Justinian

I am Justinian.

Here I stand, in the church I built, looking down on you. And it is right that I stand here, with my generals and priests, for all my life I have striven to do God’s work. Barbarians have been crushed, heretics extirpated, traitors destroyed: all swept down to the depths of hell. Look upon me as one proud to have been God’s instrument; dispensing his justice, enacting righteous laws, glorifying him in new churches, proclaiming his truth, causing his light to shine in all lands, so that a universal Christian empire, which is his will for the world, is now close to fulfilment. Know this, for I am Justinian.

Yggdrasill: a dream

James was a magnificent rugby player, but he had to leave the field in the match which was going to be the climax of his career because of injury. His manager ordered him to go home and do nothing until he was sufficiently recovered. But James had a restless mind, and he dreamed of journeying to the far north, to vist the land of his ancestors. 
   He boarded a boat which looked like one of the old Viking ships. It did not appear very seaworthy, but it took him to a far distant place where he beheld Yggdrasil, the mighty ash-tree that binds together the whole world. A man came, bearing a beaker. "Drink", he said.
   After the first draught, James saw that flowers and beasts surrounded the foot of the tree. After the second, he saw immortal spirits perching like birds upon the branches. And after the third, he saw the gods themselves. 
   For an age, James gazed at them with awe. Finally he said, "I have seen you, but now I must go home".
   "No", they said. "You are one with us now. Your fame has spread through all time and space, and you are worshipped under the name of Thor".

Alone

 I only knocked on her door because I was in such a difficult fix. I’d always enjoyed taking long walks on my own in remote areas, and in the past I’d always been completely safe, but this time a whole series of things went wrong. There was heavy mist on the mountain-top, and somehow I contrived to lose my compass. The result was I must have taken the wrong path down, so when it lifted I realised I was in a completely strange valley, miles from where I should have been. Then the sole of my boot started to become detached, until after a few miles it was only hanging on by the heel; and at this point I knew I’d got no chance of getting back to my car until well after dark, and then it started to rain. So when I noticed this isolated old farmhouse some distance from the road, I thought the most sensible thing was to go and ask for help; and she answered the door.

          It was no more than a cottage, stone-built and whitewashed, with very small windows set back into the thick walls. It was quite likely centuries old. And she matched it: small, with a mass of wrinkles on her weather-beaten face. I started to explain my difficulties to her, but she then gestured me inside with little more than a grunt, and I found myself on a wooden settle beside the fire in the dark little parlour.

          It was clear that she lived there on her own. Now in my years of walking, I’d generally found that men and women in isolated farmsteads were quite garrulous: they met so few people that they were glad of an extensive chat with any passing stranger, and often it was quite difficult to get away. I thought I was in for one of these experiences when she explained that I could catch a bus from the crossroads, but that the next one wouldn’t run till tomorrow morning. Then she had a look at my boot, said that she’d got some glue which would fix it back together again, but that it would need a few hours to set, so I’d better stay there for the night. Well, I was very grateful for the hospitality, and thanked her profusely, though I was a little surprised that she was so open with a total stranger. I settled back, anticipating a long, one-sided conversation on the bad state of the world, the ruinously low level of farm prices etc, as the fee for my night’s rest. But strangely enough, I had to do most of the talking. Despite my prompting, it was hard to get more than a few brief sentences out of her, and these were generally cryptic and most puzzling when I reflected on them afterwards. When I commented that very few people must pass that way, she said, “Aye, there’s not many come - and fewer go”. Wasn’t she lonely, here on her own? “I don’t lack for company”, she said, without elaborating. Wasn’t she alarmed by reports of robberies on remote farmhouses? “Nay, I’m plenty safe, as long as I’ve got them”. She made a gesture out with her right arm, but I had no idea what she might be indicating. I saw a couple of very dark old portraits on the wall behind her; a man and woman from a past century, crudely done by some country artist. Were these her ancestors? “Aye, my great-great grandparents. But they’re still with me, you know”. Finally, in a desperate effort at a new subject, I remarked that in the 17^th century this part of the country was notorious for its witches. “Still is”, she said, and left it at that. I gave up at this point, concluding that she must be more than a little mad. Finally she fetched me a mug of tea from the kitchen and announced she was going to bed. I could stay here in the parlour, since there was only one bedroom, but I would find rugs and blankets in the chest. I said I was happy with that, since as an experienced country walker, I was accustomed to bedding down almost anywhere. Then she left me.

          I drank the tea, which was unlike any tea I’d ever tasted, but I couldn’t sleep. I realised I was a little light-headed. There more I pondered on her odd remarks, the stranger and more sinister they sounded: “I don’t lack for company ….. Not many come, and fewer go” What on earth did she mean? I got to my feet and looked around the room. Besides the ancestral portraits, there was one other picture, dimmed by dark brown varnish. It appeared to be some religious scene, but I couldn’t recognise the details. The only book was a massive old bible, which I opened, knowing that many country people wrote their family details on the flyleaves; but instead I found a mass of small unintelligible diagrams and a script of characters completely unknown to me. Turning to other pages, I found similar writings in the margin of the text.

          Was this woman from a family of witches, I wondered. Or, worse, did she consider herself to be a witch? Who knew what strange archaic fantasies lurked in her mind? But if so, what did she intend for me? By this time I was fairly sure the tea must have been some kind of drug. Was she waiting for me to fall asleep? And then what?

          I’m writing this down as a record, in case anything should happen to me, but also in order to keep awake. I don’t intend to go to sleep. If she, or anyone else, tries to come for me during the night, I’ll be ready for them.

………………………………............................................

          (The manuscript breaks off at this point. The presumed author, James Douglas Wright, is currently being questioned by the police in connexion with the death of Marion Armstrong, the elderly and reclusive owner of Underknotts Farm.) 

A Kiss

It was the waiting that was the worst. He had eaten an evening meal with all his friends, and now he sat in the park, watching and wondering. The spring night was warm. Above him the two stars known as the Twins wheeled slowly westwards across the cloudless sky, and Orion began his descent below the horizon, but the heavens provided him with no guidance. What should he do? The longer he stayed there, the more likely it was that he would face an outcome too terrible to contemplate; and the more unavoidable it became; but still he did not stir. How could he go? And where?

He wondered how everything could have fallen apart so disastrously, and so suddenly. Just a few days before, he had scored an incredible popular triumph: the biggest of his career. He had felt invincible; the world at his feet. So how come he was now here, all alone; paralysed with fear and indecision? What could have gone so wrong? Had he made any mistakes? If so, what were they, and why did it now seem far too late to amend them?

There was the sound of footsteps brushing through the undergrowth: many feet were approaching. He looked up, and in the haunting light of the moon recognised one of his closest friends, but following behind was a party of armed police. He guessed what was going to happen, but, realising that his path was now set, allowed his friend to greet him with a hug and a kiss. The man then turned to the escort and said, “This is the one you want. This is Jesus”  

Resolutions

When the meal was finished, the bottles were passed round and according to the tradition Dilsan, who was the oldest member present announced, “Gentlemen! This is the occasion when we announce our resolutions for the coming year! I must remind you that the rules dictate that these should never be too serious, but I am sure you will agree that this year the unusual circumstances confronting us dictate that they should be exceptionally frivolous. Any member is free to challenge another on the charge of seriousness, with the accustomed penalties being imposed should the charge be upheld. So we shall go round the room, starting on my left, leaving me to go last. Amytar: you shall start”.

"My resolution is that during the next year I shall attempt to make love to every pretty girl I meet!" Amytar announced. "You may all mock me and jeer at me if I don’t!" Since he had to reputation of being rather shy, this naturally met with general approval and some laughter, except for those who had intended to announce the same resolution themselves, and would now have to think of something different.

Naturally, I don’t recall more than a very few of the resolutions that were proffered. There were some amusing comments when Manturian, who was notoriously unfit and lazy, announced his intention of walking right round the coast of the island. “You’ll never manage it!” someone hooted, “Even if you manage to keep going, there won’t be time for you to get more than halfway!” “That’d be pushing it!” came another comment, “I’d give you three days at the most, before you give up!” “Three hours, more like!” But Maturin, rather spiffily, took the banter seriously and said he seriously intended to do it.

The only unpleasant moment came when someone, I can’t recall who, said for his resolution that he would learn to swim. This was held to be in very poor taste. It provoked some bitter comments; one man even going as far to say, “What do you hope to achieve by that? Prolong your miserable life by half an hour, if you’re lucky?” In fact, things could have turned quite nasty if Dilsan hadn’t intervened by commenting, “Exactly! That makes his resolution extremely trivial, which is what the club rules are aiming at!” and fortunately this managed to calm the situation.

 

Finally, Dilsan himself rounded things off by announcing that during the coming year he intended to get drunk as often as possible. “You’ve made a good start!” someone called out. I was only surprised that no-one else had opted for this resolution, since under the circumstances it was a highly sensible thing to aim for. And so the proceedings should have ended happily, had not Dilsan, his mind doubtless slurred by the drink, announced as a final toast, “Gentlemen! To our next meeting!” and a quite unnecessary shadow of gloom was cast over the gathering; because of course we all knew there would never be another meeting. By next year, the great island of Atlantis would have disappeared for ever, and so would we.

The Coming

Yes, I was at the meeting when young Ben Maxwell read that epoch-making paper, telling how he’d been able to put a definite date on the crucifixion of Jesus. (“Young Ben” we called him. And of course now he’s forever young, isn’t he?) Old sceptics like me went along all prepared to scoff or ask awkward questions, but the paper he gave was brilliant and the evidence couldn’t be faulted. All those papyrus records had turned up in excavations in Palestine, like the Dead Sea scrolls only more detailed, and the team had spent years piecing them altogether; until there it was; a clear date: something that neither the Gospels or St. Paul had bothered to give us. It was stunning; that’s the only word for it.

   Of course, all sorts of weird groups tried to cash in on it, and they’re still at it. Do you remember that bunch who tried to prove Jesus was black? I ask you!

As for Ben Maxwell, it transformed his life. He was a very modest young man; shy, even. He turned down the offer of a C.B.E. for his achievement, though of course it wasn’t made public at the time. He was quite right, in my opinion: it’s the sort of award that’s given to retired sportsmen, and to people who’ve made donations to party funds. But he couldn’t so well turn down invitations to speak at academic conferences, and before he knew where he was, there were television interviews in the States, and then all over the world; and he started to find he enjoyed it. That’s what did for him in the end, of course: that dreadful plane crash. At least, that’s what they think it must have been, though no trace was ever found. Naturally, sabotage was suspected by the conspiracy-merchants, and others put it down to divine intervention. Was it just a fluke that the plane sank in one of the deepest ocean depths in the entire world, off the coast of Japan, or was something being covered up? And if so, by whom, and why? Assorted nutcases have claimed to see him alive, of course; but as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone; and so he’ll always be young Ben Maxwell, the genius who put a date on the most famous event of all time.

   The college thought of naming a building after him, but they were afraid of annoying the Moslems, or the Jews, or for all I know the voodoo priests as well, so all we got is one of those blue plaques. But he won’t be forgotten, ever.

Anyway, thanks to his work, we have a date for the crucifixion, and this year it’s the two-thousandth anniversary. All sorts of crazies out there are expecting the Second Coming at any moment, and the fact that they’ve always been disappointed in the past never makes any difference: they’re saying it’s got to be this Easter. But I’m not expecting anything, are you? When you look out at the stars on a night like this, millions of light-years away, it makes you realize how insignificant we are here. What grounds do we have for imagining things on this earth matter at all, as far as the universe is concerned?

Hang on; what’s happening out there? The stars ……       

LIGHT!  

The Sleeping King

Eight men sat round the table, lit by a strange radiance that appeared to pervade the whole cave. The boy crawled out from the narrow passage through which he had entered, but for the moment remained on his knees, amazed and awestruck. For some little time Michael, for that was his name, continued in that position, until he was able to nerve himself to examine the scene more closely.

          Facing him was a king, for he wore a crown, beneath which his hair was like the mane of a lion, though his long beard was streaked with grey. His hands, heavy with many rings, rested on the table before him, and between them lay the hilt of a great sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, and they bore down straight at Michael, with such intensity that he could scarcely dare to return their gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It was therefore with downcast eyes that he slowly walked round the table. Of the other seven men, some were in armour, and some in courtly robes. Their eyes too were open, but did not move, and their gaze remained fixed on the king.

          Michael knew who they were, for many times he had heard of them in legend and story, and now he had found them. They were the great king, the emperor, and his seven counsellors; not dead, but asleep beneath the mountain, awaiting the moment of their country’s greatest peril, when they would rise from slumber to save it. Now he, Michael and found them. Was it now his task to awaken them? Was indeed his country in mortal danger? How was he to know: he was only ten years old.

          He tiptoes further towards the king, and every time he dared to glance upwards, he sensed the king’s eyes following him. The strange light, which at first he thought came from the roof, he now realised radiated out from the king himself, illuminating the whole gathering. At last he stood at the king’s side, and hesitated, unsure of what to do; until, suddenly making up his mind, he reached out and laid his hand upon the hilt of the great sword.

          Abruptly, and horribly, everything began to change. First, the sword crumbled to rust beneath his hand. Then the table creaked and groaned as its massive timbers rotted and split. Like a creeping tide the infection spread to the assembled lords. Garments fell in shreds and armour collapsed. The very flesh on their faces blackened and shrivelled, exposing the bones beneath.  The radiance flashed violently, and stones crashed down from the roof. Last of all the disease reached even to the king, until his eyes blazed out as through a monstrous lichen, and the look in those eyes was of unforgiving hatred and despair.

          Then Michael awoke. The window of his bedroom was rattling in the violent wind, and outside lightning and thunder were raging. Guilt and anguish filled his heart. He knew it had been a dream, but nonetheless he felt that somehow the universe had been diminished by his actions.