He was listening to “Pavane”, by the composer Fauré, and watching some birds flying overhead in the distance. The television was in the background, two men debating the nature of war. “You don’t judge the success of a war, or its failure, by the number of men killed. You ask yourself if the deed, if done and successful, constitutes some greater good for the many, rather than possible death for the few, and soldiers at that.”
He thought about the song about war being good for absolutely nothing. It was a sentiment wholly at odds with human nature and historical precedent. Some things, some people, some nations, some actions, if left unchallenged, would build from silence to a crash of thunder at the gate of your life, like Ravel’s “Bolero” upon your ears. You could listen to the music of the beast, and even, whistle the tune, until, at the very end, all is thunder and blaring, and it is too late. The end, your end, so far over there but a moment ago, is nigh.
The monk put these thoughts out of his head. He was thinking on a woman. Agnus Dei, was what he called her, but he never told her that. Lamb of God indeed. He could see her when she was just an essence, sitting in the hand of God before birth, giggling and laughing and speaking in the language of that place. It was a real language, quickly forgotten.
That was the deal the Master made with his creation. Once upon earth you ceded your spiritual knowlege and language, giving your mind over to the physical, and eventually forgetting from whence you came. That’s how it was to be. Parents never knew this. Nobody really knew, except a few. Some of the monks knew, and have always known. He knew.
If you watch the face of a newborn, with its eyes shut tight, you are inclined to think it is in deep rest, still developing, and unable to see. It cries. You think it is calling for nourishment or longing for the warmth of the womb or feeling some internal discomfort. Momma stands consulting her book, or calling her mother, or confident Dr. Jonestein, or, if all else fails, her mother-in-law, to find out why the new one cries. “Oh ho ho, ” says the good doctor, explaining the ways of the babies to the new mother. He has seen it all, and knows it…all.
But he is wrong. The baby cries, with eyes shut or eyes open, for she sees. She sees the world she has chosen to enter. From a distance the world looked blue and bright, an ornament on the tree of life, but up close, the sound of horror and the spirits of darkness abound. Out she comes from the womb and knows that the good doctor has, in the dark of his own private life, done hideous things. She gets home and hears the voice of her mother and knows her soul too, and weeps. She can see every man’s core without opening an eye, and it is frightful; it is the lung of the smoking heart of humanity.
That is how it is upon arrival into the world. At first you cry, then you silently observe. Then you speak out, but nobody understands you as you try to remember the language from that other place. You adapt.
You decide to give in to the world and speak their language. You can choose to remember or to forget (for He gives you that choice), but it is easier to forget to ease the pain; the land of love recedes until, after but a few months, it is just a dot you can see floating across your closed inner eyelid. A dream of God floating past. This world here, in the bed in which you lay, is your world now. Peek through the bars on the crib and see who comes to your rescue in the night.
The monk knew this is what every newborn child went through. He thought of his Agnus Dei. He could see her before she arrived on earth, for he had that kind of vision. “Oh my lamb, my lamb, ” he said quietly as the music rolled over him. “My beautiful little lamb. I love you.” He wondered who would be there when life fixed upon her, seeking to devour. Who would stand to defend? Someone must stand and face the beast and fight on her behalf. “I must,” he said to himself.
