Oslo Forest

He took a cup of tea, and poured in the honey. He opened the back door, stepped outside and sat on a bench, watching the snow fall along the tops of the trees and into the yard and across the countryside in the distance.

It reminded him of the time twenty five years back when they had been hit with a similar blizzard. He had been approached by a middle aged man and his wife. They had with them a child of perhaps five or six. Well, five years and seven months, and he knew that upon laying eyes on the young one.

“Our child is sick, and our doctor says he will die,” said the father.

“And, have you asked around, of other practitioners and workers?” he asked them.

“Yes, and they all agree. He is losing all sensation and control of his body. It was his fingers at first…, ” the wife began.

“Yes, he spoke of tingling. And it has gotten worse, and now, well, you see. We pull him around now in that wagon, and must do everything for him. He is not long with us, they say,” continued the boy’s father.

“You come to me for what then?”

“Because you are known as the great healer and one of the greatest of all monks in such arts.”

“It is true that I can remove sickness, and that would be the sum of my virtue. However, it is not always my place to do so. My power is from the gods, as you must be aware.”

“Yes, yes, but we have been told that you can heal anyway. Look, look at our boy. He sits there now a stuffed rag, spitting at the mouth. That is our son. You cannot turn us down,” said the wife with tears, pulling at the hem of the monk’s garment.

“We have come far. Many miles. You would say no to doing a good deed, and make a child suffer pain and death? Sir, would you be a handmaiden of Satan himself, by doing nothing?”

The monk looked at them, and then stooped down and gazed upon the child propped up in his little cart. The child’s eyes were fixed on some far away point, but with such a look of fear that the distant point must have been evil itself, and closer than it appeared. The healer picked up the child’s arm and let go. It dropped to his side lifeless.

“It would not, in this case, serve the child, nor you, for me to make him better,” said the monk.

There was silence, then…

“You hideous prideful beast. You waste the powers that the gods have granted.”

“Vile, vile. Filth, you are. We have heard of how you live, and how you are disgusting to look upon, and hide in those robes. We have heard that you pick favorites and say yea to this one, and nay to that one, for your own benefit.”

“This is my son! Why not take that sword and kill him now, oh healer,” said the father, picking up the child and laying him at the feat of the monk.

Having not the spirit nor the life to fight, and serving his own will, the monk raised up the boy to health and upon parting the family again heaped blessings, reversing themselves and begging forgiveness for the previous moment’s rash thoughts.

“That is what we had heard some say, but we knew that it was not true, which is why we came to you,” said the father, leading his walking son to the door.

“Thou sayest,” said the monk, quoting the words of another, and bidding them safe journey.

That night was a cold one, with the wind seeping through the cracks into his very skin. The room was bathed in the light of the moon, which reflected off the snow. He dreamed a dream, where his God came to him (for while many believed in the many- with Gods for every mood and task- he believed in the one, though he kept that to himself).

The dream was a vision, and the vision was brutal. He saw first a child on earth, dead, with family grieving, and then that very same child up in what seemed like the heavens, running and laughing.

He then saw the scene from earlier in the evening, as he healed the child of his sickness. As he did so, a huge shadow stood behind him, and in feeling this, he grew afraid.

Then time jumped forward, and he saw the boy as a young man leaving home; the boy-man spat on the grounds as he left and did not turn back to wave at the old couple standing at the door.

Next the monk saw the young man in the upper rooms of an establishment, fist pounding the torso of a woman, who cried out in pain, begging for mercy. “Ha, you are a lying wonder, and tart,” said the man, blackening, blackening.

Time and life marched on.

“Oh but for such a sum, you have my every skill,” said the man, a bit older now. He stood before what appeared to be a merchant of some wealth and standing. This part of the dream brought tears to the monk’s eyes. The scene switched; in a city, a plague broke out, wiping out the industry and commerce there. Many died, but alas, there were some in neighboring regions who prospered greatly because of this. The plagued city was quarantined. Food soon went lacking and people turned one upon another for sustenance and support (limb to mouth).

All the while the man who had been a dying boy sat at the table of wealth, and laughed at how business was good, and how easy it was for a person of some knowledge to manufacture plague and mayhem. “It is amazing what can be done, when the blood of the beasts is brought into the house of man, and what sicknesses can be created, and for our benefit” said Marburg. He and his merchant lord ate and drank well, and marveled at the profits that could be had when disaster was rampant, and ignorance rife.

The monk tried to awaken here, but paralysis was upon him, holding him down, making him watch.

The stricken boy was middle aged now, and of fair means. His home was large and his servants many. He was proud that he had risen from humble beginnings all on his own and without any help. He liked to say that one must be willing to seize one’s own life and create your own fortune. You could not rely on the mercy of others. How he squared this with the fact of his own miraculous childhood healing was the question in the mind of the monk as he watched and listened.

But to the man now, all was science and education, and he knew that miracles did not occur. “The monks like to keep the people dreaming of God or magic, and keep the true science at work hidden,” he oft said. He spent his early years educating himself and studying at the feet of many learned men. He knew better than to believe that as a boy he had been brought to health by a rotting old hooded man who lived in the woods and ate dandelions. (He suspected that the monk ate no such thing, but it was always a high point in his talks to others when he referred to “that dandelion eater”.)

The monk awoke from the dream stricken with despair, for even before he had healed the child, he had known that he should not. And now this dream was just confirmation, the writing on the wall of his mind.

That was then, so many, many years back. Today he sat and sipped his tea and honey, and felt the snow on his skin, which soothed. A rider appeared in the distance. He appeared to struggle in the weather, and eventually arrived at the feet of the monk.

“Oh sir, you must come. The leaders are calling out for you, for a plague has hit the city on the plain, and many have already died. The food is short, and some have taken up the children for food. It is hell. Have mercy upon us, and come.”

The monk nodded his head, grabbed his staff, and whistled for his horse. “I will do what I can, and what is right,” he said, heart in mourning.

Tomas was one of the greatest of the Oslo Monks, for he had the ability to heal, and his abilities were far beyond the others. However, he was a sight for sore eyes in talents only. His body was bent. His skin was worn beyond years: bloated, burned and scarred. He rarely took his hooded cape off, save for to bathe himself. Now he worked only at night, if he could.

He was beautiful when he was younger, and he was younger but moments ago, months maybe, a year, three years last. He did not know that he had the gift to heal, and when he found it at the age of twenty-seven, he made up for lost time.
He was indiscriminate. He would walk through the crowds as though he were Christ, touching people inside and out. At first his gift made him proud. He never lacked for a place to lay his head, bosom as much as bed. In every town he was welcomed and praised, and he walked tall with a wide stride.

This continued, but a change began to occur. The more he listened to the sorrows, and soothed the shattered minds, and rescued the bodies, the heavier his step grew, and the darker his brow. His skin, once bright and clear, grew black in spots, and began to bring him pain. With every new lamentation, his ears would ring till the pain was nearly unbearable. Sometimes, when alone, and at home, he would release himself and let the blood flow out of his ears, down his neck, and onto his shoulders and garment; it was difficult to contain.

In three years he aged a lifetime.

He became the last true resort, instead of the welcomed and admired miracle worker. The women did not run to his side to dance in his eyes. The promises and diversions were no more. You went to him now when all other remedies failed, and when something absolutely had to be done. For as they said, “He is quite hideous to observe, no?” Where before the children flocked at his feet, now they fled, or pelted him with rocks from a distance.

Only the babies remained true. He could hold a sick child in his arms, and the little one would reach out its hand to pull his ear, or try to place its fingers in the two holes that stood where his nose used to be. Laughter. There was always laughter. He would speak in tongues to them, and they would look at him with furrowed brow, and speak back to him, and smile.

Tomas would hold the child and water its soul with his tears, and all sickness would depart. These moments brought him joy and he knew that this was the way it should be, until he could heal no more.

The children followed along like little birds and he took them to the center plaza. Today was to be a different sort of lesson. “There will be no French this morning,” he told them, and they all- all seven- exclaimed with a glee he did not anticipate.
Do you know why seven monks were killed in Savilly? That is the question he asked his pupils. They stared back at him wide eyed, and he realized they were hungry, despite having eaten before school began. He sent one with some money to the baker and he came back with a sack full of red muffins instead of the fruit he was told to bring.

“My father says they were killed because they were fools,” said Thomaso, one of the smartest pupils.

“Why were they fools?”

“Because they went and brought a fight, and took many lives, in a place that was not their own, and… killing is stupid.”

“Well, what if the man they fought was a killer of many, a torturer, a thief, an evil man by all accounts? Is there not some justice in fighting him?”

“The Mainline Minister says no; my mother told me that. If people loved each other, or talked more, then fighting would not be necessary.”

“Perhaps children. I have much to learn on these things,” said the monk teacher.
He took one large red muffin out of the sack.

“Here is but one muffin, and I shall keep the rest and take a nap under this tree. Take eat, this is yours.”

He gave the muffin to Thomaso, who had made the purchase, then closed his eyes to sleep. It was not too long before he could feel tugs at his robes, and complaints that Thomaso was not sharing the sole muffin.

“Work it out amongst yourselves,” he told them, shutting his eyes to them. He could hear Thomaso yelling as he ran, and the other voices following behind. The voices caught their prey, and pried the muffin away.

Appetites not at all sated, the children returned to the feet of their tutor where the remaining muffins rested. Thomaso came last, angry and dirty, and kicked at his master’s feet.

“Teacher, they stole my muffin and you just sit there sleeping,” he said.

“I was not asleep. I lay here pretending to sleep and watched them take your muffin,” he said.

“Why did you do that?” Thomaso asked.

“Because it was not my muffin anymore to interfere”.

Of course this caused many problems. Thomaso’s father later came by to protest this outrage. The monk insisted he was teaching the virtues of peace.

Seven monks were crucified upside down, fourteen renounced their beliefs, and another one hundred disappeared into the world, never to be seen in the region again.

When Arbothnot got wind of this, he was filled with a rage he could not contain. He made his way south to the region to see what could be done, and with every intention of setting matters right. The Oslo Monks will not stand in for the dirt of the earth, nor cast their lives, as pearls, before swine.

Arbothnot was a teacher, and that is what he taught his students. “Cast not your pearls before swine”. They would listen to this, and ask him, quite literally, why such a thing would be done anyway. He explained that pearls were those special things you held dear, and that the swine were those who lacked the intellect, kindness, or concern to respect those cherished things. You don’t waste your time trying to share your most sacred gifts with those who are not receptive. You cannot force good into a bad vessel.

One night Arbothnot lost his will. He found himself in one of the lowest houses in town, sitting in a chair as a woman disrobed. (Though this in itself was not the loss of will of which we speak.) He had known her forever it seemed, and while they had never had any relations, this relationship formed a bedrock upon which he had built much of the meaning for his life, of late.

She came over and he kissed her on her head. He pulled over another chair and lifted her and set her down on it. There they sat across from each other. He leaned down and pulled up her foot and held it in his hand, and then took a cloth from a nearby basin and began to wash her feet.

“Tell me how you are?” he said, watching a smile roll across her face like a rising sun.

But far south, in another region, the king was angered that he had lost a battle with an opponent, who was a most distant cousin from days of youth and innocence, and who he alternately loved and detested. At present, it was a year of mostly detestation. Not only had his cousin humiliated him on the battlefield, but had done so without the actual battle. The cousin came with his forces and instead of waging war, seduced the king’s men into giving him up.

“I have not come to kill, or lay waste to the foundations here. I ask only for your king, my cousin, who has done you no great service, and brought you misery, death, and destruction”.

Town after town refused to answer the kings call to join in arms. He had only his knights and lords to call upon for aid.

“No matter, we are the meat of this force anyway,” said the king, knowing the best trained men still remained with him, and would fight to the end. He sent a messenger to the monks as well, saying, “Stand with your Lord.” He was well aware that his cousin had no monks that stood with him, nor any men of magic or untold power.

The monks, however, refused, saying, “We cannot stand with you on this matter. He is your cousin, and you make war for reasons not befitting a true cause. You would trade family to walk with death, and dine with Satan.”

This outraged the king, but he knew his chances without the monks were slim. It would mean his certain end, and while he was no coward, and willing to die, he would rather have the certainty of life than the unexpected pain or pleasure of the afterlife. One does not bet on things one cannot ascertain with some level of surety. When in doubt, do nothing. His father had told him that. When in doubt, take no action that might provide an adverse impact. The afterlife was entirely too theoretical a place to hasten one’s way to its door.

He sent message to his cousin, begging all forgiveness, and agreeing to return to his cousin the land and taxes he had taken. All was forgiven, and in weeks, they dined as though nothing had happened at all. They pledged allegiance to each other, and laughed at the matter.

While the king laughed, he issued an edict that any monks in the land must come meet with him. Word among the wise got out that the king was wroth with anger. He rounded up those he could find, and that number was twenty-one. The rest had disappeared, or magically become scarce. They were monks after all, with powers unspoken.

Of the twenty one, two thirds promised the king that they would not adhere to any such monk “codes” in the future and would serve him as their lord and master. He was pleased, and let them go. The remaining seven remained firm, and he crucified them upside down, with their hair dipped in honey and the wood beams upon which they hung planted firmly in fields filled with insects, ants mainly, but also butterflies, who were largely oblivious to the death at hand, and fluttered around with their usual purposeless vanity.

“One of these days, love, we must have something beyond this,” said the woman to Arbothnot.

“Is this not enough, that I would listen to you, talk to you, caress your limbs, even die for you?”

“It is enough for now. But sometimes I wonder if it is your place as a monk that keeps us this way, or if it is my place as a woman who does what I do. Sometimes I think that you hold your life as pure, and that to give in to me would darken that purity. It is almost as though you are holding me away not for that god of yours, but rather, because you are that god. And I am a mere plaything, or too dirty. Corrupted.”

“That’s is how you feel?”

“That is how I feel. I know it is probably not true, and that you are dedicated to your way, but still. I am a human, as are you. Do you not ever want more from me? Or is it that I am too common, and that all have had me, and therefore you hold me aloft in false admiration and knowing disdain. You love my appearance, and seeming perfection or beauty, but you know my life and deeds and it as filth to you?”

“Say no more, say no more.”

He picked her up, and for the first time kissed her lips, and carried her to her bed. For the first time they slept in the same bed.

It was the very next morning when he heard the news of what happened in the south, and how his fellows had fled or been killed by the king. His heart turned from sadness to anger, and he left the village of his only love to call that king out.
Upon arriving, the king welcomed him into his estate, and bid him sit and eat. A feast was manufactured in short order, and lords and knights and women and children and others joined in. It was not often that a monk from the north might appear, and despite his own actions, the king knew that a visit from a monk was not an occasion for confrontation.

And while they dined, and drank, and discussed the unfortunate incident- “Yes, in retrospect I realize that the monks were right, and my wrath was foolish, and I have asked the gods to forgive me”, said the king- Arbothnot listened and watched and smiled.

Then, he wrapped the castle in his mind till not a door could be opened, and slew everyone present, including himself.

There was a massacre once. Well, there were many massacres actually, but one is remembered with a certain clarity.

There came to be a debate among the monks of Oslo Forest about certain matters and a schism developed. A certain faction had taken up arms and powers and lent themselves to violent tasks: defending cities, capturing criminals, exploring and raiding foreign lands on behalf of various lords and kings.

“This is unacceptable,” some said. It was unseemly for men who called themselves monks to be engaged in fighting. When one had a gift, and could kills thousands at the drop of an eyelid or bring life to the sick, one had to use such power appropriately, and for the ultimate good.

“But, yes, some of these tasks we have undertaken are clearly inappropriate. We know that. But at other times we have fought for good purpose,” was the response.

“Well, given who our true master is, we ought not to fight at all, ever. War is not for our hands, or for the heart of the good and just.”

This debate went back and forth until one group of monks left the forest regions and surrounding hills to head north and across the waters to live as they saw most appropriate.

They took up life in a region called Liessa, and spent their days preaching a gospel of peace, healing the sick, and bringing life and prosperity to everyone they encountered.

Indeed the lands prospered so much that a certain king from the east got wind of the good deeds being done and decided to venture over, along with fifteen thousand soldiers and mercenaries on ten thousand horses.

The news of his approach reached the center of Liessa when he was still but five hundred miles or more away, and fear was rampant. People began to hide away their goods and send their wives and daughters into the hills. The elders who governed the region sent for the monks and their council.

“You will defend us, no? We have heard that one of you can slay five hundred on the left, and ten thousand on the right,” said an elder.

“It has been said, and maybe there is truth in that. But we here believe that there is a better way than to take to violence. Killing begets killing, and all reason and purpose are lost. We cannot raise the dead. It is better if we send a messenger to the King of the East and reason. He does not lack wisdom”.

Such was true. The King of the East was known to carry many things in his quiver, wisdom being one of them, and wisdom and destruction were dispensed side by side from his hands. He was a learned man and people often assumed that this knowledge was an indication of some deeper good or benevolent capability. If ignorance bred evil, knowledge bred its opposite, or so it was often said by those involved in educating the masses.

He often laughed at such assumptions himself. Does not an educated bad person become a more dangerous man, and not necessarily a good man? Even his own teachers and philosophers were of the belief that knowledge and education was all, and that an educated man was a virtuous man. He laughed at this, and in the mirror. He laughed and roused his army.

The King of the East was camped out in a valley when the emissaries of Liessa arrived to discuss the issues at hand. They arrived with gifts and tithes and blessings, and asked of his intentions. They made it clear that the forest monks were there among them, and would stand with them. The king listened to all of this, and sent them away with neither a yay or nay.

The messengers returned to Liessa and conveyed the king’s words to the elders and monks, and every heart turned dark. The lack of clarity made them open to forces and spirits beyond their control (and the King of the East knew such would happen); their hearts trembled and their minds wandered and fled in every direction. Finally one wizened old man said, “We must be prepared to fight, all of us.”

The monks would have none of that. “Our way is one of peace and it is our best weapon.” Having thus spoken, the people huddled and waited; some fled into other regions, while others made secret plans, and in general, confusion reigned.

The King of the East, knowing the power of fear, waited, and waited. Knowing the power of preparation and surprise, he sent his forces into four corners, surrounding the region from distant points. Knowing the power of confusion, he sent forces inside the central areas dressed as peasants so that they might spread rumor from inside. Most of all, and again, knowing the power of fear, he waited.

Eventually he entered the center town on horseback with a handful of men and was greeted by the elders and the monks.

“We welcome you, if you come in peace, and if otherwise, we know your wisdom and ours will find that peace,” said one of the monks who went by the name of John.

“Well, I have come to see what prospers here, and I see here IT prospers,” he replied with a laugh and knowing glance at his cohorts who sat fearsome on white horses.

“You are welcome to tarry with us, and enjoy all we have,” said Annastasio, a long time elder.

“Oh, and I will. Well, actually, I am. Even as I sit, and dine with you on words, we are taking your women from the forests- and in the forests- and we are slaying your young who you have hidden in the caves. And every which way the sun might rise or set, or the winds might blow, we stand, armed, to take, tarry and enjoy as we see fit.”

“That is bold talk for a man who stands here with what… five men? Even here, we are many, and with monks among us. Ought you not worry about your own life, rather than attempt to strike fear into ours?” asked Annastasio.

“Ha. Fear? These monks which stand with you will not fight. It is not their way. And who would dare attempt to strike me down from my horse. You, old small man? Or the young one there. Timothy means honoring god, does it not? You boy-man, make your name’s meaning pay its dues and bow down before me.”

John, the monk stepped forward.

“You are surely sure of yourself. But you are known as a man of wisdom, and we do not believe that you will do those things now that people have placed at your feet in the past. You are known to sway good and evil. Sway to good, and step right.”

“I sway neither left nor right today monk. I am. And, you, and your cohort, shall not stop what I have set myself to do.”

“Well, we can, fearless one. You know of the monks of Oslo and the battles we have fought.”

“Ah yes, I know of them. But who are you? Have not you chosen peace above all? Or, as it has been said, does not violence beget violence? Will you renounce your renouncings now and be proved the hypocrite?”

“We stand affirmed in what is right,” said the monk.

“And this day, you will stand affirmed, and dead”.

With that the King of the East and his five rode off to the western half of the town and joined up with the rest of his force.

And while the townsmen scattered, and as the woman fled, and while the children got crushed under hoof, and with the center town and circle villages looted and burned, the monks stood watching, strong in their resolve and virtue as 15,000 thousand people began their next morning dead.

The King of the East spared the monks only, and left them to their peace.

It was the day of the Feast of St. Claude, a saint long considered to be the last word on all things related to love in some circles. That the average person took this holiday in a fornicatory mood in no way diminished its deep importance and greater message: that love was something you did, and not merely a feeling, biological impulse or verbal expression.

Of course, St. Claude himself did not extend the “doing” to acts of lusty coupling. But he was dead, and probably better off unaware of the heights of enthusiasm to which people took his original ideas.

Most of the monks liked to throw a big meal and invite folks from regions far and wide to gorge themselves on roasted suckling pig and great loaves of bread fattened with cheese made from the milk of certain unidentified creatures that left everyone guessing at the taste and texture.

So when Sebastian should have been cooking and helping, or loading up the wagon with those who could not walk or see and bringing them to the feast, he was instead on a distant hill with a young woman (who herself should have been with her family and townsfolk at the great meal).

“You look so pretty to me,” he said. He reached out his hand and laid it on her breast. He could feel her heart beating, speeding up even. He watched her mouth open, and her warm breath floating out into the chill air.

“Do I?” she asked. “Even now?”

“Even now,” he said, and at the moment of these words, her heart was so close to joy that her affliction began to fade.

In the north forest there was a monk who lived apart from the others, and followed his own ways. He was blind, but preferred his own company, and needed no assistance.

At least once a week he would travel into the closest town to make purchases, and despite the distance of several miles, he had no trouble knowing his way. The bent souls along the way- those of strange hungers, the murderers and marauders- steered quite clear, knowing that he was more than able to withstand any force. He was blind, and yet, he could still see, for he believed in things he could not see, and took heed.

He bought tea and fish mostly, and some bread, along with whatever fruit was available… usually bananas. He bought oil to keep warm when the cold months hit and the warmth of the sun faded to the other side of the world.

Sometimes he wondered what went on in those parts that could not be seen or reached, and he wondered if God’s plan for them was the same as God’s plans for the people in his world. He assumed it could be quite different and that it made no sense to speculate on life in far away places, but rather, to do what you know to do, and let the powers sort out the paths. If anything, you can know your own path, whether you can see it or not.

These trips were a mixed blessing, or bitter fruit wrapped up in the warm colors of sweetness. He could hear the women’s voices and imagine what they might look like. There was so much in a voice. He had been told by other monks that it would be foolish to let a voice deceive you, and that women’s voices in particular were often beautiful beyond the bearer. “Every woman sounds like your true love,” was one of the proverbs that several monks lived by, and thus they walked wary, ears closed and heart monitored for faulty inclinations and leanings.

He really did not have to go into town at all. His fellows could have brought him all he needed. He could have, if he chose, made food of the dust of the earth. It was another of his gifts. But it was a gift he used only for those who needed it. As it happened, he loved to go into town and imagine the faces behind the voices of the women who greeted him. Sometimes he thought that he could detect something in the voice of a given woman and his heart would begin to shiver and adjust itself inside its cage. But the moment and the voice would soon pass.

After such a day, he would return home and lie flat on the ground, tears soaking into the wood of the floor, causing rain to fall on the other side of the world. He did not know this, that someone was praying for rain in some dry place. He just knew that this God, this so called lover and friend, had left him dry and full of longing. For all the good he did, nobody really made their way to him. “I must be hideous,” was the thought that pitched tent in his mind day after day.

Once there was a monk who had fled through the forests of the north down to the southern towns.

He knocked on a door and was accepted inside. The family was delighted that one of the mystics, the magicians, the masters, could be sitting in their home. Nobody would believe this!

“How many did you slay before you had to run?” asked the father, who seated himself at a wooden table across from the monk, a glass of ale dancing in his fingers.

“No. I ran with all my might and never looked back. I just ran as fast I could.” This was not a pleasant answer at all and dimmed the room of all merryment.

“Children, off to bed now. Go!” said the father, and away they went.

This really was not the way of a true monk. Everyone knew the stories of the Oslo monks. They were no ordinary men of the cloth, or mere supplicants in the woods, offering prayers to some unseen God and little to the visible world. Unlike most, the men of Oslo were fighters, or so the tales had often been told.

There was one, Ben, dark of skin, who had come from the countries below. He fell in with the men of Oslo and learned their ways and lived as one of them. In the white of winter, where the day was nearly dark, Ben was caught in the forest by a regional lord and his armed band. Some say he slew two hundred men, but others pegged the number at a more realistic hundred, with the end result being the death of the lord from fear.

The lord-that goliath- sat fixated with fright-and dead- atop his upright horse, which was alive, but oddly rooted in place.

If the monks wanted to, they could, and did fight, and the father knew this man in his home was no true monk. Or not a monk of the Oslo Order. He had no weapons, no beads or crystals or talismans. All he had was bare and bloodied feet; a true sign of a coward fleeing some just dessert.

“Get out of my home,” said the father, before returning to the back room where, in a fit of anger, he beat his wife for wasting good food and drink on such an impostor.