In writing this I was thinking of the shepherds who were my neighbours, of parched summer journeys aplenty, and also of the curious concept of the holy fool - the yurodivy of Eastern Orthodoxy - who employed shocking, unconventional behavior to challenge accepted norms, deliver prophecies or to mask their piety.
Shimmering liquid heat assailed us that August day in the forest, and the shade gave no succour. Vanek the shepherd and I trudged on silently, eschewing the effort of speech. There was the faintest breeze moving the oven-like air, and I positioned myself upwind of my companion. That is ever a wise move when accompanying a drover. My horse plodded slowly, head low and flanks brindled by sweat trails dark against his roan coat. In a light tunic I was hot and droplets of sweat tricked cool and ticklish down the small of my back. How Vanek felt in a wool jerkin with a fleece cloak slung across his back I couldn’t imagine, but the stout middle-aged countryman seemed oblivious to discomfort. Behind us too hot to bleat my companion’s rank flock rustled forward as a mass raising a cloud of light grey dust. At the rear a dejected donkey wandered carrying the shepherd’s light baggage on a wooden pack saddle. Even the normally active dogs were languid, loping alongside our processing tongues lolling. An hour had passed since we paused to cross a shallow stream and already the refreshment of that limpid water seemed as a far-off dream sent to torment us along our arid trail. I took my water bottle, removed the cork and took a swig. The contents were disagreeably tepid, but wet nonetheless. Holding the cork in my right hand along with dusty leather reins I passed the flask down to Vanek. Raising the brim of his wide felt hat he smiled and took a drink, gulping the heated content with its slightly musty taste. Soon I should clean out that flask lest moss begin to grow inside, as it had the previous summer. Silently we walked on, conserving energy that we should need later in the cool of evening when we travelled faster. The leather of my saddle creaked and, with a clicking of flint on steel, Vanek lit his rustic clay pipe. I never could understand how a man could smoke in such torrid weather.
It was then that we saw her, stumbling and overloaded. Ahead of us a wiry woman walked, heavy bag slung across her shoulders, footsore and slow. Gradually we overhauled her, curious at whom she might be. Despite my first impression she was no gypsy but was fairer skinned and wore more regular clothes grimy and patched. Her shoes were worn and a hole gaped in one toe. Vanek spoke first in the curious intonation associated with his profession, men accustomed to making themselves heard across great high windy spaces. Unlike me he thought it normal to call a greeting at a distance, perhaps to make contact before his dogs became too eager to harass the newcomer.
“Where ur you goin’ piiil-grim”, he called with astonishing volume for one whose throat most likely was parched.
The traveller stopped and looked back, surprise showing through her fatigue. “Yes you’re right. I’m a pilgrim.” She coughed and continued in a dry quiet voice, “I’m seeking the mirror lake where the seer lives.”
“That’s a way ahead yet”, I opined. Her face fell. I continued, “What takes you there burdened on a hot day like this like some holy fool?” That was rude of me and misplaced for ordinarily I have great respect for the strange ones who wander seeking enlightenment and sometimes through veiled speech dispensing it. But I was hot and tired, hence unreasonable. She rounded on me with surprising fierceness for one so exhausted.
“Whilst you ride aimlessly to mock from your horse I’ve walked a week to get here, and I don’t care if I stumble for another week before I arrive. I’m not alone walking with the spirit, and the pain in my feet and legs is of no account to me. My bag contains all that I need, and I’ll carry it if I have to crawl.”
I was taken aback and said no more as we passed her. The old grey dog barked a couple of times without great enthusiasm, then the sheep swirled about her legs like a sluggish flood passing a stone. I looked at Vanek, embarrassed at my conduct, but he grinned. “We sees su-ch aa-ll thar tiiime”, he commented too loudly and quite untruthfully. Then I glanced back and saw her no more.
But I did see the sheep swirling around an obstruction which was her bag, large like a boulder, lying in the dust. “I’ll see to her”, I told Vanek and jumped down from my beast. Handing the shepherd my long leather reins I ran back, panting in the unforgiving air as I forced a way through a flood of bewildered sheep. The traveller had fallen in a dead faint. It took a few moments to remove the bag from her back then I lifted her thin body in my arms. She seemed as light as a mouse! Carrying her forward I cradled her head as it lay limp then set her down in the grass at the trackside where already my roan horse was grazing. Vanek had needed little persuasion to pause and lean on his wizened old crook, and now watched with the patient curiosity of one whose life is regulated only by the seasons. I took my flask and poured a little water across her face, dusty trails running down in grey-brown trickles. She revived a little, blinking incredulously, so I ran some water into her mouth. The pilgrim coughed again then settled back to enjoy a drink of warm water that I had so despised just minutes before.
It did not take long to revive her more fully and with joy I saw forgiveness in her eyes. I told her of a spring just a short way ahead and as an expedient filled her empty flask from mine. Then I reassured her that the mirror lake would be found before nightfall even at her slow pace, which was true provided that she took the correct turning where the road rises a little at the beech grove where a rough bench stands for travellers but there is nothing so useful as a signpost. I described all that she would need to know about the trail and its twists and turns for I had trodden that way many a time alone and with companions. Then I set off to catch up Vanek who had wandered ahead with his flock impatient, riding through their dust trail and taking my customary upwind spot. He is my kinsman and duty calls upon me to accompany him when transporting a cargo valuable as a flock of fat sheep through wild places.
At length he spoke. “So thar le-eft er? Whi-y not ca-arry er ba-ag on ur ho-oorss?”
I’d thought of that too, or rather been inspired to realise a truth. “Her quest is to reach the seer of the mirror lake whatever it takes. If I carry so much as a hat or flask of hers then it won’t have been entirely her efforts that get her there. Because of me she’ll have failed.”
Vanek looked unconvinced.
“In truth”, I answered, “she wouldn’t have failed. But she’s think that she’d failed, and she’d blame herself for failure, then her journey would be wasted and she’d lose the heroism and meaning of it.”
With a grin Vanek remarked, “She reb-uuked you and thee-ers a le-esson in tha-at. Tru-uly ar ho-oly foo-ul fer you!”
I had to agree with him.
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