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Eclipses And Popes
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TITLE (EDIT)
Eclipses And Popes |
DESCRIPTION
All of the talk in these quarters of late has been of eclipses and the way they appear like flagpoles upon which great events fly.
[647 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Spiritual |
AUTHOR
Kevin Hadley |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I live in Warsaw and like the music that time plays in the quiet moments. I dream a lot, dreaming dreams of dreamers dreaming dreams.
[May 2024] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (4)
Orlando Flores Is Dead (Short Stories) The enigmatic Orlando Flores links two moments in a couple's life. [3,321 words] [Spiritual]
Pre-History (Essays) One day there comes a time when your younger years begin to speak the truth to you. [592 words] [Fable]
The Comet Cometh (Short Stories) Who can resist the mystery of a comet? [572 words] [Romance]
Trapdoors (Short Stories) Always, somewhere in the darkness of my memory, the one-armed man is patiently waiting [1,766 words] [Spiritual]
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Eclipses And Popes
Kevin Hadley
Up in the sky the moon is tiptoeing into place. Down below they emerge from dusty rooms and brightly-lit studios to discuss the meaning. It is God taking away his light, one doom-laden voice claims with a smile. It is God hiding his light, reminding us, comes the reply. Don’t you see the corona, those powerful beams of light creeping out around the edges. He is reminding us. It is not man who decreed that you must take something away to appreciate it.
In cells of forgotten monasteries, grim-faced friars, faces frozen by centuries of silence, eyes enlivened by an age of dreams and visions, feel only the certainty that they have been waiting for this all along.
With a magician’s slyness they pull theories from sleeves. With a farmer’s frankness they breed theories from theories. With great gulps of air they fill their own lungs before turning their attention to breathing life into the corpses of theories. They roll back heavy stones and resurrect theories. And all of the time the produce nothing more than the mystical trill of their own voices.
The Chinese fret because dragons are devouring their sun. They call far and wide upon the dancers and bell ringers to chase the fire-breathers back across the mountains, to entice them into drinking great rivers to snuff out their fires. The Czechs feel the chill hand of their ice giants embracing them, the sworn enemies of the father in the sky who breathes new life every spring, every morning. The giants march on across the sky, treading unawares on weary stars, all the happier that they can conquer their foe in his most hopeful season. The Romans see a poisoned sun, dying, having scented hemlock on his rays from first light, whilst waiting for the moon’s approach. The Jews are in turmoil. Someone has forgotten the eulogy for the scholar and they can’t find out the scholar’s name, in which house he lays, or from which mouth silence begat silence when it should have been performing its sacred duty.
And the Catholics? They talk of symmetry, of the perfectly proportioned figure of the universe. Surely they do. He will be buried under a sepulchral solar light, a voice pipes up above the laments. And he was born under the sign of the eclipse. Forgetting for a moment, they search their memories and voice their hesitant theories. Is it a good omen or a bad one? He questions. An eclipse, what does it mean? An eclipse in South America, what does it mean? Knocking over bookshelves, scattering tables in their haste, they scramble for books, wishing they had read them before, touched by annoyance that they had not been expecting this.
Aloof, somewhere lurking in the last rays of a fading sun, waiting for the penumbral light to dance across his face, to hold him frozen, to pass away, he skulks around. The scientist. He has his speech. His rational arguments. He is prepared to stand up and explain that all of this is predictable from the beginning of time until the end of time and that we petty humans, who come from nothing and return to nothing and mean nothing, merely fit coincidentally into the grand timetable. Why does he skulk, the Great Man? Because, as he rehearses his arguments, as he reaches high and digs low for the fluting notes and weighty tones that give his words musical perfection, he is suddenly struck dumb by one thought. If I am so right, then why does nobody want to listen? Why are all of these mystical hotheads, climbing from their deathbeds with overheating brains, more interested in belief than in science? And in his great sadness, with his eyes following the path of the moonshadow through the city streets, he begins work on a new theory, the theory of faith, not yet aware that it requires no explanation.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2005 Kevin Hadley |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
April 2005 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2037
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