“Illegitimi Non Carborundum …
Don’t Let the Bastards Grind You Down”
She had been a nun, a shadow of a woman who had infiltrated the cloistered nunnery not to be the voice, the hands of God, but rather to introduce darkness into the core of light. In the years she sidewinded among the devote sisters, she sowed the seeds of discord and fear, being immune to the beatific acts of devotion surrounding her. Rather than offering healing and solace to a community long in need of these virtues, she concocted a bubbling blasphemous brew. And thus, she was released of her vows and cast out into the realm of unsuspecting men and women. And for years, she became a contamination amongst citizens in her neighborhood, infecting them with her mellifluous words and her soulless deeds.
Death finally claimed the hellkite, but the aftermath of her deeds continued to radiate out like heat from an untended firepit. For so many decades, the neighbors had been in danger of sacrificing their immortal souls; even now that the corpse moldered in its grave, her influence continued to demand their attention. Although they had been freed from her shackles, they remained imprisoned by memories. Some even considered the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, they were tainted by the malignancy that still blighted them.
One day, a bright amber cart guided by a dappled mare rolled into town. At the seat of the wagon sat an old man with a grizzled beard and a booming voice, announcing his presence. His voice resonated throughout the valley, yet it was as gentle as the wool of a newly shorn lamb, “I am Raphael, a seller of treasures long sought after but rarely found. I offer them to you but for a few paltry coins, yet your investments will reward you unmeasurably as do the beams of light from the stars above. Come close, dear friends, and accept my offerings. Come forth, brothers and sisters, and cast down the anchors that weigh you down. Come forth, righteous men, women and beasts and drink from the font I offer you.” Needless to say, the citizens were intrigued, perhaps inspired, and one by one they approached the peddler, curious to learn his ways.
The first to approach was a massive cinnamon brown dog with its tail tucked between its legs. As it nervously approached the wagon, it pulled back its lips, revealing menacing, sharp teeth. The peddler held out one hand and whispered, “I know, dear one, that you have been abused and abandoned. Alas, the world knows not that all creatures great and small are in Spirit’s embrace.” The dog lowered its head and gingerly approached, the magnificence of the itinerant peddler now evident. “Sir, I have nothing to offer, yet, I long for so much, for the gentle touch of my beloved caretaker, for the tender loving words ‘Good boy’ whispered into my ear, for the freedom to love unconditionally, even as I am loved unconditionally.” I have been injured by one who no longer walks amongst us. Her curses and threats have seared my soul and made me fearful of humanity. In sleep, she still hovers nearby as I am consumed by spasms of fear and despair.” The peddler teared up and offered wisdom. He replied, “I know not why evil is incarnate. I know not why good is the world highest code. What I do know is that unconditional love will be rewarded, in time. Allow me to offer you a blessing on your head that you may always know that love will always reign supreme.” The dog, now smiling, genuflected before his benefactor, arose and trotted off into the shadows, knowing someday, someday but in the blink of an eye, he would awaken to the eternal caress of love.
A widow dressed in black garments approached slowly from behind a copse of weeping willows. Her gentle husband had died in a tragic accident in the wooded glen near the village a few months earlier. Going out into the countryside one summer morn, his horse had vaulted when a lion materialized unexpectedly from behind an oak, and the man tumbled off the horse. Though the lion ran off, the man was ushered unto gentle death surrounded by a quilt of overhanging firmament. His wife grieved unabashedly, withdrawing from the eyes of her neighbors. Alas, sensing that the widow was an easy target, the old woman snarled out bitter words, “I see, your ill-fated husband has abandoned you, leaving you to live out your years in utter misery, hoping for ultimate reunion. You know, of course, that he has flown away to a dreamless land, never to awaken. And as for you, the same inky nothingness awaits.” And she flew off cackling and chortling a demonic laugh, knowing she had unraveled the widow’s faith. Knowing the widow’s heart had little residue of hope, the peddler approached and offered her a tiny glass bottle containing a single grain of rice, girdled by a golden thread. As she looked at her offering, she noted her name as well as that of her husband etched into the grain. “What be this?” she asked the affable gentleman whose eyes sparkled with the inviting light of the sun. “Your faith, your love, your souls are conjoined for all time. Be patient and go out and harvest strawberries and rescue fledging sparrows fallen from their nests. In time, you will be rewarded with a table set with delights sweeter than the sweetest of honey and your heart will nestle within its own comforting nest. Be patient and live life like sunflowers unaware of winter’s approach,” he replied. Being unable to pay for her gift, she asked, “Since I have no coin, may I go and find the reddest, sweetest berries hidden beneath the shadows of a grove of white birches as a modest offering?” He smiled and nodded. She ran off dancing in the wind, knowing that the blade that cleaved her heart had been extricated, knowing that even now the scar was closing as two hearts, separated by the schism of time and space, pulsed with synchronicity anew.
Finally, the evil doer’s worst victim stepped forth. It was evident that his heart was heavy with grief, an affliction resulting not from the death of the neighbor, but rather from the pain he carried, believing that his vindictive thoughts had damned him. For years, she had tormented him because he was different, that is, a man who genuinely radiated light. In him, she recognized what she could never be. Thus, the only way she could deal with the mirrored reflection that taunted her psyche was to attack. He sought to ignore her assaults, to deflect the pellets of spewed hatred, to heal over the sullied wounds, but over time, being a man, bitter acrimony erupted from within. For the first time in his life, he envisioned doing harm to another, witnessing his tormentor’s dying the death of a thousand cuts. He wanted to look into her eyes even as her life force ebbed away, and see terror in her eyes, a terror of knowing that as she had sown, so must she now reap. It terrified the boy so thoroughly that his soul had morphed into such an absence of grace, that he feared the sun itself had turned its back on him. The peddler offered the boy a handkerchief as the boy wept bitterly. Finally, the boy said, “Forgive me, forgive me, for I am immerse in sin, a sin so bottomless, I know God Himself weeps for me.” Then he fell upon his knees in a bout of anguish so severe, the spasms within his chest became like bellows stoking a raging furnace. The peddler kneeled before the boy, held him up, and enveloped him within his mighty chest. “Mijo, cry not, for your acknowledgement of fault and your desire to exorcise it have saved you. I offer you, the mightiest of gifts within my wagon, a small seed of the sacred tree that once grew in a desert far away. Under this tree, the enlightened sought redemption and were offered healing water. And they arose, forgave the world, forgave themselves. You have proven worthy. Now go out into the wilderness and find a small plot of loam where this seed may germinate. Watch over it, nurture it, let the world come to partake of its fruit. Tonight, my son, God Himself shall dance joyfully, for today, your free has released evil.” Now afoot, he found himself alone amidst the chirping of crickets and echoes of the constellations, questioning whether he had just awakened from a dream. Opening the palm of his hand, one single seed rested within his hand. He stepped forth into the wilderness, never to be seen again. Yet, in an undisclosed primeval forest, a healing tree flourishes, jettisoning winged seeds unto every corner of the world.
And thus, my friends, in spite of the blissful dreams that we quest after, they often remain elusive. Yet utopia is ever possible, but only when the dreamer somersaults courageously… into the nightmare.
© 12 February 2018
About the Author
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.
