Andorf's journey

I once went to a writer’s workshop with a woman called Rene, in Cambridge, a small town an hour’s drive from where I live, attended by eight or so writers from the district. Rene opened her session by asking us to jot down anything that we hadn’t thought of writing about before, just short headings to get our imaginations going. Fifteen minutes later, several of us were asked to speak briefly about our topic, I was one who volunteered among two others.

Andorf’s journey is the finished item, started at that workshop:

Andorf’s heart was lighter now that the village was behind them, hoping he’d done the right thing. So many people were dying because of the plague and although it had not yet reached his village, it soon would. His sister, Claire, was not strong but she seemed to be managing all right as they made their journey to another village, considered safer, as it was less frequented by travellers likely to bring the disease from other parts. He looked at Claire again and told her they’d have another rest when they reached the next mile stone.
As they walked his mind thought about the healer, and he seized on that positive thought, held it, wanting to explore and maybe even experience some of the things he’d heard about him. He’d guessed that much was exaggerated, but found it absorbing.

‘Oh … the healer’, a pedlar had replied to his question, ‘Oh yes, he’s a wonder is that man. You know he washes himself … every day!’

Strange, doing that, Andorf thought; still there must be something to it. Then he smiled as he recalled somebody adding, ‘Then there’s the kind of stuff he eats. I don’t know that I could eat nettles. Fancy that. Just the tops mind you.’ And then just a few days ago, he heard an old woman explaining the things she’d seen the healer collect from the woods one day.

Andorf paused to remove a piece of gravel from his sandal and noticed with some concern that Claire had dropped behind as they’d been walking. ‘It’s all right … just a bit out of breath. Give me a few minutes …’ she murmured softly, trying to smile as she looked at him. She was looking quite tired thought Andorf, and he felt a tugging at his throat as a sudden fear came upon him. We still have another seven and a half miles to go and it’s well past noon day, he thought. Perhaps we should have waited a few more days for her to gain more strength. But he knew as he thought that, that it wasn’t true. She came only because I insisted, he chastised himself. If she dies on the way … and he couldn’t prevent a slight sob escaping from his tight lips. As their eyes met, he coughed to hide his embarrassment and gently helped her to her feet.

They walked the rest of the way together, his arm around his sister’s waist and as they reached the next mile stone, they left the road and found a place for her to sit and rest again. Now it was only seven miles but as he looked at his sister again a sudden rush of deep concern quickened his pulse, her face was quite pale and there was a touch of beauty there now that he had not seen before, of such depth and quality, surpassing even those in the pictures on the stained-glass windows in the abbey. Then he was suddenly afraid for her and turned away lest she should see the sadness on his face.

After a while they continued slowly on past two, and then three, more mile stones, joined by others heading in the same direction. Claire was heavier on his arm now, her strength slipping away with each step. The state of the road was no help, with deep ruts filled with filthy water which they had to wade through as there was no way round them. Occasionally they’d come to a grove of trees where it was cool and refreshing and the desire to linger and rest was so inviting. But Andorf was afraid to stop, even when they came to a number of hamlets, wretched dilapidated places where people were so poor it made his heart heavy just to look at them. He blinked away the tears that seeped down into his eyes, increasing the anguish he felt for Claire, so frail and still so beautiful. Her quiet spirit and light infectious laughter had often been the cause of lifting him from some wearisome task, it would break his heart if … and he would not let himself think on but knelt down pretending to retie the thong on his left sandal to give him a moment to recover his composure. How dirty his feet were now and the nail on his big toe …then with a sudden panic he heard a low moan from Claire and turning saw her slump to her knees, her eyes staring and wide open before he could reach her, frightened him.

From one of the doors to his right the figure of a middle-aged woman came running to kneel beside Claire before he could get to his feet, she was talking quietly to her. Then even as he reached her side Claire looked at him, smiled, then closed her eyes as her head fell back onto the woman’s arms. For a moment Andorf couldn’t move, his feet and legs did not respond to his purpose to move, his voice locked within his tightening chest and he felt as if his heart would burst … and that moment seemed so very long. It ended with him feeling weak and empty as if his knees would suddenly give way beneath him as slowly but clearly Andorf knew. Something had gone from his sister, Claire. She was now an empty shell and void of life and in that dread moment, he changed from youth to man.

Somehow it passed and he left the darkness of that scene behind him, the road to the monastery seemed to lift his spirit with each step, as if some purpose for which he had been born was about to be fulfilled. He wondered how things would be for him in such a place and felt again the note inside his doublet, written by the priest who had told him of the healer and his work. Reassured, he continued on his way even though he knew only a handful of novices were taken in each year, now looking cold and forbidding in the distance.
The rising sun soon warmed him as he climbed the hill and knocked at last upon the heavy oaken door. Later that afternoon he was taken in to see the healer, who looked at him for some time before he spoke: ‘Well Andorf, you would like to join our Brotherhood then? Sit down now and tell me something about yourself.’ The voice was quiet and soothing, filled with warmth and encouragement; then the healer listened as Andorf told him of his journey.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Talking stones

One visitor moved away, wandered out through the gate, down the street and into the countryside. She found a hollow in a field, sat down and looked around. Gradually the occasional hum of insects and twittering of birds gave way to a quietness which eased the tension inside her. At some point her fingers found a stone in the loose soil at her feet. She picked it up and gazed at it. Slowly, as if a curtain was opening somewhere in her mind, it seemed to speak, linking her with an event that happened there in the past.

It was just a suggestion, she reasoned at first, trying to ignore the prickly feeling in her eyes; but the suggestion persisted and eventually, with flushed cheeks and tightening throat her emotions took over. Even as she fumbled for her handkerchief, low cries bubbled up from deep inside, a few tears followed, glistening as they trickled down her cheeks before the dam burst and a kind of healing took place in the flood. When it had finished she looked again at the stone before lifting her eyes to look around, and like watching a scene in a play, this is what she came to understand:

Jim could hardly believe his luck. Three years now since he'd left home. Home! How eagerly he'd left. Nearly didn't though, after his father embraced him. He could still see his face and hear his voice struggling to say, “I'll probably never see you again, son.” That was true. His Dad had died two years later. Still, lots of Canadian lads found themselves in the same position. He’d done a lot of growing up since then.

He'd been looking forward to Christmas, still over five weeks away, but today ... well, it was different ... with his thoughts centred on himself, he'd become vividly aware that he was a person in a way he had never felt before. It started that very morning. He was more than the body he inhabited, but why had he come to that knowledge now? And in his mind, he thought perhaps a new beginning was being offered to him. He felt the tension ease from his mind and body and smiled, feeling more like the young man he still was. Some of his mates called him 'dreamer'. “You'll still be dreaming when it's all over,” they'd said. Many of them were dead heroes now.

He stared ahead as he thought of them, then looked again. That's odd, he thought, it seemed like he was looking at a photograph. What he saw was real and yet nothing moved. Not a cloud, wing, leaf or single blade of grass. All was still. It was the same behind him, he knew without turning round. He made himself pause in his thinking and breathed deeply and slowly, only then did he realize how tense he'd been.

He glanced at his watch. Another four minutes and he'd have a break. Then over to his right something unbelievable happened. A couple of young girls appeared, and after all the other sounds he'd heard, their happy chatter drifted across to him, sounding like the song of angels. Slowly they came nearer, hampered by the debris in their path but waving bunches of flowers in the air and calling out to him. Alarmed now, he was about to shout a warning when others appeared. More young people with a scattering of elderly folk behind . They were calling too, some with flags or flowers in their hands others with bottles of wine. Jim knew then that it must be true.

For a moment he was torn between excitement and dread, then he glanced again at his watch: 10.57am. Three minutes to go until break time, he murmured, saddened and yet happy as the faces of his dead mates came and went with each step the young girls took towards him. Something burst from his throat, a mixture of sobs and laughter. It was bloody well true! The war ... it would end at 11am today, they said!

Smiling now, Jim watched as the girls arrived safely, thanked them for the flowers, and kissed their innocent faces. Then turned once more to face the firing line, as he laughed and waved the flowers in the air, the sharp crack of a rifle shot cut through the air and in the silence that followed, he crumpled to the ground. That one single shot, fired by a German sniper gave Jim an ending and a new beginning. Just two minutes before the declared Armistice on the 11th of November, 1918, a private from Canada was the last soldier to be killed in the Great War.

All fell quiet again, but now she felt a peace within her as she placed the stone back on the soil of Belgium. Some little time later, a voice broke through her thoughts: “I beg your pardon Mrs Price. I hope I didn't startle you.” It was the leader of their tour group. She shook her head without looking at him. “We'll be having lunch in half an hour or so. There's no rush though, perhaps you'd like to stay here a little longer?”

Again she just nodded. She didn't need to say anything. He'd seen it before and waited for a moment or two before turning to leave, then he said, “Not too lonely on your own then?'”

“No,” she said. “In a way, the stones have been talking to me.” This time looking up at him she added, “I suppose that sounds strange?”

“Not at all. Quite a number of folk have said the same kind of thing on these tours. When they do, they don't seem to have the need to come back again. After all, these are the Shalom tours. Shalom, Mrs Price.”

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

A just cause...?

It could have been any bus,

at any time, on any street,

laden with a potpourri of humanity,

each person a representative;

belonging…

*

But this bus passed one day,

October 1995, along a busy

down-town street in Tel Aviv…

Yes, in Tel Aviv it happened.

*

A person or persons unknown to most,

belonging to some deeply religious cause,

deadly serious concerning

their fundamental beliefs…

*

They claimed responsibility for

their intellectual unequivocal act…

detonated somewhere on their religious road,

a bomb they’d made at home to assist their just cause…

*

They chose this bus, loaded with innocents to explode…

the terrorists went up with the blast

taking with them twenty-three other souls,

many more seriously injured

left with scars to carry and remember

the just cause of the perpetrators…

*

Surprisingly defiant, planners, instigators,

members of the religious terrorists informed the world,

“We are this determined to be heard, our cause is just…”

*

Will their god bless them for such deadly protests?

I mean, they claim their cause is just…

sad to say, somewhere in universal Tel Aviv,

such bigotry and dogma still holds its terrible sway,

similar indiscriminate methods continue

stirring religiously and with bitter hatred fed…

*

Dennis Crompton © 1999

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Have you...?

Henri Matisse
1869 - 1954
Le bonheur de vivre” (“The joy of life”)

Have you grasped the greatness of your being,

discerned somehow there’s a purpose in your life,

a miracle beyond present comprehension,

been reassured by glimmers of inner light?

*

Have you midst your everyday occupation,

or solitary, on some quiet evening stroll,

been overwhelmed on hearing strains of music

in harmony with a soul-song of your own?

*

Have you been present at birth’s miracle,

heard, as she heard with her Mum, a babe’s first cry;

then later, wondered at her first simple sentence,

new life communicate with her waiting world?

*

Have you experienced the truest joys of friendship,

somewhere on your life’s journeyings,

breaking bread in the company of some stranger,

departing more complete for such time spent?

*

Have you thought on those circumstances manipulated

in this world’s prisons with greater flaws than yours;

seen the world through their dehumanizing barriers,

as cruelly restrained as bars or cold stone walls?

*

Have you had the privilege to be present,

hearing last thoughts of another’s whispered words,

holding their hand, caring and farewelling,

knowing you were a comfort at their end?

*

Have you felt the true worth of your being,

that magic ‘something’ deep within your soul;

that come what may and though your very world

did tremble round you … all would be well?

*

Should this have been your fortunate experience,

then blessed are you, a thousand times I say;

and I pray that now this privileged possession

you’ll somehow share with us of lesser clay.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)