are voiced, they are put into the vessel of Lethe (of forgetfulness), the King pardons the one confessing. The confessor’s burden lightened. The confessor is set free.”
“Rigel did tell me I would not like what was to happen here. But you and he have told me this weight upon my heart would be lessened. I trust you. I know I do. The numinous is to be feared and respected. I will do as you tell me,” Nicholas said.
Nicholas told the white light, or Evenstar, every sin he had committed since childhood—all he could remember. As he spoke, Nicholas felt different. The beginning of his unburdening. He told of his relationship with his wife—how it had gone sour. A lot because of him and his attitude, the way he saw his wife. His covetousness toward other women. Many things were spoken. As he spoke, his words manifested as bluish vapors coming from his mouth. Nicholas could see, faintly, a crystal flask and his words, now vapors, were collected within.
When Nicholas finished speaking, the flask was thrust to the ground; shattering into fragmented, refracted light, like diamonds bursting.
“Now come closer,” Evenstar said.
Nicholas walked closer. He felt something firmly, yet gently grab his chin and pulled him forward. “From henceforth, your lips are cleansed, tongue purified, sins forgotten and forgiven in the name of the King.”
At that, a bright yellow orb touched his lips. He was blinded by the intruding light and winced at the intense heat of the orb. His lips and tongue burned almost to the point of the sense of freezing temperatures. Nicholas shouted the intensity was so great. Yet, immediately, the sensation ceased, the orb gone, the white light gone—Evenstar gone.
Nicholas fell to his knees and wept. He was not in pain. In fact, all was well. He was filled with joy once again. “I am undone. I am a broken man.”
Chapter 4
Rigel stood behind Nicholas. “You have been made clean.”
“I am an unclean man. Yet, a joy has sprung inside my chest. I have much to learn and much to do—much to receive.”
“That you do,” Rigel said. “We must go on. Let us walk.”
Rigel grasped Nicholas’ hand and raised him to his feet. Rigel led the way. The stars burned above. The Milky Way and other galaxies whirled in the ether. Nicholas gazed upon the living heavens above him. He saw lights of many colors flitting between stars and galaxies and planets. The planets were luminous, large, and majestic. Mars gazed red; Nicholas felt braver. The moon, bright and silvery. Venus, blue, brimming with joy. Sol radiating and illuminating. Jupiter in its regal raiment whirled in the distance, Nicholas’ heart yearned to meet the King of this world.
“Are we going to the King?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes, but we must walk through rough terrain first. Then we will reach the great city.”
Suddenly, bright light shone before them as though the sun had risen immediately. Nicholas looked behind him. It was the same, dark solar—stars and planets in darkness. But before him was light. It was like a divided sky Nicholas remembered seeing in Montana. Behind was a thick dark cloud covering miles of sky, brooding over the mountain—rain and lightning. But before him was bright, blue sky.
The day was hot. Before them lay a hilly land, dry and rocky.
They traveled silently as the atmosphere grew hotter. Nicholas surprisingly wasn’t sweating nor was he thirsty.
“This land seems familiar to me. It’s like the wilderness heading toward Jerusalem, except wandering won’t take forty years,” Nicholas said.
Rigel nodded.
They travelled on for a very long time. Nicholas’ energy was fading. His excitement of reaching a city waned and he shuffled on. His legs weary, his body ready to drop. “Rigel, may we stop. I feel like I’m carrying a millstone around my neck. I can’t take another step further.”
“Just up ahead. Once we reach the top of that hill, we only have a short distance to go from there,” Rigel said.
They crested the dusty hill. The hill was white stone and the wind whirled dust in a cyclone. Nicholas heard someone shouting, but couldn’t make out what was said. He saw a silhouette of what seemed to be a man in the distance.
“Who is that?” Nicholas said.
“Just a little further. It is someone whom you will cherish meeting,” Rigel said.
They moved ahead. The shouting becoming clearer. “Further up and further in,” the man said.
Finally they reached the man walking ahead of them, who was no longer shouting. The man wore a tweed jacket that was torn at the seams. It fit him rather comfortably, as though it was his favorite, most cherished coat. He wore a floppy hat upon his head and some disheveled trousers. Nicholas was reminded of one professor he had in university. The man seemed to fit the type. He ambled on as though taking a walking tour and Nicholas and Rigel happened to come alongside him.
“Ah, the atmosphere is too hot to be like Addison’s, but I can go there another day,” the man said. “And these dirty rags, I’d rather be dressed in clean linen again before coming before the King. But that has been arranged; I’ve been through the Jordan, through the refining fires. I’m just thinking aloud, sounding like a fool to this young gentleman. And how rude, I have not introduced myself. Clerk, N. W. Pleased to meet you.”
Nicholas’ heart leapt inside him, “Pleased to meet me? I’m more than pleased to meet you.”
“Well it is humility in the ranks. Humility is thinking of oneself less after all. I have had my share of pride. I am made new, white as snow—where it is a pleasure to meet newcomers,” Clerk said.
“Isn’t it marvelous to see the skies alive as the ancients saw them? It is full of joy here. The atmosphere, heavens, everything is pregnant with substance—not vacuous and cold like back where I was before coming here,” Nicholas said.
“This place is a marvel. I had hoped all my study of medieval constructs would have its culmination. Like all great art, we are directed to what the artist is saying, the poem itself, the painting itself, always pointing to ‘the other.’ But here all of art points to its Maker because here it is perfected. The poison of subjectivism, all the nonsense of the state of the artist’s mind when he wrote, is finally engulfed in the light of pure truth. All that the great artists were plying pointed here. Ah, the wonder. Truth, beauty, goodness, all right here. But enough about that. Wisdom, peace, and that elusive joy is what you seek (which you will all find here, you have noticed glimpses). He sent me to encourage you in your journey, not talk about me. I understand there is much pain, a rift between you and your beloved,” Clerk said.
“Yes, this is true. How. . . how did you know? The king of this land told you? I heard he knows all. My wife doesn’t love me any longer it seems. Or we’ve gotten bored. The curse of decadence the ennui and acedia of our age that we suffer. Or she resents me for working all the time. I don’t know, exactly,” Nicholas said. “But I have wandered as well.”
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. Do not harden your heart toward her. She may love you yet. Unless it is a selfish love not remembering the other, giving to the other as Christ loves His church,” Clerk said.
“But why does loving another bring pain and such suffering?” Nicholas said. “I’d rather be about my business, reading, star-gazing, writing than have to deal with the tragedy love seems to move toward—an end.”
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be broken. If