Forty Days And Forty Nights

The Baby Boy gazed up at the leaves being moved by the gentle breeze. He had no words or concepts of things like leaves, trees or sky; for him it was an overwhelming kaleidoscope of fragmented green, constantly shifting and moving, all possible shades and variations, with the steady deep and clear azure behind. He didn’t know, in any kind of cultivated adult sense, what beauty was either – and yet he knew that this was beauty, heartbreaking and unbearable loveliness, the dazzling light of the sun muted and torn to little translucent green forms, like fairy spirits moving, dancing and bowing before him. He scarcely had any concept of where his tiny limitations finished and the green, blue and golden beauty before him began. 

He began to cry. His mother came over to him, with full, heavy and aching breasts. He drank, was quietened, and fell asleep. 

The Dark Man was there too, almost invisible, blending in with the shadows under the trees. He watched them both for a while and then left.

Thirty years or so later and the Baby Boy was now a Grown Man, hungry, empty and weak, standing up on the hillside. The sky had grown dark, inky black clouds drawn across in a premature dusk. A ragged gash in the clouds, a couple of miles away, caused heraldic sunbeams to slant down onto the distant city, making it shine white amidst the gloom, like the celestial city, the city set on a hill.

It’s yours, said the Dark Man, who was there too, and was also regarding the city. Of course, it’s yours. I can’t do it, all that I touch turns dark, the touch of my fingers turns all to dust and decay in the end. Not you though – your reign is a rule of light, truth and beauty, of righteousness and peace. Take it, it’s yours, I can give it to you and all other cities like this one, from this time and all times to come. Bow to me, receive it from my hand and take up your rightful place. The old restraints and prohibitions are soon to be done away with, they have served their purpose. The ancient monogamy is no longer required, all you touch becomes clean, consecrated. They are waiting for you, the perfectly formed bodies under the flowing garments. Bow to me, and take up your kingdom. 

The Grown Man saw all these thoughts and enticements but they did not enter into his heart and will, like ships declining to enter a harbour, like apples that refuse to fall to the ground in a bitter gale. He saw the shining city but did not look at it, fixing his gaze above and beyond it, just as he never looked at the Dark Man, but always off centre, looking past and over him, seeing him only ever with peripheral vision. 

He turned, showing his back to both the Shining City and the Dark Man – get behind me Satan, for it is written, thou shalt worship the Lord thy God and him only shall you serve. 

Four figures appeared, tall and shining, in the deepening gloom, standing, facing one another, in enclosed quadrant formation. They sang a song that rose and fell, but continued as a constant eternal flow. They regarded one another from time to time, casting the song back and forth between them but always at the very edge of forgetting their own being, so compelling the music they were making together, so devastatingly, beautifully irrefutable, the never ending hymn of praise which will – one day – burst through that thin membrane that separates their world from ours and sweep away all darkness before it. 

The Grown Man stood and listened for a while and thus helped and strengthened, slowly made his way back to the town.