The Wayfarer

He watched the moon rising full and orange over the trees. It had been a long time since he'd been here. He wasn't sure, since it was so faint, but he thought he could just make out the rumbling of distant thunder. Or maybe it was the singing of the monsters emerging on the night mists. Either way, it felt good to be back. 

He sat on a wet, rotting log and absently picked at the moss and fungi. Somewhere out there, he couldn't recall exactly where since it had been such a long time, but somewhere out there sprawled the gargantuan ruins. Or maybe not. These woods always obliterated any human intrusion with spectacular quickness.  He smiled and thought, "Civilizations rise and civilizations collapse, but these woods, these strange, strange woods, they abide."

The rumbling grew louder and distinct. He now knew that it wasn't thunder; it was the monsters. Smiling again, he made himself as comfortable as possible and waited. It took a while for them to reach him. They were hideous and misshapen yet altogether beautiful in his eyes. He arose and warmly embraced each one of them in turn, each one of them once shunned by now-dead societies but welcomed by these everlasting woods.

"You've been gone a long time," gurgled one of the monsters.

He shrugged. "My being gone was then, but my being back is now."

"And here it is always 'now,'" replied the thing.

"Maybe so," the man thought. "Maybe there really are things that transcend time, so that 'today' and 'tomorrow' lack meaning, are swallowed up by 'now.'  Maybe, like their builders, the gargantuan ruins are gone now, gone like yesterday. But these creatures, these poor, detested creatures ... and these woods ... maybe they transcend time in an eternal 'now' where these creatures are beautiful, forever beautiful. And these woods ... well!" Then, smiling again, he joined the monsters in their song and walked with them into the night.

Only for Your Eyes

Sighing a contented sigh, he held her hand in his and, gazing lovingly into her eyes, whispered, "I have sailed through the silent seas between the ghostly shining dying stars. I have even wandered in the gloom of the prophet's twilight mountains with holy men and bards. With a horde of humble ghosts I have huddled as time's raging river rushed wildly by. I have traveled far in nameless places just to find sweet rest and comfort in the welcome of your eyes."

She studied him for a moment then rolled her eyes and replied, "Well, you're certainly waxing poetic ... with the emphasis on the 'ICK!'"

Later, as she slept, he dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over her head and walked back into the night.

Autumn Winds

They walked together in the twilight, arm in arm, down the boulevard and onto the bridge. She had never felt so happy. She glanced up at him, at his profile, and sighed with contentment. Oh, sure, as the years rolled by she'd find out all his irritating faults and foibles and would look at him clearly with both her feet on the ground; but that would be some faraway tomorrow. Now, right now, she saw him through a mist of joy. He was wonderful and perfect and she felt herself dancing among the emerging stars, free from gravity, free from everything except her love for this man. And they would be blissfully together as long as life endured. She smiled, so warm in her love.

And then the stranger approached.

She clutched at her beloved's arm in shock. Was that -- was that stranger real? No, he couldn't be! Although he wore his hat low she could see his face was wan, unnaturally wan with the paleness not of flesh but of a skull. And his eyes were so hidden in shadow that they looked like empty sockets. And in spite of his overcoat she could see he was thin, incredibly, impossibly thin. It can't be real! It's some sort of terrifying vision! And the figure kept advancing toward her. She tried to stop but found herself too weak to resist her unaware companion's steady gait. She tried to whisper her alarm but couldn't make a sound. All she could do was clutch her lover's arm even more tightly and stare at the advancing unreal figure.

And then, mere inches away from her, the figure politely doffed his hat and silently continued on his way into the growing darkness. A short while after he -- or it -- had passed them, she found her voice.

"That thing ... that man! Oh! Didn't you notice him?"

"No, not really," her darling casually replied. "I wasn't paying any particular attention to him. What about him?"

"Didn't you see how bleached his face looked, and how thin he was?"

He patted her hand. "Well, no. What about it, my dear?"

"'What about it?'" she cried. "Why, even with his coat on you could see he was little more than a ... than a walking skeleton! He was a skeleton ... a walking fleshless skeleton!"

He gently kissed her forehead and chuckled, "Well, there's no need to be distressed by that, my dear. It's not all that uncommon. It only means the poor soul is just not comfortable in his own skin."

She shoved him over the bridge and kept on walking into the gathering dusk.

Only Passing Through

The wanderer had no memory of his past (if, indeed, he had any past at all). In fact, he couldn't recall any time when he had not been lost in these woods. But he knew that somewhere beyond this dark expanse he must have a home, a place of calm and warm familiarity, peopled with friendly kith and kin. He had often tried finding his way back home, wherever or whatever that home might be, by the sun and the guiding stars in their courses. It was no good. All his attempted navigation brought him was an uneasy sense that he was straying farther from his home; that instead of escaping this strange forest he was plunging ever deeper into it. If only his surroundings weren't so confusing and overwhelming; it was far too easy to lose oneself forever in them.

Then, at twilight on a drizzly, windswept day,  he stumbled upon a crumbling high bank near a river. At its base was a cave almost undetectable by obscuring shadows and vegetation, and in the cave's farthest recess he could just barely discern ... what? ... could it be a door? He stood staring at it in wonder for some minutes until the ever-growing shadows of approaching evening roused him. 

He cautiously studied the thing in the shadows. Yes, he could make it out now, even through the overhanging vegetation and deepening gloom. It really was a door. How could a door be here, and who could have made it? He felt ... what? ... awe, fear, wonderment? So many emotions ... or instincts ... that he could not name. The door was deep inside the hollow, but from what he could see of it through the overhanging vegetation, he estimated it was roughly six feet tall and three feet wide and seemed to be made of pine. He then became aware of the scent of freshly-turned earth. That caused him to pause once more, although he could not understand why. He roused himself again, took a deep, shuddering breath, and clawed and shoved his way through the entangling roots and vines blocking the cave's entrance.

He broke through. The smell of turned earth was even stronger now. He strained his eyes in the darkness but was no longer able to see the door. Instead, where he thought it had been, where he could have sworn it had been, he now saw a figure. The wanderer stood transfixed, too amazed to be frightened. Somehow the figure was lighter, more distinct than it should be in the surrounding dark, as if it were somehow bioluminescent. The wanderer shook his head. The very idea was absurd. The figure was obviously human ... yet, it was visible in the darkness.

The two stared at each other for a minute or so. Then the figure reached out his hand to the wanderer and smiled. That smile! Even in the darkness there was something about that smile, something wonderful. The wanderer was caught in that smile like a child caught in his parent's loving arms. And then, with a sudden, rushing revelation, he understood. Now smiling himself, he happily realized he was home now ... finally, absolutely home. The figure's smile was the wanderer's home. He now knew it had aways been his home, even when he didn't know it even existed, it was always his home. "Home," the wanderer whispered unconsciously, "home, finally home!" He reached out his hand toward the figure's just as the mouth of the cave collapsed, sealing him off from the woods.

For to Such Belongs the Kingdom of God

 "And He took them in His arms and blessed them, laying His hands upon them."

Merry Christmas!

 May you have a most joyous holiday season!

Tongue-Cut Sparrow

This is another old drawing. One of Kathy's favorite folktales is "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow," so I drew this for her, along with some other drawings illustrating the story. The reason I selected this particular piece is that I recall how much fun I had drawing the anthropomorphic birds.