Now in the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, Pontius Pilate being governor of Judea, and Herod being tetrarch of Galilee, and Philip his brother tetrarch of Iturea and the country of Trachonitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilina: Under the high priests Anna and Caiphas: the word of the Lord was made unto John, the son of Zachary, in the desert. And he came into all the country about the Jordan, preaching the baptism of penance for the remission of sins. –Gospel of John

Crossing the Sinai, Paki, the Egyptian, and Timoleon, the Greek, felt they aged years. The trials were extreme. The desert brutal. The trek endured beyond a moon cycle, well over forty days. Their guides were local Bedouins, nomads of the sand. Timoleon had the worst of it. Physically, he suffered immensely. Spiritually, he fared none the better. A nightmare, the crossing aged both men immensely.

Timoleon, a man who traveled throughout the Greco-Roman world, discovered his match in the Sinai. The crossing of sand situated between Egypt and Asia was a tortuous, bitter ordeal. The land of the wanderings of Moses and his people fleeing Egypt was a torn land, a massive mass rent asunder through the ages; geographical plates colliding, wedges driving, continent splitting. Desert and mountains prevailed. Here was the abode of the unnamed God. Here am I screamed the bitter sandy wind.

A kenosis, Timoleon changed in ways only a man encountering death could during the desert days and nights. The injuries started with a bite from his camel. He rode the only male of the herd, a spirited youth followed by three older females. In handling, the camels were a mystery. He could not get used to traveling with them. They were truly beasts of burden. As a herd, they were hysterical upon approach; a boisterous rebellion erupting when humans came near. Humans only meant onerous loading. The camel’s ornery disobedience was just the beginning of their indecencies. Timoleon, a refined man, struggled mightily with his obstinate camel.

Led by the Bedouin guides, venturing away from clearly defined paths, Timoleon became complacent after eight hours of travel. The sun was relentless. The group of travelers: Paki, the three Bedouins, and Timoleon; were spread out in a line, a distance almost beyond sight. Surrounding emptiness spellbinding, melancholy subjugated Timoleon as he fell further and further behind. He was not in the best of moods. Never had he experienced the searing sands. He knew the sea and the world of man, yet this scorching empty place he did not know. The heat was constant, as was the lack of escape. The sun never ceased.

Within the extreme, something grander than life emerged, existence, geography, everything shaped by a ruthless scorching wind. The unnamed God was here, one superior, logos seemingly absent, reason abstract and ineffective. Sweltering nothingness extending, the sand drifts were amazing, barren, roasting under the hot sun. Many and never ending, a metamorphism shrouded by a bedazzling whiteness awaited. Those foolish enough to penetrate into the depth of the desert were marked for life. Eyes focused upon an otherworldly distance their brand.

Timoleon was slothful, suffering from insomnia, cloudiness dominating him. A severe headache agitated his disposition. Everything seemed wrong. The previous month, he had a molar pulled in Alexandria. Since the dental treatment, he suffered headaches. One now plagued him as he fell behind his companions. Naturally, he was last in line. In reference, the Bedouins travelled quickly. Paki was the only one who remained within sight. The Bedouins were smaller, sitting upon their knees in an odd fashion, hooking their right leg across the camel’s neck, effortlessly urging their camels forward with the bouncing of their body. Timoleon could not master the riding style. He felt he was too large. He settled upon an odd side-saddle position, holding on for life, many times desperately wrapping his arms around the camel and his saddle. There was no way he could match the gait of his companions. He was positive the Bedouins had given him the worst of the camels. He relied upon Paki. Paki saw the forward sand dwellers, so Timoleon followed him.

His following was inefficient. He wandered from the path of his companions via the will of his camel. The beast was intent upon his own direction. The camel ventured to a bluff, lee side of a drift. Timoleon heard something unseen beyond the mounted sand. Eagerly, he dismounted, happy to be upon his own feet, intent upon investigating the sound. The camel broke free from his grasp, sauntering away, yet not fleeing.

Timoleon found it was not too difficult to scale the accumulated sand. Ascending, he sank some, yet was able to advance. The grunting beyond the dune was distinct. It sounded like a camel feasting. At the drift’s apex, Timoleon encountered the gruesome sight of a starved camel eating the innards of a deceased camel. Chewing, bloodied mouthed, the skeleton-thin camel looked to Timoleon. His opinion of the camel as an animal darkened. The biting to come would only further his dislike of the beast, another biting was present for the moment.

Timoleon fell to the sand. The absurdity of the scene before him broke his spirit. The camel returned to eating one of his own in breed. Timoleon’s headache was peaking as a tremendous sense of panic attacked, a fear of nothing and everything rearing its head. The unnamed God was dispensing wrath. The Israelite prophets screamed in his head. He read them, not understanding, and now they were shrieking. Timoleon dropped to the sand, allowing gravity to consume. In motion, he experienced an incredible decelerating of time. Something next to him was moving fast, striking out with aggressive intent. It was a cobra.

The serpent sank its fangs into Timoleon’s shoulder, quickly slithering back to anonymity beneath the sand. The impact registering the severity of the punch of a large man. The snakebite snapped Timoleon back to the efficient rational man he developed himself in to. Interiorly, reason was not dead. He was ashamed he had fallen so far from his education, allowing such a moment of weakness and despair to overwhelm him. An immense sloth had to be overcome. Death was at hand. Calmly, Timoleon sat himself, understanding nothing more was to be done. He knew some men attacked a snakebite with their dagger, yet the act was foolish, an ineffective vain attempt to hold on to life, practically only inviting infection. Timoleon choose to prepare himself for death. The moment he focused his life upon was now upon him. He was at peace, centering himself within gratitude, the opportunity to experience life. The end was near.. A voice came from nowhere.

“Your camel was fast without your body burdening it.” Speaking Greek, Paki’s voice took form. In background, other voices murmured. The Bedouins were present.

“Paki my friend, I was bitten by a cobra.” Timoleon looked to Paki.” Watch over me, yet leave me space to think about life and my time in it. In this place of death, I will concede to my time ending.”

The Bedouin who understood Greek ordered his companion with a pointing of his hand. He was impressed with Timoleon’s acceptance of the snakebite. A second Bedouin followed the path of the snake. The final Bedouin seated himself upon the sand, intrigued with the opportunity to watch the tall impressive foreigner die. The man was strong. He had been sickly during travel; however the desert did this to foreigners. To watch the tall strong Greek die would be entertaining. It was not long before the snake following Bedouin returned with the headless serpent in his hand. He spoke excitedly to his companion as he set the serpent upon the sand for all to see. With his dagger, the man sliced open the cobra, revealing a dead desert mouse.

“That mouse may have saved your friend’s life. The cobra just ate him. Maybe all of his poison was used on the mouse. It was a big mouse. It is still dangerous though. If he lives past the next moments he can still die from infection.”

Paki moved toward the camels. Timoleon spoke. ”Wait to clean it Paki. Let me prepare for death. If it was not a dry bite, I will die within the hour. In this time, I would like to compose myself. Call no man happy until you see how his life ends.”

Paki acceded with a bowing. In observance, the attending sat with Timoleon, yet far enough away to give him solitude. Seating himself cross-legged, Timoleon closed his eyes and turned to the sun, clearing his mind of thought, concentrating upon his breathing, feeling the heat of the sun burning his face. Time passed and his breathing continued. Timoleon visually placed himself thoughtlessly into the darkness, succumbing to a roar.

An old woman roused Timoleon. She carried sticks, several she gathered in preparation for a cooking fire. Her presence was not of this world. Timoleon continued his breathing, observing. The woman neared, yet she was preoccupied.

“Peace grandmother. I am traveling through the desert with my friends. I was bitten by a snake and wait to die.”

“It has not rained for years. Now is a time for dying.”

“Do you have food? My companions wait with me. They could use something to eat. It has been a difficult journey.”

“I only have a little food. I have a grandson, a little one, I watch over. I have only a handful of flour in a jar and a little oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for my grandson and myself. That we may eat it and die.”

The old hunched woman, acquiesced to a final meal, turned and walked away. After the woman parted, an emaciated child hustled into vision. Boils and scars littered the boy’s body.

“You know so little foreign man. You think everything is outside of you, that knowledge is to be collected. I am hungry and my grandmother is not long for the world. Our interest is only in eternal survival, in healing.”

Timoleon continued breathing, eyes closed, mind barren.

From behind a voice cried,

“In the wilderness prepare the way for Yahweh.
Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley will be raised up;
every mountain and hill will be laid low.
The stumbling blocks shall become level
and the rugged places smooth.
The glory of Yahweh will be revealed,
and all mortals together will see

Timoleon recognized the voice as one of the Israeli poets, or prophets as they were renowned by their compatriots. The poets of dour grandeur, who spoke for the Israeli God: Yahweh, Elohim, Adonai, Lord, I AM; names for one beyond names. The unnamed God as Timoleon recognized him. Before him appeared a wearied old man, his head resting in his right hand, a thousand mile stare directed below. To the rear, other old men mingled about; some reading, some pacing, one pissing against a wall. Never lifting his eyes, the wearied old man spoke.

Lift up your eyes and see:
who has created all this?
He has ordered them as a starry host
and called them each by name.
So mighty is his power,
so great his strength,
that not one of them is missing.

Timoleon’s admiration of poetry brought forth a fondness for words. Within words, creative power existed. Through words, greater awareness, truth, was attainable. Platitudes and definitions were not as important as the beauty and mystery of divine poetry. Facts did not matter so much. Clandestine, truth was the essential. In accuracy, beauty and mystery were not for knowing, rather living and loving. Timoleon concentrated upon his breath; in his submission embracing the unnamed God.

Again the old man spoke,

Look, I am doing a new thing:
now it springs forth.
Do you not see?
I am opening up a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.

The old man, acknowledging a severe domineering omnipresence, raised his head, lifting it from its perch, his withered right hand. The old skeletal prophet lifted his eyes to Timoleon. An eruption of brightness, whiteness engulfing, burst as living and spirit eyes met. Blinded, death ready, Timoleon continued breathing.

Enduring, brightness dimming, blindness subsisting, another prophet, one named Strong Is God, one amidst a pile of dust and bones, appeared. Reciting, playing the bard, he read from a scroll.

Behold, I Myself will search for My sheep and seek them out. As a shepherd cares for his herd in the day when he is among his scattered sheep, so I will care for My sheep and will deliver them from all the places to which they were scattered on a cloudy and gloomy day.

The prophet amongst the bones lifted a barber’s razor, shaving his head of its flowing kempt hair and long white beard before continuing with words. The endeavor mystically conducted in a matter of breaths.

Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness and from all your idols. Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.

Bleeding from the rough shaving, Strong Is God finished his prophesying. The surrounding bones began to vibrate and rattle, dust ascending with the sounding of his voice.

The hand of Yahweh was upon me. He brought me out and led me in spirit to the middle of the valley which was full of bones.
He made me walk to and fro among them and I could see there was a great number of them on the ground all along the valley and that they were very dry.
Yahweh said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live again?” I said, “Lord Yahweh, only you know that.”
He then said, “Speak on my behalf concerning these bones; say to them:
Dry bones, hear the word of Yahweh!
Yahweh says: I am going to put spirit in you and make you live.

Strong Is God reposed to sleeping. Timoleon perceived his breathing, inhalation then exhalation, absorbing his faded visions. Heart beating, blackness ensued.

Paki and the Bedouins watched, waiting for death or the continuation of life. It was well over three hours. They were impressed with their traveling companion’s bravado in confronting his demise. Finally, the Greek speaking Bedouin rose, informing Paki to tend to the bite.

“He will live.”

Timoleon opened his eyes, tasting the sun upon his lips. He felt nothing, emptied. His companions stood before him as silhouettes, backlit by the intense sun. They appeared as trees standing. His sight was adjusting to the bright light. He rubbed his eyes briskly, causing alterations of perception, reflective remembrance of moments just passed. Entrenched, the visions of the powerful Israel prophets forced contemplation, the symbol of a shepherd, and the notion of wisdom being ungrasped. His life of extensive study seemed exhausted; abandonment, knowledge discarded, indifference and bewilderment arising, surrender emerging with the realization of a continuing life. Roused from meditation, disoriented, Timoleon heard a lamb bleating as if before the slaughter. He looked forward. The trees he knew were companions stood before him, silhouettes and five in number. His companions numbered four. He opened his eyes again, forcing accurate perception, shading with his hand. There was Paki and the three Bedouins.

“Rest well my friend. All is good. We will eat and drink a little.”

Timoleon stretched out in the burning sand. Fresh from the clutches of death, he mused. How did a master’s life truly embrace knowledge? All his life he pursued knowledge, yet now he questioned its worth. He recognized that knowledge could corrupt, and that many of the corrupt were full of knowledge. Wisdom was elusive, more than knowing things. This God of the Israelites he saw as perfection, the ultimate source of existence. The Creator sublime, one who from nothing makes something. Everything this One creates is good. Where did the perversion originate? Where did the wandering start? How did knowledge become corrupt? A God of truth was superior to knowledge for He involved Himself not in corruption or other forms of imperfection. For if God was corrupt, curious, or mischievous then all hope was lost. Timoleon rested upon his Stoic foundation, acquiescing. The baking sun, the serpent bite and death created greater interior space. The unnamed God was becoming a fixture, a point of adoration. The desert crossing to come would only get worse.

The first worsening came with the departure of the Bedouins. With the abandonment of the nomads, Paki took responsibility for the camels. He was gaining mastery. The camel’s nature was unlike any animal he knew, yet Paki was good with animals. Horses were a love. He saw the camels demanded their independence, yet they were herd animals, never wandering far, understanding humans meant feeding. The Bedouins were masters of their camels. They loved them as pets, off-springs. Paki watched the camel masters closely. The Bedouins felt Paki would prove capable with the three purchased camels. Warfare consumed the Bedouins. A group of twenty fellow Bedouins intent upon seeking revenge against a rival clan for deaths and stolen property convinced the guides to join them, leaving Paki and Timoleon alone with three camels.

One of the Bedouins wanted to tell Timoleon a story before he parted. He could not speak Greek so he told his story to the Bedouin who mastered the foreign tongue. The Greek speaking Bedouin argued with his companion for some time before turning to Timoleon.

“He wants you to know his story, however he is not a good storyteller. He speaks too much about himself, and tends to tell the story differently every time he tells it. I know the story so I will tell you the truth. Many years ago, there was a raiding party traveling to steal camels when they came across lone travelers, one walking. There were two in total, a warrior guiding a young woman astride a camel. The raiding party saw no threat, yet they desired the camel, a marvelous beast. The leader of the raiding party ordered one of the men to ride to the two and demand the camel. The men sat mounted upon a ridge, allowing the passing man and woman to observe them.

When the assigned rider approached, the warrior leading the young woman, the walking warrior, lance in hand, rushed the provocateur. Reaching the rider, he easily dispatched the man with his lance. Calmly, the victor brought in the camel of the attacker, tethering the beast behind the young woman. Slowly and deliberately, without looking at the mounted observers, the warrior continued walking on his way. The raiding party was astounded, sending a second rider. Though the second rider attempted to defend himself, defeat was his doom. Again the walking warrior, gathered the camel before serenely setting off, given no regard to the observing men. A third man charged, however he fared none the better as the walking man brought him down with seemingly no effort. However, with the death of the third attacker, the lance of the walking warrior broke into two pieces. The warrior gathered the third camel, tethering it to his growing train. With no lance, never considering the witnessing raiding party, slowly the walking warrior calmly continued on his way. The raiding party as a group of eleven approached the two. The walking warrior, unarmed, began to sing, paying attention only to the path ahead.

Ride on in peace, my Lady fair
Secure and safe and calm
Be confidant and debonair
And free from all alarm
I cannot flee before a foe
Except he taste my arm,
The boldness of my charge he’ll know
Who seeks to do thee harm.

Horsemen, turn back! Allow my love
To ride on undisturbed,
Rabia stands between ‘twixt you and her
With visage unperturbed.
His hand grips firm his shining lance
Which will not be deterred,
A wound from it will cast thee down
To die without a word. *

The walking warrior’s words and voice so moved the approaching men they forgot about their dead comrades. The leader, intent upon killing the warrior, now wanted to honor the man. He give his lance and four of his men to the walking warrior. He said his men would ride as protectors for the warrior and his lady. Safely reaching his people, the walking warrior sheltered his woman before gathering men to slaughter his escorts, gaining as spoils the camels of the deceased men.”

With the conclusion of the story, the non-Greek speaking Bedouin appeared proud, dignified in glory. The Greek-speaking storyteller informed Timoleon that his companion was the son of the walking warrior and his woman. The story of his father was known throughout the dessert. The Bedouins parted, as the story remained fresh in the minds of Paki and Timoleon. Timoleon laughed, amazed by the story and his near death experience. Paki turned his attention to the camels.

Paki was convinced he could handle the camels. The two men discussed in great depth with the Bedouins the proper reading of the stars for a successful passage of the Sinai. Timoleon demonstrating intrinsic knowledge. Together they felt confident they could manage the desert crossing. Disaster struck when a strong windstorm lasted for weeks, the sand blowing so furiously vision was impossible. The stars rendered hidden. Days became long sheltering. Timoleon did not want to sit. He knew the destination was east and felt confident in his sense of direction. Even though a stranger in a strange land, the four directions were still the four directions. Paki questioned his confidence, content to sit still. Timoleon insisted, emphasizing the Bedouins told of the camel’s familiarity with an easterly watering hole, the direction of the land of the Israelites. Instinctively, the camels would wander to the water. Timoleon assured Paki. In conversation, he always presented answers. The camels survived for generations in this accursed land. Let them lead. Blinded by the thrashing sand, they could still make progress. It was better than sitting still. Moving was doing something. Anything is better than doing nothing.

Days passed and still the southerly wind did not stop. Timoleon lost all sense of direction. Then he realized the camels were gone. Timoleon’s swelling throat was at its worst. His swollen tongue immense. Now the camels were gone.

The previous evening, the camels refused tethering, set free based upon weariness. Exhausted from the pelting sand, Timoleon and Paki sought shelter and sleep. In the morning, vision obstructed, the camels were nowhere to be found. The tooth-rooted headache coupled with the constricted breathing made matters difficult for Timoleon. Logic was impossible. Thoughts were painful. It took all of his learning and discipline to maintain a sense of calm. He had survived the snakebite, yet conditions presented suffering beyond the passing of life. A battle internal ensued. The knowledgeable level-headed Greek, once again, brought to his limits by the desert.

Timoleon and Paki halted, sheltering once more underneath blankets, determined not to move until the wind ceased. Timoleon fought to compose his thoughts. Pain, rooted in his jawbone, seared his brain, and the swollen throat forced him to use a polished walking stick to ease his air passageway. The stick forced down his throat supplying a soothing sensation in its roughness. The sound of the desert wind became a roar. The same roar he experienced preparing for death.

Sitting under the minimal shelter, a rain of something solid began to assail their sheltering. Something larger than sand pebbles was striking. The impacts were not severe or damaging, yet the frequency increased in rapidity until only a steady pressing occurred, a continuous afflicting bombardment of strange objects. The mystery forced Timoleon and Paki to lower the blankets for identification. There caught in the strong wind was thousands of desert locust, grasshoppers of the sands in vast numbers. The horde of dead insects thronged down upon them. Timoleon and Paki decided there was nothing to do except anchor down. The plague of insects lasted for a time beyond belief. The amount was staggering.

Paki, the clairvoyant, felt a spiritual assault. He dropped his shelter and investigated the omnipresence of locusts. It was an omen of dread. The locusts stung, yet did not hurt. His mouth and eyes demanded defense. So many insects captured by the powerful desert wind and tossed to a distant fate. Paki called forth spiritual assistance, however the only result were tears flowing from his eyes.

Both men fell asleep, beaten by the wind, insects, and ubiquitous sand. Sand scraped and annoyed every inch of their bodies. Its presence knew no boundaries. Everything they ate and every breath tasted of sand. Sand was consuming them.

Waking, Paki and Timoleon discovered stillness. The desert was calm, bright, and hot. All was well. Timoleon saw the risen sun. It was a sight of joy. He knew the direction they must take. Paki also agreed. The sun was clear and scorching. The only object suspended in the blue sky. The men began walking. It was not long before they came across one of their camels. It was dead. No reason for the death was apparent.

“It is another bad omen. Something strange is happening.” Paki spoke. He sensed difficulties ahead. The spirit world was changing. Something immense was occurring.

“Look. More signs.” Paki pointed to a swopping hawk.

The hawk dove furiously, latching on to a black cobra, lifting it into the air. The hawk rose, holding to the middle of the serpent. The cobra over four feet in length, curled itself, managing to strike its predator. Three times the cobra struck the hawk. The hawk began to fall from the sky, when an eagle assaulted it. The hunter became the hunted. Viciously, the eagle drove the hawk and serpent into the sand with its talons, tearing with its beak the head from the serpent, inflicting death amongst airborne blood and disrupted feathers.

“It is not good.”

Awestruck, Timoleon felt the shrill cries of the birds of prey, hearing an ominous depth in their tones. Death was still near, an omnipotent presence. Paki read the sign as a conquering, greater force prevailing. It was not bad, simply reality. He perceived the eagle representing good and the hawk and serpent evil omens. The eagle was easily victorious. The altercation brought him hope. Death would not claim him here in the accursed sand. His confidence was contagious, raising Timoleon’s spirits. However hours of walking under the desert sun, once again, induced despair for Timoleon. The man of learning and physical training felt his sixty plus years. Profusely, sweat poured forth. The rationing of their water supply prevented the quenching of dehydration.

After six days of wandering, Timoleon felt certain they were going to die. He was confident he would see a future, yet he saw no way they could survive. Paki’s resilience kept him going, motivating. Paki was without doubt. They would see future days. They suffered during the multitude of desert days, yet they were interiorly expanding, undergoing formation. Now endless sand, scorching sun, hunger, and a devouring thirst were their only corporeality. Internal solace was their only escape, continual prayer their only authenticity. With the Bedouins, they feasted upon an ibex killed by one of their guides. Now they saw no signs of animals, aside from anticipating vultures.

Timoleon’s health concerns became so complicated he refused to move. His lack of motion brought forth bravado from the vultures. Swooping, they tested him. Timoleon ignored the buzzards, enjoying the break from monotony a small field of plant growth provided. The Bedouins explained that vegetation was not consistent. It was based upon local rainfall. If it rained, buried seeds would germinate, taking root, blossoming days after the rain. The plant growth would survive, life enduring, for months. Timoleon did not want to move from the vegetation. His throat and pounding head were unbearable. There was another health concern. His feet were badly swollen, calloused and cracked. The cracks brought pain, and the swelling alarm. It was a warning sign of fluid collecting in his lower extremities.

“I cannot walk. Let us stay here. Some animal must come to feed and you can kill it. We have both lost so much weight. It has been weeks since we ate properly. Let us rest until we enjoy a real meal.”

Paki inspected his companion’s feet. He was leery of the swelling. He knew it opened the door to death.

“Your feet look terrible.”

“Yes my friend. They are raw with pain.”

“I will find us meat. Our end is not to come here in the desert.”

“Damn near close to it.”

“Very close, yet we will escape its grip.”

* This poem/song is a Bedouin classic. The author is unknown. The story of the walking warrior is a traditional Bedouin tale. Similar to the tumbling story I posted, I like to tap into traditional ideas.  I have no intention of seeking publication. I have many ideas on that, including the fact I am convinced there are absolutely too many books in existence. There are too many writers, too many artist, too many musicians, too many serious thinkers.  There are too many individuals who take themselves too seriously. There is too much information bombarding. Another reason, I whole heartedly embrace St John of the Cross’ emphasis upon darkness leading to greater spiritual growth. One needs to turn off, alienate, from all the influences seeking attention. I want to concentrate upon relevancy. The eternal is my focus.

There is an interesting book by Jewish scholar Rodger Kamenetz connecting the Jewish writers Rabbi Nachman (great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism) and Franz Kafka. Both gained posthumous prominence for their writing. Both left strict instructions that their unpublished writings were to be burned after their demise. Placing ideas, works of creative effort, out into the world demands accountability upon the soul of the creator. I think of the way Catholicism’s second judgment at the end of time was explained to me. During the second judgment individuals would be made intimately aware of their impact upon the world. All the ripple effects caused by their splash into life, time and space, would become known. To the extreme, an artist like Madonna would understand the influence she played in the degenerating of dignity in the lives of girls and young women, and the harm she caused to Catholicism in her self-serving coarse, lack of respect, attitude toward the faith of her upbringing. At the other end of the pendulum, a saint dedicated to the faith like Maximilian Kolbe would understand the positive impact, affirmative contagious imprint, he made upon contemporaries and generations to come.

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

Bogdan, a teenager experienced and sturdy beyond his years, rode ahead of his companions, scouting, distinct in appearance as a barbarian. His constant companions, three large dogs of shepherding heritage, large in tooth and jaw, trotted close. A wolf skin adorned his scalp. The cap was fashioned so the animals front legs draped down the chest, while the rest of the carcass covered the back. It was a large wolf. Rigged to a shoulder harness, penetrating through the skin, a stick rose above his head, making distant riders perceive him as larger than reality. Atop the stick was a wind dragon: the head of a wolf and the hollow body of a serpent capturing the passing breeze. It was the flag of the Dacian people, Black Sea and Carpathian mountain people recognized as barbarians by the majority of the Greco-Roman world.

Bogdan was warned by Amicus, his traveling companion, a former Roman soldier, about presenting himself as a barbarian. The boy paid no heed. The Roman was vicious, yet he considered him a friend. He despised the Romans and Greek, feeling nothing the inferior. Along with Amicus, an elderly Israelite with his grandson and other men of various descents, he worked for a trading caravan traversing Asia Minor. One year was the term of employment. Now he was free of the caravan leader’s authority, proud to be once again the barbarian. The desire to sport the wind dragon was blood deep. It felt good to ride his Thracian mustang hard and fast with the wolf dragon of his youth flying above his head draped in the wolf attire he loved so much as a child. He felt the courage, intelligence, and ferociousness of the wolf lift his spirit.

“So now the boy dresses as he wants and so shall I.” The elderly Israelite responded to Amicus after the boy speedily rode off. The old man bound to his forehead a leather case.” I am destined for the Holy Land so I will be holy.” He secured his mantle upon his forehead. The old man then tied a similar leather case to his left wrist.

Amicus was pleased with the companionship. His soldiering days, though ending in strife, were rewarding. The camaraderie was invigorating. Always, his companions proved themselves unique in distinction, characters enriching life, individuals alive. Men you were savagely beating with your fist during a meaningless drunken brawl could the next day be the finest of friend. The three who accompanied him now were the remnants from a trading caravan he hooked up with after crossing the Hellespont. There was the Israeli old man and his grandson, as well as the young Dacian boy. Splitting from the trading caravan, the four men unified for a common journey south. The Israelites bound for Jerusalem and the other two for Alexandria and the sights of Egypt.

“The young one is good with horses, yet I hope his bravado does not draw undo attention.”

“He is also good with his bow and arrow.”

“The bow and arrow is for barbarians and cowards. Skill with the sword keeps one alive longer, while proclaiming true valor.”

“I think his sword skills are also adequate.”

“Let’s hope they are not tested.”

“What if they are? Let the barbarian be killed.”

“I have taken a liking to him. Though he is immature, in need of breaking, I trust him. We have all been together long enough to know each other. If a confrontation challenges his life, I am sure he will not be in the wrong.”

“He is not stupid. Yes, I trust him also. Yet I would let the barbarian fend for himself.”

“You are older, maybe when you were younger there was more fight in you.”

“No it is not my age. It is my way.”

“Then we have differences companion.”

“That we do.”

The grandson of the old man interrupted the mounted conversation. “Bogdan saw something. Look at him racing toward us.”

“That child rides like the wind.”

“He is good upon a horse, yet I am better in a chariot.”

Bogdan stopped his horse with great aplomb, dirt rising everywhere with the coming of him and his steed. The horse snorted, also enjoying the dramatics of its arrival. Tossing its head to the left and the right, the stallion radiated energy.

“What is it Bogdan?”

The boy arrogantly laughed aloud, a common reaction for the youth. Pirouetting his horse, the lad screamed. “A Roman legion marches upon the highway.”

“I hope they did not see you racing off like that. They will send spies.”

“They could not see me.”

“That is what you think.”

The boy rode up, challenging Amicus, looking him squarely in the eye. “They did not see me.”

Amicus did not mind the spirited youth. Arrogance did not bother him, as long as it was wielded by one who deserved to be so, arrogance was a virtue, a sign of pride that would not waver upon the battlefield, something natural for an independent young man who desired to survive. Humbling came with time, in defeat or victory, arrogance grew thin. Amongst the caravan, in a professional environment, the boy was competent with tasks and shrewd in interactions, yet now free for an adventure Amicus saw the warrior within the boy emerge. The donning of his traditional garb was the budding of a new man.

“You know I have trouble with Rome. It is best we stick to the back roads.”

“I myself am not inclined to hosting Roman soldiers. Back roads it shall be.”

Amidst camp, settled for the night, seated around a fire, Bogdan held still beneath his wolf-skin cap. Amicus found wonder in the image of the boy, the dancing firelight illuminating the stalwart warrior within the animal skin. Amicus saw the boy possessed strong daemon, a spirit predestined for maturity. Amicus realized he knew little about the youth’s past. The youth impressed him with his abilities and intellect, yet familiarity remained a mystery.

“We have been companions for some time Bogdan, yet I know nothing of your past.”

Bogdan raised his head. His face, instead of the wolf snout, now visible.”I know little of you either. I do know you enjoy the strong drink the slobs of the caravan indulged in. Also, that you fear Roman soldiers, after once being amongst their rank. You have the mark of the Roman legions tattooed upon your arm. I have seen it though you try to hide it. I honor your secrets.”

“Maybe one day, I will tell my tale. Yet tonight I want to know yours. Now I see you in the guise of the wolf and desire to know about your past.”

The old Israelite, still with the leather case strapped to his forehead and one upon his left wrist, chimed in. “Yes child, tell us about your youth. Repose and speak.”

Bogdan after a day of racing with the wolf spirit felt empowered. His story flowed easily.

“First you are wrong to call me a boy. I have only lived a short amount of years in your mind, yet my suffering has been great, calling into question my very existence. I was raised amongst the Dacia people, barbarians to the Hellenistic mind. Yet the Greek do not know my people. Wealth exists in Dacia. More and more of the wrong powers understand the fact. Beyond materialism, there is hidden wisdom, and a noble code of the warrior that all surviving people must establish. Come catch the deadly arrows of our swift horseback warriors if you think you are warrior enough. To be weak is to offer your children no hope of a free life. Dacian children live free and proud, hunting with skill and zest. As a child, I was one of the best in shooting arrows. When I pulled back my bow, destined for Hades was my aim. My confidence with my bow is not because my fellow Dacian hunters are poor hunters, rather my greatness is achieved through their supremacy. I proved myself the best amongst the best.

“Dacia is a land grateful to be anonymous from the Greco-Roman world. I see the culture and Gods of Greece infiltrate the Roman mind. We forsake these gods and their pretentious ways for a higher truth. Greek philosophy teaches of virtue and knowledge, the advancement of civilization through the daemon of advanced men, yet their Gods are imprudent, and their culture is brutal and decadent on to their own. Elitist of the worst kind are these men of vice and pleasure. We have wise men in mountains, holy men, who teach such thought is foolishness, arrogant in nature. The others of our kind seek simplicity, relishing in the family and the love of neighbors, abhorring those who dare to rise above his brothers and sisters in order to rule, or self-glorification; one for all and all for one. We spurn the disdainful Greek mind while not feeling the need to debate it. Grounded within the Vedas, trusting in an all-powerful God, the true higher authority, our wise men submit to humility and the practice of meditation, taking to caves in the mountains, hiding from men, practicing the sound Om, both listening and voicing, pleading their case with the eternal rather than man.

The old Israelite was laughing at the words of the young barbarian. The youth was not wounded. He heard a compliment, rather than an insulting. The youth felt the ears of his friend, another youth, the young Israelite, tuned to his story. He respected the lad, growing in attachment, desiring his friend to know him greater.

“As a boy, I spent time with one of these holy men of the mountains. It was a time that marked me for manhood, a transitional period. It was the harvesting time, the end of summer, and before the cold of winter. I must tell you about the time before my formation with the holy man. Raised amongst farmers, workers of the land, my childhood was idyllic, my family grand. My father was a noted man for his size and strength. Dacians are smaller people, yet his size was as great as the Germans. In competitions, few Dacians could match the feats of my father. We Dacians love to play and gather for communal fun. All are welcome. None the greater, none the less, and all feast like kings. We compete amongst one another with the greatest effort, yet victory is only impressive when achieved in humility and valor. My father was a grand champion. He specialized in wrestling upon a large oil slicked rock. None could dislodge him. He had no enemies amongst his people. A great fighter, he was only greater in loyalty. God strike me down if I ever think a bad thought toward the man.

“I was not like my father. I was not so large. Where his hair was black and thick, mine was sandy in color. Where he was strong and somewhat simple of mind, I was shifty and clever. Now, I tell you of the incident before my time with the holy man. There was a woman, Ligia, who would visit amongst our village, daughter to a man who worked the land north of our farm. Dacian women are known for their fierceness, entering battle with their men. They are not like Greek women, silently taking a backseat, nothing more than property and producers of babies. Dacian women sit on council seats, assisting the men in acting for the people. Ligia was renowned for her achievements in battle. She so loved the conflict of war, she never married as she ventured, camp to camp, seeking warfare. Wherever the Dacian people needed a strong hand with the sword, there she made her home.

“Ligia would hunt with me, tolerating my brashness for I always wanted others to know of my advanced skill with the bow. Easily, I took three times more rabbits than her. A girl would never beat me with the bow. On our final hunting spree, days before my father advised me to seek council with the holy man of the cave, Ligia sat with me aside a river, talking serious. She told me of my father’s bravery. How during raids to the south, into and beyond the lands of our hated enemy the Thracians, my father held second to none. Many a Dacian men could thank my father for seeing the sun this day.

“Ligia told there was something my father hid from my sisters and myself. I was not born a Dacian. My sisters were. As an infant, I was kidnapped during a raid of Thracian land. Ligia assured me that this no longer mattered. I was a Dacian in daemon. She tried to say more. She forced a promise. I must not inform my father. I must be careful not to act differently. She assured me my father would know from my behavior alone.

“So you see my fellow travelers. Holding to nothing of greater esteem than being Dacian, I learned I was Thracian in birth. My mother and father were the enemy I hated. I returned from hunting with Ligia, after dinner my father took me aside and spoke with me. How he knew I knew I do not know. He saw something in me changed. The man loved me and in my heart is nothing but love in return. He wanted for me to seek counsel with the holy man of the cave, as he had done as a youth. The farm would be busy with the harvesting and he could afford to be without my labor.

“I set off for the mountains confused, yet grateful. I was happy Ligia acted as she did. I loved my family with all my heart, I would die for them. I was Dacian. However, there were matters that hinted the truth throughout my years. Truth, I hold above all things.

“My time with the old holy man was a struggle. I knew the man knew of me, and it was an honor to be hosted by him, yet his indifference nearly drove me away. He said nothing. I sat at the back of his cave watching. He would meditate for long hours. The other times, he would read from scrolls, or perform menial task around his cave. There was no sacrificing or rituals as I could see. His belongings were few. I tried to make myself useful, gathering water, and supplying meat. Vegetables and herbs, he would gather himself. He liked to cook, continuously praying, offering thanks, as he did. Finally one morning, he spoke final words to me.”

“Your birth father has come and killed your raising father. Understand. I am your true father. Know what you have seen. Know what you have heard. Know what you have experienced. Keep my scrolls for today I go.”

The old man spent the day building a pyre, a huge gathering of wood he expertly constructed, soaking the wood with pitch as the day concluded. As the night firmly settled into darkness, he appeared with a final bucket of pitch and a torch. Then I knew his intentions. He climbed to the top of his work, dousing himself with the flammable pitch. He ignited the wood supporting him, reclining into the flames as his body merged with the roaring flames. The Greeks have an idea I learned Apocatastasis. Awestruck, I watched the fire engulf the pyre. The fire grew to enormous proportions. In the brightness and heat, the old man was lost.

Throughout the night, I watched the fire. I knew I was no longer a boy. I knew not what the future held, yet whatever it did possess I would greet it as a man. In the morning, the fire still smoldering Ligia appeared.

“You have been with the man over forty days, beyond a full cycle of the moon. He told me to come for you when the fire came. What have you learned?”

“Nothing. He rarely speaks. He meditates, reads, and cooks in silence. Sometimes he sings, always he prays, yet it is an ancient language I do not understand.”

“You have sat with him?”

“Yes. I tried the breathing.”

“He did not lead you?”

“At times, he did. I would match his breath, concentrating as he instructed.”

“That is good.”

“It was nothing.”

“No. It was a lot. You will discover this later.”

“There was something he said that struck me. Guiding my breath, he told me to focus away from my thoughts, ignoring them. No matter how good or bad, they meant nothing. My breathing was central, devout meditation can only be won through battle. Then after several days of practicing in such a manner, he informed me I was doing everything wrong. I was watching myself and this was no good. As I meditated, there I was still watching, critical and proud. He stood above me, holding his hand above and behind my head, saying here you are now, observing, unable to penetrate inward. Your left hand must not know what the right is doing. I was not sure what he meant, believing he requested the impossible. I did not desire to be a holy man. I am a hunter and warrior. It all seemed foolish.”

“That is what he said? Think stronger.”

“My time with him is vague. It is difficult to remember, even during a time when the one who never spoke finally spoke. It seemed he never spoke, yet he did speak in rare moments.”

“Tell me more about the times he did speak.”

“Hold on. It is difficult to recall his words as they were consistently difficult to understand. It is hard to restate them and make sense. The old man told me I existed within two parts. He talked of an actor and an observer, one that observed and one that acted. He wanted me to understand that the one who acted should never be judged by the one who observed. The one who observes must not judge, rather the observer must learn, studiously garnering an education. Victory or defeat means nothing. Good and evil are traps waiting for those involved within action. Consequences are not essential. In victory one could lose, and within defeat one could achieve. The observer must persevere, holding to love and patience, trusting and silent in judgment, growing in strength.”

“Were there wolves at night?”

“Yes. They came several times, just beyond the light of our fire. I could see their eyes and hear their threatening breath.”

“Did you look for tracks?”

“Of course. None were to be found.”

Ligia lowered her voice in tone.”The old man is consumed. He wants me to tell you that it is your destiny to see the world. You must keep the memory of him and the wolves in your heart. Strengthen the observer as you wander. You will become the master of your own pack, dogs as your companions. Last night, he came to my sleep, speaking. You are to journey to Egypt. What is there, you may never know. Do not return to your adopted family. There is nothing there for you. Your real father was searching for you. He has been for years. He loved your birth mother. It was her beauty, your adopted father desired. When kidnapped, your mother would not release you. As a baby, you were also abducted. I knew of your mother’s demise. I was with your adopted father during her death. Traveling to Dacia, she fell into the icy water of the Danube, a river crossing turned lethal. A relentless fever attacked her afterwards. She would never recover.”

“I hope she did not suffer. She was beautiful?”

“We all suffer. Your mother was a grand beauty. Her beauty cost her a life. Your father has been drawing near. That is why I told you the truth. The holy man told me to visit your adopted family for I would find a terrible thing. Indeed, I did. Your fathers fought with the sword, both dying in the altercation. It was night and I looked to the mountain where I knew you to be. I witnessed the signal fire. The fire the holy man told me to watch for. The holy man went for the souls of your fathers in order to assist them. It was the time of your calling. Your adopted mother will not welcome you. She is crazy with grief for her dead husband. She has not turned her daughters against you.”

Ligia reached into her pouch.”I have something for you.” She handed me a necklace. I recognized it as the work of my eldest sister.

“Lavinia spoke with me. She gathered her sisters. Together, they made this for you. They want you always to wear it so you will have love close. All the girls kissed the necklace with tears. Their hearts are broken by the loss of their father and you.”

I observed the necklace. It was simple, yet wonderful. It brought tears. I recognized the leather strand as one my eldest sister would wear around her hair. She transformed it into a necklace. She adorned the strand with four rocks of various colors, precisely piercing their centers with a drilling device. She was a lover of rocks and flowers, collecting those of uniqueness. Since a girl, she was making her own jewelry. Her jewelry was growing in popularity amongst the local women and girls. I would be proud to wear the necklace filled with the love of my sisters. I tied the strand around my neck and felt the strength it built within me.

“I am a man now.”

“Yes a universal man. One nation is too small to hold you.”

“I will know the world, first on into Macedonia.”