Gone the Tides of Earth

At first light I am up by the soft blue of breaking dawn. The morning has come clear and cool with a steady breeze sifting in the screen. Alci and Jacqueline lie asleep faced opposite on the bed and I resting on the floor, clothing and pillows cushioning hardwood.

My mind plays through scenes from recent weeks, months, and all those passing and abiding who shared in such moments. Seeing now; Cian, Alethea, all the other girls, the old man and his wanting-to-be-toiling sons, the cowardly driver, and Courtney. Then I am less pensive as the harder parts recollect deeper, where there is less accommodation, and I remember dead Ahmed and the woman I could not save, the border patrol soldiers, my parents, and Sophia. Somewhat ambivalently, yet tender, I think of the crone, as well.

Shortly after the rising sun Mohamed knocks at our door, beckons us to get up for breakfast with a bellow. There is pause without the sense to rush, and the peace of safety which is the sweetest nectar after threat of danger, before security becomes commonplace.

In the taverna are only several people, one such foursome being a family with tenderfoot children, and also the barman manning his post with a set of dried glasses laid out before him on a studded plastic coaster. The young parents smile as we enter and their daughter, who is the youngest, smirks shyly and twists away from Alci’s mawkish overture, and Jacqueline. She buries her head below her mother’s bosom, gentle laughter ensuing.

We are set at a corner table and brought plates with olives, buttered bread, fried and boiled eggs. There is water and milk to drink and the cheese of sheep and goat to pair with oil and thinly sliced bread in a basket. Mohamed informs us there is no charge although an additional provision to be met for the free meals and board. We inquire as to what this is.

‘There is a community elder who wishes to meet with anyone in town that is more than just passing through,’ he says. ‘He told his assistant last night, without any word from the lot of us, that new souls had come into our presence, and for he to meet them is vital.’

‘Who is this man?’ I ask.

‘He trained as a monk in the Tibetan Himalayas as a young man, spending years mastering the art of silence and meditative states. There was a monastic caretaker from the Americas who was present and learning the way during his time there, and became like a daughter to him, and she too is here as well.’

‘What does he require of us?’

‘Nothing, except to speak. And that you bring clear consciousness.’

‘What is he doing here?’ asks Jacqueline curiously.

‘Monks all over the country left the monastery life to be with the people during the particular tragedies which befell our country. And, in many cases, certain monasteries were occupied by the new powers. We are also aware, even here, of a favourable calamity at the military fairgrounds days ago; that currently the government is tracking renegade soldiers.’

‘You are a smart person, Mom,’ offers Alci warily, though kindly.

‘We wish to serve all who wish to be served,’ he answers. ‘Gheronda is the best of us. He will do you no harm, and only seek to provide answers for you to quench what may already be burning. We’ve all endured so much. Go with calm and clarity, have no doubts.’

Mohamed bows his head, eyes closed, and then departs towards the kitchen with our empty plates. Having been eavesdropping, the barkeep lowers his snooping eyebrow, returning to the wash-and-dry at hand. Alci is shaken, so as he was days ago.

‘Judgement day,’ he says naïvely. ‘A day of reckoning.’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘Whoever this man is just means to help.’

‘I’ll go first and report back,’ adds Jacqueline. ‘It’s all the same.’

In the afternoon we find ourselves scanning the pathway of the old, mythic wood, wandering along a soggy trail into the twisted forest. At the mouth of an old creek is a bed of moted pebbles slanting upward, unto an elevated stony flat beneath a modest waterfall.

We go in and stand in a dark cave several feet high, illumined by the soft light of day permeating the cascading flow. It is wide enough within for each of us to stand, arms spread, and still not touch the mossy rock walls. At some point we all sit, bottoms moist, and by Jacqueline’s oversight shut our eyes and begin to breathe, deep, easy, and slow.

‘Who taught you to meditate?’ asks Alcibiades.

‘My mother,’ she answers. ‘I always wished it were more mainstream.’

By suppertime we sit in the taverna idly, boredom expressed in the quietude of waiting. It is not until after we have eaten and the sun is setting that Mohamed arrives, flanked by a stout, smiling middle-aged woman, and bids Jacqueline to follow her out.

‘They may be all evening,’ he says. ‘You will see him no later than the morrow.’

It is thus late evening when Jacqueline quietly creeps in the door and climbs onto the wall-side of the bed. Alci is on the floor. Unspokenly, we have both been wideawake.