Grandfather, was an ordained priest, of the great Roman church. I am a heretic...according to my mother, and by all accounts, but not, by my account...nor reckoning of memory. This is my story, and his. He held me. He sang to me. He gave half of my family, his name, yet, professed that it was false...perhaps to protect the church, perhaps to protect himself...but certainly to protect his family.
He ran, knowing something, having known, witnessed...witnessing something, he could not abide. He ran. What makes a man run, run from east to west, to hide...as if the devil...followed him? He hid. He became an ordinary man, but he was an extraordinary man...hidden in himself, and among the tall trees...he then, called home.
He came down, occasionally...back and forth to see, this bairn. Why, escapes me entirely, yet...I feel him there, to this day. He panned gold, filed placer claims, but his black sand and gold, was more philosophical...than material. You could not weigh his gold on a greedy scale, but only...in a heart. I feel it, and that is how I know...he was a good man.
What did he see? What did he know, and what became of this priest of Galibee? Sixteen hundred years, prior...there had been 'another' runner...hadn't there. He had run, to another great forest, so possessed was he of the fear, of a thing...he had seen, and remained a many a year...they say him, 'mad', and yet...his wisdom outlived him, passing over to our time.
He, though...I have found, and 'heathen', he be called...and damned, or 'heretic' insane, by those who sought to bury him. They never did, you know. It isn't in the words...anywhere, but lies, and rumors of a thousand hack writer's look'n for a clue, to their own filthy lucre. He stood upon a rock of ages, in a river of gaels...and old men fall'n to their deaths.
He healed there, held court, and listened...while the court confessed to things, too terrible...to write here, for he was a part of that place...as history records, but does not record...well. The victors are always in the hurry to jot a thing down, in that illicit script called 'doctoral'...and it ends there. But not this time! Oh, no! For, I cannot remember my own name, time to time, but I remember's him...an earlier 'ver sion'.
His ghost, wants done...that justice to his name, was undone, by a church...and King, and witches on the land. I impartially impart, my little spade of arcaneology, digging here and there...amazing what ye find, so many, certain sure, would never be found...they just, left it lay'n there...atop the ground.
All these puzzed pieces, I do set, within their proper place, and sanctum. Don't that make a pretty picture? Can a thing go right, if it, do not belong? I don't think so. As if it built itself, to stand for ever...it does stand. My name is unimportant. I work for 'The Government of God', on old cold cases...nor am I done, till you know...I'm done.
You will know, soon enough, and that the thing may rest...upon its finding, as was all the threads...tied to that little train, from past...forgot, to present, and the ones...were not, and those that were, but never got a score...nor settlement to all the lies, were told as truth...down through the years, the many grave'd years of restless death. T'will all be told...at last.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: frozen man, by eric fein
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