.”
“I can see why you would only see a threat or a trick. It’s a different kind of power than simply flexing muscle and taking things by force. It’s the peaceful dare not to fight. I see it as a sign of welcome; it is the accepted vulnerability of peacemaking as dangerous as it may seem to you.”
The thief still thinks it’s a trick, but apparently he’s decided not to steal these and he’s putting them back. I believe it’s a sign of peace, so I hang my bow on a low branch, also.
[Blogger’s note] This notion that weapons—guns in modern example– are a sure sign of fear has been proven in American courtrooms when a shooter is exonerated because he cried and said he was afraid and so he killed people. Weapons speak of fear, not of power, not of courage.
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
I ask the thief, “Do you know how to soften a skin for shoes? Its how I made my shoes.”
“Why? I can just demand your shoes from you. So what gift did the pagans leave here? Did you already steal their fish?”
“There were no fish and the crows beat us to the rabbit so I hunted this new rabbit for both of us.” Silently we eat. There is no good night when we only worry what the other will take.
“Good night.”
Awake under this red morning sky in the shivers of a cold winter’s rain I gather my things and I see where the thief sleeps near the fire in a fine shelter of skins and fleeces. He already has shoes, so his envy for mine won’t be solved by my generosity. And he’s hoarding a huge heap of useless booty.
The rains leave me longing for springtime as I go quietly on my way. Softness hints in a bog where I stop for rest and find a grub for the fish hook and some fern heads barely unfurling just under the leafy mat. Later I will share this feast of fish and fern.
He catches up and now I see how he travels. He tows his booty on a sledge. And he looks at my little traveler’s bag and accuses me of hiding a stash.
“Is your bag heavy?” he asks.
“Very light, though I’ve just added a fresh fish and some fiddleheads we can share for our supper.”
“So you did steal the fishhook. I’d like to have a look in your bag and see what other gifts to the fairies you’ve stolen along the way.”
“No.”
“You have a fine bow I see. Did you find that left as a talisman at a pagan campsite too?”
“Speak for yourself. I cut this bow from a sapling maple. It’s still greenwood, hardly taught enough to be useful. Since I plan to follow the hunters into the mountains I may need a bow in time.”
“If it isn’t a good bow, then how did you hunt the rabbit we ate?”
“Maybe the rabbit was slow or had bad eyesight and he didn’t see me until I was very close. Maybe we ate a slothful rabbit. Maybe we will be slothful now.”
“Not I, I’m only slowed by this heavy load and you haven’t even offered to help. How do you claim to be a Christian?”
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
Asking prayers aren’t forbidden by Jesus. But as I think of these things I recall my own asks for food or shelter and often I pray and ask for someone else’s healing. God who speaks in shared love sometimes answers with the coincidence of that thing I ask being given immediately. Often God answers my prayer by giving me empathy for others with my own need, so by acting on my love for them, both needs are met. At times my asks teach me through kindness from others. And sometimes God’s answers seem delayed, ‘wait and see.’
Dear God, Thank you for your always answers. May I find in your love signs, not magic, always and ever. Amen.
This new morning is the February tease of spring. The thief is still here this morning. He is trying to catch a fish without a net or a hook. So I have time to go on alone over the top of this hill and arrive at the next campsite of the pagans well ahead of him. The noontide sun is barely edging westward when I arrive at the next abandoned campsite.
Again, the coals are still warm and a gift for the fairies was left. This time it would’ve been a fresh rabbit with the arrow but the crows are already gnawing at the meat. Now the arrow with the iron tip is another useful thing to add to my riches — the fishhook and the line — that child-sized sickle I found in the ashes made from Nic’s blade — all little iron gifts to let me survive without community in this wilderness.
By the time the thief arrives it’s nearly dark. My things are hidden in a scant shelter I wove from brush in a place out of sight. And I’m waiting by this fire turning a new rabbit on a spit. I can share the meat with this man, and I’ve already set aside the skin so he can make his own winter shoe.
He blames me, “I’m so late coming because I was looking for you! You just seemed to vanish into thin air, along with all your goodies – your fleece, and your warm shoes.”
“And I thought, good thief, that you had no regard for those who vanish into thin air – the elves and fairies and such.”
“You’re nothing like the myth of one of those, Ezra. You are Christian; Christians don’t vanish; they elude.”
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
The sticks and brush I find are damp with melting snow, so the fire makes a fine wall of smoke to separate me from seeing the glutton, that very real blob of humanity. He’s expecting that his power to turn pagan myth into material sustenance also works on Christians. He reminds me of Christian superstitions, expecting tangible answers to prayer in the form of nourishment and healing, leaving me pondering what I know of God deep in my heart. I also consider the many human ways of meeting God and it sets me introspective and even in my own heart, there, is God.
My plan is to follow the tribe tomorrow so that I will be a day behind them until they arrive at their village. Then I can beg the hunters to take me into the Vosges Mountains following after the Celtic monks. I don’t wish to travel with this thief. He will surely take my shoes and fleece and bag and now offers to switch out my love of God for material stuff he can take as well. So when he leaves the fireside for a moment I take the opportunity to go quickly up the rocks and out of site. I don’t want to lead him directly to my hidden cave, so I lurk in the rocks, watching. He checks in the two caves visible from below, but apparently chooses not to climb higher onto these rocks by the waterfalls.
He walks a short distance after the tracks of the tribe so I climb higher into the rocks, so that I can see over and see where that trail they left leads. From on top of this precipice I can see the pagan tribe was following a smoother wider path around the base of these cliffs.
The solitude I was seeking wasn’t one purposed with evading a thief, but it is what it is. This nearly hidden cave up here higher than the others is a good place to spend tonight also. I take on the project of arranging rocks to hide the opening and whittling a bow from a greenwood stick. I ponder the question, how do the superstitions of prayers rob me of my love of God?
Dear God, help me to find your love for this swarthy glutton who has gloomed onto me. I’ve been taught prayers of petition are holy and Christian. How is that not superstition? Guide me. So be it.
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
I expected to spend a glittering white winter’s day in solitude fasting; but I was robbed of fasting by the find of fishes. Then, I was robbed of fishes by the thief who took my solitude.
He says he makes his way by stealing from the pagans who believe in earth things too small to notice and maybe he steals from Christians who believe in the One who is too vast for human imagination.
He tells of the pagan myths of elves. They sneak into hovels where parents prepare loving gifts for their children. The children are led to believe the elves were the generous benefactors rather than the parents. The children leave milk and cakes out for these stealthy elves and the thief eats the goodies so the myth is affirmed. The myth steals the parent’s love. The thief eats the cakes.
“So how is it” I ask, “that you steal from Christians? Christians don’t leave out the cakes and milk. We make our gifts at churches.”
“You are such a Christian to believe there is a distinction. I get my gorge from Christians the same as I do from the pagans. When Christians say, ‘sure you can’t see God, but you can see the mighty works of God, and in that way you know God.’ Then the Christians themselves do the kindnesses in the name of God.”
“We are driven by empathy for the needy. We first learn of gracious abundance noticing God’s grace all around us. But that is probably hard to do for one who believes they are the most important thing in the universe. In fact God is the all of it. I can see how you miss the point. Without God it is hard to see so far beyond yourself.”
The creek is cascading from the rocks once again, and the sun is piercing holes in the ice on the water just now with droplets flowing from fine tendrils of ice hanging off twigs and rocks all around. The thief is sitting by this fire that was left and he has eaten all three of the fishes. Ice, water, mist, this fellow has no use even for the transparent waters that flow around us; he knows only the debris on the edges.
Dear God, I know you are a truth that can’t be stolen from me, thank you. I love you too.
I leave the thief to go gather firewood for us both.
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
My plan is to let the tribe of hunters move on ahead by a day and night, then I will follow them to find the Celtic Christians and their leader Columbanus. But apparently, this wood is teeming with notions of fairies and right here in front of me is this very tangible thief. He says he follows the pagans and takes advantage of their myths.
“So you are a Christian,” begins the thief.
“I follow the Jesus teachings, but I don’t adhere to the Creed, so I’m a heretic in these times.”
“As though there were other times.” He argues, “I believe in reality myself.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Not so. Celts and Christians believe in things that are unseen. Their entire view of the world is based on some invisible power known only by its signs regardless of the sights, and smells and tastes of reality.”
I offer a defense, “I believe that the God who is God is Creator of all the earth and in fact the total universe, seen and unseen, and that God is love. I see Spirit through metaphor, and I feel the very real love of God. So I do believe in an invisible God but certainly not in pagan gods and fairies.”
“Believing in things unseen is all one foolishness. It causes people to leave gifts to their wild imaginings in tangible offerings – fishes here, for example – which are now only for the pleasure of this thief. I make my way trusting in tangible reality and taking for myself those edible, spendable offerings left out for the unfounded fears of lurking troublemakers.”
I choose not argue. I simply state my boundary, “I intend to keep my fleece and my winter shoes. You are welcome to the fish that were left here by someone else.”
“You know what they would teach their little ones don’t you?”
“I didn’t think they had any little ones these days.”
“Serves them right. Even though none of them has actually seen a fairy or an elf, even among those who believe, they still tell the tales anyway because such lying and trickery seems to appease children. So the children leave biscuits and milk out for the unseen elf, who is really a thief in their own household, because the child believes it is elves that bring them gifts not their own loving and trusted parent. The love and trust of parent is stolen by the elfin lie.”
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
Here in this silence of a winter wood newly snowed-in with even the waterfall stilled in ice I find a beautiful solitude. Every breath is visible. Every prayer – every thought – every little wonder – every little footprint of bird or mouse – everything important is deeply etched into the purity of this stillness.
Psalms of thanksgiving roust through my mind, setting me to singing. I chant the call, and the music travels unbounded until it is received, maybe by some hidden fox or silent hare, and the response comes back to me fully immersed as quiet.
Then this unabashed solitude is completely shattered as the smoke shifts and I see here at my own fire circle a human sort of forest creature, all in fleeces and furs for winter but with all the decorations of the festival, a crown of leaves, not thorns like holly or the Jesus crown; rather it is a flow of that weedy vine, the kind used to treat a cow’s udder, draped and woven into the unkempt beard still a youthful golden color. He is helping himself to the fish on my fire.
“You caught me by surprise. Are you with the tribe of hunters that was here?” “Of course not! I thought you were with that tribe? They’ve moved on you know.”
“I Know. I still plan to follow them. I’m known as Ezra.”
“Very fine to meet you Ezra; I am a thief, so I make it a practice not the share my name.”
“A thief you say?”
“Yes, and I’ve stolen these fish. There must have been a hook and line. That would be how they would leave it.”
“So why would they leave it like that?”
“You’re not a believer are you?”
“I have beliefs. Maybe I seem a heretic in these times, but I’m a Christian.”
He laughs with a strained and plotted guffaw. “A Christian isn’t a ‘believer.’ It is Christian sin to believe. But the hunters — they are believers. They leave things for the fairies behind them, so the fairies will leave them alone. And it works. They aren’t bothered by fairy pranks. So it takes a thief to eat up these leavings the believers offer. Thank you for cooking my fish, and now I will have that line and hook, the fleece on your shoulders, your shoes, and whatever else you may have for me.”
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
Snow fell silently all night and now it heaps across the entrance to this cave so morning light is just a dim glow through the snow. Guldilyn is calling, “Ezra.” I hear people right outside this cave looking for me. They aren’t even aware this cave is here. I didn’t really mean to hide from them but now I am.
My long night here in sweet darkness was the holy blessing I needed for prayers and to listen back to dreams and thoughts all to knit together as my clarity of mind. I need to journey on alone now, but I also need direction to that place they saw the Irish father.
Now I hear a rumor that I had been washed away in the river last night as I was on my way to the women’s cave with my fleece. Guildilyn knows I can swim, but she allows them to assume I drown. She probably believes I ran away and left no trace. Among the voices there seems a sense of loss, but it is like a possession lost, like the loss felt when a slave has runaway. It’s not grief. They mean to get an early start and decide not to waste any more time with this.
It’s been a while since I’ve heard any voices, so I push the snow away and venture down the rocks to the abandoned campsite.
Not only do they leave me behind, they also leave an unkempt campsite. The fire can still be rekindled and here in the icy water I find fresh fish still on a line with a fine iron hook. So now I have fish and a hook and a line. I know this story, when the plan the followers had to fast with grief is interrupted by a feast of fish. [John 21] Thank you God.
A whole tribe moving through fresh snow makes no secret of the travel direction. It will be easy to follow their tracks but I plan to let one day elapse between us. They seem to be moving away from the river we followed yesterday. And since they hadn’t climbed over the rocks by the river when they went on their way no one knew of the cave I found. Tomorrow I will follow them.
Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest
Now I understand. I’m not really here to help with the hunt while these two men guide me on a comfortably furnished journey to find the Christians in the wilderness. The only thing that concerns them is the continuation of their own tribe. Guldilyn mentioned the insatiable appetite for personal power that drives men. And she did say this was about men. I listened to her then as though she was a woman and of secondary power; so for her, I thought, the lust for power was a gender thing. But that was not what she was saying. Now I know I should have been alert to what her words really meant. It is not about empowering one man, but about the survival of the tribe.
Like a wounded animal with priority on survival, there is nothing a tribe won’t do to assure its continuation. Individual wants and needs are irrelevant. The tribe (or political party like the Sadducees or the Pharisees, or a national autocracy, like Rome) is more valued than any individual life. That’s how wars are made. Half truths, lies, trickery, and particularly ravaging the enemy would, of course be expected in the face of a threat from another tribe; but when the threat is from within, from its own shrinking numbers, it becomes simply a matter of finding more distant men or maidens for procreation. Of course this makes sense.
I can see why Thole with his fiery soft hair would be preferable, and two of us more valuable than one. But I really don’t know what to do with this epiphany. I start back toward the caves, though my most pressing need right now is for a prayer in solitude. I climb the rocks by the river coated in ice along side the winter torrents cascading into falls. And there, before me, thank you God, is a third cave, tucked back into the rock. It’s solitude and maybe even shelter — a place for a day’s end rest as the shadows of night overtake all the sky darkening now, even the opening in the tree tops where the river below breaks through the wood. Here is fresh water and shelter just large enough for one man with a fleece. I needn’t return until I have the spiritual clarity to know what to do.
Dear God, thank you for this time and shelter, please guide my choices in your way of warless compassion. I await your guidance. Amen.
Lazarus Ink 