Ray's Grandma

One of my principles has always been: if you're my friend's friend, then you're my friend. That is, until I met Ray's Grandma!

Let me put things into context. Ray is one of those "closer than a brother" [1] friends — a quotation that good old Brother Jones managed to weave into most of his sermons, and that always brought a tear to his eye. Last year, on my 18th birthday, Ray gave me a card with these words: "To my only friend: Men in going through the world make many acquaintances, but out of these they have a few special objects of esteem, whom they call friends. If they think to have many friends, they are, probably, misusing the name" [2]. We were friends indeed — his American enthusiasm seemed to form a perfect contrasting balance with my calm British dignity. It seemed as if nothing could spoil this friendship.

Until last Sunday, when Ray called me to visit his old Grandma with him. Well, of course I accepted — if she's Ray's Grandma, she's almost my Grandma. In blissful ignorance I rode into the jaws of death!

Mind you, she seemed genuinely happy to see me, and was very pleasant and courteous. She was small and frail, but had a surprisingly strong handshake. In almost every detail she seemed to be normal, bland, almost dull — except for her eyes! The old Irish poets wrote about "eyes like a wild Irish sea", but they had never seen her eyes! She seemed to have a tsunami in those eyes, I'm telling you!

As I automatically started eating some peanuts from a tin on the table, she bent over and whispered ("hissed" would be a better word) to Ray: "How nice and English is your friend, Albert!" (whatever she meant by that!).

Ray gently corrected her: "I'm Ray, Granny."

"That's all right, dear." She was patting his hand as if he was a little schoolboy who hadn't done his homework properly. "I'm not like your parents — I've come to accept these things, you know. And anyway, I've know since you were a little boy!" And she looked over at me with those deep, deep eyes of hers, as if we were all partners in crime, all three of us.

"Known what, Granny?" Ray asked, a humorous look on his innocent American Fundamentalist face.

"Why, Albert, that you're gay!"

The old witch was smiling gently, and only her eyes showed the sadistic pleasure she felt as Ray stammered and stuttered that "of course he was not a sinner in God's sight", and "how could you think that of me, Granny?" And when she turned to me again, because I'd chocked on the peanuts, it seemed as if her eyes were going to reach out and drown me in that terrible tsunami!

"Are you all right, son?"

I was still getting my breath back, but I managed to signal that I was "fine, thanks." I felt like screaming "And please stop looking at me with those eyes!"

Still smiling gently, she continued to torture me: "Have some more peanuts, dear."

But all I wanted was to leave as soon as possible.

"No thanks" (I managed to sound calm and polite) "I'm finished."

"Oh, you went fishing! How nice. Only you and Albert, I suppose." And the old hag actually winked at me.

"No, no, I've had plenty", I replied, raising my voice a little.

"Oh, you caught twenty? Twenty fishes, I suppose." She was doing it on purpose, pretending to be deaf just to embarrass me.

I shouted now: "I'M FULL!"

"Goodness me, all in the one pool? That's splendid!"

By this time I was red in the face, my hands were trembling, and I think my whole body was shaking. I leaned as close to her ear as I dared, and yelled: "I don't like your stupid peanuts!"

The old gorgon laughed gently and delivered the knock-out blow: "Neither do I, son. Actually, after I lost my teeth I just suck the chocolate off them and leave them in that tin."

Ray can't understand why I bolted then, vomiting as I went. Oh well, maybe he is gay.

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Quotes:
[1] Proverbs 18:24 (from the Bible).
[2] Spurgeon, Charles H. The Spurgeon Collection, Vol 1, page 53. Emerald House, 1998.

Angel or Devil?

As the night grew slowly colder, the young mother mixed the herbs that were on the table before her, following carefully her grandmother's recipe. When the sleeping potion was ready, she mixed it with the baby's milk. As an afterthought, she added some more sugar, then gently lifted her little prince in her arms, and even more gently fed him. Did he notice anything strange in the taste of the milk? Maybe — but he was too hungry to complain. Then they both lay down on the bed, the little boy happy and secure in his mother's embrace.

Once she was sure he would never waken again, she knelt by the bed. She prayed for forgiveness, feeling a cold and hopeless fear clutching her heart like an orphaned sigh. Ten minutes later she rose, a strange and frightening beauty lighting up her face, made more beautiful by the tears that hovered on the edge of her eyes, but refused to fall. She brought the wet towel over from the table, and knelt by the bed again. She looked on the lovely features of her only child. Red-orange hair, to remind her of Billy. Strong little fingers, like her mother's. A stronger heart, she knew, still beat within that little breast — a heart like her own. What could he have become, given half a chance? What heights could he have climbed, what depths plunged, if only he had been born another day, another place!

A tremor shook her body. A sigh was softly breathed out, hardly audible. She prayed again (for courage,this time). A swift, small prayer. Swiftly still she put the towel to her little king's face, and gently pressed it down, pressing also her face at his side on the bed, feeling his smell for the last time, hearing his little heart beat, smiling, picturing him again in her mind, crying, praying for courage, sobbing, and finally fainting.

Regaining consciousness, trembling, she struck the match, and shaded the flame with her hand until the bed-clothes caught fire. Then she quickly left the room, turned the key, and shoved it back into the room, beneath the door.

Outside the large, stone house, the crowd of angry villagers caught the first glimpse of smoke, heard the first cracklings of the fire. For over three hours they had been beating at the old wooden door, thick like all their heads put together. It would soon give in, and they were wild and excited with thoughts of death and violence. The sight of the smoke made them roar all the louder. They wanted fresh, flowing blood, not a charred, dead body. With the strength of a multitude carried along by that collective hate and wickedness which can lay hold of normally loving and calm people, they tore at the door, shouting and screaming, thirsty for the blood of the woman and the blood of the baby.

There was a brief hush as she appeared at the balcony. Ah, how she was beautiful! The moon shining on her golden hair, the sad, unfathomable eyes, the calm smile on her face, the dignity of her movements. But their eyes could see no beauty. They roared the louder, a collective madness of hate and fear and lust. As she stood on the balcony gazing at the smoke rising to embrace the moon, she was still smiling. She knew they would kill her after their initial hateful burst was satisfied. But her thoughts were on the little boy, her little man, her little phoenix already soaring high on the flames out of their reach, her little warrior who had fought his last battle.

At least he was safe — they would never touch him.


.

Hold me, dear ...

Hold my gaze and help me see
Those tender forms of mystery
That roam within your dark brown eyes,
Like small lost clouds upon the skies.

Hold my hand and help me tread
Those paths where stronger hands have bled,
Where blissful dreams have crying flown
From those who dared to walk alone.

Hold my heart and help me dream,
For though my life may tend to seem
As void of hopes as orphaned sighs,
Yet with your love I span the skies.

The Bridge

Balancing precariously on the stone wall that ran along the side of the old bridge, he felt the hot, tepid air urging him to jump. Two hundred feet below, out of sight in the darkness, he could hear the river calling him, and imagined the jagged rocks in the river bed peering upwards, trying to pierce the darkness above their heads.

Life had been cruel to him all along — but in a sort of quiet, almost gentle way. There had been no tragedies to make people feel sorry for him, no heart-breaking loss whose memory he could use to cry himself to sleep. It had just been a long, monotonous succession of grey days followed by grey nights, with not a star to lighten the horizon.

He was tired. Not angry, not despaired, not feeling sorry for himself. Just tired. Tired of having to watch everyone make a mess of things, and then quietly try and pick up the pieces and glue them together. Tired of fighting day and night to keep his family safe (in every sense of that multifaceted word), and then being considered the cause of all that had gone wrong. Tired of spending all his strength and resources to keep them all together, and then feeling the awful weight of being alone amongst strange, familiar people. Tired of all that he endured — yet not in a selfish, self-pitying way, just tired.

He imagined himself telling Rudyard Kipling: "I followed your advice and became a man — but you didn't warn me it would be so desperately lonely here!" And then he was answering himself, in that silly habit of his: "It would be worse if I were popular!" It wasn't really the loneliness that weighed him down. It wasn't the lack of recognition. To be honest, he didn't really know what it was. But he knew he just couldn't bear the prospect of another day of fighting and struggling for what he believed was right. And he knew he couldn't live without fighting! Others could (it seemed everyone could!), but not him. The only way for him to live was as he had always tried to live: doing what had to be done, without ever giving up.

Yes, that was the only way he could live. "And that is certainly not living, mate!", he was telling himself. "That is more like killing yourself slowly, day by day!" He was almost whispering now: "So come on, get it over with! A little step forward, and your troubles are over!"

Even as he struggled with his thoughts, he knew that his decision was already taken. It had been, all along — ever since he left them all arguing among themselves three hours earlier, and stormed out of the house. And as that realization slowly took shape in his mind, it brought with it another certainty: he had the courage to put that decision into action. There was really no fear, no doubts. It would be like all the other battles he had fought: you don't stop to think whether you can do it or not, you just do what has to be done!

He felt the weight of a thousand lives fall off his shoulders, and strike the rocks below, being swiftly carried away by the raging current. He heard the wind singing a plaintive eulogy as the darkness greedily buried his woes. With a last, strange look at the darkness below, he turned and jumped.

The wall of the bridge was lower than he was expecting, and he was surprised at how quickly his feet touched the tarmac. As he felt the solid ground beneath his feet, the moon came out of hiding, and the trees started waving their branches in silent applause. Bowing quickly to his audience (and immediately feeling stupid for it) he made his way homeward.

Still tired, and still sad — but in a kind of happy, proud way. He heard himself say, out loud this time: "I live to fight another day!". And immediately his heart answered: "Don't be melodramatic, stupid! Just get on with it!"

There was no elation, not even a little glimmer of hope. But he knew he had just won his greatest victory ever, and that even though there were still many battles ahead, the war had been won.