Mira, have you ever felt guilty for
the agony of another even though it was not your doing? Like a teardrop on the fire? I have. I once heard the wending of a great shriek in
Man's notion of grace. It broke my
heart, the knowledge of such suffering. You
see, I heard it even in the almost-silence of dawn. The murmuration of early hours by the rivers
and lakes. I heard it in the bright
cacophony of the ports. The glorious din
of merchant sailors trading curio, rumour and bombast. In the cities too, beyond temple paving. In the markets and alleys. Keen-eyed children, painfully thin, scampering
barefoot through dust, their fingers slick with the juice of stolen berries. The fruit of other shores. A riot of heat and colour. Spices, fabrics and sandstone. Or the cooler coastal stone. Pillars and Hellenic halls of learned koine. I heard the wending folded through it all. The suffering. The outpouring of grief. For over a thousand years I have searched for
song enough to soften such pain. Light
enough to brighten all darkness. But you
already know these legends of the humbled one, don't you, my first light? My namesake. Shadows, shelters, Damascus gates. Struck blind with epistles and angels. Apostolikon, fit for the ages. But there is so much more to the story, Mira. In most retellings they omit the stars. They forget the phantasmagoria. The stories say the humbled one was a prisoner
of Rome, shipwrecked upon a Maltese coast. A haunted night-shore where two seas met. Like those legends of Josephus. Those legends mention little of daughters
however, or sorcery. I suppose it's put
upon the dramatists, playwrights and poets to restore what was lost. Isn't that always the way? Few of us can escape the tempests, Mira, or
the torment. These fictions of the air. These realities of the drowned, sunken realm. Every writer is made humbled by the enormity
of the task. Made little. To say something of meaning, to provide
guidance, or, at our most ambitious – to leave a legacy that changes the tenor
of lived experience. You once told me children were that very legacy. My
God, how right you were. My beautiful, thoughtful
girl. Hear me, apprentice. My gifts are not counterfeit. And neither are yours. I shall not speak for you, but I can see and
hear and know things that others can't. Occasionally it’s wonderful. Often it’s terrifying. Perhaps it’s the guilt of this second sight
that I sometimes imagine myself a grander thing than I truly am. A warrior, angel or king. Instead of a wounded fantasist shipwrecked
upon the eternal shore of mythopoeia. Guilty
as sin. I wouldn't be the first writer
guilty of such confabulations though, would I? The oldest perhaps, and the grandest, but
definitely not the first. My brother
alone claims that title. My Mira knows
the secret, as do my other daughters. But
do you, Fallen? Do you know who my
brother is? My tears became a testament
because of him. It's a strange thing,
this drowning. Especially for one who
summons the seas. Like being anointed in
the depths of spirit itself. A baptism
beyond mortal grasp. It humbles you, to
recognise the particulars of your own language and limitations. I could rewrite the entire world but it would
never be enough. Only loving service is
enough in the face of such a wending shriek; that great lament folded
throughout Man's history. Hungry children,
grieving mothers and drowned fathers. One
day, at the very cusp of a new heaven and earth, I don't want to finally break
the surface of these depths and cry out in despair. I don't want to hasten Man's lament with the eventual
recognition that I should have done more. More words, more stories, more magic. And so I offer what I can. We offer what we can, here and now. Our highest, sweetest intent. The wise ones in our midst will call it
beauty. And so will I. I call you beauty, Mira. A great beauty. The world and all its people have such beauty
too. I know because I’ve seen them,
walked with them, ministered to them.
Like my namesake. In all my
travels I have found that love is the grandest teaching of all. The love we share among strangers or friends,
given freely and without barter, is the wisest, brightest beauty of them all. Song enough to soften all pain. Light enough to sail all storms.
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