Tablet

As the dark cloud passed, I in the crimson shadow of the moon viewed the square and the streets an octopus stretching a languid leg in every direction toward a black swamp. And on the cold cobblestones a crowd stood, so many and in the midst a prolonged aticipation bordering on despair and weariness. And every time the restlessness of the waiting crept over them, it was as if the animal shivered under his hide from the chill of a running water or else an itching sensation. I descended the dark stairway holding the dust-covered tablet in my hands and stood upon the dais a half-spear higher than the multitude. And I saw the crowd, so many filling the cells all around the square all over the space it extended shaped by every passageway leading to the field up to the borders of shade and gloom like wet ink spreading into the dark And with them was anticipation and silence. Then I held up the clay tablet crying unto them: "This is all there is, and sealed it's an old inscrition, aged and worn, lo! behold! however tainted with the blood of many a wound mercy it preaches, friendship and honesty." The crowd, however, lent no ear or heart to me it seemed as if in the waiting itself was pleasure and profit I yelled out to them: "You, devoid of courage in vain you wait, this is the very last Coming." And I cried out: "Gone are the days of mourning some crucified Christ for today every woman is another Mary and every Mary has a Jesus upon the cross albeit with no Crown of Thorns, no Cruciform and no Golgotha no Pilate, no judges and no court of justice Christs all of a destiny, clad similarly uniform Christs, with boots and leggings alike alike in everything, with the same share of bread and gruel (for sameness is indeed the dear heritage of the human race) and if not a crown of thorn, there is a helmet to wear upon the head and if not a cross there is a rifle to bear on the shoulder means of greatness all at hand every supper may well be The Last and every glance perchance that of a Judas. "But beware, weary not your steps in search of the orchard for with the tree you shall meet upon your cross when humanity and compassion misty as a dream, gentle and fast will rise before your eyes, and the savage fangs of the truth sharp as the rays of the desert sun will pierce your eyes. "And you shall know how ill-starred you are how ill-starred you are! for the least in you would suffice to make you most happy a sincere salaam, a warm hand, an honset smile And this little you had not. "Nay, weary not your steps in search of the orchard for there is no time neither for a blessing or for a curse neither for forgiveness nor for revenge. "And no more, alas, does the pathway to the Cross lead to an ascent onto the heavens but downward to hell and a perpetual wandering of the soul." In my delirious fever I kept on crying but the crowd had no ear or heart for my words I knew that they were awaiting not a clay tablet but a Gospel a sword and some constables to ambush them with whips and maces to drop them to their knees before the heavy steps of the one who will descend the dark stairway with a sword and a Gospel. Then I wept long and hard and my teardrops were truths although truth is indeed no more than a word as if with my tears I was recounting a desperate truth. Ah! this crowd, seeking the horrid truth only in legends, worships the sword as the weapon of eternal justice for in our time the sword is a legendary tool. And thus is called the true martyr only he who shields his bare chest before the sword as though suffering, agony and martyrdom are too ancient to happen with modern warfare. But what of all the souls burnt in the flames of gunpowder and what of all the souls bereft of everything but a vague shadow of a figure in the horrifying order of millions and millions. Ah! this crowd seeks the horrid truth only in legends, or else considers truth nothing but a legend. My words the crowd ignored for I had said the last word about the heavens without even mentioning the word heaven.