Are the Mountains Still There?

I was blessed by the Creator by being left alone. Because of that, I've had no one to speak to but Him; no one to be distracted by but Him; no one to react to but Him. In short, by being a forced hermit, the only one on this small, rocky, northern island off the mainland of our mighty nation, I've had a chance to let God take over my little self. I have indeed been blessed.

Years ago when I first got washed up on the rocky shore and settled into the cave, I feared being found lest I be mistaken for a spy and killed. Later, I feared being found lest the solitude I'd come to cherish be invaded and I could no longer let the Creator pass through me undisturbed. There was also a time when I wished others would find me so I could tell them of my relationship with God, that there was far greater happiness talking with Him than the everyday warring, raping, and stuffing yourself with meat and alcohol common to my people. But now I no longer care if I'm found, invaded, kidnapped, or even killed, because whatever happens I'm convinced it's what God has intended for me. Who am I to react in any way but accept His will?

These times are like the double-edged sword: the wind blows freezing mists that cut through to the bone, yet inside my soul I am warmed by God's presence. Fuel is hard to find and smoke fills the cave while the dampness penetrates into the marrow, yet deep within I know the surface torments fade before the inner glow of God's union. The mere thought of being isolated from my people, destined to be without its security and

companionship, wane next to being intimate with the ultimate friend. Yes, I've been blessed indeed.

I wonder what became of the big experiment of my people. Under the toddling effect of the fermented berry, they concocted the most outrageous plan, daring as it was barbarian even for them. They would stampede across the continent seeking the most beautiful women. Queens, princesses, those who came closest to their imagined Divine Female. They would put them on ships and sail to some island so far into the Big Water that no one would follow or find them. And then they would bear children, children so comely that in time everyone in the tribe would be beautiful. What a dream, what a vision for those fur-clad invaders from the North!

Two years before I shipwrecked, I raided the continent like all my kin. I was obsessed by the thought of winning a beautiful woman who'd give birth to one just like her. I raided and I kidnapped. I tore the beautiful people from their homes, from their husbands, their children, parents and friends. And all the while I rejoiced working for a noble cause. Now as I sit in my cave with only the beauty of God to comfort me, I wonder if my tribesmen captured enough stock to carry out their experiment. If they reached the faraway island and bred as they'd hoped. I wonder if vengeful husbands and sons sought them, invaded, and retrieved their loved ones. If the kidnapped beauties resented their new lives and revolted by killing their captors. I wonder what happened to that scheme conceived in mugs of mead as I watch the waves splash onto the rocky shore of my island, God's island, God's and my island isolated like the visions of my barbarian tribesmen.

When the wind flows fiercely from the north and the cold can only be overcome by crouching on the lea and letting the sun bask me, I used to

think that if my brethren had organized themselves into units that would have ensured a future for the tribe they wouldn't have lost everything. But theirs was an age of momentary conquest, not a time of establishing a long range system of ruling. Plunder was the lifeblood: to travel, loot, pillage, and burn, steal and destroy, always move on to the next village to do it all over again. Our energy was limitless and no one could stop us, even the fortified hamlets and burgs. We swooped down and took everything we wanted by our unconquerable will and flashing swords. We controlled the continent but we never governed it. We passed over like the wind leaving a wake of destruction, but no one gained from our energy. It was like an endless feast, each meal at a different table, with empty or spilled goblets rolling listlessly on the bone-scattered table. After it was over, the house was empty.

Watching the waves these many years I've come to realize that one of God's ways is that everything rolls on continually. The waves never stop. The wind never lullseverywhere. There is always splash and whisp and crash and swirl. And at all times, somewhere in the world, the tide goes up and at others it goes down. Waves peak,. then descend into smooth valleys. I have come to see that all God's Creation rolls continually from activity to rest, from invasion to development, from creation to destruction to recreation. Change is universal and follows the eternal rule of ebb and flow. I see this now that I'm no longer caught in the emotion and action, the benumbing thrill of everyday life amongst the rapacious tribe. Everything comes, everything goes, and the ever-changing is the constant. Yes, I've been blessed to be able to sit undisturbed so I can see an underlying principle.

My fellow invaders in the longboats, rowers and sailors, bailers and

steersmen, how we fought the gusts and swells, the howling and tipping, the constant threat of capsizing or sinking! We dealt with each wave as if it were the most important thing in all God's existence. As if that iota of time were frozen and nothing beyond that moment existed. Space and time frozen in a flash of emotion and motion, when beyond that crest lay the entire ocean, full of waves, gusts, and bobbing objects that stretched endlessly and with no seeming care beyond continuing its eternal flow.

As I sit on the shore and watch the drama of the ocean, I realize how my tribesmen were caught by the minutiae as if they were eternity. Then I look at the water near my feet as it swirls around the rocks. The small fish and crayfish and crabs follow the same pattern as the larger ocean: with each crashing wave they are blasted into a frenzy of survival, while between them, when all is quiet, they go about a calmer life, scavenging for food and a safe place to deposit their eggs in order to reproduce their kind so the offspring can endlessly repeat the alternating devastation and respite that God governs his earth by.

Is it the same in the Heavens only the time between cataclysms is greater? Those shooting stars --- are they like the crest of some cosmic wave whose undercurrent I can't see? Are their collisions of bodies on a galactic scale that my puny eyes can't detect? Just as the scampering life in the tide pools reflect the larger movements of the ocean waves, do they mirror a larger, astronomical ebb and flow? And beyond the stars, I wonder if the world of God, Himself, doesn't bow to the rule of rest and activity? Now I can ponder this, sitting on the shore of my hermitage, but never amidst the screaming action of the flashing sword. Yes, God as indeed blessed me by putting me in isolation.

Years ago one of our chieftains was captured. Instead of torturing him

as was the custom, the enemy confined him in a small hut on a faraway island. The man was such a great leader that the captors kept him alone for ten years fearing that he might return and lead a revolution. Ten years with no communication with his fellow man except a grunt or two to those who fed him. Everyone thought the warrior would die of boredom, that isolation from all that he'd known would make him like a beached jellyfish. But he surprised them all. For instead of giving up during his life of inactivity, he went within himself and fought internal enemies, demons and dark forces, fears and ineptitudes, weakness and temptation, the inner voices and memories of slain victims and avengers. The warrior sat for ten years alone, outwardly inactive, a broken man in the eyes of the few who saw him.

When the captors let him free, the man was not a lunatic as they expected. Instead he arose as the greatest warrior of all time. They found a man who had conquered the most powerful army single handedly. He had become an invincible force that no outside power could touch because he had mastered his inner self.

Along with the great change, the great warrior would never again fight anything outside of himself again. And a few realized that they had not condemned him to the most brutal punishment they could contrive hoping to destroy him, but they'd given him a chance to strengthen himself. From this I learned that God did not sentence the warrior to hell on earth but had blessed him just as he has me on my isolated island.

If I could have one wish for warriors past, present, and future come true, it would be that like the warrior and me they could sit still by themselves, isolated from the action and noise, and become a comrade in spiritual arms with God.

I miss the snow-covered mountains to the north of my old village. They gave me and the tribe great strength and the boldness we're famous for. After a vicious raid, when many were wounded, we would make a pilgrimage to those mounds. We all seemed to heal better there than in the lowlands and valleys. On the clearest days I think I can see the majestic crests of those mountains, though maybe it's just my desire to see them again. Whether it's their actual form or a whisp of a cloud, they remind me of a story my people have told through the ages.

One day seven eagles were seen circling the highest peak. It was so unusual that everyone dropped his work, ran from their caves, the bark dwellings, from fixing nets, caulking boats, chopping wood. Even the women half-way through their chores ran to see. My people are strong on superstition and knew that this wasn't only a sign, it was a most propitious and portentous omen. And they knew they had to put the omen into action for it to become beneficial.

The mighty birds circled the peak seven times. On the last orbit, one bird faltered. Wings bent, it swirled, then fell heavily to the earth. Our people have always esteemed the eagle considering its feathers the harbingers of good luck. Everyone wanted a feather. But the Old Sage said no. That the bird was an omen, a sign that signaled both good and bad times ahead. "Better to prepare for the worst than to invite it," he said. But no one listened.

Large eagles have many feathers so each villager got one. The people wore their feather proudly. The bird's head was skewered on a pole about the council entrance. Everyone except the Sage was convinced that the many feathers would bring great fortune.

They were right and they were wrong. For six years everything good happened to our seaside fortress. Fish were bountiful, game plentiful, and

raids brought rich booty. Few were wounded and many healthy babies were born. Even the old ones didn't complain of aches and pains. But on the seventh year everything changed. Fish nets brought up stones and sand. Game was so sparse the people's ribs began to show. Raids failed and the tribe was even attacked. Those that weren't killed were maimed beyond usefulness. Few children were conceived and those that were born died in infancy or were disfigured. The old had no time to complain; they died outright.

After a full year the times reverted to what they were before sighting the seven eagles. Only then were the people reminded by the words of the Old Sage: "Watch the signs the gods send and heed them. Every sign has a message." The villagers did not heed the sign of the falling eagle and prepare themselves against the seventh year.

I miss the great mountains and my tribe. But here, on my island exile, I think I've been healed as ever I was on those craggy, snowy peaks on the mainland. Though I was not raid-wounded before being washed up, I feel I've healed a deep wound inside. Maybe this island is a sign like the eagles.

Sometimes I wish I'd watched the boat makers more carefully. They were good with the metal axes they'd stolen on raids. They could whittle and shave boards so little pitch was needed to keep the water out. But it didn't matter if I'd remembered or not since I'd lost everything that stormy night I was thrown onto my island. I've had no tool save my long knife that never leaves my side, and that's too small to shape a tree. All this time I've had no need to leave the island, but sometimes I wish I could row or sail its circumference. Then I could better judge the island's size. My people use land to have something to sit on between raids. They use it to

cut timber to build more boats and to dry fish for the cold winters and long trips. I miss bobbing on the water, feeling the undulations, the spray in the face, pulling the big oars, manning the ropes and booms of the sail. I miss my old way, the ancestral way of generations past.

Now all I can do is remember and imagine. Remember the raids, the noise, the flashing swords and knives, feeling the thrill of attacking and plundering. How I loved it all, even the screaming and the wounds. Yes, Great Thundering Thor has blessed me and my people.

With no raids to look forward to, I sense that I've been destined by the gods to live here until I die. So all I can do is remember and dream of raids. But these fade like the mist of a high-flown wave. The water convinces my feet that they will only walk on earth and probably never balance a longboat's beam during a storm-tossed sea again. Then my thoughts, my visions, imagination and dreams are more like the whisps of clouds far above than the blood-thrill of the raid. How I've changed since I've been on the island! From the sword flasher, the man of action where everything was on the outside, to the observer, the muser, where everything is directed inward. And, of course, being one with God.

As I gaze at the island's rocky shoreline and think how far it is around --- by walking or rowing --- I sense that my territory is not bound by its geographical parameter. Though not able to go beyond it physically, I've been allowed to transcend it spiritually.

For three cycles I was part of the great raid down the big river to the southeast of our fjorded land. We spread our swords and our seed throughout the frozen lakes to the big lake where we got so hot our backs burned when we removed our fur clothing. This was a great time of my life because it introduced me to new lands and new people. Trees I'd never

heard of, land that knew six months of farming, people with dark, wavy and curly hair, women strong enough to please an army of Northerners, food so rich I could eat only a few platefuls. Here I saw trees with fruit so sweet and juicy it must have been nectar from the gods. Oh, what lands we explored and conquered!

Now on my island, alone, empty of the camaraderie of the tribe, void of the rich and varied food, absent of all appetites, I wonder if my kinsmen miss me as much as I miss them. I doubt it. When I was among them I was consumed by action and fulfilling my indulgences. When I had everything I wanted by grabbing, I never thought of others, only how the moment satisfied me. Still, I remember a few kinsmen who fell by the way as I am now absent, men whose accomplishments and presence were great enough to miss. The red-haired one with long mustaches: how he brought terror into the women's hearts! How he ate a leg of venison non-stop, then washed it down with a whole hornfull of mead! Red Whiskers was a screaming scourge, one whose path even an ally never crossed. I missed him after he didn't return from the raid on the village next to the big river. He added courage to our tribe and a daring that made us famous.

I also miss the broad-shouldered one, he who could carry a longboat almost by himself. Who we could always rely on to haul the heaviest load of weapons and tools and iron goods and booty from a raid. His strength was legendary throughout the land. I miss Broad Shoulders because when he rowed the heavy boat it made it easier for all of us. And we all ate better because of the big man.

When men raid together throughout the years each gains two identities: His own and that of the group. Like a seasoning to a stew, you can pick out each flavor separately while each adds to the overall taste in the pot. We were a powerful group, we raiders from the North. Yet each man

separately was a king unto himself.

These men, and so many more, I miss them now as I sit on my island. I miss being in their company, their longboats, their fights and feasts. I marvel how I've been able to survive away from their indomitable group power and individual strengths. It makes me all the more humbly appreciative of the profound spirituality I've gained in the silent solitude on these rocky, windswept shores. The memories of the physical dissolve when compared with the eternal power and glory of God.

By necessity I've learned to be self-sufficient. The nature of the Northfolk is independence and survival and it's kept me in good stead. When the game became scarce and the ice several feet thick, I've been forced to be creative each day. My fellow tribesmen would be proud of me that I've learned to eat grubs and millipedes and worms, and consider mice a feast. I've eaten the entrails of everything I've captured. I've devoured egg shells and feather shafts, I've eaten the inner bark of the few trees that battle the freezing rains that whip off the sea crests. The first winter I ate my leather belt and leggings. I was lucky to make it through the unforgiving winter. I thought more than once that it was a test to see if I dared to keep alive, alone and with no chance of reuniting with my people.

Over the interminably long and dark winters I found that food and shelter are not the only things necessary to keep alive. I had to do something that would keep both mind and body alive. Unlike the great bear that hibernates by crawling into a ball and sleeping, I was awake and my mind was always active. I couldn't sit and do nothing or even dream. I had to have a purpose or my soul would starve and freeze to death.

At first my struggle to keep alive sustained me. But over the years I came to know that the only way I could live comfortably was with inner

warmth and that came only from my union with God.

If someone sailed to my exile-island he might say that I am the last of an unknown race that vanished by mysterious means. Or that the Northfolk were so vicious that the gods struck them down leaving one to struggle and pass on the legends of his people. Yes, I would be known as the spokesman for the entire history of my people. I would be the tribal historian.

What would I tell them, these misguided believers who might take my word for everything? Would I tell them the truth or play some game just to entertain them?

If they sensed I told the truth they would probably kill me on the spot, especially if they knew of our raids. I do not fear death: I've faced it a thousand times at the end of my short sword and on the treacherous sea, so I might answer them straight to save our Northern honor. On the other hand, I might weave tales like my ancient grandmother who mixed reeds and animal hairs to wrap our feet in for the long and freezing winters. They would probably call me mad either way and be done with me.

Perhaps I'd be silent and let them do the imagining. I could be still and pretend that I was perfectly content with my life and let them infer that I had chosen to live this way. Maybe I would be considered a magic man, a self-exiled saint speaking with God uninterrupted. I'm no saint, but I could sit in silence easily enough. Yes, I believe this the best course, since I've come to know that people think their own way no matter what evidence they're confronted with anyway. Let my silence speak like the crashing waves, my inner conversations reverberate like the thunder, and let them muse over what secrets this strange, solitary man must be keeping!

If only they knew what traditions I come from, of eating raw flesh, drinking warm blood, of killing everything in my wake, they wouldn't dare take me on in combat but would run back to their ships. But if I were silent I could put them at ease, and conquer them more effectively than striking deadly North-folk blows and robbing them of their goods and very lives.

But this is all imaginary. No one will come to this faraway island even by accident. No one will wonder about me. No one will ever know about me. And if he did, I've been silent with God for too many years to care. The truth is that I strongly doubt that I'd accept their invitation to return to the mainland. I've been there and don't care to be distracted from oneness with God again. Being distracted is far more painful than shivering through the cold nights and eating grubs and raw eggs.