The Prophet
The prophet stretches out his hand, and the multitudes run for him - their heads like so many jostling balloons above a blizzard of desolate bodies - just to catch him on the travelling platform. Just to feel the power of his healing touch. So many faces uplifted for a special benediction. So many tears streaming and glistening down the lengths of the faces that form the infirm and the haggard and the wretched multitudes. These past few days they have all seen him in a common dream. But there is one woman, who comes from a far way off, as if maddened by the viscous cloud of moaning which hangs over the people, who like some maniac, heaves and jostles her way through with angry dog-yowls and the stench of uncleanliness.
"I am the chosen! I am to be healed today."
She reaches up a bony black hand as she does so, as if hoping to climb over the dry bullrush bodies, or perhaps, perhaps she is also waiting for a remote act of healing with her finger in the air like that, brought down as by a lightning rod. Healing or no, it's a wonder that such energy can come from such a broken wooden frame.
But it does. Emaciated bodies fly every which way, some crumbling in a heap. She trips a few times, sprawls back onto her feet, and at length, she does indeed find her way to the front. Stumbling from exhaustion she grabs onto the cloak of the man who claims he is the messiah. The cloth is strong. It is army grade material. Mauve like thousand year old bloodwine, And in this way, the wagon pulls her along by one arm. No one stops her. No one calls her to abate the vicious screaming. Then she heaves the other forearm onto the side of the wooden decking. But it slips. The man who calls himself the son of man looks straight ahead without so much as blinking, and even men who are pushing the great wooden float do not stop to help her, do not try to pry her loose of him, do not attempt to calm her; even though she is clearly pinching his flesh they do not attempt to separate the bony hands from the cloth they are clasping, they simply stare ahead stoically.
In this way she hangs on, with the last remnants of strength issuing from her bones through wire-like tendonds. She cannot make her way up any further, and so she grips onto the calf of the prophet, her hand having slipped from his thigh. When her hold finally begins to fail her, and the very life in her eyes seems to be evaporating, the prophet gives the signal to stop the high wooden platform by a gesture of his right hand. And the platform that was in seemingly in endless motion now comes to a sudden almost-toppling stop. A man who was pushing from the back rushes to the front to apply the break, which is only a square wooden pole that carries on his shoulders. He applies it across the front wheels.
"Too much life was nailed into this wooden framework to stop it" he says. The voice shakes the ground like a trumpet. "I have been travelling for nigh 2050 years, and only now have you found the desperation you needed to call me back to earth. Why did it take this long? Did you need for the earth to be well-nigh burnt up before you came to your senses dear woman?" Nonetheless, now that you have arrived, I will lift you up and for a thousand years we shall govern over those who are now living and those whom I shall bring back to life."
"I am the chosen! I am to be healed today."
She reaches up a bony black hand as she does so, as if hoping to climb over the dry bullrush bodies, or perhaps, perhaps she is also waiting for a remote act of healing with her finger in the air like that, brought down as by a lightning rod. Healing or no, it's a wonder that such energy can come from such a broken wooden frame.
But it does. Emaciated bodies fly every which way, some crumbling in a heap. She trips a few times, sprawls back onto her feet, and at length, she does indeed find her way to the front. Stumbling from exhaustion she grabs onto the cloak of the man who claims he is the messiah. The cloth is strong. It is army grade material. Mauve like thousand year old bloodwine, And in this way, the wagon pulls her along by one arm. No one stops her. No one calls her to abate the vicious screaming. Then she heaves the other forearm onto the side of the wooden decking. But it slips. The man who calls himself the son of man looks straight ahead without so much as blinking, and even men who are pushing the great wooden float do not stop to help her, do not try to pry her loose of him, do not attempt to calm her; even though she is clearly pinching his flesh they do not attempt to separate the bony hands from the cloth they are clasping, they simply stare ahead stoically.
In this way she hangs on, with the last remnants of strength issuing from her bones through wire-like tendonds. She cannot make her way up any further, and so she grips onto the calf of the prophet, her hand having slipped from his thigh. When her hold finally begins to fail her, and the very life in her eyes seems to be evaporating, the prophet gives the signal to stop the high wooden platform by a gesture of his right hand. And the platform that was in seemingly in endless motion now comes to a sudden almost-toppling stop. A man who was pushing from the back rushes to the front to apply the break, which is only a square wooden pole that carries on his shoulders. He applies it across the front wheels.
"Too much life was nailed into this wooden framework to stop it" he says. The voice shakes the ground like a trumpet. "I have been travelling for nigh 2050 years, and only now have you found the desperation you needed to call me back to earth. Why did it take this long? Did you need for the earth to be well-nigh burnt up before you came to your senses dear woman?" Nonetheless, now that you have arrived, I will lift you up and for a thousand years we shall govern over those who are now living and those whom I shall bring back to life."
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