shalt not of men, day upon ever spill of day; As nameless as the sons' names who cannot lie grateful upon wretched lips. As Wordless as the Father's reward in his late delayed departure from a grief bottomless but for the swim of his own and unspoken forgiveness.
“FORGIVENESS, HA! WHAT'S TO FORGIVE?” This booming from a crag of a long beard of mouth which came birthed in a mountain swell of a man, his bull frame swallowing the light of the tavern's door. Draped from shoulder to knee, in a wind polished wrap of animal skin; old camel or old goat. Hands well able to seize any point whether by throat or the gnarled trunk of a staff he used to speed brute or man in a path of his opinion. And the thick brown legs and feet to propel a similar will. Cast of the shadow huge at it was, the only two things small of this visitation were the brown black darts of vision incessantly flicking in motion just shy of a mad rolling mind and his love of hypocrisy damned in shallow skulls. Perhaps the immense tail ponied along his worldly back gave a sense of a taste for reckless thinking.
The Beggar turned, looked, lighted his eye and said “Friend, come join this gather of understanding attempt but take upon thy wondrous wind the salt of a little delicacy for these brothers are as much in a soul search of a grave matter.”
Two strides and the stranger loomed at the table and in a somewhat lesser bellow (though the wine yet trembled in the brothers' hands so much their limbs noticed of his wind): Oh, a windy matter tis this. Yes. And tis good for a soul to search of graves. Tell me, Ragman and I mean no offence for I be a Herdsman, borne to an udder sweet of my nature, lived to follow the Dance of the Dung Gatherer and no doubt die to sprout a bush scrag where the jackals rest a hindquarter and mark a freedom no envious of this fool's point of toe; but tell me have these gathers of noble stewed upon a painful request and asked you nibble its aged curd as well?
Lawyer: Beast, gather thy flock of bleating wits and go thy wilt in the sun. For this is the dwelling of manly discussion not a field for the romp and snort of wide nostrils, dumb to all but the whiff of cow's droppings.
Lucky for the tavern owner here that a fierce blood rise, heated to iron's temper, did not blaze the curl beard of the mountain for surely then it would be exclaimed miraculous that the sun had arose dual in a day, once over a roof and once below it.
As it was, the trunk of staff shook a little in the new season, the eyes darkened in the shade, the shadow hovered a little closer to full descend. And despite the new heat, the doctor felt a decided chill and leaned away towards a more cosy corner.
The Beggar with a friendly hand in good reach upon the mountain's shoulder: “Ease upon thy storm, Titan friend, for thunder clapped upon tiny ears, is but a storm's waste of a far reach of note. Work thy wondrous hands for uplift rather than the creation of more dust in a world much dry of mercy's rain.
Instantly the giant herder's face swam in a long toothed grin: "Ho, Brothers Three! Has your match been met in this bundled cricket who sings even in the throat of weather black from a vulture's prodding! Has he wrenched a long ache of ghosts from your six-handed guilt? "And with a far raise of his staff, high enough to scatter cloud debris from the trembled ceilings "HALLILUYAH TO THE TEN UDDERED GOAT-GOD OF THE ONE-LEGGED SHEPHERD, the fathers can rest; their ash unstirred by whispers of failings from the puckered lips of sons and asses!"
Upon this the Executioner rose in the topple of a chair, his arms as rigid as scaffold "Beware, fool, thy tongue has too much filth to speak of.."
The Beggar interjected "Ease, my men, ease. For if any tongue or lip has failed a day it is mine."
Turning to the giant he said "With grief friend I reply that I have not resolved any good service upon the great dilemma these brothers bear so heart and heavy. And with only light reproach, for how heavy handed can be a torn rag, I implore you unmock their wearing wring of hands in a father's will of dying torment.”
At this the Herdsman turned full to the Beggar's face and in a rain of spittled syllable: 'MOCK THE DYING IS IT?! HAH! I HAVE THE DOUBTS OF A MULE AT A BROKEN BRIDGE that their father's torment will ever find a death end. And this too, weaver of rag bits, more's the grief and weep this beast bears burden when I recall their father's agony till death while these shift of scaly eyes have wandered, cross and recross, the path finished by fate two years ago.
Beggar with a hand to the giant and a flinch at the Brothers: “You mean the father has been dead two years already?”
Giant: Yes, a slight detail these dogs leave in their teeth to keep the flies like you a-buzzin their worn heads. But what do lamps know of a desert's dark howl and the ache of thirst gone rolling across tipped dustbowls, eh?
For while these gathered their 'strength' amongst the silent cups and advising fools, I, Kreck, the camel flogger obeyed a server's duty and MAN'S LOVE; I stayed to the final six months of my Master's agony: their Father's wretchedness.And there the more flogged my eyes than all the storms I had swallowed before.
Terrible the fits and frenzy, the rage, fevers, yet more gruesome the still quiet grip of a guts awakened hell.
While those Brothers swilled and swaggered, a trouble of digestion about a simple task to which they had no relish.
Lawyer: And what of you brave straw man; where were your hands at my father's bedside, doubtless idle in his pockets.
Pale to white heat, the blackened specks of a giant's indignation, nailed themselves to the Lawyer's reproach and a voice whispered by emotion spoke: "I? My hands? Paws to carry a one year calf or snap the back of snapping wolves? He, limp as weather, he tied them secure, well beyond his desperation. He said he could not die of my hands for he told me that love in its great simpler ways cannot demand more burden upon the giver than the taker. That mercy refused is for that love a greater mercy."
The giant streaked the tears across his face with wipe of fist "That he thought I did not love him enough, master or not, orphan or not, grieves like a brand thrust into my eyes which harbour his memory.
Beggar: "No, you are erred, my roughened dove. He meant you loved him too much. His bequeath, his will of you was for unsoiled hands. For some loves one too whole to allow part; those loves cannot kill what they love. For in the killing of love they destroy themselves and your master would allow none of that cruelty upon you. What father would allow his child starve that he may eat? What song of the sparrow nest denied that a limb can burn into frozen nights? The greatest things are weaved simple things but oh so beautifully held in the minds childlike of wonder, of daily heart. But fragile as dew swinging upon webs.
Rightly so, the father knew this love could not act for surely the child would not bear red hands added to a black grief; an awakening surely to spawn the end of unreason, the terrible lifting of a child's hood. And that guilt, that pain the father would not carry onto his own grave.
Flail no more of 'a lesser love' my friend.
But remain in its stance of greatness. Love has its own contestings, its own arena. And its own strange victories. Yours was one.
Giant: But I begged even upon knees that he at least no longer swallow the food which robbed him of a quicker faint away to death. He would not. Rather he spoke that those who had need of task should not be robbed of their wedding day. If the choosing is cheated away from their reaching hearts would their hands ever glide to an embrace of light, of love? He said he would hold the door open as long as his breath wheezed its will so that the Grooms would reap no denial, find no stone unhinged for their inner emergence. They had only to say 'Yes', no act, no play, no feast upon carved things was to be allowed sour in their mouths, instead the father would 'act' and allow the Grooms carry each their Innocence back into full Life. And with it a love of 'Yes'.
Though with the track of a staid pursuit I gathered those words from his gasp and murmur over the last weeks, I do not know what Grooms or things then were. Only that nothing came. Till death. In the final ill fit of convulsion, he shouted: Take me then, Beast, thy cold bone a better feast of hope than any flesh of mine.
The giant conti
nued "Beggar, what did he mean?"
The Beggar knew what those words meant but knew the full truth would only turn a great grief into a greater hate. And that hate would solve nothing more.
He spoke: "He meant though death is a cold night, it brings blessing upon flesh fevered to heat. As a man welcomes ice upon a hand drawn from the fire".
Giant: But these Grooms, who were they?
Beggar: Thoughts, my large friend, just thoughts. Thoughts of life and death and love and pain. Thoughts he wished come onto him like angelic flutters and caress his aches into peace. An answer out of his own life's doings.
Giant: And... and... do you think the Answer came to him?
The Beggar looking full upon the Brothers: "Yes, I believe his Answer did weight much upon his last hours."
Taking the giant by the elbow, he turned his back to the scene; the Brothers shifting themselves back into their chairs. "Come, friend, there is no good to dwell here longer."
"NO" the giant jerked away. A finger pointed arm's length at the Brothers'.
The Giant cried out "No, it was these swine who were the grooms. I know now! He fed in pain awaiting their offer of mercy. BASTARDS!!"
His club-staff rose and descended fierce upon the round wood which gave separate and splinter; spilling the debris of communal fare
The Seven Days of Wander Page 64
