The Nightingale

The mystery burns in my winged heart, down in my salty lungs, further still beneath the diaphragm

It seems all my life I have been searching in order to arrive at not searching

I would come upon some answer, the sunbeams dancing through its prism

Holding it up triumphantly to the elements, victorious, for the wind to feel

And I instructed the wind

“Go tell the waters that separate and cut the continents and time.”

Then setting my burden down, forgetting

For what now did I have need of a question?

Now the waters can descend content, now the wind rush about in haste no longer

But soon doubt would whisper again, for the wind and the sea gave back no reply

The nothingness, and the darkness in between conceivable space, said nothing in reply

What does it mean? How could it be? Could I have missed it? Could I not hear?

Turning on myself then I take a bite of the answer and though it be hard to swallow, I take another

Feeding on the answer I turn malnourished, irrelevant

Poisoned I would go off again in search of another answer…

Delivered to Soren Cennuth, care of Michael Cennuth with the following note: For you to finish.

Part I: Our Origin

Michael Cennuth, the Nightingale, was just a child then, three years old, maybe four, as he tells it, when he first met his dragon. The chronology of events, in itself, remarkable and often retold. He sees it for the first time, a well known story in Cennuth Place, he has a few innocent years together unsullied by ambition. Later, upon reaching the age when expectations seem to increase out of proportion to acquired faculties, as is often the case with adolescence though many experience it also much later on, his attentions are placed on tasks, achievements, friendships and their difficulties, possible enemies, love interests; then finally, and rather unfortunately for all, as is usually the case in becoming one’s own person, the fall from grace, that is to say, the tragic chance occurrence of the unexpected and what consequentially gets disarranged inside a person in a unique way. In fact, it has been told that even the very same event in another young man or woman would be unlikely to produce just the same result given their particular predisposition, almost as if it were predestined, a self-fulfilling prophecy which may take much of their lives to work out. In Michael’s case, this event being the loss of his mother.

In the midst of all the happening and effort towards becoming a man of value, or rather and often, of importance as the two are so often confused, Michael forgets altogether about even something so profound as his dragon, being that he was, perhaps understandably, so much focused on daily applying the tools readily available, namely and mainly his brain and body, to those tasks at hand and just mentioned. And so, it is no small thing indeed to those who hear of Michael’s beginnings and first part of life, roughly more than a third, to feel a sense of ease about themselves even; for if the Nightingale, their founder, leader, a most loved and respected and followed spiritual master, if he too has forgotten all too easily as many often do, and yet still go on to create a lasting sense of appropinquātiō perfectissimus - that which approaches perfection in time, never reaching but getting ever closer still – the orientation towards living such as is found and taught throughout Cennuth, then maybe even they too have within the undiscovered or as yet just not quite fully developed capacity for the beautiful.

As Michael tells it, importantly, he includes a long period of his life when he had altogether forgotten some of the details which occurred then in the forest and early in his childhood as one often does with imagination and imaginary friends after a certain age, but also and in this case with very real but elusive phenomena. Indeed, it was not until some years later, when he was thirty-four, imprisoned by the City Guard of Malchut, and forced into gladiatorial combat that the memory came back in the form of a dream. He had on that very day released his struggle with right and wrong of his capture and fully accepting his position resigned himself to the task at hand, to fight well, to spare life as he could, to die if he had to. Not all was lost. He was not yet dead and death being the one thing he can only do once he would do it well. With that he fell asleep on the wooden floor of the holding cell within the walls of the arena and there had a dream; or rather, a memory gifted in the form of a dream, a memory of the events which followed on that night alone in the dark wooded place as a young boy. And upon waking and remembering there was then a piquancy of resolution which focused his attention on the immediacy of each moment ever since. He was soon able to escape Malchut with the help of a guard who came to favor him.

If you had been in Cennuth Place on a Friday evening during the advent of one of our few special occasions, then as the brilliant colors of the setting sun played through our stained glass ceiling you too would have heard Michael tell it in his own words: “We had been several weeks at sea when the crew spotted land and what a sight to behold having already been rationing the little bit of water and fish we could catch. Camp was set, the forest surrounding us a great relief from the turning ocean. I was permitted to play nearby within proximity close to the family tent. Trees, rocks, the sound of the streams pouring down to the ocean, feeling the dirt, mud, reconnected me to the solidness of earth again. Back towards the direction of camp then I heard unexpected shouting, the clanging of metals, two gunshots, a scream that chilled my body still. Hiding among the thick bush, the late afternoon turned to dusk. It had been quiet for some time when I began to make my way slowly back to where camp had been. There I saw my father dead laying on the ground with blood on his chest. I saw another of the crew there not moving either. My mother was gone. The rest of the crew was gone. And I just ran. I ran back to the place where I’d been hiding.

The dream memory showed me then that as darkness set in the forest, as the realization of the loss took hold, as the terrifying thought of being all alone in the world overcame me, I screamed and cried and wailed until my body gave out exhausted. Until I could cry no more. When I came to what I remember is splashing water from the stream on my face and drinking by cupping my hands to my mouth from the cold stream. I sat there then on the rocks, looked at the stream staring straight ahead, hearing the repetitive sound of the water falling down the hill towards the ocean. And I’ve really thought about this next moment all my life since remembering, because in this moment I lost all sense of myself, for who was I now without my parents, and who would care for me? I was without identity. It was then, just immediately following, that I felt the presence for the first time of something with me. And it was then that I saw it for the first time. It was more that I saw and heard and felt it move simultaneously so that all my attention was on it alone now. All around me a translucence of form began quickly to change to opacity beginning with the trees, the leaves of the plants closest to me, the ground in every direction and as if it controlled the wind, the wind began to blow right then rustling the leaves on the ground into the air and sending them tumbling. It was only a few seconds. It turned itself and lowered its neck and head to face me and becoming visible to my eyes and I could see now it was solid, I could see through it no longer. It did not come out of nowhere, so to speak, it had already been there surrounding me on all sides with itself where I’d been sitting. It spoke somehow then only it didn’t move its mouth. It simply looked at me, into the depths of me, and though a terrifying sight, there was no fear in me. Actually, all fear was gone right then. Only trust. It was telepathic and clear as though something else even that I can’t define had informed me this was right and good. It was clear even in the moment it did not need to know a word or how that word is used in my language. Like a message was sent and reassembled on my end just as it needed to be without losing its meaning.

“There is no other way I know to describe it than to say it was a dragon, a common image made known to me later on. At the time, I did not know the stories and history. It told me all is well and would be. It was sure. You hear others say from time to time when you’re low or ill or someone you love is, they say, “everything will be OK.” And you know what they’re saying but you don’t know that it will be OK. They’re telling you to have faith or they’re telling you to be strong no matter what happens and then everything will be OK because you’ll be strong or at least you won’t perish for lack of hope before it’s time. But this was different. This was everything is OK, right now and just as it is. It told me to sleep and it would keep watch. And when I woke it would be there and would tell me what to do next.

“I obeyed. How could I not?

“The next day and the next we walked together and did not meet another soul in the forest. It cared for me, gave to me energy of itself, found food also, shelter, and where there were no shelter it served as such for me. It said I could call him by my name, Cennuth. I was tired and confused but I felt safe. Each day we walked a little farther and each day I felt more energy in my body, more beauty around me, and more song in my heart. As we went, I would hum or sing and everywhere we went my dragon, Cennuth, as large as a tree, would hum along with me. We were more than friends. There was no need to speak in words though at times I did speak aloud myself. Usually, I would think and it would know what I had thought before I could say for sure that I knew. And it would answer me in the same way it had the first time which became more familiar, more second nature. There were times when I would be walking and the thought would occur to me that I had walked so far and we didn’t know where we were going or I would worry if I would ever see my mother again even or have friends to play with and then I couldn’t see Cennuth anymore. Instantly I would think only of him and our connection and our walking and humming together and he would be there again, or rather I would see him there where he had been. Other times I would just start humming or singing and think of our song together and again I would see him with me and hear him join in the song.

“One evening as we walked along towards the end of day just as the light of the setting sun was leaving and the glow still holds some hope for seeing before the darkness of night comes to draw everything close in, we were heard walking in the forest singing, or rather I learned later that I was heard since no one, but you can hear your dragon. The people who heard me were of the tribe of Indians, the Whakat¬u, which means standing as in ‘we’re still standing’ some of whom had immigrated here from the Polynesian Islands after the war. We were led there I now feel strongly about that but by something greater, but which was also the very thing that bound us together. The Whakatu approached me cautiously and curiously. They spoke to each other in a language I did not yet know, invited me to follow them, and so we did. And that is where I received the nickname, the Nightingale, because I was singing in the night, as if I were calling out to them with a hopeful song.”

Part II: The End as The Beginning

Soren paced his step quick and wide crossing the lawn of mowed grass with carefully place fern, flowering bushes, and ornate trees towards the outer door of the east annex to Cennuth Place. Obsessing the entire half mile about his “justification” to eliminate the threat of Malchut all the while discreetly tapping the thumb of his right hand to each finger from index to pinky and back to index as if to keep track of his thoughts. The frequency and intensity of his repeating thoughts growing as of late, the worry turning to a paranoia of sorts and keeping him up nights. As he grew closer to the outer door, a member of the community began walking towards him then, it was Albert. Soren quickly found some composure to greet this much older and respected member of the community.

“Let us know if there is anything we can do. There is much to discuss, but it can wait. By the way, if I may that is, I wanted to just remind you to keep your heart free of specificity and expectation later when you meet him. I imagine you’ll have some time to yourselves soon?,” Albert said to Soren reaching out his arm. They locked grip at the wrist. Albert’s long grey hair let down in the sun shined strong, thick, course, and beautiful. The old man still stood tall and stout, his body able and ready for a day’s work in the field, though his time was needed on other tasks, managing the agricultural yield of Cennuth’s Western hills. Soren had known Albert ever since he can remember, being part of the community before Soren’s first cry.

“Yes, we’ll be together this evening. Thank you, Albert. I’ll need your guidance in the weeks to come to better understand how things are looking for the winter months,” Soren said as he moved again to face towards the door of east annex and Albert returned to wait in line. They had been speaking about the time Michael, Soren’s father, the Nightingale had reserved to be alone with his son later that evening. It would also likely be their last time together. As Albert had just reminded Soren, this special time could be powerful for each person who visited with Michael as the veil was getting thinner between this world and the next and as the great mystery energized his body one last time. And yet, the paradoxical physics needed was to somehow be free of attachment, free of wanting to receive anything from his father, a situation Soren thought impossible given the circumstances. No wonder, he thought, so many outside Cennuth saw their esoteric ways impractical, the physics of the inner heart, the alignment with the great mystery, with your dragon, the existence even thereof altogether preposterous.

The door opened from the inside as he was recognized by a young woman of twenty something whose face he recognized but did not know. Entering he met her eyes and nodded in thanks and now walked on maintaining a forward momentum so as not to be delayed by more talk though still nodding in recognition when eye contact was unavoidable.

Unexpectedly, having seen Catherine and Jean down a side hall, he made a detour then as he’d been hoping to speak with them again soon on the matter. “Can you meet me outside in a few minutes?” Soren asked, addressing them both not feeling the need to specify the context for the request. Indeed, the two were well aware what had been on his mind as of late.

“Of course. Aren’t you going to see your father? When will you have time for just the two of you? I hope you’ll get to be there for the final breath.” Catherine answers speaking to Michael’s moment of transition. Her hair just starting to grey but otherwise long and dark as midnight is pulled back into a lock braided down her back. The skin on her face taught but weathered from the elements, much of which likely from her years racing in the winter months and working with rescue on the mountain passes, enjoying her limits, meeting the sun with her smile lines.

“Yes, we’ll have time together this evening, at dusk. Father’s request. Weird to think about really. I wonder how he knows he’ll be up to it by then.”

“I’m sure it will be just what’s needed, and you’ll be ready for it when the time comes. And yes, of course, we’ll wait for you outside.” Jean interrupted feeling somewhat overwhelmed after standing in line all morning and having been with Michael in middle room just some fifteen minutes before. He’d circled back around to East Annex from the West outer door to find Catherine. And he added with a smile, “Did you finish the game yesterday without me?” The two having played for hours during the afternoon of the previous day, as Soren and Jean were known to do from time to time, the conversation centering on Soren’s reason and analysis for striking at Malchut soon. It had been Soren’s turn for over fifteen minutes without a move before Jean had to get going, the game being one of strategy with defeat certain against Jean, a skilled player, if four or even five moves were not planned in advance. The question then about the game being a friendly jab.

Ignoring this, Soren thanked them courteously and suggested they meet at the East Forest and Sutton Rock in ten minutes as it looked like they might be heading in that direction and with Catherine and Jean’s agreement Soren then turned back towards the hall leading to middle room.

The last remaining of the daughters and sons of the beloved master made his way towards what will soon be his venerable father’s last room. Love and pain and disbelief in his eyes, each step fragile though made to showcase strength. The ease with which he executes every movement he knows to be forced, unnatural, and hopes no one notices. The truth he feels terrifying: he is not ready; or, he is not the right leader no matter the time. Greif already beginning to push through his chest. The expected moment drawing closer with each breath.

Along the walls of the hall on either side Soren passed people mostly packed almost hip to hip, some standing, most seated, back resting, legs towards the center but a few crossed. Women with babies, women and men in small groups, woman and men alone and sometimes greeting others. Each person waiting their turn to pass through middle room to be with Michael one last time. Efficiently managed but by no means in a hurry, the ceremony now mid-morning of the fourth day. So loved was Michael Nightingale that whoever has heard of his expected transition has come. Not that he had to. Not because his schedule allowed for it weighing the costs and benefits. Simply because he had heard.

The ceiling of the room where his father lay felt lower somehow than Soren remembers. The effect of the outer hall meeting a framed arch peaking at mid-point precisely coinciding with the peak of middle room upon passing through and with graduated widening of the left and right sides of the arch often resulted in a pause there in the hall just before entering as if stunned in awe at the magnanimity of the inner chamber. The intent a reminder of the vastness of the center of one’s self, a kind of mirror, as the vast height and width in proportion to the outer halls had been kept mostly hidden until that moment and “how great thou art,” carved overhead could be seen before entering. There are no doors entering middle room of Cennuth Place, our cathedral, temple, but most importantly, our place of recognition, where we come to practice remembering. The ceiling in middle room a stained-glass menagerie of dragons, those from various well known and often retold stories, creating a variegated bounty of bold light.

Soren came to briefly check in with the feeling in the room, to compare it to yesterday and the day before, to observe the ceremony and his father. It was clear to him the energy had grown stronger each day. He paused there in the arch, observed Michael speaking with someone, while on Soren’s right hand the thumb again tap, tap, taping the tip of each finger from index to pinky and back again perhaps to keep foremost in his mind what concerned him. His curiosity satisfied for now, he turned and went towards the outer door to meet Catherine and Jean, to discuss more his reasons, his justifications. The time was drawing near.

Ten minutes later he approached Sutton Rock, a single rock the size of a two-story building that lay on the edge of east forest totally alone as if taken out of the side of a great mountain and placed here by the hand of a giant. An identifiable landmark and serving as a sort of mid-point between their three homes and the town of Cennuth.

“I was speaking with Jean yesterday and I want your thoughts more on it, Catherine. Have you had more time to think about it? Jon-Paul’s influence is growing every day. Our sources in Malchut say forcing the Naledi into servitude no longer much debated. It has already been accepted by many of the people. There is likely to be little resistance now to enrolling the Naledi. They’re calling it ‘volunteering’ now and those who resisted the move initially within Malchut have been jailed or are in hiding,” Soren presented.

“Volunteer or Malchut destroys your home, your way of life, you.” Jean interrupted. “But how are you to intervene? Jon-Paul has dismissed our ways since we were kids. He thinks we live in a bubble of bliss and don’t pay any attention to what goes on outside Cennuth. And this has been building in Malchut for a few years now. What does your father say? What do the others have to offer? Why haven’t they taken action yet?”

“I don't know. It’s as if they’re leaving it to me to take on. But what I do know is that history is written then destroyed and rewritten and right is deemed to be whatever serves the victor. I would rather be the winner and write history.” This is what Soren obsessed about increasingly as of late and precisely where he and Michael differed without Michael appearing to offer a shred of an alternative besides proverbs and aphorisms lately. “Trust in the heart of the dragon,” he’d say. The breadth of Michael’s instructions to Soren had shortened considerably since Soren returned from abroad.

Catherine held up her palm asking for silence, “Just a minute please.” Both Soren and Jean paused, confused, looked at Catherine, waited for silence to be broken. She took two deep breaths then said, “Soren, I understand what troubles you. It troubles me also. I know that you are aware of the potential consequences which could be much greater than we estimate. Before we speak of this further, will you remember with us, are you willing to try again?”

Soren’s breath left him altogether for a moment as he concentrated on not disappointing Catherine while feeling sure this a waste of time. But he’d respected and loved Catherine since they were young children.

Catherine motioned to the grass and sat down. Jean followed. Soren reset his body in front of Catherine and Jean. Seated, he straightened up tall and rested his eye lids.

“Take a few deep breathes now.” Soren took slow and deep breaths.

“The time I’d like you to recall is just after your mother’s death.” Catherine continued leading Soren towards a time when he had been most vulnerable, a period when she witnessed a change occur in him, one she had seen ever since. “I want you to think of that time, observe yourself then, your interactions with us, with Michael, and your thoughts then. Just observe for a time without judgement and see if anything comes to you.”

Soren breathed deep twice more focused now on the time Catherine led him towards. All was silent save for the faint sound of wind moving the trees nearby. Then he began to see.

Soren had been angry with Michael after his mother’s death, blaming him for letting her go off alone so deep into the mountains in the cold. How exactly Ane died no one knows but the cause can be safely narrowed among possibilities. Her body was found under snow and had been mostly frozen already when found by the search party. By most estimates it would have taken three days hike to get to the flat plain high in the mountains for the cross-country trek. She was found sixty-three miles from where she most likely set down her skis for the next leg.

The confusion of his pain was much too great for him to have any sense about the irrationality of this. Ane would have gone anyway. If asked how she would have preferred to have died, she may very well have said in a similar way, on a journey, alone with her dragon. Soren was a passionate boy already and now a young man still had not yet learned to master himself. But what had troubled him most was Michael’s seemingly unaffected disposition. Perhaps he would have come to, let grief go all the way through him, but he set off impulsively and in order to escape from his confusion and pain set out for other cities and culture he’d not experienced before, Catherine and Jean joining to keep an eye on their friend. Anger had receded now from constant awareness, but it still lingered, and fear of being hurt now perhaps another underlying emotive force behind much of his thinking. He could see that were possible. Moreover, the evil in the world only seemed to grow stronger every day, and he’d been pressing himself towards some action to relieve the anxiety. All this Soren observed in silence as he remembered.

Soren opened his eyes and looked at Catherine first, then at Jean, back to Catherine. He looked into her eyes and she into his without looking away. Strangely and unexpectedly then from Soren’s left side body as if coming from where his shadow had stretched out on the ground next to him, he heard a voice speak. So mysterious was the nature of this voice that Soren broke eye contact with Catherine for a moment, leaned to his right a bit and looked over to his left side and a little bit more over his left shoulder when he hadn’t seen anything there and then back to Catherine again.

“I am guessing you didn’t hear that,” Soren said, also guessing what just happened. “I don’t know for sure what just happened there. I was observing as you’d said to do without judgement and I heard a voice then. One I’ve heard before. Only not for a long time.”

“What did it say?” Jean asked.

“It spoke the last lines of a poem I received yesterday from my father. I didn’t know how to end it or what it was getting at. But maybe I do now. And then it said that I should do whatever brings me peace.” Soren stood up quickly. “I need to go write it down before I forget. And listen, I think we should propose for Cennuth to assist Jon-Paul and Malchut with agricultural planning and expansion in unity with the Naledi soon. I have my doubts but...” Soren stopped mid sentence, turned to leave in earnest, excited, racing toward his journal already remembering right where he’d left it. Catherine and Jean left seated.

“Ok, bye then!” Jean yelled out laughing.

“See you later!” Catherine joined in, both hysterical now.

Upon returning to his room, Soren reached for the red leather bound book with still mostly blank pages by then, sat at his desk on the edge of his chair and finished the poem word for word with what he had heard just a few minutes before.

‘…Feeding on the answer I turn malnourished, irrelevant

Poisoned I would go off again in search of another answer…

Until one day, tired of myself, weary of my past, I fell into a bog of dreams

When I woke, I found myself somehow on the very spot where my journey had begun so long ago

And as if by accident, I see right there my discarded question just as it had been

Now every answer I bring to account before the great mystery

The question that still burns within

Restoring and renewing me.”