Fable of the Month/Monday Poetry Train

Well, I was trying to decide what to post today and I'm feeling especially lazy and someone asked me to participate (not for the first time) in something called Monday Poetry Train. Luckily for me it seems open to prose and poetry, so I thought - lack of anything else much to share - that I'd post one of the last of my Fable Collection. These were mostly written as part of a writing class I took way back in 1993. We were given an assignment - in this case it was to write about a beaver who had been captured by humans - and this is what I wrote. Doesn't add up to much, but there a few things in it that I kind of like.

BARCLAY'S LAMENT

by

Katherine E. Rabenau

I was born near a meadow filled with birch trees, so my parents named me Barclay. For my middle name they chose Gideon, which means feller of mighty trees. Maybe because I grew up with birches, I've never held much stock in big trees. Big trees are show-off stuff. I've always liked birches for their slimness and flexibility. Birches are builder's trees. You know, all beavers are dam builders. Dams are life to beavers. They are our way of being in the world. But, contrary to popular belief, we're not all equally gifted. Because, you see, there's more to it than just building a shelter. We can all do that. But some things have to be taught. And that's what I do. I guess you could call me a wise one, or what Native Peoples call a shaman. You see, there's got to be Spirit in a good dam, got to be love and harmony and community. A good dam marries earth and water. It speaks to the river and says, "Ho, merry friend, stop, rest awhile and greet your cousin, earth. Embrace her, feed her, and teach her your ways." A good dam builder calls on the tree people for help, for the tree people live on water and earth combined and they have also touched the sky. They know how to sing to the river, to make her pause and bend and listen. But they do not all sing river songs, and those who do only sing when they have been greeted with respect. A wise beaver never takes a tree without permission, for the trees, who touch the sky, hear the wind, the voice of God, and the wind tells them their time and their destiny. Not every tree knows river songs, and the river is not patient with those she cannot understand.

Why am I telling you this? Because something terrible has happened. For a long time, the Beaver people have felt safe in the park lands and that is where we have lived. Now, for some reason, the rangers have declared war on us. They destroy our dams. They take us prisoner. I do not understand it. Right now I am on the run. They shot me with something and put me in a box. I chewed my way out and am heading back to my people, but what do I say to them? The dams are our shelter. But more than that they are our purpose. We were created to help the river and the land speak, to help the tree people fulfill their destiny. The land needs us and the river. The trees need us. Why do these humans wish to interfere with God's plan? I am a peaceful soul, but I must defy them. I must teach us to do so with love, for I do not think the humans mean us any harm, really. They are just ignorant. If we love them, perhaps they will be healed. I must teach my people to build, because we must listen to our hearts and be what we are meant to be. I will teach my people to build dams because the river calls them and the trees cannot do their work without us. I will teach my people to trust their hearts. The hearts of humans tell them something else, something I do not understand. I do not begrudge them their journey, though I pity them that they apparently do not hear the trees and the river call, nor see the loneliness of the land. But they must walk their path and I mine. May God bless us both.

THE END

Fable of the Month: The Aftermath

OK... Going WAAAAYYYY outside of my comfort zone with this one. Sex is mentioned and even implied. If my mother even thought you might be thinking about sex or had thought about sex at any time in your life, she pretty much thought you were a whore. She pretty much thought I was a whore just because I was a girl and had girl parts. I was actually very much an innocent but boy did I feel guilty. I just had no idea about what. So anyway.... comfort zone... speck in the distance, not even really visible... I do know, though (I think), that this is pretty funny. It was a class assignment years ago. (I surely didn't come up with the topic myself. Can't remember exactly how the assignment was worded, but I know the porno theater and the end of the world were the teacher's idea, not mine. I just ran with it.) Anyway, enough disclaimers. Prudish people proceed at your own risk.

THE AFTERMATH

by

Katherine E. Rabenau

Sometimes I think God doesn't exist; sometimes I think He's a practical joker; and sometimes I'm convinced the old bastard's just a full-blown sadist. Right now I'm leaning toward the sadist end of the scale. You see, I guess the assholes (the official, elected assholes, that is) dropped the damned hydrogen bomb and everyone but me is gone. I mean, I guess that's what happened. One minute it was life as usual and then the next, BOOM. I don't really know what happened or even how I survived or why, but I seem to be the only one left. I keep thinking there must be someone else, but so far, no one. I'm not sure how long it's been, to tell the truth. At first, I didn't mind the loneliness that much, you know. I mean, the situation was so overwhelming. They thought the destruction of property with this bomb wouldn't be so bad, but let me tell you, it's awful. Here's a good joke for you. Just about the only building left in tact is Vic Voyeur's Variety Theatre and Porno World. That's what I mean about God being a practical joker. Me, alone in the world with only a porno theatre for company. Jesus! The world's most sexually repressed woman living in the lobby of a porno theatre. And you know what's really stupid? I'm still scared to go inside. Weird thing is there's still electricity, too. I could even run the movies. It would be company, I guess. I mean, how sinful can sex be if there's no one to have it with? And I suppose if there was someone around, it would be our duty to procreate the species, so I suppose I could look on this as study time, learning how it's done, just in case, you know, somebody shows up. God, I wish somebody would.

What a concept! Guilt-free sex. Virtuous sex. Well, what have I got to lose? Who's gonna punish me? Shit, this is weird, alone here in the dark with these strange images flickering away. How beautiful it is to hear a human voice. I didn't realize how much I missed sounds, how much I have always missed touch. Jesus, look what she's doing! Oh, my God! Hmmmm. Well, I guess there's no harm in trying. I mean, I'm the only person left in the world. Who's gonna see? I guess I could take these clothes off. They're pretty dirty anyway. Oooooh, shit. That feels really good! No wonder people like this stuff! I never knew my body could do that. Why on earth was this a sin? God, I mean, it feels nice. I wonder if I'm really the only one left? Maybe there are some others and we can make a new world, a new Garden of Eden, only with different rules. Let's see. Don't kill would still stand. Then love one another, but body and soul. Oh, and we could add love yourself. (Make that one body and soul, too.) Love yourself and the rest will fall in place kind of naturally, the loving others part. Oh, and we'd have lots of mirrors and people would have to admire themselves. And each other. No matter what a person looked like, you'd see them as beautiful and praise their qualities. If they were thin, you'd say what lovely thinness they had and if they were fat, you'd admire how magnificently, beautifully fat they were. And we'd study our bodies. Oooh, this feels good. Wish I'd known about this before... Yes, where was I? Oh, masturbation would be encouraged, and touching. We could still pray and meditate and all that stuff, but we'd have to respect our bodies too. God, I hope there are still others around. I don't want to end my days alone in a porno theatre, though I'm really glad I found it, found my body. Too bad the world had to end for me to do it. Kind of extreme. Oh, my God, look at that! How did they do that? Hmmmm. I could do that alone. Oh, God, yes. Yes! Oh, oh, aaah. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Think I'll try that again. Hmmmm. Oh, God, please let there be at least one man still alive out there. Good looking, if you can, though I suppose in my new order, anyone is good looking. And probably if he's the only man on earth he will look good. I guess I should probably head out and start looking for him. But meanwhile, I'll just stay here and study for a little while longer. Oh, boy, look at that! OH, YES!

THE END

Fable of the Month: The Miracle on Michael's Hill

THE MIRACLE ON MICHAEL'S HILL

by

Katherine E. Rabenau

The angel stood on the hill singing in her sweet high disembodied voice, and around her the world grew quiet and still. The beasts of the field, even the flowers and trees, paused in their living to listen to the sound of love, to let it wash over and into them. And in the town below, people paused and smiled at one another. Even those who a moment earlier had been quarreling bitterly, were transformed, forgot their angry words and, shedding a tear at their foolishness, embraced one another. Somehow the angel's song reached into their hearts. The sound of her voice let them see with her eyes, and when they looked at each other, they saw only beauty and light and perhaps most miraculous of all, they saw themselves reflected back in their neighbor's eyes through the light of love. They saw only that which was highest and best in themselves and their world was transformed forever.

Most of them, that is. Of course, as there must be, there were some who felt the tug of love and fought it with all their might. These were the ones who cried "witchcraft," "Satan," and other such foolishness and ran through the streets trying to shout down the magic of the power of Love. Sadder still, when they realized that they could not shout Love down, they tried to kill it. "Where's it coming from?" their leader shouted. "Michael's Hill," another responded and off they went, clubs and pitchforks in hand, ready to fight the demon of love with all their might.

As they reached the top of the hill, they began shouting as loudly as they could, "Death to Demon-spawn," and "Silence the Dark Voice." So raucous were their venomous cries that they almost did drown out the angel's song. But not quite. And in their fear and rage they were not prepared for what awaited them over the crest of Michael's Hill. They gasped almost as one being as they approached a vision of such radiant loveliness that she - for this particular angel seemed not so tall or majestic as angels are expected to be, but was rather small and delicate - and, yes, distinctly feminine. When they talked about it later, there was much argument among them about just what they saw. Some reported a raven-haired beauty with bright blue eyes, some a young girl with green eyes and fiery red hair. Others swore her hair was like spun gold and her eyes large and brown as a fawn's. She wore a soft flowing robe that shimmered with a rainbow of colors - or perhaps, like the angel herself, simply reflected back that color which most deeply touched and comforted the eye of the beholder, for as one man remarked "did you ever see threads of such fine silver," his companion gaped at him in astonishment and said, "Silver? It wasn't silver! Why it was greener than the greenest emerald." And his old mother, standing at his side, rebuked him saying, "Why you're both fools. Her robe was as blue as the bluest summer sky with just a hint of clouds in it." And so on.

But about one thing almost everyone agreed: The expression on her face was so tender and gentle, so full of love and compassion and goodness that all the anger and hate which had brought them surging up Michael's Hill simply disappeared. Most dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, not so much in awe, as in delight. And even when they looked away, it was as though the angel's loving gaze washed over and through them, cleansing away aches and pains, not just of the body, but more incredibly, even the most ancient wounds to their spirits and hearts.

Orphans felt themselves wrapped in a mother's love and knew themselves orphans no more. The lonely and bitter felt her hand in theirs and realized that they had never truly been alone. And the poor and hungry knew that from that moment on, they would be rich beyond material measure and their hunger no longer gnawed at them. This moment in the angel's sight made them richer than any king. And the rich - well, suddenly they saw their riches for the paltry treasures they were - and, both worse and better - they felt the hunger in some of their companions and were moved with compassion and a desire to share.

And at the same time they began to feel her song. Which is, of course how one must "hear" an angel's song, not with the ear, but with the heart. Then, one by one, they began singing too so that her song became part of them and they part of her song. They understood as they sang that she would leave Michael's Hill and bring her song to others, but that she would never truly depart because she was part of them now, in their hearts and voices - and, yes, in their eyes and their smiles.

At sunset, as mysteriously and unceremoniously as she had arrived, the angel vanished. But her song lingered on.

Among the villagers, there were a few who wanted to build a great shrine to commemorate the miracle of the angel on their hill, but wiser heads and hearts prevailed. "Don't you see, we are the shrine. We must keep her song always in our hearts, and if we must build something, let it not be some fancy, empty temple, but a place of good works: a school, perhaps, or a shelter for those who are hungry or cold, a place of companionship for those who are lonely and sad. Let it be a gathering place for love and healing. And let it always and forever be a place of song."

And that is the story of the day the angel came to Michael's Hill and sang her song. If you listen carefully, perhaps one day you, too, will hear and be glad.

THE END

The painting at the top of the post was painted in 1889 by American Artist Abbot Handerson Thayer.

Fable of the Month: The Hole

Well, it's Friday the 13th and I haven't got anything much to say, so I thought I'd post the "Fable of the Month." This is a silly little story I wrote as part of a class exercise years ago. I'm not going to let the fact that it isn't a fable and it isn't very good daunt me. The paintings are by Degas.

THE HOLE
by
Katherine E. Rabenau

Miranda was ecstatic! Her hair was piled atop her head with all the elegance of a grand dame. Her eyes were huge and mysterious in exaggerated stage make up, and her soft pink tutu was a child's dream. She was a fairy princess! No, better. She was an honest-to-God ballerina, about to make her debut - at Lincoln Center, no less! The day was magic. Everything was magic. She was magic! In a short time her cue would come and she would float onto the stage and...

It was just at that moment that she saw the hole. It was only the size of a dime, high up on the thigh, where the skirt of her tutu would probably cover it, but in Miranda's mind, it was enormous, with huge gobs of flabby cellulite flesh pouring out like lava, in grim, wrinkly waves. It was a nightmare. It was a horror. It was beyond ugly. And there was no time to change. The cue she had anticipated so eagerly was now a thing of dread. From ecstasy, Miranda had lunged directly to despair. Shame washed over her. Her glorious hair, her lovely face, her grace and talent became as nothing next to THE HOLE. In her mind's eye, it grew larger and larger with each passing second. How could she go out there looking like this?!? Would that vast sea of faces see her? No! Their eyes would be riveted to the damned HOLE. It would glow out at them like a beacon, a wrinkly, fleshy horror, and all else would be lost in its hideous glare.

"I can't go on," she moaned. The humiliation would be too much. It was too awful, too inconceivable. There was no God, no justice. All her training, all her work, her dreams, sunk into a cursed little hole in her damned tights. The injustice! "I can't go on," she moaned again. But of course she had to go on. The ballet had already begun and the others were counting on her. It would be torture. It would finish her career, but go on she must.

"Two minutes," came the voice of the stage manager, and suddenly she heard the sweet call of the music pulling at her feet, and then came her cue. All else was forgotten and there was nothing but the music and the dance.

THE END

Fable of the Month: Gloria's Dei

Well, I'm still feeling miserable with the flu and I haven't got a coherent thought in my head, so I've decided to post this month's Fable of the Month early. If I can think of something to do for a graphic, I'll add it later.

GLORIA'S DEI

by Katherine E. Rabenau

Gloria Sampson could hardly believe that she had just become the first woman Cardinal in the Anglican Church -- or any church for that matter. Apostolic succession was irrevocably altered. The Church was irrevocably altered. But, of course, that had happened earlier, long before today's ceremony.


Most people thought the stories about her were apocryphal, works of fiction to make her seem extraordinary. Few really believed (although it was true) that the serene, elegant woman standing before them, had, just eight years earlier, been a filthy, homeless hag, roaming the streets filled with rage and despair. Crawling with lice, she had smelled so bad that you could sense her approach from a block away. It was not that she didn't care. She cared desperately. But she had had no idea of how to fend for herself. She was so terribly ashamed. The more dirty and hungry she became, the deeper her shame, so that she did not dare seek out those things which could alleviate her distress. What kept her alive in those early months she would never know, but what had saved her, that was something else.

Was it the hand of God? No. That would make a good story, but she liked the truth better. For what had saved her was a simple act of human kindness. Was it a priest, then? That would make a nice story too, but the priests, offended by her smell, had been only too glad to see her scurry away, had kept their hands clean, doing their "good deed" (bags of food) from a convenient, sanitized distance.

The act of kindness had come from a threadbare old woman in her late seventies. She was painfully thin, her clothes were ragged, her shoes just barely holding together. She moved arthritically and was clearly more than a little concerned for her safety, yet, seeing Gloria huddled next to the garbage cans, she had looked at her squarely and said: "What's your name? Mine's Rose."

Stunned at being spoken to as though she was human, Gloria had told her.

"You smell awful, honey. How can you stand it?"

And Gloria had wept. Before she could stop herself, all the pain and grief and fear of her months on the street had flowed out of her.

"Well, they should lock me up for crazy and throw away the key, but come on with me, girl. I ain't got much, but I do got soap and water. You got lice?"

Gloria had nodded yes.

"Crazy, I must be crazy. Try not to touch anything. Johnson kids had lice. Mrs. J. will know what to do. Stop snivelling and come along."

And that was how it began.

Rose bathed her, deloused her, took her in and shared her frugal fare with her.

And daily, over and over, Rose had told her: "You been touched by God, child. Dirty and smelly as you was, I could see God's mark on you. He got a purpose for you. I see it."

And though she did not believe it at first, she had tried to make it true, so that she would deserve Rose's kindness, as a kind of thank you. In Gloria's eyes, it was Rose who was touched by God, who saw the beauty and goodness in everyone. And whether by magic or contagion or the hand of God, she had begun to see things that way too, even herself. As the music of the recessional vibrated around her, the new Cardinal whispered quietly: "Thank you, Rose. Even if God hasn't touched me, you have, and that seems to me to be pretty much the same thing.

The End

Fable of the Month: Marta Mishnagel and the Whale

Marta Mishnagel was a fisher-woman. It had not been easy to overcome the prejudice of her parents and the other villagers, who did not consider fishing to be woman's work. But it had been a struggle she had to win, for Marta had been born with the ocean calling her name, and from before she could remember, the fishes and creatures of the sea had sung to her and told her strange and wonderful tales of their lives below the waves. So fishing was not a job to her, it was a calling, as deep and pure as any call to priesthood or service. In some ways, to say she was a fisher-woman was a misnomer, for Marta did not really fish, so much as go to sea and tell her friends what was needed (who was hungry or in need) and because they loved her -- and she them -- fish would joyously leap into her nets until she had just enough. She, for her part, would sing sweet songs to them and tell them tales of the wondrous mysteries of land life, just as they told her of the sea.

Things went on like this until the whale appeared. It stayed a short distance from her boat, never speaking, but always watching and listening. The whale was large, even as whales go, and Marta knew (how she wasn't sure), that this whale was old, very very old, as old as time, even, for she was the Great Mother who had swum the sea since time began. Marta was deeply honored by her presence. She was also more than a little uneasy, for she knew that the Great One did not pay casual calls, and she knew too, from somewhere in her soul, that her destiny was connected to the Great Whale. It was just that she didn't know how and the whale was so big and so primal and all-knowing, and she, Marta was so small and insignificant. It must be her imagination that the Great Mother could want her. And she sighed with sorrow at her unworthiness, and with longing to connect to that great, powerful darkness. Each day she sighed so, and each day sailed a little closer, thinking -- perhaps at least I can touch her, hoping also that the whale would speak and tell her what to do. When finally the day came that she was close enough to touch the great whale's side, tentatively, for just an instant, she "heard" (felt, really) the great deep voice say gently:

"No, Marta, it is not enough to simply touch me. You must enter inside."

"Oh, no," cried Marta, deeply shaken.

"I feel your power and I see your beauty and I am so drawn to you, but I don't want to die."

"Who will not die, cannot live," sighed the Great One. "That is the law of the Universe."

"I am too afraid," cried Marta, and sailed away, only to return the next day, and the next, and be told again, each time: "It is not enough to simply touch me. You must enter inside."

After a time, the Great Whale spoke again and said: "Marta, you cannot escape the law of the Universe. One way or another, you must enter in. You may enter of your own free will, or I will swallow you, but enter you must. It is your destiny. It is not a question of whether, but how. Enter, child, it is time." And saying this, the whale opened her vast mouth. Marta, trembling, eyes closed, leaped over the side of her little boat and dove deep into the dark maw of the great beast, fully expecting to die. But of course she didn't. Instead, she heard a voice say sweetly: "Open your eyes, child. Look around. Explore. In that corner is magic. Over there, the timeless void of Time. Beyond that, the fountain of inspiration and creativity. Over there, the garden of eternity and the hall of past lives. And in the center, at the core, if you touch my heart and feel its beating, you will touch Great Mystery itself." And Marta did just that. And she was never the same again.

THE END

Fable of the Month:An Agoraphobic's Romance

Once again it's time for my "Fable of the Month." Items from my unpublished works that would probably otherwise never see the light of day. I actually published this one once before when I had my agoraphobia column. It's silly, but hopefully amusing. And I guess that's enough of an introduction.

AN AGORAPHOBIC'S ROMANCE
by
Katherine E. Rabenau

I met Frank at OA the one time I got up the courage to go out of the house. Let me tell you, my heart was beating so hard I could hardly breathe and my legs were like jello, all wobbly and weak. I thought I was gonna die or make a fool of myself, or both, and then I caught Frank's eye. He looked to be in the same condition and my heart went out to him, so I forgot about my own panic. "You ok?" I said, and he kind of gasped out "Panic attack!" I said, "Me, too," and it struck us both so funny that we started to giggle and forgot we were dying of terror.

Frank's fat too. And agoraphobic like me. Makes for an odd relationship. I suppose there's a mild sexual attraction, except we both have so many hang-ups. Me, I'm afraid of sex. If you'd ever met my mother, you'd understand why. Then add a hefty dose of sexual abuse. I have trouble being around when sex happens; I mean, I leave my body. I leave even when it looks like sex might happen. So it's really quite convenient to have a "boyfriend" who can't leave home and only talks to you by phone. For his part, he doesn't feel attractive, and to be honest, he isn't. I mean, he could be if he lost some weight. Isn't it awful, a big fat ugly woman who condemns other fat people. Or at least some of them. Frank just happens to be one of that group. I mean, he's one of the sweetest, kindest men in the world. Funny! He's got this kind of wry humor, slightly sardonic, but not mean. A tinge of cynicism, but also kind of a dreamer. Except that he's fat and agoraphobic, he's the perfect man for me. Or maybe he's perfect because he's fat and agoraphobic and I don't have to wrestle with the sex thing. I don't have to be afraid of him. He's so good at listening to me. I really love that and sometimes I wish I could touch him, you know, hold him and be held. We're both awfully lonely for touch. Sometimes he says he pretends I'm with him and he's got his arms around me and he's kissing my eyes and stroking my hair and just gently touching the softness of my skin. When he says that, I feel kind of comforted and tender and a little excited, and then I get scared and change the subject. I'm afraid I'd lose him if we ever got close, you know. Either he'd think I was cold or a whore, or both, and either way, he wouldn't want me and I'd be alone again, completely.

This way I can say I have a boyfriend and keep my mother's nagging at bay. All her, "if only's" and "you shoulds." "I do have a boyfriend," I counter. "Frank and I had dinner together just last night." And we did, sort of. We ordered food from the same Chinese restaurant and talked on the phone. We both got speaker phones so we could do things and talk, so sometimes we eat and sometimes we watch TV. We even rent the same movies sometimes and synchronize running them. Let me tell you, that's not so easy, but we've gotten pretty good at it. It's not perfect, I know, but I do love him.

We started therapy a few months ago. Found someone who makes house calls. Once in a while we have a joint session on the speaker phone, about, you know, getting together and touching. We've both lost a little bit of weight since we met and if I'm gonna trust anyone, it'll be Frank. Next month Jan - that's our therapist - she's gonna try to get Frank to come here for a visit. She'd have a session with us, then go out, and if he needed it, help him go home later. We thought we'd see how it felt to really touch. Sometimes I imagine it and it feels so sweet, I think it can't be possible. But who knows, maybe the times they are a changin'.

THE END

Fable of the Month: The Hermit of Angelwood Mountain

Well, laziness and lack of new ideas is settling in. After all, I've posted every day for three weeks now and twice yesterday. This is one of a bunch of tiny stories I wrote many years ago. It has come to my attention that I'm 60 and no publisher is going to magically show up at my door promising me fame, glory, and a fabulous fortune, so I might as well share these just to make myself happy. This month's story is called

THE HERMIT OF ANGELWOOD MOUNTAIN
by Katherine E. Rabenau

Frank Osborne could not remember how long he had been living on Anglewood Mountain, but he knew it had been a long time. In his youth, Frank had not been very good with people. Shy and blunt, he had seemed remote and snide and people had not liked him. He hadn't liked himself either. Suffocating behind the glass wall of his loneliness, his efforts to reach out had landed like hammers on the toes of prospective acquaintances. Their hostility had cut through him like a sword.

Until, that is, he met and loved and lived with Amanda. Frank never knew why or how she had felt his pain and his gentleness. She had simply walked up to him one day as he sat alone in the park, taken his hand, looked directly into his eyes and said, "It's OK. I see you." He had cried -- not long or loud -- but his heart had fluttered and three large tears had escaped before he could stop them. Catching one of them on her finger, Amanda had put it to her lips and said, "Such tears quench the thirst of God," and had leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Take me home, sweet prince, for I have drunk your heart and I am yours." And despite thinking that she must be crazy, he thought also that she was beautiful like an angel and that he had waited his whole life for someone to touch his tears. Her beauty was mythical. At first, certain that she was an illusion, he had been afraid to touch her, afraid she would dissolve if he dared to reach for her. But she had been no illusion. She had been so real. Although she had been dead now for many years, Frank could taste her mouth, feel the solid softness of her, the silky warmth of her skin as though he had held her that morning. He could still smell the spicy sweetness of her.

She had moved into his life and heart with the direct, natural flow of a river heading to sea. They had made sweet, tender, wild love and he savored the memory of it, but he savored more the memory of her presence and what it had done for him. She had moved so easily into his world that in some ways he hardly noticed it, yet to say only that she had changed his life was like saying that the sun was merely important to life on earth. Amanda was a mirror in which he had seen a new reflection of himself. She was unconditional in her love. There was nothing simpy or vapid in this; she did not overlook his flaws, his moods. She simply loved him anyway, without sacrificing her own integrity.

Frank still believed that God had sent him an angel to soothe his isolation and after a time had taken her away. At first his grief had been so deep he had thought he would die of it. He had been unable to believe that she was really gone, had felt like a lost child waiting for rescue. He had tried to hate God, had waited for bitterness, for the return of his former emptiness. But when time passed and it did not come, he realized that he had been changed forever. Amanda was part of him. It was not just that he had beautiful memories, it was that he was alive inside. She had shown him his soul by sharing her own.

And then he had known that he had to move to the mountain. It was not, as some thought, to escape or be alone. He had gone to the mountain to touch the stars and feel the heartbeat of the earth. He had gone to the mountain to make himself available to the people he knew would come. And they did. Somehow they found him. Some stayed for an hour, some for weeks. Sometimes he would converse with them, tell them about Amanda and his former life, about living on the mountain. Sometimes Wolf, his four-legged companion, would minister to them. But mostly, he would simply hold their hands and look into their eyes, and something in his shining, tender look would show them the beauty of their own souls. And when they cried, as they so often did, he would catch a single drop on his finger and whisper, "Such tears quench the thirst of God."

THE END