Tag: god

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Excerpt

“Are you forgetting, Father, some of us might still like to find a way to get home?”
Finten had not forgotten about Éirinn and Derry and his home monastery, but
the fear of crossing that wild ocean was more than he could bear. Nor could he
endure the threat of marauding Viking pirates and slavery. “No, Brother, I have not
forgotten.”
Finten lied. He had not listened to anyone else’s wishes but his own. His days had
been filled with new discoveries; attempts to tell the Natives about the Christian God
had been unsuccessful.
“Brother Keallach, we have sworn to God, as missionaries, to spread the Gospel
and baptize. We must move on.”
“May I suggest, Father, missionary work takes great patience, and prayer. Perhaps
we are lacking in both.”
With that, Keallach hurried off to join the Native children in a game of ball.
Finten approached Fire Maker with the proposal that he and his companions
travel to the Mandan Nation. Fire Maker did not appear enthusiastic to have Finten’s
company.
“A man only makes such a journey once or twice in his lifetime. The journey to
my land might last five or six seasons. You will meet warriors on the way who will
not always be friendly. Some will threaten to take your life. They might succeed in
doing so.”
Fire Maker paused for Finten’s reaction. When there was none, he continued. “Are
you able to walk over mountains and through snow and cold water? If you are able
to keep up from sunrise every day until the sun goes to bed, then you might join us.
If you get tired or sick, we will leave you behind.”
“My God has brought me this far. He wishes me to travel farther, even five
seasons.”
Fire Maker shook his head but Finten had made up his mind and would not be
deterred.
The priest pondered informing the Brothers of his decision. What if they argued
to stay where they were? Would they even refuse to go with him? He decided to wait.
He’d tell them when the time came.
When winter turned to spring, Fire Maker and his daughter Yamka prepared to
leave. Rordan, Ula and Yamka began to talk of ways that they could remain together.
Rordan had grown more attached to Yamka than he’d ever wanted to admit. Ula
was like a sister to him but Yamka was so much more. Only when he faced the prospect
of her leaving did he begin to realize how much he couldn’t stand the thought
of losing her.
It was time to make a momentous decision. He had to inform Father Finten and
Brothers Keallach and Ailan that he was in love with Fire Maker’s daughter. Worse
still, he had to tell Ula. But of course, Ula already knew. How could she not? But then,
he had not even told Yamka. He’d only realized the truth when Yamka told him she
and her father would soon be leaving.

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Small Change

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“You know why I left. An excuse is irrelevant.”
He could see she didn’t like his vocabulary, for which he had already been chastised by Sister Assunta. It’s good you know words, she had said, but you use them with too much pride. If saying what you know to be true is prideful, Rick decided he would have to continue to do it, and take his chances with God.
“You know very well that I sent you home because you were a disruptive influence. You simply cannot pay attention and it interferes with the other children.”
“I’m sorry to have to say this, Sister, but you know very well yourself that I don’t need to practise as much as the others. I can sight read and I know all the parts I have to sing by heart. And you didn’t send me anywhere, I left.”
Her face was a faded parody or horror and spiteful righteousness.
“You are a proud and sinful boy!”
“I’m just being truthful, Sister. Isn’t it very important to tell the truth?”
Rick could see that she was not willing to deal with his question. All she said was, “Well, I don’t know why you’re acting so contrary, but I just won’t have it. Now. If you are truly sorry for the way you have spoken, the Lord will forgive you.”
“Forgive me? For what?”
“For your sins.”
“What sins? Is it a sin to know how to read music?”
“Don’t get smart, young man. You know your sins. Disobedience, vanity, willful…”
He cut her off.
“Is it true that choir is a voluntary extra-curricular activity?”
Sister Rose glared suspiciously at him out of her small, pale blue eyes, their pink rimmed lids and short blond lashes flickering with confusion.
“Yes, of course, once you’ve been accepted for the privilege. But what has that got to do with anything?’
‘Just this,” he said. “I quit.

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The Unquiet land

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“Beware of pride, Caitlin,” Padraig admonished. “‘Pride goeth before destruction.’ Learn another lesson from your father. He was a proud man. He sought self-sufficiency and in doing so displayed spiritual pride, what the Greeks called hubris. They warned—and no one knew this better than Finn MacLir—that hubris was certain to attract the gods’ disfavour. Hubris is the sin of sins, the primal cause of sin. It consists in man’s belief that he can lift himself to the level of the divine. Beware of that, Caitlin. Only by recognising our complete worthlessness can we find salvation, entirely through God’s grace.”
Caitlin looked steadfastly at Padraig. Then she said slowly, as if weighing her words, “If you thought you could ever win my father to Christianity with a message like that—recognising our complete worthlessness—you must be very, very stupid, Padraig. No wonder my father had nothing but utter contempt for your beliefs.”
Caitlin could see from the narrowing of Padraig’s eyes and the tightening of the muscles in his jaw that her words had hurt him; but she was relentless. “He scorned your God, Padraig. He scorned all the gods. You call it hubris, the sin of sins. Finn MacLir was guilty of it, blatantly guilty. Yet he defied the gods to the very end. And even in the clutches of death they could not break his spirit. He was a man, Padraig, a proud man, and proud to be man. And I am proud to have been his daughter.”
Caitlin rose angrily, strode out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
҂
She brushed the small heap of dust into a shovel and tossed it outside through the door of the cottage. The cool evening breeze whirled it away towards the stone wall by the head of the loaney. Michael would soon be coming up the loaney from the house, and Caitlin looked for the big, familiar figure, his shoulders almost as wide as the rough path between the walls, his hair almost as yellow as the flowers on the whins. But he did not appear. He had gone to the village to talk business with Joe Carney, the skipper of Finn’s fishing boat, the Drumard Maid. Michael wanted to sell the boat, and Joe wanted to buy. Perhaps they had made a deal and gone to the Harbour Bar to seal it.
Caitlin’s gaze shifted from the shadowed loaney to the direction of the harbour at Corrymore, far below her, and the ruins of Killyshannagh Church. Below the green sod and the dark earth down there, unseen from…

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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excerpt

“Those who left you on this shore caused you the pain you have had to suffer. I
am sorry. The raiders were Pequat. By their law and our own law, we had to leave and
let them take you or they could have destroyed our village and taken our children as
well. A Pequat mother lost a daughter just as Brown Bear lost his Namid.”
Bjorn stood up in anger, “How? Where?”
Ari also rose, painfully. “Who did this murder?“
White Eagle raised his hand for silence. “Word has spread from further toward the
warm lands that the serpent ship brought death among our neighbours. The Pequat
travelled far to where they camped last night. They lost warriors and have the right
to take the bravest from among you to replace lost sons and daughters. Your brave
singing saved your lives. Now our people have bought you back so you belong to us.”
Ari looked around to his companions, then he replied for all, “Thank you for our
lives. We will be your people. Your people will be our people.”
“Now,” said White Eagle, “you must eat and rest. You have done well.” He turned
to Rordan and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have honoured us with your
bravery and with your music. We gave many gifts to have you back. The Pequat warriors
have named you Hototo Nikamu, Warrior Spirit Who Sings. Now you are our
Mountain Thrush, Hototo Nikamu, and you are free to fly as you will.”
When White Eagle left to go to his lodge, Brother Keallach spoke to Rordan, “If we
are to stay here forever, shouldn’t we talk to Father Finten, first?”
“Not on your bloody life.” Ula was angry. “He wasn’t ransomed. Shit! He wasn’t
even with us. He can go when he bloody well wishes. This is our decision. Rordan
has spoken for all and his word stands.”
Brother Ailan used his right hand to get to his feet. His left hand was heavily
wrapped in moss and balsam fir sap. Brother Rordan had learned of the healing
properties of balsam from Corn Mother and, having paused to gather sap and cones
on the return journey, had already applied resin to everyone’s burns and to Ailan’s
finger stump. Now Ailan stood to address his Brothers. “No matter what happens, do
not forget we are tied to Father Finten by our vow of obedience.”
“Maybe you are, if you choose to be. At least three of us are free to make our own
decisions.” Ula stomped out of the lodge and Bjorn and Ari followed after her.
Rordan looked at both Keallach and Ailan. “What do we do about Finten? Has
anyone seen him?”
For days, Finten roamed the headland, looking out to sea, afraid of what might
appear on that vast expanse, afraid and ashamed of what White Eagle and the First
Light People would think of him now. Why, when he knew he could be so brave,
did his knees buckle whenever he was faced with danger? He regretted that he had
not died with his Brothers. He was certain none of the companions had survived.
He’d heard the bloodcurdling shrieks as he cowered in the lodge. He’d seen blood
splattered on the ground outside the lodge. He’d seen the trails of blood where the
savages had dragged bodies into the woods, probably to be eaten at a gruesome victory
feast.
When the villagers returned and he saw that none had been wounded, much less
killed, he knew immediately he had been betrayed. The attack was not against the
village but only to capture and kill him and his Brothers and the other three.

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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excerpt

Fears and Frustrations


Brother Keallach was a good listener when Rordan needed to vent his frustration
and Rordan definitely needed to talk now.
“I just cannot understand why Father Finten has such a distrust of my interest in
medicine. Well, perhaps I do know why. Father Gofraidh was the same.
“I travelled for two years with a physician before coming to the monastery. In
my travels, I met many good doctors who had studied with the Moors. But because
those healers were not Christian, their works were forbidden. ‘What is not of God is
of the devil,’ Father Gofraidh preached to his novices.”
Rordan whipped at branches as the Brothers walked. “The Moors have a wonderful
knowledge of medicine and mathematics and astronomy. But do not tell this to
the Church Fathers. Only by chance was I able to learn the little I know about herbal
medicines from an ancient Italian monk who had learned his craft from a healing
woman in Italy. The healing woman was later condemned as a witch and put to
death. Can you believe that? Put to death for helping people. Corn Mother knows
more about herbs and medicines than anyone I have ever met in all my travels. And
Finten does not want me to associate with her.”
Rordan grew more agitated as he walked faster until Brother Keallach had to stop
to catch his breath. Rordan stopped and turned to face his companion but continued
speaking even as Keallach held his chest and breathed like a bellows.
“Because of this mistrust, the knowledge we have is hidden away and forbidden.
Did you know, Brother, the Church in Éirinn has more learning locked up in monasteries
than anywhere else in Christendom yet illness is still regarded as being caused
by sin? Even babies are only allowed healing by prayer. I believe in prayer, but this is
cruelty. It’s ridiculous; bloody ridiculous.”
Rordan picked up a small rock and threw it forcefully into a high arc. Then he
continued striding.
“An infected throat or a bad cough has to be treated with blessed candles and
prayers to Saint Blaise. Saint Roch is invoked to cure the plague. Saint Nicaise does a
poor job of protecting against smallpox, and kings are called upon to cure skin diseases
with the Royal Touch, so commoners are seldom healed of shingles or leprosy.”
Rordan stopped and sat on an ancient tree limb. His companion, thankful for the
pause, plopped down beside him.
“Despite all the knowledge available in our monasteries, monks are still forbidden
to perform any kind of surgery. Cutting into the ‘temple of the Holy Spirit’ is a sin of
murder. In the words of the late Father Gofraidh, ‘Surgery of any kind imperils the
souls of both surgeon and patient.’ So barbers and charlatans cut people open for
profit because real physicians are forbidden by Church hierarchy.”
Rordan put his hands on his head, exhausted from his outburst.

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Redemption

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…when he took it in as though he were touching the Bible. The mayor
examined it with great curiosity while fellow villagers looked over
his shoulder to get a good look at this piece of paper, too.
“So, this is a diploma,” said the envious mayor when he handed
it back to Hermes.
“Yes, this is the diploma and here is my award.” Hermes showed
him another piece of paper with golden letters and official stamps
honouring him for his excellent standing in the class.
“You also received an award, Hermes?” The mayor’s eyes widened,
“Bravo! My congratulations once again!”
He looked at the paper more closely and asked.
“So, what are you going to do now, young Dragakis? Become an
economist? What does an economist do?”
Hermes gave them a brief explanation of what an economist
was and how he had a scholarship to study abroad for two years and
then would be teaching at the university. The mayor and the others
had a hard time understanding what all these meant.
“Scholarship to go to another country and study,” the mayor
said as if talking to himself. “Which country are you heading for?”
“Canada.”
The crowd turned to look at one another, with awe written upon
their faces. They felt quite proud of the son of George Dragakis; not
many young men from the area got the chance to go to the city and
study, never mind accomplishing what Hermes had, this far, this fast.
Demetre’s cheeks blushed thinking of this young man who had
brought their family and ancestors this honour of achievement.
Smiling, Demetre took Hermes away from the crowds.
“Time for us to go to my brother’s place.”
So, they said their goodbyes and started their walk to the house
at the other end of the village. They followed a narrow pathway and,
in a few minutes, arrived at the house. As they approached his father’s
dog, the hound started to bark. The uncle and his nephew were not
even inside the fence when his mother, as though by instinct, came
out of the house and saw them.

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Redemption

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…most were ordinary-looking housewives of the gossip circle,
and of course, a few were the ones usually found in the aristocratic
bars and lounges, ladies with housemaids and black chauffeurs, with
small bedroom dogs and a gigolo on the side. Hermes always looked
down on the so-called upper class; a degrading and pathetic life, he
thought they were like snakes. Those people had all the money they
needed, with their luxurious cars and drug addictions or similar
kinds of crap, and they blindly followed whatever is “modern,” a certain
mania to do as the foreigners did, just to be part of the trend.
According to Hermes, this way of living did nothing to
improve a person’s life. He didn’t belong to the idealists and skeptics,
either, who ignored reality and lived in the clouds of their isolation
with the hope that the world would change on its own volition on
some fine morning and everything would just be splendid. What he
wanted was a major change in society, a change that would make the
commoners’ lives better and the upper class more decent and more
confident people.
What else he wanted to help achieve was to unhook the populace
from the iron fist of the church that had grasped the people’s
lives and orchestrated their comings and goings according to the
dogma of an eastern religion that forbids them from letting go and
adopting a freer mindset, Hermes believed was the inherited treasure
of the Hellenes.
That was the psycho-spiritual hold the church had over the lives
of people, which exerted such power that no one ever had stood opposite
to, from the days of their liberation from the Turks, beginning
of the 19th century. However, how that could be possible and which
method could be applied to get the desired outcome was unknown to
Hermes. Yet he hoped that that would appear to him at some time in
the future. A smile came to his face as if he had already been affected
by such a change.
He walked as he disembarked the ship. His uncle, Demetre,
was among the others on the dock, lordly as always, waving his hand.
Hermes beamed a big smile and walked to him.

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Savages and Beasts

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and people had already found their shelter and the forgetful
ones or late sauntering souls were drenched in a matter of minutes
when exposed to the elements. Rain fell in wide bands
occasionally very strong as if wanting to cleanse all sins from
the souls of sinful men or as if to purify all guilt some people
carried in their hearts such was the duty of rain this November
evening.
While the tempest raged outside the walls of the mausoleum,
the children had had their evening meals; George the
Cretan cook had prepared bean soup for them merely enough
to fill their small stomachs. Marcus as always made sure he was
put on kitchen duty, his teachers hadn’t yet smelled his scheme,
and soon after all other children left for their sleeping quarters
Marcus went to the kitchen where his evening boss, George,
allotted to him tonight’s duty: to scape clean two big cauldrons
which were used for the soup.
The youth, having a perpetual smile on his face, one would
say he had planned this kitchen duty, stood by the sink and leaning
over the huge vessel he started to scrape and clean which he
did bit by bit and stroke after stroke while George supervised
making sure the vessel would be spotless for next day’s use. And
it came to be, spotless as the supervisor would want it and as
Marcus the Indian youth who had a good sense of commitment
knew which resulted in him being worthy of his reward: an extra
bowlful of bean soup, a slice of bread and a small piece of apple
pie. The youth was sitting at his regular kitchen table meant for
the cooks and their helpers and relished his reward up to the
last morsel; George was observing the youth who was enjoying
his pie. Yet he sensed the heaviness weighing on his heart and
reflecting in his eyes.
“What is it, Marcus? What’s bothering you?”

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Arrows

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…didn’t address me. We ate in silence, and I contented myself with
what he offered me. I knew it was pointless to discuss Tamanoa, to
protest.
“Do you know why I have decided you will not die like your
servant?” he finally asked, breaking the silence, scowling at the fish
he was eating.
“I think God must have told you to let me live.”
He snorted.
“I am not to tell you why. It is for a reason for someone else to say.
But I know it took courage for you to come to us. And now I see the
way you have mourned your servant. Pariamanaco has told me. I
had never believed it possible that a white man could cry over an
Indian, as you call us, half-breed or not.”
“Tamanoa was my friend,” I said, feeling sadness and anger
welling within me. I dropped the bite of plantain I had pinched
between myfingers onto the plantain leaf. “Why did you kill him?”
“Half-breeds, they are traitors. They are not white, not one of us.
They learn our ways and betray us.”
“Tamanoa was good,” I said a bit more sharply than I had
intended.
He gave me a derogatory grimace.
“Why did you save her?” he asked, referring to his wife.
“I didn’t, God did.”
He glared at me briefly, but then turned his attention back to the
fish and cassava.
“I want what is good for you,” I continued. “I want you and your
people to see the Creator when you die.”
He gave me a fearsome scowl.
“I’ll see Mareoka. I am shaman, don’t need you for that.”
“Only born-again people can see him,” I paraphrased, for
understandably they did not have a word for baptism. “That is the
message I bring.”
“Born again? How can you be born again? That is crazy.”
“You are born again when I pour water over your head in the
name of the Father, the Son and the . . .”—suddenly it struck me …

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Constantine Cavafy

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If and Since He Had Died
“Where did he retire? Where did the Sage disappear to?
After his countless miracles,
and the fame of his teaching
that spread over so many nations
he suddenly hid, and no one learned
with certainty what happened to him
(nor has anyone ever seen his grave).
Some said that he died in Ephesus.
But Damis didn’t record it; nothing was written
by Damis about the death of Apollonios.
Others said that he vanished in Lindos.
Or perhaps the story
that he ascended in Crete is true,
at the sacred temple of Dictynna.
However, we have his exquisite,
supernatural appearance
to a young student in Tyana.
Perhaps the time has not come for him to return
and appear to the world again,
or perhaps he is roaming among us
incognito. But he will reappear
as he was, teaching the right things, and then of course
he will reestablish the worship of our gods,
and our refined Hellenic ceremonies.”
This was the way he mused in his poor house,
one of a few pagans,
one of the very few who remained
after reading Philostratos’
On Apollonios of Tyana—
In any case, an insignificant
and timid man, on the surface
he played the Christian, and he, too, went to church.
It was the era when in utmost piety
the king who reigned was the aged Ioustinos,
and Alexandria, a god-fearing city,
abhorred the miserable idolaters. On the Ship
Certainly, this small sketch,
in pencil resembles him.
Done rather fast, on the deck of the ship,
one enchanting afternoon.
The Ionian Pelagos all around us.
It resembles him. However, I recall him as handsome.
He was sensitive to the point of suffering,
and this lit his expression.
He appears even handsome to me
now that my soul recalls him out of Time.
Out of Time. All these things are old,
the drawing, the ship, and the afternoon.

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