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The Bleeding Woman

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  Amen. 

When a woman is afflicted with a flow of blood for several days outside her menstrual period, or when her flow continues beyond the ordinary period, as long as she suffers this unclean flow she shall be unclean, just as during her menstrual period.  Any bed on which she lies during such a flow becomes unclean, as it would during her menstruation, and any article of furniture on which she sits becomes unclean just as during her menstruation.  Anyone who touches them becomes unclean; he shall wash his garments, bathe in water, and be unclean until evening.  If she becomes freed from her affliction, she shall wait seven days, and only then is she to be purified.  Leviticus 15:25-2

Legislation specified by God to Moses on Mt Sinai, Mosaic Law divinely proclaimed.  Moses, God’s chosen leader of Israel, unable to look upon the face of God, a poor speaker, established the means God’s chosen were to live by.  Time after time, the chosen would abandon the covenant.  Naomi, one of the chosen, of the clan of Benjamin, was a woman who feared God as a child.  Through this fear and admiration, she became acquainted with misery.  She would become an outcast due to a physical ailment.  It was her blood, her womanly bleeding lasting well beyond the prescribed seven days, and the loss of a holy grandfather.  The bleeding was continual.  The monthly curse of the woman would not stop.  Twelve years she suffered the affliction.  It took everything from her: materialistically, physically, and socially.  Her life of desolation continued in isolation.  None could heal her.  Prayer, itself, abandoned her.  Ambivalence replaced thoughts of God.  Resignation to the world became her life.  Spiritual matters consisted of a state of disgrace.

Without communal worship, she still conversed with God, talking gently, asking forgiveness for the fact she despised life, expressing the wish never to have known birth, pleading for an exit, begging for mercy.  Asking, why was I born? There was nothing more she desired than to not be.  Death.  It was not hate, nor bitterness, rather defeat.  She had lost her husband, righteously granted a divorce by the priest from the Tribe of Levi, the descendants of Aaron, brother to Moses.  The officials of the Temple banned her from actively participating in the world of her upbringing.  The sacred was closed to her.  Her family shunned her, convinced she was a curse.  None could touch her.  She could touch none, and even more the things she touched became unclean, unworthy of others.  Physicians who tried unsuccessfully to heal her wasted the moderate wealth her husband gave her in parting.  Indigent and desperate beyond hope, she clung to the idea of being done with life.

Life as an exile started to change when she began living on the shores of the Sea of Galilee in a shelter gifted to her by anglers, four fishermen from various families belonging also to the tribe of Benjamin.  Hidden in an alcove, the hut escaped detection from the main roadway, yet a side path led directly past its rear.  The fishermen built a bigger shelter a short distance to the north, more convenient to the Roman roads.  The hut was just a small one-room shelter from the weather, a former place to stow fishing gear.  It was perfect for Naomi as it provided lodging and the isolation she needed, while also involving her with others.  The men would leave her fish as well as figs, olives, herbs, fruits and vegetables.  She ate little and the men were always obliging.

The dilapidated hut appeared as a blessing.  Something about its location along the shores of the Galilei seemed mystical to Naomi.  The doorway and two windows, openings for handing in vessels of dried salted fish, faced out onto the sea.  Over three years of serving no purpose, the hut became a garbage retainer.  People discarding unwanted items within.  It was literally a dump when Naomi took ownership.  One of the fisherman left her a cart to fill, promising her a donkey once it was ready to be hauled away.  Naomi spent days emptying the hut, surprised at the variety of items thrown into it.  Once she had the hut barren, she swept the ceiling, the walls, and the floor.  The fisherman, witnessing her dedication, supplied her with whitewash stucco to cover the walls, also supplying hay for bedding.  Naomi built a new door and shutters for the windows from branches she gathered, taking over a week of nonstop laboring to complete the task.  Her home was finalized with the decorating of flowers.  Two salvaged broken vessels from the removed refuse served as vases adorning the front door.  Rooted in the vessels, precious cross shaped purple flowers gathered from Mount Carmel lifted themselves to the sun, posing for the observing.  Naomi, relishing dirt underneath her fingernails, dug and refashioned the landscape.  After six months of occupation, constantly working in her yard, she created a rock pathway leading to the shore of the sea, a rock fire pit for cooking, while planting flowers artfully about.  Naomi took to waving at the few men, women, and children passing, those coming near on the water.  Her disposition was also being redecorated.  Others took the time to check on her if only to wave in greeting, to marvel at the beauty of her home.  What once existed a useless hut fading into its surrounding, an invigorating home of life, intelligence, and beauty appeared.

The only visitor she enjoyed for lengthy visits was Susanna.  Susanna, named in honor of the lily—her mother renowned for her love of flowers, was an old childhood friend. Susanna, now living in a distant village of her husband’s, sought Naomi out after learning of her fate through gossip.  As girls they were fun-loving playmates, known for decorating their hair with lilies as well as other flowers.  Maintaining childhood fancies, the two worked together, gardening upon Naomi’s yard.  Susanna would tell stories about her grandchildren.  The stories brought tears to Naomi.  It made her reflect upon the grandchildren she had been banished from.  Susanna told of her family so lovingly that Naomi understood she wanted her to share in life.  She wanted to share thoughts of children growing.  She acted out of love, not malice, or petty disguised animosity.  Susanna would come on the Sabbath, or the day after, coming for the whole day, bringing something sweet to eat, honey, and plenty of smiles and good cheer.  She suggested Naomi should consider raising bees, selling the honey to the fishermen.

It was during one of Susanna’s visits that Naomi learned of the healer Jesus, a new teacher of God, a man speaking words never heard before.  One of Susanna’s nephews, Bartholomew, was traveling with Jesus having become one of his chosen disciples.  The nephew referred to the man as Master.  Whispered words hinted the teacher was the Messiah.  Susanna herself heard the man speak, and told of the enchantment his winged words possessed.  ’More than a prophet’, she would say.  Naomi was not sure what to make of the talk.  There were always religious fanatics wandering the land of Israel.  Susanna even spoke of giving everything up and joining her nephew.  She knew her nephew since he was born and she saw a miraculous change within the young man.  She tried to speak of what she perceived surrounding her nephew and his Master, however she became frustrated with words, disappointed with her explanation, positive it did not embrace matters.  She wanted to tell how the teacher’s voice sounded, yet she was lost for words.  Her words were not winged.  Susanna insisted that Naomi must search out this teacher and healer.

“You must tell him of your affliction.  He heals.  Miracles blossom about him like flowers.”

“It is useless.  I have tried everything.  The verdict is final.”

“This man is something new.  You must at least hear him speak.”

“Susanna I am feeling old.  I am tired.  This small hut has become enough for me.  I watch the sea and the birds.  It is enough.  You are kind and your visits mean so much, but please do not bring false hope.  The decree is done.”

“I want you to offer prayers.  Consider what I say in your silence and solitude with God.  Listen with your heart.  He will speak the words I desire, yet cannot.  Do not take my word.  Take His.  Listen in silence.”

Naomi did consider what Susanna mentioned.  Her friend was a moderate person; a good wife, mother, and grandmother; moral in behavior and thought, always serious about her religion as her father and brothers were Pharisees, proper studying and highly educated in Scripture and the Mosaic Laws.  She had to admit she had never seen her friend express herself in a manner such as she did regarding this teacher who healed.  Others were speaking about the man also.  One could not help, but hear reports of his wandering.

Susanna’s insistence made Naomi think.  From a conventional woman came crazy talk.  There were many false prophets and religious zealots wandering about.  It was nothing new amidst the shores of the Galilee.  Never had her friend become enamored with one.  Naomi knew this.  The women held firm to the proper throughout her life.  Naomi considered the matter as she sat on a large rock with a natural declivity that produced a reclining seat of comfort.  It was a favorite perch.

This beautiful day, enjoying sunshine and blue skies, Naomi stared out beyond the waters of the sea, penetrating on into the wonder of creation.  She noticed the odd flight of a particular bird, its path winding around the blinding light of an undeviating sun.  In a matter of seconds, the bird was hovering above her, flapping its wings as it held steady aloft seemingly desiring to alight.  The brightness of the sun highlighted the bird from behind as it blinded, making it appear larger.  A white dove of splendor it became.  Observing the spectacular bird, an internal voice crystallized, vanquishing thought.

“Seek my Son.  Touch him.  Have faith.  Be healed.”

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Minstrel worldliness, God, above, loving

Man Tower

Man Tower

Walking, Cassandra moved swiftly, bringing herself next to Alberto, Man Tower, clutching his hand as they walked. She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissing it, wiping her tearful eye with it. Upon his hand, Alberto felt the moisture upon her face. He thought of his mother passing, feeling distant yet close to the imposing woman desperately holding his hand. His heart hardened as he pulled his hand away. The darkness that filled his deepest regions would not allow the intimacy to continue. He forced his thoughts to Ricco. Cassandra did not react, watching closely the man she stood next to. She saw his darkness. It only made her more determined to assist him in removing it. She could not lift her own darkness from her soul, yet she was confident she could erase that in another. Possibly with the eliminating of her beloved’s demons, her own demons would be exorcised.

As a knight, Alberto broke conventional traditions by traveling alone. Other knights traveled in entourages, possibly up to six or seven, and more counting squires, cooks and accomplices of various kinds. Knights, similar to castles, courts, and monasteries, came with many attached. Alberto, a terminally unique man, travelled solo. His solitary days were now ceasing. Ricco made a fine squire, a quality companion, and strongly the idea emerged the woman was going to prove interesting in her persistence. He did not fear the woman, amused by the fact he would break her heart. Let her try and tame him. The woman acted tough, yet his superior insight announced she was too strongly attached to him. He was bound for none. In the morning, after the sex act, he saw the one conquered lying next to him. Other women, women he raped, near death, pathetic in state, would sometimes stare at him with complete dependence upon him. After being raped, the women were willing to become slaves. The pathetic realization appalled.

Cassandra was different. At heart, he was convinced the sturdy, strong young lady was a simple soul struggling. Somehow, through all of her difficulties, she held on to innocence. The thought of the woman, cowering underneath her covers, possessing the mind of a five year old, brightened his heart. Yet she was a woman and with being a woman came extreme complexities. Depression a part, sadness weighing heavily upon her. Even if she could stand above riffraff, she could not stand above being human. Strong in a crowd, alone she suffered the wreckage of her past–one complex because of demands, satisfied and unsatisfied, justified and unjustified. A wayward child clinging to the remembrance of innocence, embroiled within sin, she spoke as one aiming for the soul when addressing him. Alberto sensed the feminine ethereal intent. He recalled the words of a wise man: only trust those who speak to the heart. Those who speak to impress, to gain your friendship for reward’s sake—praising, manipulating, and complimenting, or for any other selfish and vain reason, will surely shoot an arrow into your back if it suits their need. Watch those who ‘need’ to identify you as a friend. For most, it is simply a matter of time before they strike at you. Trust those who care and love others. Trust not those who control through a lack of charity. You are smart. You easily know the difference.

It was not long before, Alberto and Cassandra located Ricco. He rested in the stables, right where Alberto expected him to be. Rufino was in his company. Ricco introduced him as a childhood friend. Ricco informed Alberto of the strange former Templar Knight returning from the Holy Land, and the fact in the morning he was killed by unknown assailants. Alberto desired details of the men who attacked the haunted erstwhile crusader, although none were for the giving. Putting aside the morning death, contemplating words of the murdered man, travel to the Holy Land was discussed. Rufino introduced himself, in mannerism begging for company with Man Tower. Running his words together, he told how he had nowhere to go, and the fact he was hunted by the worst of men, many desiring to inflict death.

“You were the young man confronting us on the street when Ricco first joined me.”

“That is when I wanted to kill Ricco. Now I want to share in his duties.”

“You look seriously handicapped.”

Cassandra stepped in. “I know the boy. He has a strong spirit, though he is prone to biting off more than he can chew. He attains powerful enemies while in reality he is only a pitiful boy. He fears nothing and that is a fault. He is lucky to be alive. There have been enough like him that no longer know the sun. He will be dead before twenty years if he continues alone. He will serve you well. He needs your protection, as do I. Together, we will form a band of misfits: traveling troubadours, we can wander about. I can sing and dance for money.”

Alberto laughed, wondering what in the world possessed the woman with the quick penetrating tongue. “You will support us? Already, I see you are a dreamer, making plans for those who have no plans for you.”

“No. I am more than a dreamer. I am a visionary. I have been that way since I was a little girl. One morning as a child, an uncle came calling, a strange man visiting my mother. Immediately, I knew I must avoid the man for he would kill my mother and attempt horrible things with me. I warned my mother, however my words of prophecy lacked persuasion. It cost me a mother, and the reality I killed a man. A small girl, I did not shirk from sticking a knife into the man’s liver, deftly inflicting death. We can travel as a troupe, minstrels afoot in strange lands, touring tournaments. You know the life Man Tower. None can best you in combat, and we can offer, for pay, the opportunity of reputation through battle with you. Individual men of every community feel themselves to be the strongest. It will be a great honor for them to contest with the brute of legend you have become. Ricco can learn and increase his skills, teaching other squires. His reputation is firmly established. Men speak of the training he endured in the lands of the lepers, wrestling with the older noble young men. There is nothing you do that is not spoken about by drunkards. Your swordplay and my singing and dancing will be our means of subsistence.”

“What about me?” Rufino, captured by the words, chimed in.

“I can teach you to dance and sing, beating upon a drum. I will teach you various beats. It is easy, and captivating for the soul to learn the rhythms of the drum. Together we can dance. I have another friend, her name is Beatrice, something is wrong with her right now that she is not speaking about—however she is strong, skilled and of a sharp mind. She will accompany. We can paint our faces, making fools of ourselves for others enjoyment. Actors and singers, we will be together. We can perform skits. I have always wanted to live such a life. When I was a young girl there was a troupe of actors who brought me to tears, making life seem precious, making tangible my life and experiences. I loved the stories they told in their performances, and within the imagining of their lives. Affecting a child, they induced hope into my soul. We can tell raucous jokes and stories of gallant knights saving cherished, treasured, ladies. We can do it together Rufino. We can all build a stage together, hanging fabric with painted images. Can you paint?”

“I have never tried.” Swept away visualizing, Rufino clutched onto the woman’s words.

“That is even better. People are leery of traveling actors. It eases them if they can watch us and laugh not only with us, but at us. Clumsiness and a lack of talent they enjoy. Weakness…what are the words the priest spoke… I willing boast of my weakness, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I am content with weakness, with mistreatment, with distress, with persecutions and difficulties for the sake of Christ; for when I am powerless, it is then that I am strong. Amazing, they all came with ease. Show the people weakness and they will be enthralled. If we show them faults, weakness, imperfections, while entertaining, they will enjoy us even more. Arrogance, no matter how great the skill, quickly grows annoying to those who wish to be amused.”

“Now you are a philosopher also. And you thought of this grand plan as we stand wasting time.”

“Yes, I am quite clever.  This will become extremely evident to you, so clearly it will become a part of your intuition.  Of course, the underlying employment of the traveling minstrel fantasy was there all along, something I have been dreaming about since a child.  I even have a name Troupe Tripudiante–Troupe Tripudiante that is how we shall be known.  You and the others are just recent additions, named faces I have been searching for throughout my life.  You three allow reality to bloom from seeds sown from childhood fascinations.  How wonderful you must feel.  I am a survivor, good at adjusting.  You will come to learn this.”

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Outremer Outcast

 

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A constant roar of drunken voices permeated the tavern. The cheers for Ricco died to a murmur before finally moving on to heated discussion regarding societal changes, revolution enthusiastically impregnating minds. The killing of the bull raised Ricco, the squire of Man Tower, to the status of a local legend. Being the squire of Man Tower produced a large reputation alone, yet now Ricco’s stature caused him fame. The bull was known, removed from the arena due to its experience and ferociousness. The awfulness of the bull grew in dimension the more its death was expounded upon. Ricco’s single handed killing would be told for generations to come.

Ricco relished the attention, yet evaded excessive glorification. He clarified that concern for his friend provided the necessary courage to confront the bull. He did what any man would do for a good friend. Sipping wine, Rufino, knew a new life. He enjoyed the environment of the tavern. His fears abolished, at least to the degree of extreme paranoia, he sipped the wine, in great excess of the amount consumed by his friend, purchased by others for Ricco killing the bull.

Rufino spent the day cleaning up. The stables provided soap and a warm bath, a luxury he had not known for weeks. Ricco acquired new clothes for him and a crutch of superior quality. Most valued, Ricco presented a short sword and scabbard, as well as a French troubadour hat. Exuberant with a head drowning in wine, Rufino became a little arrogant as he felt a man of the world, speaking to strangers as if he was something he was not. Ricco did not mind as he recalled the despondent state he found his childhood friend suffering. In fact, he saw the inebriated swagger as a sign of his friend returning to the confidence he displayed in previous years. A transformation so sudden may not have permanency embedded, however the effects of a joyful nature, even for a drunken well-dressed moment, superseded gloom and misery. Temporary splendor relinquished fear.

“My master I feel will not return this night. Hopefully in the morning we can speak to him.”

“Do you truly think he will consider taking me on as a servant? He will find me useless.”

“You are what you believe you are. You must offer your service with courage. He despises weakness. You were the bravest of us boys. You still have that in you Rufino. I use to fear you.”

“That was when I was trying to kill you and strong. I have changed, becoming paranoid and weak. I am nothing but a cripple.”

“No. Stop pitying yourself.”

Rufino stared in amazement at his friend. Did his friend truly believe he was something more than he considered himself to be? Courage and boldness began to emerge with the confidence of his friend, and the swagger he embraced through the lifting of too much wine. He recalled his insane bravery as a child, always willing to attempt the most preposterous of thefts or deeds. He reveled in the astonishment of the other boys regarding his audacity.
Suddenly, from out of the crowd of strangers, a body dropped itself at the drinking table shared by Ricco and Rufino. Collapsing from his feet due to drunkenness, a man clumsily seated himself. Attempting to collect himself, resting his fallen head upon an outstretched arm, the man appeared woeful. Distinct in dress as he sported foreign fashions, Ricco previously noticed the individual within the tavern crowd. His clothes spoke of the Outremer. He moved about as his master did; stealthily one amongst others, yet distinct in appearance and conviction, mystery shrouding persona. He felt it necessary to dive underneath the obvious. Drunkenness, dominated the stranger.

Ricco spoke. “All friends are welcome.”

Fearful, Rufino closely studied the man, worrying he pursued a vendetta against him. He placed his hand upon his short sword, yet it gave him no relief. The man was obviously a seasoned fighter. His disposition and a large scar traced across his right cheek made the fact evident. Though elderly, the stranger was still a dangerous man of war. There was a calmness that announced confident experience in his ability to defend and attack.
The stranger lifted his eyes, while his recumbent head remained supported. Focusing upon Ricco, he raised his head, commanding his body to an upright seated position. “You are the one who killed the bull. It was remarkable. I witnessed your amazing feat. Let me buy you a drink.” The man screamed out for the tavern girl, ordering wine for the table. “I have not seen the remarkable since leaving the Holy Land.”

“You are a crusader?”

Drunkenly making a face of disgust, the man made gestures, attempting to bring Ricco and Rufino into his confidence. “I was a crusader, a Templar Knight. It goes bad in the Outremer, the Land Beyond, the Holy Land. I have spent the last thirty years there. Now I wish to return to my homeland, although I do not know what I seek there for I lost my soul fighting for Christ. I left a youth, even younger than you, the mighty killer of the bull. Theseus they are calling you, and rightly so for your deed was a mighty one, justifiably comparable to the killing of the Cretan minotaur. I saw your deed with my own eyes”.

“Tell me of your crusading. Such knowledge stirs my soul.”

“Knowledge? What is knowledge? The way we know? If matters are not conducted with the illumination of Christ all is foolishness. Vanity of vanities. The light that is Christ must shine upon knowledge if it is to transform into wisdom. If personal edification, or the enrichment of thy neighbor, is not the goal then all is lost, no matter how much is learned. Are you a curiosity seeker? If you aspire for knowledge for knowledge’s sake you set yourself up to play the fool. A reputation amongst learned men, is that your intention? You want others to think of you as a genius? That is nothing, pure vanity, binding you to the throne of Satan. Possibly you yearn for materialistic gain. The servant of greed, do you seek to enhance the mind for personal gain? Do you reckon there is a fortune to be made if I tell you secrets regarding the Holy Land? Let us be clear on your motivation. Possibly, you desire nothing more than entertainment. If you are a seeker of righteousness, that which broadens charity, then enlightenment is your desire. Prudence will be your reward; edification a gift for your neighbor. Merely to shine is futile; merely to burn is not enough; to burn and to shine is the state of perfection.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Understanding is not as important as hearing. Allow the words to settle within your heart. It is enough.”

The tavern girl arrived with a jug of wine which the man steeply drank from before pouring shares for his tablemates. Sloppily tossing coins to the server, the man dismissed the girl as he prepared for more words. Before speaking, he swallowed more of the wine.

“The religious life called me in my youth. Father Bernard, the Mellifluous One, the one whose voice was like that of honey, captured me with his sanctity. There was nowhere for me except Clairvaux, the Valley of Light. The white habit of the Cistercians enthralled my heart. The life of the contemplative existed as a beatific dream amongst the confusion and nightmare of existence. Guiding, Father Bernard provided the necessary love and wisdom; his words and example serving to deepen life, touching upon the divine. God could be experienced here and now. The embracing of poverty, chastity, and obedience were keys to opening hidden, cryptic doors. Acquiescing to the tutelage of Father Bernard, all of creation began revealing. The grass growing so green screamed of the creator, reverberating with the resounding joy of being. Mountains adored. Water flowed, Christ abounding in its penetrating waves and trailing wake; my bliss like a dolphin porpoising. Internally, an expansion burst forth through silent adoration, appeasement allowing poetry to blossom, only to be forgotten with the ceasing of prayer.”

“The fools now attack the memory of Father Bernard. They have no idea, just as they have no insight into matters in Outremer. In obedience to superiors, Father Bernard preached as only he knew how, in complete compliance with his love and knowledge of God. Emboldened by the conviction that through such love and wisdom all things were possible, he saw no limitations. His weakness was his dedication to reclusion and his obedience to superiors. A mystic able to attain union with God, worldly matters were not his realm. He sincerely never wanted to be a man of influence. His superiors demanded it. Contemplation, secluded prayer, a man set apart, lovingly enamored with acute awareness of the Trinity, devoted to Our Holy Mother, believing love to be the essence of creation, Father Bernard passionately desired only to be left alone with God at Clairvaux. The world never obliged. Can you imagine him traveling throughout lands promoting a worldly war? Under obedience, he would do anything a superior asked, yet still the situation more than possesses a bit of the absurd. He did not take matters personal. He only obeyed the will of God and the will of superiors. A man of great reputation, reputation meant nothing to him. The failed crusade so many are willing to curse him for never came close to defining his character. It was such a diminutive part of his being. Those who truly knew him found it ridiculous to associate such a holy man to such a disaster. You cannot send criminals: thieves and murderers off to war in the name of Christ and expect them to be more than what they genuinely are. Authenticity outweighs the words of a wise holy man. Entering war as corrupt men, the soldiers of the failed crusade warred as corrupt men.”

“In the undermining of Father Bernard, never under estimate the influence of Cluny. The religious men of Cluny despised Father Bernard. In their excess, in their fur coats and finery, the poverty and simplicity of Father Bernard irritated them. His detachment, his embracing of littleness, was an affront, disturbing to a degree of creating a rationalizing backlash. Engaging in subterfuge, there was a constant intellectual and ideological aggressiveness towards Clairvaux. The Cistercians, attempting to return monasticism to the ideals of St Benedict, were scrutinized as unnecessary by the established orders. When wickedness creeps into the ways of those posturing as righteous, an authentic man of holiness becomes an offense. Cluny is a bastardized capital of a religious empire, a central governing body controlling nearly fifteen hundred monasteries. Emperors, popes, and kings seek the counsel and favor of Cluny not in regards to the spiritual. It’s the temporal Cluny lords over. Its esteemed influence is savored and exploited by the Benedictines who have grown secular in concern, Christ weary in years waiting. St Benedict never had such a monstrosity in mind when he established his order. The Cistercians, as a whole, are a scourge to the overindulgent lifestyle modeled at Cluny. How appropriate the Benedictines devote their efforts to St Peter, the brash impetuous rock Christ built the Church upon—one who denied Christ during his darkest hour, while the Cistercians consecrate their ways to the Holy Mother, the Arc of the Temple, the Bearer of Christ, the one whose body nurtured Our Lord, the Lady of Sorrows whose heart would be pierced by a sword. Father Bernard was foremost in his adornment of the Mother of God. I recall precisely his words:

“She, I say, is that resplendent and radiant star, placed as a necessary beacon above life’s great and spacious sea…. When the storms of temptation burst upon thee, when thou seest thyself driven upon the rocks of tribulation, look up at the star…. When buffeted by the billows of pride, or ambition, or hatred, or jealousy, look up at the star…. Should anger, or avarice, or carnal desires violently assail the little vessal of thy soul, look up at the star…. If troubled on account of the heinousness of thy sins, confounded at the filthy state of thy conscience…beginning to sink into the bottomless gulf of sadness and to be absorbed in the abyss of despair…then think of Mary…. Let not her name depart from thy lips….”

The stranger, halting in words, overcoming his drunken state the more he spoke of his monastic days, allowed silence to reign. Ricco and Rufino sat spellbound. The man was a natural storyteller. The two witnessing thought the man from nowhere with stories from everywhere should be upon a stage telling his tales.

“I should have never left Clairvaux, yet when Father Bernard preached about the merits of fighting as a soldier of Christ, I could not restrain my young mind. With Father Bernard’s uncle Andrew, I joined the Templar Knights. The further I moved away from Clairvaux, the further I moved away from God. My prayer life became a burden. Praying with the knights was not the same as praying at Clairvaux. Onus in nature, I fought with all my might just to say the simplest prayers. I cannot explain the overwhelming mental sloth and anti-social behavior dominating my darkness. My Body, trained and prepped to be a forceful knight, was ready for battle. However, the battle of ideas raging within me, I was losing badly. Everything seemed out of synch. Event after event proclaimed doom. In Constantinople, we only met with Christians divided.

“Greeted with apprehension, no sincere welcome provided, it was obvious the Byzantine men did not trust us, nor want us near their city. Rumors abounded they were making alliances with the Turks in order to assure our defeat. Promised reclaimed lands taken during the first crusade were never returned to Byzantine hands. The wealthy city of Antioch was finally wrested violently away from western control by Byzantine forces. Christians are fighting Christians in the Holy Land. Muslims are fighting Muslims in the Holy Land. Secret treaties and alliances can only be speculated upon, opposing forces joining in order to rid a common enemy. The Muslims known distantly are not reality. They are not all Turks. There are Arabs, many cultural sects, including the Kurds from whom a new leader, Saladin, arises.”

“Religiously, they are divided between Sunnis and Shiites. The irreversible division is deep, inflicting death and violence amongst those we perceive as united. Dynasty upon dynasty, Muslims battle amongst each other for power. The Abbasid dynasty shifted the balance of the Islamic faith, centering its strength in Persia, moving away from Damascus, building the city of Baghdad near the joining of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. Shiite dominance suffered a severe blow with the violent ascension of the Abbasids. Maintaining the sanctity of lineal descent, the belief that only true decedents of the Prophet could lead, they preached support of Ali, grandson of Muhammad’s youngest uncle Abd-al Mutalib, husband to Muhammad’s daughter Fatima. The Abbasid’s staunch orthodox Shiite position allowed them to attain power. Secure in their ruling position, they turned on their former allies, instituting violent repressive measures, ordering imprisonment and executions; the ultimate insult occurring when they denied their extremist roots, declaring themselves Sunnis.

“Alexandria. Shiite power use to reside in Egypt, the city of Cairo, through the Fatimid Caliphate, the ones responsible for the destruction of the Holy Sepulcher. Now there is Saladin, a Kurd ruling Egypt, a wander rooted in Damascus, an interesting man to be watched, one dedicated solely to jihad. His ability to appease ideologically and traditionally antagonistic Islamic sects threatens Christian concerns in Outremer. True Islamic unification is impossible, however the joining of forces in confronting Christian intrusion is a possibility Saladin remarkably seems capable of accomplishing. The authority he commands is noteworthy. He derives his position of superiority through dedication, intelligence and the rewarding of those willing to fight for him. He takes no spoils from conquering, allowing all acquired possessions and wealth to be dispersed amongst the common soldier and throughout the Islamic world. As a unifying leader, he lives in poverty, a state reaping respect from followers. Saladin’s power is the mightiest through the loyalties he garners from his soldiers. A true leader his men love him, proudly fighting and dying for him, willing to see their loved comrades perish under his command”.

“Muslims and Christians both suffer greatest from internal fighting. The Byzantines fear Rome, as Rome fears them. The Islamic world is even more divided. The weakness that comes from a lack of unified force allows the opposing side to take advantage. It is how Eddessa was seized by Zengi, a Sunni who orchestrated the first serious defeat of Christian forces since losing Jerusalem. In the Outremer, nothing makes sense to the mind that passionately donned the white robe marked by the red cross of the Templar Knights. The red badge of martyrdom proudly resting upon the white robe of purity knew not what it was bound for. The mind inspired by the glorious idealism preached by Father Bernard stood not a chance amongst the complexities of the Outremer. Pure holy water poured into mud becomes mud. Clairvaux is a reality away.”

“I found it interesting during the warring of Outremer that both Christian and Muslim, respecting a foe of intelligence, strength and integrity, would approach one who established himself as mighty upon the battlefield through negotiation. If a man distinquished himself upon the battlefield as vastly superior the other side demanded to speak with him under truce. Observing the workings of God within the battle skills of a foe brave, true, and undefeatable, both Christian and Muslims would discuss the matter, concluding the gifted one of war was blessed, yet, as a man, confused in regards to loyalty and faith. It was not possible God would grant one of such power to the other side. It was the personal fault of the man he did not recognize his true place in life. Both sides would seek the powerful opponent out, welcoming him into their camp, attempting to convince him of the error of his thought, conducting intense debates of faith, evangelizing with the greatest effort to bring the one of strength into their camp. Neither side willing to admit God existed within the opposing camp.

“In battle, there are special men of presence, never showing fear, always slashing and fighting to the heart of the battle, their individual effort able to turn the tide of a clash of many. Such men never converted to the other side. It still did not stop others from trying to convert them. When given the choice of death or conversion to the enemy, these men chose death. It was the reason the Muslims feared the Knights Templar. The knights feared nothing. Ten knights would ride upon a force twenty times their number. Countless stories can be told of the knights sending an opposing army vastly superior in number scrambling. Consecrated to their cause, confident in their training and fighting skills, they rode upon their opponent with a complete disregard for death. It was why the Muslims would never allow a captured Templar to be released. Other men were sold into slavery or freed for ransom, however such action was foolish regarding a Templar Knight. It was comparable to attempting to tame a grown lion. I admire the statues of the Romans, adoring their depicting of a powerful resting lion licking his paws. The strength of the beast, tempered at the moment, could not be denied in the beast’s most docile moments. The Muslims were correct that it is only proper to execute a captured Templar Knight.

“Even the Assassins feared the Templar Knights. The Assassins, based in unclimbable mountains amidst the castle Alamut—the Eagle’s Nest, arose as an extremist Shiite sect intent upon hastening in the millennium. Brought into existence by the mysterious Old Man of the Mountains, they were intent upon taking the battle to leaders. Instead of hordes of common men meeting in conflict, the Assassins would take the fight directly to men determined to establish themselves as leaders and commanders. The fear of death entered the courts of powerbrokers. Political and religious differences resolved with a minimal loss of life. Overcoming the Sunni majority and the influence of Seljuk Turks, whom they viewed as evil spirits, jinn, the Assassins established themselves as a mysterious force of vindication, supernatural powers always playing within their mystique, the embodiment of a deadly dark Islamic shadowself being embraced. To respect and fear the Assassins became a reality for those rising to positions of power within the Islamic faith. The Assassins struck stealthy and where they were least expected. Bringing death they accepted death. There is a famous story of a mother of an assassin’s mother celebrating with joy when her son set out upon his mission, and then mourning when he returned. Her son completed his mission, yet he returned with his life, instead of entering paradise through a glorious death. The mother wept for her living son.

“The Assassins are a great force of influence in the Outremer. They have established an army, a mass movement, can be stopped by the eliminating of its leader. The Templar Knights dismayed the Assassins. The Assassins came to realize that the eliminating of a Templar leader created a void that was quickly filled. Leaders did not define the body. The Templar Knights were a snake with many heads. Where a snake could be killed by the cutting off of its head, the Templar Knights proved to be a beast of a different nature. They were not dependent upon the strength of an individual leader.

“Let me go back to loyalty. The Outremer is known for testing the faith and loyalty of a man. If I claim to be a Christian, will I die for my faith given a conscious choice? A man being given the choice of death, or life, either as a slave or convert of the faith he committed to oppose, is a startling thing to observe. Results are even more astounding as most men who choose life, in many cases renouncing the faith of their upbringing, tend to remain loyal to their death, avoiding the choice of return, submitting to the escape of death they convince themselves their decision was not based upon cowardliness. Their authentic and integrity based illumination of destiny surrendered to the will of God. It was imperative they remained alive with intense insight of conversion forcefully impregnated in their soul. It is the opposite with men granted freedom, either through ransom or mercy. Disregarding promises made upon release, freed men return to their sword, vowing bloody revenge.

“Then finally there is the most mistrusted of men slithering about in the Outremer. Men who turn against those they were raised amongst for personal gain, or through outrage, or simply due to an overabundance of pride, and jealousy. Such men, no matter how much of an advantage they bring, are always observed with suspicion. Never are they truly trusted. They are men of no loyalty; bitter, hateful, self-absorbed men, needing to rise above their surroundings through any means possible. Their abominations isolate them. It is only a matter of time before such men turn against new alliances. Loyalty endures a mocking. The Outremer always presents such compounded and intricate possibilities.”

“During our venturing into the land, even the weather foretold of disaster, constant overcast skies and rain following us upon our journey. The nights were so unnaturally cold. The Seljuk Turks harassed our movements and defeated us in direct confrontations. The siege of Damascus would be an embarrassing failure. The effort fell apart within five days. Our leadership never came together, ignoring the advice of local Franks as they advised us not to attack the friendly city. Fingers of blame pointed in every direction, the majority pointing at the Byzantines for their alliances with the Muslims. The honor, integrity, and glory I sought as a Templar Knight never came close to materializing.”

“I would spend over thirty years in the Outremer seeking to fulfill my ambitions as a soldier of Christ. My waywardness would know no bounds. Lost was my reward. I served in Jerusalem for several years, never feeling inspired by the supposedly holiest of cities. The City of David and Christ’s crucifixion did not invigorate my piety or prayer life. I searched desperately, falling in with a renegade band of Knights Templar recognized by some as the wisest of men. Knowing scripture and the ways of surreptitious prayers, the men were always expounding covertly.

“As a group, we defected, abandoning our rank, and people. The secrets amongst the men were beyond my reckoning. I became involved in spiritual intrigue: exploring reincarnation, metempsychosis, divination, trance states, prophetic visions, the raising of personal energy through interior portals for the sake of enlightenment, communicating with the dead and spirits, the manipulating of death; any and all forms of occultism were explored. We responded to the overwhelming nature of the Outremer by attempting to surpass all the limitations of being human, embracing all forms of thought in a cohesive illumination of individual brilliance.

“We walked around barefoot, wearing our white Templar gown with the red cross removed. We tried to wrap our minds around everything. We emptied ourselves. We shared our clandestine camp with men of all types: Gnostic pursuers, Neoplatonic philosophers, Hindu mystics, Sufi whirling dervishes, Islamic occultist, Shiite Ismailites, cabbalistic investigators of creation through the revealing of supernatural words and numbers, Zoroastrian dualist. Nor were the sciences ignored. Astronomy, mathematics, and geometry were explored. Over twenty years, we assaulted reality. Eventually, as a group, we became insane, relying upon intoxicants and alcohol to achieve transcendental states. Sensual pleasure devastated members of our group. Orgies became common. Pederasty reared its nasty head.”

“We had lost our way. When self-absorption becomes a communal rite into the mysteries of life everything becomes justifiable. Nothing really means anything. Words and ideas are manipulated, over-used and rationalizing. Rhetoric usurps truth. If one could say something convincingly, receiving support or debate branching off into other realms, it was enough, venturing into areas that consequences easily establish as damaging meant nothing. The heart and conscience are easily ignored within a crowd of the corrupt. It becomes possible to avoid the reality of distorted disposition. I, as well as the others, knew we were going insane, yet as a group we charged onward, our progression into immorality and the sensational ever expanding. We would even laugh about the matter. Enough never became enough, and in fact too much only left us wanting more. We could not get our fill.”

The stranger, now refusing drink, appeared as if he drank nothing throughout the night. Exhaustively, he had opened his soul, a confession, a self-examining man, honesty mobilized. Rufino and Ricco sensed a hesitation in speech. The man was preparing to share something extraordinary.

“I have not shared this with others. Why I speak to you two I do not know. It feels right. Where are you staying?”

“Stables, only a short walk away. Our master is away. We wait for his return.”

“Let us go there. I will pay you to allow me to stay with you. There is something I want to confess. I cannot do it here in the ruckus and revelry of the tavern.”

“Let us go.”

Having made a sleeping mat for their guest, Ricco laid down upon his own. The stranger prostrated himself upon the mat, before turning to his side. Rufino sat upright upon his sleeping mat. He and Ricco waited patiently for the stranger’s words. When he started speaking, the words came so deep from his being it spooked them. The stranger was releasing and relinquishing.

“Now in the darkness, I tell you of my final night in the Outremer. I spent the day smoking hashish we purchased from strange traders traveling through the lands. Mysterious in background, the men would visit periodically. They stayed a short time, smoking, yet told us nothing about themselves. As the sunset, I drifted into a comatose state, my body paralyzed, my mind filling with strange visions and images. Culminating in a scorching inferno, I found myself overwhelmed by an intense heat. I could not move. There were strange geometric shapes about, squares and circles, the circle coupling with the square, a center point emerging, bursting into rays of blinding light. Suffering agonizing pain, I fell deeper and deeper into the burning until I landed upon horribly smelling mud. The stench was so potent and awful I could taste it in my mouth. A filthy puddle formed. Something surfaced upon the muddy water. It was a dead baby with wings, a cherub without life. Desperately, I wanted to breathe life into the little angel. As I attempted to pick it up, something horrible happened. The body of the cherub dissolved into slime, slipping and pouring through my fingers until it liquesced at the end of its descent, mixing with the dirty water until no traces of the baby angel could be discerned. Rain showered from above. The rain was warm, salty upon my lips. It was not rain. It was tears. The vision wounded me, piercing my heart. Futilely, I understood my soul was dead, lost in my sordid experiences in the Outremer. It was not only I. I was ultimately alone. I thought of Father Bernard, crying and pleading for his assistance, while knowing the distance between myself and goodness to be so great even Father Bernard would never be able to transcend. I could not call upon Christ, nor his mother. Tormented, my mind grasped for solutions. A drastic conclusion was reached. Our efforts as a group must be halted. The darkness of the night came upon my soul. I felt shadows entering my body as I retrieved my knife. I could do nothing to cease the trance overpowering me. In silence and efficiency, I opened the throats of all thirteen of my companions. None stirred during my killing effort.”

Silence held firm. Ricco asked the stranger. “Now you wish to return home?”

“Yes. I seek a return home. Clairvaux. There was a good Templar Knight, not all went bad like my companions and myself. It is so multifarious when you fight in the Outremer. War is not the greatest strife. To obediently lose your life in the service of superiors, is a blessing compared to the other ghastly options. The battle within and without the Outremer transcends war. It is complete, ruthless, callous and brutal spiritual warfare. Where will I go? I will try to reenter the contemplative life. The Templar Knight I reflect upon is the third master of the order Evrard des Barres. As a leader, he collapsed under the weight of his command, unable to bear the burdens of leading warfare. He begged for mercy, expelling all of his energy in a plea to return to the contemplative. He was placed in a position of power, yet he was a man who despised power. Naturally, his worldly efforts failed. The contemplative life was his only refuge. Before he parted from the Outremer, he begged my forgiveness. Such heartfelt sincerity he poured forth. I pleaded that he must tell me what to do. He became nervous, acting crazy, trying to answer. All he could speak was a further imploring for forgiveness, confessing he was unsure about everything.”

Ricco spoke. “Your burdens are great brother.”

“All I have done has been inflicted by myself. Do not venture to the Outremer. It is a place of vast complexities, entangling all who dare to tread its land. God’s domain it is, however Satan lurks throughout, Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. My life was ruined by grand worldly ambitions. Convinced my destiny was to live out a great glorious drama, I abandoned simplicity and prayer for a confused catastrophic adventure. The wise, Father Bernard amongst them, understand the supreme fineries of life exist within elementary restraint, the acceptance of mundane routine, and the adoration of uncomplicated, lucid, being; prayer and meditation the tools of practice.”

The stranger ended his words. Ricco and Rufino drifted into sleep reflecting upon the murdering deed of their guest. In the morning, Ricco awoke to sounds outside the stable, upon the street. Harsh, aggressive voices reached his ears, dogs barked distantly, wakening to the day. There was a scuffle. Violence erupting, the sounds became screams. A man was being beat by a sizable group of men, a tough group pouncing. He looked to the sleeping mat of his guest only to discover the stranger was gone. A dreadful premonition entered his mind. He made his way to the stable window. Observing, he discovered the body of his guest lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood. No one else could be seen.

Rufino joined him at the window, speaking. “It appears his deeds have caught up to him.”

“I feel we were meant to speak to that man Rufino.”

“I was miserable before you found me, yet still my condition was nothing compared to this man. His sadness, despair, his palpable hopelessness, I will not recover from.”

“He is a messenger. We will travel to the Holy Land. His words, stories, and death we must always keep in our heart and mind”.

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Grace

Such also is the thought of St Teresa. In her ‘Interior Castle’ she teaches that “all our desires, all our meditations, all our tears, all the efforts we can make (in order to raise ourselves to supernatural quietude), are useless; God alone gives this heavenly water to whom He pleases; often He gives it just when we least think of it.” However, she requires as an indispensable disposition “humility, humility, since it is by this virtue that Our Lord allows Himself to be overcome, and is induced to grant all our desires…Let a soul be humble and detached from everything, in very truth, however, and not merely in imagination which often deceives, and the Divine Master, I have no doubt, will grant her not only this grace, but even many others surpassing all her desires.” –Abbot Vital Lehodeyvital_lehodey_tit_1

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Enzio persuasion upon Man Tower

Towers

Towers

Man Tower

Man Tower

The young ladies were sipping stew when Montaninus and Man Tower returned.  Lightly, the old man Enzio appeared to sleep in a seated position.  Crackling in cadence, a fire burned in the stone fireplace.  Similar to all the castle detail, Alberto marveled at the uniqueness of the fireplace.  The piled stones artistically and efficiently arraigned made a statement of purposeful intent, paying homage to the essence of the fire it contained, allowing the smoke of the fire to rise to the heavens—prayers ascending.  Above the fire pit, upon the chimney, another of the old man’s statues presented itself, this one observing upon a stone ledge.  An Athenian Owl, larger than life, brilliantly chiseled, roosted over the room.  To the right and left of the owl, crows perched, two in number upon each side.

Latin words, phrases, were carved throughout the castle.  Interiorly and exteriorly, there was much to be read for those who could read the forgotten language of the Church and scholars.  Alberto, lacking fluency, could make little sense of the scrawl.  Sporadically literate, he did recognize several words.  There was the naming of Moria, defining with the title of an Unknown God.  The one phrase in local dialect was a New Testament declaration based upon an Old Testament prophecy: `The very stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner’.  A Latin phrase Alberto understood, familiar from his youth.  The words made an impression upon him, sticking in his mind.  Nothing can be created from nothing.

The fireplace was situated on the western wall of the room.  To the east, between two windows providing viewing of the rising sun was the only wooden image within the castle.  It was a crucifix Enzio attained from a Spoleto church that burned during a raid by Emperor Barbarossa’s men.  Alberto, a part of the assault, knew nothing of the coincidence.  Larger than life, the crucifix, marvelous in appearance, resounded with unintended burnt beauty, tragedy magnified through charcoaled magnificence.  Black in radiant appearance, the charred wood did not destroy the representation of Christ suffering upon the cross.  The image remained, altered yet abiding.  Its remnant beautiful in being, a burnt black state, sooty to the touch, a new icon created, new patterns of shimmering shining blackness comprising the body of Christ.  Crossing, patching, cracking, lines of demarcation running throughout the charcoal wood, Alberto marveled at the wonder.  Never did Christ upon the cross strike him with such resonance.

“I had to be very careful transporting that torched cross.  The damage was not so severe to the image.  It could be argued the tragedy of the church burning made it stronger in beauty and meaning.  I imagine with time it will crumble away.  Wait for the wisest of all counselors: Time.  Yet nothing is ever truly destroyed.  All things only change form.”

Alberto turned.  Enzio stood next to him.

“Below is my shrine to Our Holy Mother.  My devotion is immense, empowering my prayer life.  It was the first statue I created that I felt extremely proud of.  I was forty-two at the time.  I did not start carving, creating statues until the age of forty, now it has been over fifty years, a whole lifetime passing between then and this moment we share.”

“Your home provides peace.  The charred crucifix is startling, haunting yet transfixing.  Your wolves are also, captivating, gigantic and intelligent”.

“They are not mine.  It is a rumor the weak of mind spread.  You are speaking silent one.  Your words provide contentment.  I have heard much about you.  I knew we would meet.  You are called Man Tower by the people of Assisi.  Those you fight with call you the Fierceness of Silence, or the Vanquisher, or the Ravager, or the Merciless One.  Others call you Poleyphemus, the giant one-eyed Cyclops who would eat Ulysses and his men if were not for the cleverness and courage of Ulysses.  Who knows what others will name you in the future.  Your mother called you Alberto and this is the sweetest call of all.

“Come let us eat.  I see you bathed in my water, another matter that pleases.  You have seen my wolves, watching them devour a horse.  I know what you saw.  Nothing happens without a purpose.  You must keep the images and experiences in your heart and mind, allowing them to work on who you truly are, something that possesses no adequate name.  God works upon one in unseen ways.  I have contemplated you for some time.  You are a destroyer, one who if he had his way would obliterate all images attached to identities, desiring to purge all identities attached to being, an outcast who seeks to cast out, one aspiring for depth through ascension.  I know you better than you know yourself, but enough of words for the time being.  Let us eat delicious nutritious food.  Life is not just for abhorring, grand dramas, and philosophizing.  The ordinary must always be utilized to attain the extraordinary.  Being normal, sane to the highest degree, is a gift for the kissed of Christ—no matter what the world may execute upon them, clarity abides within their heart and mind.  A man of extremes must learn to invite peace and boredom into his heart.  …behold the Lord passeth, and a great and strong wind before the Lord overthrowing the mountains, and breaking the rocks in pieces: the Lord is not in the wind, and after the wind an earthquake; the Lord is not in the earthquake.  And after the earthquake a fire: the Lord is not in the fire, and after the fire a whistling of gentle air. 

Simple things bring joy.  Gratefulness must be the receiver’s reception.  We must appreciate the dullest and plainest of details within the fullness of our being.  That is an extreme change for a master upon the battlefield, a man of war.  Being so seriously violent, an executer of men is fatiguing, soul condemning.  I know the details of your deeds in Terni, the beheading of over a hundred men.  Man Tower you are a broken man of gruesome mystery, cruelest to the most startling escalation.  Your memory can only present querulous demands, constant in vigilance regarding haunting.  It is truly providence you are not crazy.  Further cleansing can only occur through proper warring.  Even though you were under obedience, your soul is still accountable for the atrocity of your deeds.  Self-mutilation comes in many forms.  What is done is done.  Let us not allow flagellation to dominate our talk.  There are ways to make amends.  We will eat, drink, and be merry before we speak about the matters that demand your presence here, matters that will allow you to right wrongs.”

Alberto could not deny the deliciousness of the stew and bread.  Eating, he realized he was ravished.  The wine was also exquisite, strong in effect.  During the meal, he observed Enzio closely.  The health of the elderly one was amazing.  Could the man honestly be nearly a century in time?  There were rumors of men living even longer, yet he doubted authenticity.  Enzio appeared frail yet strong, a man of decent size, not one knocking upon death’s door.  While fragile in regards to aging: white hair, wrinkled skin, a squinting when attempting distant vision, overall, he appeared as if he had many years to live.  Alberto hoped he would be in such fine shape if he lived to such an extreme age, although a lengthy life was something he never truly considered.  Warring as an occupation provided too many opportunities for death.  The assumption of elderly years was not entertained.  Without providing serious regard, he never imagined living a life of longevity.

The silence of the meal was comforting.  The large royal family crest, centered upon an eagle and Constantine’s cross loosened Alberto’s tongue, yet he remained a man preferring no words.  It was better to hold silence than rely upon meaningless words only filling time with vanity, awkwardness, complications, or misunderstandings.  Nervousness was no reason to wag the tongue.  Montaninus also respected quietness during the meal.  The young ladies made their way out of doors, sneaking wine with them.

Sipping wine after the meal, enjoying the comforts of a fire, Enzio preceded to the vital business of the meeting.  Detailing his political and social views, he spoke directly to Alberto.

“The natural order of man is not to be disturbed.  We must learn from the Gospels.  Poverty is a state of dignity, just as wealth, noble rank, is a state of great responsibility.  The Holy family, simple in nature and worldly status, presents to all men the example of holy spiritual nobility.  Poverty is not a horrid state that demands the abolishing of ethics and principles as one pursues rising above deplorable inherited conditions.  By desiring little, a poor man makes himself rich.  Wisdom is lacking when the poor man despises his life.  He should be honored by the simplicity.  God is a teacher, His Word the breath of life.  God incarnate, man returned to true intended beauty, came to the world in a lowly status for precise reasons.  He was demonstrating the importance of spiritual matters; the kingdom of God being the afterlife, while the kingdom of Satan existed upon the earth, within original sin, time and space.  Expiation of sins the reason for the lowering status, Christ became human to celebrate the difference between God, perfection, and man, the disfigured being tainted by original sin.  Sin is the difference; social class simply a complication of sin.  Christ befriended all, trending toward the lowly as their suffering is the greatest.  God tended to the outcast, those with no hope in the physical world.  The Beatitudes wonderfully depict the countenance of Jesus Christ, demonstrating his charity.  He is all hope, eternal hope.  He is not of the world, simply passing through for the sake of the salvation of all men.  He knew the Father.  He was of the Father.  To the Father, He would go, making an eternal home for all.

“It is important to realize He never rebelled against worldly authority, obedience essential to all His words and actions.  His outburst in the temple protected the sanctity of His Father’s home.  He did not identify Rome as the enemy.  Give unto Caesar what is Caesar, and give unto God what is God.  He praised the faith of the Roman centurion, a man of wealth and worldly power who recognized His true nature.  The Roman official, a man of influence, spoke wisdom when he pronounced I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.  Here is God clearly detailing the natural social order, the righteous way of life for all men to live in harmony.  The internal battle is the true battle.  What are worldly victories if they cost one a soul?  How much more devastating is a defeat if it is realized it came within consequences that never presented the opportunity for victory?  In heaven, there is no social order for God’s love rules.  Here upon the earth there is social order and that is a part of God’s plan.  Obedience is the proper training of the soul.  It tests the character of the wealthy and the poor.  Perseverance and courage are necessary to pursue a life centered upon obedience.  Through obedient wisdom, the discerning of God’s will is attained.  Does one see the world as a personal possession or God’s gift?  Is God the center of your life or are you the alpha and omega?  Can you be satisfied with your life, the blessedness of being created in the image of God, focusing upon profoundness, or are you always wanting more, desiring greater adventures and wealth?  Does selfishness, materialism, avariciousness, pettiness, or jealousy rule your life?  Does a sense of entitlement, lacking gratitude, rot your being?

“Wealth is not to be envied, nor is power to be glorified.  They are matters that bring complication and responsibility.  They must not be sought after by whomever develops evil inclinations.  Nobility is passed from generation to generation.  The Gospels demonstrate once again.  Jesus descends from Abraham and the patriarchs.  He is within the line of David.  The favored of God carry on through generations until God himself enters the birth line.  It is not haphazard.  Randomness, chaos, and egotistical ambitions do not play a part in an active God’s participation in the world.  The living God is one of order.  God did not randomly appear.  God embraced being human not in order to overthrow and dismantle worldly powers.  His magnificence honored greater things, while respecting, allowing properly engaged free will, to play out its role in governing.

“I hope you are able to comprehend, through a proper understanding of Christ, the evil that is being engaged in our world today.  What is poverty today?  It is the parent of revolution and crime.  Men of lower rank are stripping all dignity from the very state God himself adopted.  They shun rendered wisdom.  Their every waking moment is concentrated upon materialistic wealth and power, the distorting of the divine order, a perennial rebellion.  If they have managed to attain wealth, all they think about is attaining more.  If they still wallow in squalor they peer about at others scheming ways to steal their riches, living a life of jealousy and envy, conniving in companionship based upon gain.  They go to churches, yet they are missing the vital message.  Their obsession with worldly concerns dominate their minds.  Their behavior is becoming so corrupt they will bring war against the nobles, those who through generations and generations have refined the manner of living.  We noblemen have crushed notions of individual grandness, comprehending the vitality of serving others.  Being cultured is not about material wealth, it is the refinement of the disposition, thoughts, and behavior.  Perceiving the bigger picture, the wholeness of community living, the truly wealthy in spirit strive to do what is best for everyone.  The Beatitudes define spiritually poverty as that of the Kingdom of God, and thus the wealthy must therefore become poor in spirit.  It is difficult, demanding intense responsibility, understanding, and wisdom.  There are those amongst our ranks who have strayed, denigrating the ideal, yet the ideal is beyond the desolation of an individual.  There are no easy solutions.  Still, time and space is the world of man.  Yet within its structure is the ideal of order based upon the wisdom of God.  A generation must not raise itself above all that came before it.  That is the inflicting of chaos.  We rest upon the shoulders of giants.  Our wise ancestors, learning, praying for humility and wisdom, strived similar to Solomon.  Above all things Solomon respected wisdom.  The men of the commune are fools.  It is destruction for the weak man to attempt to imitate the powerful.  

“Some lay in darkness and in gloom, prisoners in misery and chains, having defied the words of God and spurned the counsels of the Most High.  He crushed their spirit with toil; they stumbled; there was no one to help.

“The peasant possesses the cruelest of natures.  Suffering, lacking in the necessities of survival and sheltering, inflicts wrath upon the disposition.  I will tell you a story of a time I toured Germania with men from the court of Emperor Fredrick I, Barbarossa.  The experience etched upon my soul the depravity man can descend here upon the earth.  What I saw was an outrage against nature.  A clandestine village, more of a gathering of criminal outcasts, profited from the most grotesque of practices.  With purchased infants or those of their own, the men and women were creating monsters.  The babies would have their lips and/or noses slit, their tongues cut out, their ears removed, their skulls compressed.  They would be confined to boxes day and night in order to prevent proper growth.  Ever perverting, the adults of the village devised ever new manners to turn babies into monsters, allowing them to grow into their deformations in order to increase their effect.  The deformed monsters proved profitable.  Villages would purchase the human monsters, allowing them to live amongst them.  The monster became the village idiot, a novelty to be witnessed.  The trade proved popular.  The peasants prized the opportunity of having such an ignorant lowly human being amongst them.  They mocked, scorned, beat, and humiliated the manmade monsters, only showing tenderness every now and then in order to convince themselves they were kind hearted.  A God created life was manipulated, perverted, into a prop for entertainment.  Festivals and drunkenness proved dreadful for the freaks.  The killing of a freak was not so severe.  Another could be purchased even more perverted and handicapped in growth.  The practice broke my heart to a degree, I thought not possible.

“I purchased one of the freaks, bringing him home with me.  The young man as an infant had his eyes removed.  Also, his arms so severely broken to the point they were rendered useless.  Until the age of six years, he was confined to a prison cell.  As a boy, he was offered to the world for sale as a freak.  Mocked, tormented throughout his life, his existence shamed me into action.  I brought the boy to my home, enduring kindness upon him.  My efforts reaped immense reward, startling beyond conception. Through prayer and diligence, I showered attention onto the boy, demanding all under my command take pride in teaching and caring for the boy.  That which man attempted to destroy, I tried to return to fullness.  The boy managed to develop a means of broken speech, and to the wonder of all we discovered he possessed a blessed gift.  Animals adored the child.  Horses naturally calmed in his presence.  Dogs gathered around him.  Everywhere he went it seemed animals came from nowhere to be with him.  Blind and crippled, he still managed to become useful with horses.  My best horse handler insisted the boy be given complete access to the stables.  His presence soothed the horses to a degree that could not be denied.  Unfortunately, his life was not long for the world, yet in the time that he spent under my domain, his life became one unified with the Beatitudes.  The cruelty waged upon him as an infant did not impose temporal or eternal damnation.

“The peasant not only examines nobility with disdain.  It is not just his superior he hates.  Those he perceives as inferior also receive his wrath.  It is vital for the peasant in his ignorance to establish the fact there are those lower than him.  When he finds such an illegitimate human being, there is no mercy.  The contempt of his ways compels him towards severity.  God have mercy upon the one judged by the peasant as inferior.  If the peasant has his way that one will have no peace, and his days will be cut short.  I watched the peasant closely.  I do not care how much wealth they have attained.  They are born into a role and that role they must play out in honor of God’s will.  Superior skills and intelligence, congenital abilities, allow a man to offer the world greater service, yet ambition must not rule.  Once again, what worth is a victory that destroys the soul?  It is a perversion of the fact that all things come from God.  God must receive all praise and honor.  Innate gifts from God must be cherished, however the achievements of one man must not be allowed to overturn social order.  One’s God given talents must not destroy.  If such were the case chaos would reign, every man competing for himself, his advancement placed above all else.  The nonsense Rome was all too willing to embrace; instability, paranoia, betrayal, aggressiveness, and manipulation characterizing civilization.  Families would be destroyed, a wife and child only a detriment, as gangs would prevail.  Mobs ruling, thugs would wander the courts, streets, and markets seeking their own ends.

“I want to change the subject, providing insight into the noble thinking of a humble, contrite nobleman: myself.  Is it possible to be humble speaking about one’s self?  I will attempt such a difficult task.  I noticed the way you looked at me regarding my young lovelies.  My two sweethearts I cherish with all my heart.  You think I am a fool.  Knowing the pretty young ones only use me.  You are convinced I must be blind, lacking discernment into human nature, unable to detect a lie.  I met the two during one of my escapades.  I find it intellectually profitable to wander cities dressed as a beggar.  One night exploring in such a manner, I came across my two girls.  Tavern tramps at their worst, lovely souls at their best.  I watched them.  My heart filled with such pity and compassion.  They were beautiful singers, especially when they sang of heart break; within sorrow, wine, and song they lift their hearts splendidly.  It wasn’t just their soulful voices.  Their impure behavior, completely lacking dignity, produced a powerful sadness.  The young ladies lived so far below the intentions of God.  I determined I would save the young ones, assist them in any manner I could.  It has been a strange exploit.  I found the thing that brought them the greatest satisfaction was the idea that they were duping me to the extreme.  I know they tell me lies.  I consume the lies wholeheartedly.  It makes their self-esteem grow.  I give them what they want.  I had two sons and a daughter who all died before the age of twenty.  My wife, I loved tremendously.  She passed away shortly after our youngest son, the last of our children to die.  I could not marry, nor could I bear any more children.  I have nobody to pass my life unto.  Montaninus and his coalition will profit from my estate, yet while I am alive I enjoy showering these young ones with gifts.  In exchange, I converse with them, subtly influencing them to change their ways.  I have my spies.  I know already both of them have abandoned their loose ways.  They no longer exchange sexual favors.  They are both purifying their bodies.  They do not tell me, still opting for lies, yet I have a certain gift for extrasensory perception.  They have plenty of room for growth, yet I see progress.  Treating their beauty and bodies with dignity and respect was a huge step forward.  That means so much to me.

“I have so much fun playing the fool for them.  If you desire penetrating insight learn to play the fool.  It disarms others.  Stumble, bumble, and mumble about, while stealthily witnessing.  Say things that easily get you disregarded as a person of substance.  Your reputation is not so important.  Once you know who you are, the opinions of others really mean nothing.  Don’t be so sensitive you allow others to live in your head, influencing and possibly even dominating your thoughts and desires.  Be like a lion within, roaring at the presence of others defiling the inner sanctity of your being.  Others have no place between you and God.  Without argument or debate, roar them away.  Be the fool in company.  Incorrectly pronounce words.  Misidentify objects and ideas.  Say things you know to be wrong—waiting for correction, become vulnerable and unsure.  As Our Lord advises become like a child.  It is good for the soul.  Do not play the childish fool out of cleverness.  Allow humility to govern your efforts.  The fool is able to distance himself from the norms determined by society, from the standards established by fools who do not know they are fools.  Recognizing yourself to be a fool, presenting yourself as a fool, people no longer fear you, feeling safe to lower their guard, exposing their truest inner feelings and intentions, or even better they simply disregard you, leaving you alone.  These young ladies see me as an old fool.  It proves so much the better for me.  I am not saying it is such a clever arrangement, yet it came about naturally enough and it pleases this old fool.

“For you Alberto, I want you to understand that things are not always as you conclude.  It is best to converse, to trust in others, open to advice and guidance.  That is the mind of a child.  Leave judgment and authority for God.  When you entrust properly, you may make enemies, however some men are good only as enemies.  If men laugh consider it a blessing for this means they are not speaking to you; their words damage more than their chuckling.  It is better to fight the proper fight amidst honorable companions rather than squandering about depending upon yourself.”

“Thou wast the seal of resemblance, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty. Thou wast in the pleasures of the paradise of God: every precious stone was thy covering: the sardius, the topaz, and the jasper, the chrysolite, and the onyx, and the beryl, the sapphire, and the carbuncle, and the emerald: gold the work of thy beauty: and thy pipes were prepared in the day that thou wast created. Thou a cherub stretched out, and protecting, and I set thee in the holy mountain of God, thou hast walked in the midst of the stones of fire. Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day of thy creation, until iniquity was found in thee. By the multitude of thy merchandise, thy inner parts were filled with iniquity, and thou hast sinned: and I cast thee out from the mountain of God, and destroyed thee, O covering cherub, out of the midst of the stones of fire. And thy heart was lifted up with thy beauty: thou hast lost thy wisdom in thy beauty, I have cast thee to the ground”

The lengthy words, there were more, of Enzio rang throughout Alberto’s head as he put himself to bed.  Enzio provided a comfortable guest room for his convenience.  The sparsely decorated room contained only a barren cross upon its eastern wall.  The large comfortable bed suited his simple needs.  The controversies of the inevitable civil war, no matter how hard each side pursued him, were of no concern.  He admired Enzio for the life he led, yet the man’s convictions missed the mark.  The noble men were not the romanticized men he envisaged them to be.  Firm in his sentiment, Alberto felt no need to argue.  He would not join the cause of the nobles.  A cultured man’s convincing voice was not enough to overcome the intuition resting within his heart.  His duty and destiny was to remain removed from the conflict between the nobles and the commune.

While never coming close to be swayed by the attempted veracity of Enzio’s words, he recognized the accumulated intelligence, the supremely convincing nature for one of advanced years.  There was something supernatural regarding the extremely elderly one’s abilities.  Most men lost their minds with advanced age.  Enzio lost nothing in sharpness of thought, and the articulation of words.  The fact disturbed Alberto, hinting toward evil principalities.  Feeling nothing threatening, he allowed the warning disposition to settle, yet not convince regarding action.  A conviction overruled, one attained through interactions with hermits, holy men he saw advancing in unification with God.  A couple of the hermits possessed a presence announcing ultimate reality louder than all of the combined words and possessions of Enzio.  In silence, they out spoke Enzio.  Detachment Alberto held to as a true sign of trusting in God.  Allowing one’s mind to become feeble with the onslaught of weakness to the body was the way of the supernatural normalcy Enzio embraced with words, while avoiding in life.  Enzio was a man of severe attachment, just clever enough in thoughts and words, to speak and think his way around the fact.  The ascendency of life Enzio impressively displayed fell far short of the hermits, the truly holy men of recluse and renunciation, he encountered within hidden alcoves of the world.  True men able to pronounce the glories of poverty, detachment, and therefore Christ.

Avoiding sentimentalization, exaggeration, Alberto contemplated the various witnessed hermits.  Only two of the vast numbers encountered did he identify as superior in growth than Enzio.  The majority appeared insane, invoking compassion, possessing holiness, yet their minds were shattered and their bodies in tatters.  Even worse, absolutely despicable, Alberto recognized a trend of effeminate men demented in their seclusion, wasting away in aberration.  The abhorrent weakness of the men offset by obstinate minds intent upon control and dominating those they encountered in their isolation.  A womanly mischievousness and arrogance dominating their wicked disposition.  Their eremite condition did not humble and lower, rather their minds became tainted by a delusional corruption that they reigned supreme over the world.  Alberto contained his wrath when encountering such men.  Men, who in reality would serve as wives in the world, he spared from the sword based upon his determination the enduring of their insanity more punishing than death.

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Man Tower meets Enzio

Towers

Towers

Coming forth from the wagon, Alberto noticed a huge flock of birds descending upon the surrounding mountain trees. Vast and dark in flock, the winged ones alighted upon branches, disappearing amongst leaves; silent, an unseen legion of unknowing witnesses. The diminutive castle, ancient in appearance, harmonized with its surrounding, appearing as if the creator of the mountain created the castle itself. ‘Quaint’, Alberto thought, ‘he has his own castle and tower’. An admirer of no homes, entering, he admired the miniature Mount Subasio fortress. Blindfolds removed, the young women stood within. They did not appear disturbed, yet they would not speak. They knew the disdain Montaninus possessed for them. The man would sink a blade into their heart as soon as look at them. The wicked knew well the ways of evil intent, sensing wicked presence precisely.

“Montaninus you gratuitously bring Man Tower to my humble maternal tower, the mother of my elderly years—I think of my home as my mother. I draw to a close my life through a concentration upon birth. A proper birth needs a mother. My home provides, a father in waiting divides. The comfort of the creator enticing within. The seeker follows. The Lord is God, the mighty God, the great king over all the gods. He holds in his hands the depths of the earth and the highest mountains as well. He made the sea; it belongs to him, the dry land, to, for it was formed by his hands. The birds egress from their northern lairs. I am sure you noticed them. They find rest once more in the mountain forest I call home. It is a good sign. They perched as you arrived. They watch, intending protection for our meeting. My guardian angel is with them, lifting their wings. Your guardian angel is amongst them also Man Tower. She is a cherub, barely able to perceive due to the burden of many tears and her attention constantly affixed upon the Almighty. You should take greater heed of your little protector knight of no mercy. Tell me what is happening, Man Tower, for I feel a child is born, a baby you observed being baptized. You saw something. You saw a gifted baby for all. The days immediately following the Epiphany octave; the day of Our Lord’s baptism in the River Jordan by the saintly John—one who would dare to identify him as the sacrificial lamb of the Old Testament, the visitation of the magi—kings of the gentile world knowing and honoring. There was a terrible three day wind storm after the baptism of the baby you observed. The forces were so strong trees were uprooted throughout our homeland; men and animals killed in the obliteration. All things are a sign unto themselves and the world enveloping them. I have been meditating upon all this, contemplating deeply the mysteries you present, and the mysteries presented to you. Totality includes individual welfare within the greater battle and your battles are so intense. The Benedictines at Mount Cassino communicated to me the entirety of events through a winged messenger. We share an affinity for messenger doves. God is screaming and we share the news a thousand years after the death of his son. God has placed amongst us one to renew the spirit, one to enflame the heart, one to open ancient doors while closing contemporaries, a thousand years is too long. One is here to bolster the collapsed church, lifting it from the muck and mire of centuries of waywardness. A thousand years have passed and still we are left wanting, longing for love. No one needs to declare it has been over a thousand years since Our Lord’s departing and resurrection, since the news is so startling in silence, conspicuous in the absence of a second coming. His return waits, patience perseveres, while temptations assault. The ways of God are stern; similar to yours, mighty killer of the battlefield. The gift God sends displays his power. The baby will parch the earth, burning from it foulness. Immediately years of famine will result, suffering for over five years, struggling to feed one another families will be ripped asunder. Many will die. The elderly crossing over before their allotted time, the children crying to the distress of their mothers, the sick being consumed by their illness due to a lack of strength, all suffering as they self-righteously convince themselves they should not suffer. Suffering will become a means of rebellion, discernment is poor amongst the rabble. It always has been thus the need for prophets and the crucifying of a Divine Son. There will be five plus years of cleansing through famine.”

The overwhelming prodigious words of the old man descended, seemingly coming from the castle itself. The elderly man and his space were as one, his words coming forth from his surroundings. All at once, slowly intense, in the manner of casting a spell, the old man spoke his words as if he drew them from his creation, his home. Wearing the black and white vestments of a Cistercian monk, he circled Alberto, placing his right hand upon his back, rubbing to create friendliness, the easing of tension. Alberto slipped into a battle trance, absorbing the assault of words, the immensity of profound ideas rapidly rained upon him. Clearing his mind of distractions, as he would upon the battlefield, his awareness focused into acute perception, holding not to ideas, rather opting for intuition.

“So here is Man Tower. Much is spoken of you. It is good I do not honor words, words are for those who desire to manipulate. I have grown into an aged man who understands the heart. For where a man’s heart rests, there rests his treasure. The mysteries of life intrigue me more than the gossip and scheming of man. The sight of many is limited. The sight of one alone, amidst the ancient, solely answering to Christ, discerning proper advice, can penetrate piercingly. We will spend time together. There is more. Now though I must spend time with my beloveds, my sweethearts who fill my life with joy.”

The two young ladies, giggled, one of them walking to Enzio the Wise with a limp that previously did not exist.

“Papa it is so good to see you. Your little sunshine has been miserable, overwhelmed by sadness. My heart rejoices in your presence. In such a cruel world, you are a refuge of the greatest kindness and giving.”

“We missed you so much.”

“Your leg my darling, what has happen to you?”

“It is nothing my honor. You must not think of it. You are older, in need of greater comfort than me. How is your health? Are you feeling fine? It is you who should receive caring attention.”

“No. It is not about me. Your leg? It is awful the way you walk. I must know, tell me young pretty one. If I could, I would reach up to the sky and bring the clouds down for you. Mountains I would smash, if they dared to present themselves as an obstacle. Waters I would divide in order to allow your passing. Anything I could do, I would do for you. You are my sunshine and without your rays of exquisiteness I wallow in sorrow.”

“I hurt my leg servicing my family. My mother is sick and now her sister and her children live with us. I have to care for all of them. Cleaning, cooking, bathing the old and young, male and female, I must care for them all. You know my father was killed in war. I try my best kind noble sir, yet I stepped in a hole while carrying water and damaged my leg. It is nothing. I will suffer through it. It is enough to see your kind face and know in the world goodness lives.”

“You give me too much credit. It is you that brings joy. You work so hard for your family. You give so much for others. If I could only do more for you, ease all of your burdens. Yet it is not for me darling. Thy will be done. Only one purpose exists for you. Becoming a saint is your calling in life, the attainment of heaven your sole concern. The underprivileged have nothing more to do than focus upon salvation. It is a rite of passage. The nobly wealthy carry responsibility, yet all are burdened with accountability.”

The other young lady approached the staunchly posed Enzio.

“Sir it is good we came to you at this time for I also have troubles. My husband to be, the man I have told you so much about, has run off with a woman of ill repute, a wench of drunkenness and ill begotten ways. I loved him since childhood. I thought he would be a good husband, yet he could not refrain from evil ways. I am embarrassed to tell you the news. I am a fool. Too easily, I give my heart away. The wretched man robbed my father before leaving for unknown lands with the trull. I know not what to do. My errors have cost my family their reputation. I considered suicide, convinced it is the only solution. I prepared to throw myself from a bridge into the Chiagio when my sweet friend, in all the pain she suffers, persuaded me to seek your wisdom. And my father, my lord, I could not bring the shame of leaving him to the wicked tongues of neighbors. Even enduring the harshest of cruelties, a daughter breaks her father’s heart by the taking of her own life. Cowardly escaping into death only means further misery due to the reality I would be betraying those who cared for me as an infant. In your company, once again, I find comfort, yet left to my own devices I allow terror to seize my life.”

“Oh my sweet children. Both of you, my lovelies, endure pain that reaches deep into the depths of your souls. Never underestimate the malice of the wicked one. He thrills in your demise. He wants to see you tormented. God only desires happiness for you. Come let us go inside and sit by the fire, consoling one another. We are together. We have one another to inspire joy, to lift each other’s heart to Our Lord. I will read you some scripture, poetry, and tell you stories of my youth. I can tell you how I was able to overcome obstacles placed in my path. You can tell me stories of your childhood. I love stories of animals and discovery. Possibly, I can inspire you, lead you closer to God. It is my heart’s sole intent. Through the realization of my heart may you find the strength and solace necessary to manage the travesties of life. Inside, there is hope. Inside, there is charity. Inside, there is faith.”

“My kind dignified sir your words always arouse faith, hope and charity, however at this time I also need other assistance.”

“Why of course angel. Treasures I can and will supply. Both of you must know I will always be there for you.” Enzio addressed Alberto. “Man Tower explore my land. It prepares for glorious bloom. It will also prepare your soul for our words together. I must care for these sweet children of God. I will ring the bell in time, calling you to come for food and conversation. Montaninus show our esteemed guest about.”

The elderly one escorted the two pretty young women into his home. It seemed the two were trying to outdo each other in the amount of tears they could shed. Alberto watched in amazement. Damning Enzio earlier in the day, the young ladies now expertly portrayed innocent victims confronted by heartrending experiences. Within the tavern it was obvious what the two were. They were harlots; women of song, wine, men and nights of excess, entertaining at the tavern, leading bawdy drinking songs and dancing for the drunkards. Boyfriends multiplied.

“It is best not to judge Alberto. It only confounds to consider his behavior with those young ladies. The younger one has a hateful heart, which grows harder with every visit. I watch her closely, fearing she will explode in violent behavior. I have warned Enzio, yet he says I worry too much. He is truly one of wisdom. It is a strange game he plays with them. I will show you his water garden. You can witness his brilliance. This matter regarding the two young ladies I cannot understand. I have tried to convince him of their true nature. He will not listen, declaring them to be blessed children of God.” Montaninus strode to the entryway. “Let us see if we can find the wolf pack. I think you will enjoy observing them. Never have I seen wolves the size of those that stalk the lands of Enzio.”

Alberto could hear the water falling before he was able to see the magnificent site. The old man managed to divert a stream, forcing the water to flow over self-created rocky formations. The cascading series of step-down waterfalls, shimmering with whiteness in its plummeting, emptied into standing water, a pond. Disregarding his clothing and footing, Alberto walked amidst the water, admiring the lovely sound and beautiful images. Birds gathered as trout swam in the crystal clear pond water. Plant life flourished, providing a canopy over various spaces. A woodchuck slept in one of the rocky cubby holes; a bevy of lotuses blossoming a top their leaves sunning beneath. Squirrels pranced within the trees and upon the ground. Alberto made his way to the center waterfall, the largest. Pouring over accumulated slab rock, uproariously, the water fell. Gravity pulling, the descending water showered a life-size crucifix carved from stone. Alberto penetrated the water, placing himself before Jesus’ dead body continuously washed. He realized up close, details of the statue were not highly defined. Shoreline viewing presented a blurred, vibrating, crucifix, hydrolysis shrouding. Up close, nothing more defining could be attained. Alberto moved completely underneath the water, running his hand over the crucifix. He wished Riccio could witness the wonderful chiseling. His squire taught himself to be a skillful carver. He would appreciate the old man’s artwork. Alberto thoroughly soaked himself, cleansing himself underneath the water. The water was cold, increasing in flow the past several days due to an increase in higher elevation snow melting. Feeling the bite of the bitterly cold water, he was thinking of Ricco. The young man, he no longer thought of as a boy. The killing of the bull made him proud.

The time with his mother and training Ricco lifted Alberto from the alienation he so deeply entrenched during his time under Barbarossa, throughout his whole life. Amongst many, he was alone. Amidst his armor, violent extremes became a sheltering reality. Establishing a beastly state, he manically pursued status as the cruelest of knights. Constraints lifted, lucidity intact, he freed himself to do evil, placing the mask of victimhood over his soul. He opened doors his deranged childish mind feared not in the least. Death meant nothing. Once open, doors that should have never been opened would not close. There were consequences. Negative energy, forces of evil, poured through. The wounded child became an authentic wicked man; the innocent one attaining the inhuman through time and hate. The innocence that allowed him to give birth to his wounded thoughts and actions was eradicated in the aftermath. Communication never a strong characteristic for Alberto as a child, it became impossible as he transformed into the Man Tower, or the Fierceness of Silence as Montaninus called him. There were other names: the Ravager, the Vanquisher, as well as Polyphemus.

Underneath the manmade waterfall, resting against the crucifix lacking detail, Alberto bathed under the falling water, giving no consideration to the souls in purgatory burning through coldness in God’s presence. He stripped himself of all clothing. The cold water soothed. Moments amassed to this moment. Peace managed to emerge. Stripped down in clothing, lacking armor for years, teaching one dependent upon him, easing a mother into death, malleability emerged. Now he cleansed in the old man’s waterfall. Montaninus watched, understanding to a certain degree. Here was the extreme knight he knew from warring days, an unpredictable man prone to abnormal behavior, seeking a loftier existence, a temporal warhound mystic.

Slightly annoyed, Montaninus realized he would have to attain clothing for the giant. He wanted to search out the wolves and Man Tower could not go naked, or in soaked clothing. He made his way into Enzio’s home, remarkably able to find an oversized monk’s robe similar to the style Enzio wore. In various sizes, the strange old man stocked over twelve of the robes. Montaninus never noticed the fact before. Returning to the water garden, he found Alberto still soaking underneath the falling water, positioned at the feet of the crucifix

“Let’s be off wild man. I want to find the wolves. You have to be freezing. Come now remove yourself from the water.”

Alberto obeyed, dressing himself in the robe.

“A monk’s habit?”

“It is all the old eccentric possesses.”

“I would like to see the wolves.”

“You are speaking? Did the cold water loosen your brain?”

Montaninus, also having adorned a monk’s robe, led the way as the men left the water garden and made their way into the forest. Hidden atop a cliff, Montaninus explained the excellence of the vantage point. He knew the forest from the days of his youth. His parents would send him to spend time with Enzio, learning scripture, and the ways of the old recluse. Within the hour, the two spotted something moving. Moving stealthy, they positioned themselves above the motion and in front of the advancement. The clearing they spied upon soon greeted the slow moving animal they tracked. It was an old horse, stumbling more than walking. Out of its right mind, the beast walked as if it was bound for its own funeral. As the feeble horse made its way toward the center of the clearing, a rushing noise followed by a chorus of growling burst upon the scene. The wolves made their appearance. Circumambulating before assuming attack positions, the wolves lowered their heads, bearing teeth in unison. The horse halted. Conceding to death, it hopelessly waited. The largest of the wolves, the size of a pony, moved forward.

Mesmerized by its raised lips and exposed savage teeth, Alberto marveled at the idea of being accompanied in battle by such a beast. He recalled the Roman Falvious Aetius, a general who led a remarkable halting of the advancement of Atilla the Hun in Gaul—superior numbers of horseback warriors staunched by a smaller number of riderless soldiers—engineering, siege engines, weaponry, proving the equal of the amassing of men and horses, Falvious rode with a wolf. The downing of the horse was over quickly, the tired beast never resisting, conceding to death before the first attack. The killing completed, Montaninus and Alberto watched throughout the feasting. The wolves fought ferociously amongst one another for prime feeding spots. Bloodied and sullied, they rested near the corpse once satisfied. The leader of the pack sat panting, looking about. His wandering eyes, passing by Montaninus and Alberto, paused. Standing, retracing his vision, sniffing the air, he studied the location of their hiding.

“Those are the wolves of Enzio. You witnessed them at their best. Their leader senses our watching. His stomach is full, he will do nothing. If he was hungry he would behave differently. He would wander in the opposite direction with the intention of circling back behind us. Enzio claims the wolves know him, leaving him alone. I know he walks through the forest with his walking stick unconcerned. Never has he encountered trouble. However, I say, with beasts like that calling the forest home, I would not be so brave. Let us be off. By now, the crazy old man should be through with the immature company. He is excellent with food. He will have something made, most likely a tasty stew and bread. Watching the wolves feast must have made you hungry. For a warrior, such is the case. The wolves remind me of you in battle: focused, thorough, and efficient.” Montaninus laughed at his own humor.

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Man Tower arrives at the man of the mountain’s abode

Towers

Towers

Whispering, he spoke, barely missing a step as he passed. “My lord you are requested in the back.”

Alberto followed without a word. In a back storage room, beyond the kitchen, he met with Montaninus.

“Word must not spread of our meeting. I know yesterday the commune approached you. Bonbarone, egotistical in his pursuit to be a commune leader, is followed everywhere he pollutes. Do not trust the man. Once, he was a noble and now he manipulates for leadership within the commune. Arrogance, wealth and power drive the man. Integrity and loyalty mean nothing to the man. A self-absorbed manipulator to the highest degree, the man seeks only himself. He is an authority onto himself, answering to nobody. Pietro Bernardone, I do not know, except the man is a peasant who has become filthy rich, one of too many. A son was just born to him. His French wife is difficult to forget due to her elegant beauty. Pietro talks too much and takes himself too serious. He is a weak harmless man of poor breeding who now needs to be harmed. It did not have to be this way. It is of his choosing. A man who speaks too much regarding political matters is always sure to make grave enemies. He will get himself killed. The larger painting he cannot see; truth exists beyond his selfish limited point of view. He honestly knows not the depth of the games he involves himself within. He is a pawn, a blister upon authentic authority. I was there watching when you visited Pietro’s shop. I was disguised. None knew of my presence. Did you observe how the mob works, moving with every word of the entertaining wealthy merchant? Individuals seeking the approval of one another, huddling together as they form a crowd similar to the one that watched Our Lord crucified upon the cross, urging each other onward into greater perversity, all for the sake of attaining worldly goods, no concern with disrupting the societal will of God. I halted myself from spitting upon the floor in disgust as I knew it would reveal my true intent. The tongue of that merchant should be removed. Christ, the Divine becoming human, stood as an individual in the face of the mob. In imitation of Christ, every individual is called to stand on his own before God. God will demand accountability if we spent our lives usurping His will. There is no huddling before the Almighty, no cowering with friends and neighbors in order to exercise tainted will. Excuses and explanations will not suffice. There is not the wicked tongue of those willing to talk too much to guide.”

Accumulated words burst forth from Montaninus, exposing a frustrated, angry undercurrent. The man needed to speak. Rage filled his mind, fouling his heart. A silent one like Alberto was an ideal audience for one needing to unload.

“The perversion of the natural order is the ideology of today; individual simplicity being replaced by grand dramas. Divine will shit upon. Every man feels his life must be an adventure equal to Ulysses, while groveling behind the protection of the city-state. Every man wants to be a hero, while recoiling from sacrifice and threat. The common man is no longer content with his lot, spoiled children running about constantly screaming demented dreams. Like Satan’s dissatisfaction with heaven, the peasant demands to rule, demands to be the center of the universe. The more delusional he grows, the more his disease spreads. His sickness is not happy unless it is infecting others. Intent upon destroying the tradition of noble rule, he sees equalization as a process of destruction. To lower nobility is to raise himself. However, equalization is devastation if it is a process of depressing. It is enlightenment if it is a process of elevating. Only Christ is able to attain such a miraculous wonder. The nobles carry forth the message of Christ. The commune squawks the words of sinful man, the mindset of Cain, the murderer of his nobler brother. The lese majesty the commune calls into being will only lead to misery for many, death for too many. We need you Alberto. Satan has blessed the commune with monetary wealth, cursing the sanctity of noblemen. Satan fights fiercely against the Lords. With gifts to the commune, he curses those truly destined for power and authority. We have tradition, honor, integrity, and God on our side, however with the passing of every day these attributes become less popular. The commune spreads soul sickness; immorality, wickedness and vice a daily undertaking. Witness all the drunks clamoring about the streets of Assisi. Disdaining the veracity of poverty, worshiping materialism and worldliness, placing all hope in the rule of self-will, the commune attracts men as a whores seduce drunkards.”

As usual, Alberto was not speaking. Montaninus knew the ways of the tall one. As commander for the German Barbarossa, he nicknamed Alberto, Man Tower for the many, Fierceness of Silence due to his refusal to share his thoughts, to drape himself with a cloak of mystery through the lack of expression. Montaninus’ words were not meant for immediate victory, rather the sowing of seed. There was an ace card he reserved. For the time being, he simply provided Fierceness of Silence information to supplement the events to come. The old man of the castle would close the case. Arraignments completed, Alberto would be taken to his private noble castle hidden upon Mount Subasio. Montaninus counted on his premonitions. He saw Alberto as a mystic in an unusual manner, a strong individual not persuaded by the thronging masses, a man unto Christ. His path of perfection be the one of violence, the true calling of the knight of Christ. Nobility arose from such vigor. The blessing of being endowed with distinct abilities above the peasant marked Alberto. A presence announced the fact. Montaninus believed he possessed insight into Alberto from their days of battle.

Stern upon life, Alberto critiqued the world. He demanded perfection, instinctually comprehending paths to perfection existed. Even if perfection could not be attained, the path must be pursued. If perfection did not exist in the mind then annihilation was justifiable. If order was not attainable chaos must be inflicted. If ignorance paraded as wisdom, silence must be maintained as violence cleansed the farce. Alberto was a man of absolute sternness. He would understand the mystic man of the mountain known to the world as Enzio. Even withdrawing from the world, Montaninus sensed Fierceness of Silence cultivated this unsympathetic challenging sensibility. He held no esteem for the softer easier path, those treading through life immersed within mediocrity. He was as hard upon himself as he was the world, thus the need for solitary weeping. During military days, the tall one gained a reputation for insanity due to his propensity to wander away from camp, perching upon a high point, watching the surrounding lands, while shedding silent tears. A man on guard, watching for approaching enemies, he sat beneath the stars crying.

Alberto’s abilities and uniqueness Montaninus credited for the tall ones excessive demands upon life. It took intelligence to realize the seriousness of life leading to death, the gateway to eternity. Tragedy scarred the actions of the complex man, the consequence bursting forth as silence. Many fell under his hand. The tall one loathed himself, yet accepted himself for the loathing. Unknowingly, he saw it as a beginning. Pride could not blossom where it was smashed beyond demand, an absolute lack of love purging. Believing sanity rested within the rejecting of life, the tall one started with himself, however the self-negation was negated by the continuum of time. Within the dismantling, a beginning is not sustaining, a beginning demands progress, a destination aimed for. One breath led to another producing further experience, memories accumulating, days adding up to years. Distant from the world, unattached with a powerful knightly reputation, he could not help observing himself with admiration at times. Pride sprouted. He knew of his legend. His reputation he could not deny. He could not prevent the right hand from knowing the efforts of the left. Underneath the extreme violence in silence, accepting failure, he understood he could not escape himself through his rampaging.

The convolutions of the tall one went beyond reasoning, thus the constant need for cleansing tears. Internally, the man was tied in knots; emotions, experiences, tendencies, psychology, beliefs, suspicions, accusations, self-incriminations, devastations, inflictions—a life unbalanced, everything wound around each other, all becoming entwined, tangled, and jumbled. The more breathes he took, the more the knots pulled upon themselves creating greater entanglement. Hints of verisimilitude, a sense of truth, could not be reached. A call bellowed forth for an undoer of knots. Man Tower scurried amongst holy outcasts, seeking their companionship. Montaninus attained the illuminating insight that, unknown possibly to himself, Man Tower pursued a holy mission. The tall one sought out those who shunned society in the name of sacred renunciation. Peculiar in pursuit, those seeking solitary refuge he shadowed. Hermits he hunted for company. Man Tower’s treatment of reputed austere religious men proved harsh. If he judged them sincere he showed them grace, spending time with them. If he found them corrupt or insane he offered death as a reality, a permanent mask presented. Montaninus recalled that whenever the archbishop of Mainz spoke of religious matters, the tall one separated, or at least turned his back. Montaninus, an admirer of the archbishop, feared Alberto would kill the murderous elevated man of church hierarchy due to the ecclesiastic’s corrupt behavior.

Often, while fighting next to him, Montaninus contemplated the tall one. It never ceased to amaze him the things the man would accomplish in battle; the impossible no further than an action away. Berserker, he sought out the strongest opponent, even if they fled he pursued. Upon a crowded battlefield, the man could create a path of clearance. Opponents, recognizing him, would concede to his annihilating ways. In the same diligent manner, he intellectually tested the consecrated through silent observation, seeking without explanation. If word of a hermit reached camp, he was sure to seek out the holy man. He treated no other men in such a manner. The holy men developed a knowing of his existence, upon his arriving entertaining the silent one of wrath. Ordained in his armor, he heeded no mind to the worldly, while conceding to those dedicated to the spiritual a perverse kinship.

Montaninus reasoned the tall one accepted hermits because, similar to himself, hermits rejected the world. At heart, they shared a philosophy; the dominator of war and the hermit being of a similar foreign mind to the world of normality and sheltered sensibility. The hermit opting for prayer, worshipped God through austere disciplined daily living. The dominator of war, a criminal in a greater sense, outside of society, could never prosper to the point of self-sufficiency nor normalcy. Relying upon his deviant ways to prosper in the arena of death, he rendered himself useless in the world of practicality. His estrangement exhausted, leading to misery, demanding a superior subjective mindset. He objectively rejected, cursed and judged. Sometimes becoming a prisoner meant a blessing. In desolation, earnest prayer would naturally evolve. The only genuine refuge a clever criminal mind could embrace. Where else is there to go? Deeper and deeper into vices? Possibly alcoholism or sexual perversion. Addiction? No. The lashing of vices would only drive a man of ultimate violence, of severe discipline, into insanity, further into the realm of desperation, penetratingly isolating. Confronting death he needed to believe he was creating a clear mind. Permanency, lasting sanctified solace, existed only within entreaty, supplication, to the Divine; the quieting of self. Wisdom, beyond knowledge, the very nature of the hermit life, became the only true refuge to the one who flourished only in war. He found space in the company of a hermit, a place for thoughts to terminate.

Convinced Alberto maintained his silence and the inflicting of terror through warfare based upon such reasoning, Montaninus sought him out. He perceived holy men chose to flee society, seeking the sanctity of withdrawn places, with a respect to nobility. They did not see the overturning of the natural order in order to seek the supernatural. The unnatural path, normal amongst the commune, was the mindless acceptance of life in pursuit of only the materialistic and worldly; the average struggle just to survive fertilized by the delusional mind seeking ascension. Jealousy and greed drove such depraved beings. Corruption was the unredeemable consequence. The pathetic social grasping for momentary gratification, while superficially, and lacking sincere obedience to the church, corrupt or not—it didn’t matter, unambitiously declaring loyalty to a supreme living God and His only begotten Son, while using every excuse within grasp to whine away offenses, clinging to vanity, and shallow self-righteousness; hate permeating just below the surface, poverty rotting, the rabble squandered the gift of life, creating their own hierarchies within their nonsense. To reject nobility insulted God’s creation. God removed from the role of creator. The common man taking center stage as actor and director. The commune placed its petty interests and desires before all things. Montaninus despised the commune with a bitter heart. A good man needs a criminal to justify his life. A lord needs squabbling peasants to be a true lord. The good woman needs a whore to see herself as a true lady in standing. Good men and good women need the eyes of others in order to live superiorly. The delusional, reinforcing, must believe, undercutting, the world is filled with fools Montaninus rose above all, embracing what he was convinced was the true ways of a noble man of honor and rank. It was the miserable ways of the deplorable commune, a stench in the nose of the strong, the God ordained.

Positive Alberto would understand, Montaninus wanted him to meet the old descendant of royalty, Enzio the Wise, the owner of the hidden castle of Mount Subasio. Enzio, the former maintainer of a military tower destroyed years ago. The elderly wise man now lived alone amidst a mountain. Matured, the elder lived a solitary life in a private lesser edifice, a large home constructed in the form of a castle. The structure dominated by a modest sized northwest tower stealthily constructed within the forested ascent of Subasio. Self-sufficient, Enzio managed an independent life, including gardening, cooking, cleaning, while creating artwork, mainly carvings in stone performed upon living walls. No taller than twenty feet, the castle/home, as a whole, rested hidden amongst hundred year old trees. The one entry roadway branched off from a leading highway protected by a neighboring castle manned by Montaninus’ former coalition. One could pass by the valley splitting time after time before finally noticing the hidden path branching off up to the mountain. The surrounding forest, nearly impenetrable with sheer rocky ascents, was rumored to be haunted with demons wandering about seeking the devouring of souls. A pack of ferocious wolves were indeed above rumor, existing as a known feared fact. The strong pack of wolves prowling about as vicious mountain predators were a plague to local sheepherders.

“I want none to see us leave Assisi together. You will hide in the wagon. The commune will be ignorant of our gathering. The man we go to see most not become common knowledge”.

Alberto did not refuse. He did not answer.

“There will be two more riding with you, blindfolded women. The elder is wise, yet foolish with these young ones. I would put them to the sword if I could, yet he proclaims love for them, catering to their every demand. I have attempted everything thing to cease their visits, yet he persists. I will be up front. When I stick my head in the back and call for you we have arrived. Stay clear of the stench and influence of those whores. They are nothing but abusers.”

Montaninus forcefully guided the blindfolded young women into the wagon. Alberto recognized them. It was the squawking prostitutes from the tavern. Pieces began to fit together. The old man they were complaining about was the man he was destined to visit. He relaxed into the travel. It was a good omen that moments were coalescing. The surprise arising from the appearance of the women fading, he managed to nap.

“Alberto we have arrived. The whores are already inside.” Montaninus woke the sleeping giant.

Rubens_old_man

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