THE PRODIGAL HEART
by
Robert Croker
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PUBLISHED BY CHARGAN AT SMASHWORDS
This book available in print from
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The Prodigal Heart
Copyright © 2011 Robert Croker
ISBN: 978-1-4658-6787-2
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Robert Croker has asserted his right under the Copyright Act 1976 to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
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The city lay stretched like a giant spider’s web reaching down from the mountains, over the vast plains, to the very edge of the sea. Filled with the snarled, angry sounds of the city night that warred with the order of the universe. Few seemed to notice, or care, how dark and tragic life was in this their ultimate creation; this overgrown village of machines and their attendant pollutants.
The wailing of sirens, the rattle of trains, the gaseous coughing of a million cars, the laughing and weeping of its children. And ever-present the grey, toxic pall that hung over its night’s sky like a ravenous arachnid; testament to mans’ ultimate demise. A kingdom of slaves that had long ago pledged their fealty to that cosmic insubordination euphemistically called economics. And, in so doing, had condemned themselves to the base ignorance of servitude. A mindless affectation of life, that was become their inherent truth.
On the lip of the mountain a lone figure gazed down on this tragedy and wept. Wept for what might have been, what had been but was now despoiled, and the hopelessness that these reflections evoked. Turning his back on the city, he made his way toward the wilderness that lay hidden beyond the confines of the captured mind.
For twenty years he had lived amid the ebb and flow of Miconecos, and did what was normal to all men. He touched and was touched by others, hurt and was hurt, loved and was loved in return. But somewhere, deep down within the unknown depths of his soul, lay an ache, a yearning, a something of which he was yet ignorant; a something that persisted for so long he finally lost the urge to participate in Miconecos’s offerings. This ache, this void, became an intolerable yearning that dragged him relentlessly toward its ethereal origin. Many were the words of advice that both hindered and helped, but one saying, one tiny seed, fell upon his soul so strongly he was unable to evict the force of its insistence.
“The kingdom of God is within,” intoned a street preacher one day as our friend lay upon the grass in the shade of a large oak tree. The gathered crowd jeered, and their scorn, born of ignorance, dripped with sarcastic venom. “Within what, you old fool, days or weeks?” scoffed a bellicose heckler, at which he drew loud applause.
“Within the dull longing you have sensed since birth, but have never had the courage to face,” calmly replied the preacher, as his reluctant audience, assumed the quiet, subdued air of the chastened.
A flame was set in his heart that day that would be nursed into a raging fire. He lay upon the moist grass and encouraged the tiny illumination that edged quietly between his heart and soul; a new thought, promising a journey without end. Of one thing alone he was sure, that he would follow this thought, and its accompanying sense of freedom, through to its beckoning promise; for surely its end was its beginning, and its life, everything that lay between.
He walked by the moonlight till dawn broke over a large, sprawling valley. From his high vantage point, he could see where the forest ended abruptly, on the edge of a desolate, forlorn river. Twisted, gnarled, tree-like images ghosted its banks, and as far as the eye could see a sad, lonely-looking river leeched slowly southward. Beyond the broad expanse of the river, he could see two large peaks. They sat upon a long range of mountains, some way off, partly obscured by a vast array of foothills that stretched from the river’s edge to the base of the mountains. The peaks beckoned, he obeyed.
It was evening before he reached the river and, owing to the eeriness of his surroundings he opted to cross, rather than spend the night amidst the petrified nightmare that posed as a forest fringe. Swinging uneasily from one of the dead ‘trunks’ by the river’s edge hung a tired, battered sign ... CAUTION ANGORCINE ... it read, and underneath someone had scrawled, as if decoding an anagram, ‘ignorance -- beware’.
Close up the river appeared cool and inviting. Shallow enough for him to wade to the opposite bank. He entered and the water proved fresh upon his skin, and he was invigorated by its closeness. After his previous exertions the river proved a welcome relief, and for some considerable time he was lost in its enchanting embrace. He waded confidently out into its midst. The opposite bank had seemed nearer as he had entered the water, but after some length of time forging its expanse he appeared to be no closer to his goal. Then time appeared to elongate, to stretch to the point that it became no longer a useful measure. There was just the river, and the banks themselves, that appeared more distant than before; too late to go back, too far to go on.
The water whispered soothingly, its level already having risen to his chest. He pushed strongly through the ever increasing current as the evening faded, then died. In the diminished glow of twilight, the waters took on a reddish hue and appeared to thicken, to pull at him and cling languorously to his body. Soup-like then jelly-like, until he could hardly move. A low murmuring began to emanate from the fluid around him, a mournful, mantra-like cacophony. The river, now swollen with threshing bodies, was water no more but blood. Faces formed on and below the crimson surface of the water. Faces he knew: knew and loved. Faces from the past, wheedling, cajoling, sonorous utterings, emanated from the depths and surface alike.
He was unaware that he was being carried along by the strength of his memories, and his attachment to them. He was loath to break free from his longing to belong, even when it threatened to overwhelm him. He may have turned his back on illusion, but his heart was still anchored firmly in the lie. He clung to the hideous, malignant reality before him, as a coward clings to the awful truth of his treason. In utter desolation he saw family, friends, enemies and lovers, children, babies, the aged broken and spent. He felt love, hate and affection, and with that longing. He knew not that this river was the soul of Miconecos, the city of his birth, and though he was stifled by its whole, he yet loved the parts thereof. And therein lay his dilemma.
Through an eternity of doubt and misgivings he finally understood that he must let go of his conditioned reason. This he willed and his self retreated, and the spirit rushed to his aid. But the current now proved too strong, and he was drawn down into the murky depths of ignorance. A raging torrent now embraced his timid soul, and he gave himself up to the darkness of despair.
In that minute sphere between oblivion and acceptance, his mind travailed. Then an object, coarse and hard, rough and angular, buffeted his side. He reached out in the dark and grasped something wooden and buoyant. With one last excruciating effort he dragged himself upon this ‘straw,’ and clung, as we all cling to our notion of life. Around him the river screamed like an enraged behemoth, he sank into the clouded embrace of unconsciousness unaware that he would pass through death many times, noting its manifold faces, as his past was subjugated by the present; his darkness by incoming light.
He dreamed, and in his dream he saw two great peaks rising above a mountain range. They merged, as he watched, into one and back again into two, then almost disappeared. ‘These peaks you must seek, for they are called Courage and Faith and although they will prove not to be your ultimate destination, that destination may not be reached without them.’ A voice whispered to his soul.
Under the shadow of a large cross he awoke on the grassy verge of the river bank, warmed through by the sun. He opened his eyes and partly raised his body. The travail of yesterday seemed somehow distant and vague. Birds sang and flittered along the water’s edge as sheep and cattle grazed peacefully along the valley floor, and overhead sat the bluest sky he could ever remember. Butterflies were everywhere on the wing, while the river gurgled merrily over its polished- pebble shoreline.
He was thus entranced for some time until a reckoning of the trauma of the previous night leant in upon his mind. He was soon shaken back into this previous reality by the rude hand of his memory. Only then did he recall the terror of his ordeal, his struggle, his final desperate plea for salvation; the vague memory of the raft that had borne him aloft in his delirium.
He raised his body further and looked around. There before him stood a large wooden cross, anchored securely into a stone base. It was waterlogged and dripped moisture downward over an inscribed plaque that read, ‘I have gone before to clear the way that I might bring you from death to life’
Where the wet cross had dripped upon the inscription, the water had turned to blood.
He shook visibly upon this affirmation. That the blood of Christ had purged him of timidity, given him the courage to face his own ignorance, and the faith to trust his heart where his mind had always ruled with a rod of iron.
He knelt in the grass and gave thanks for his liberation and asked forgiveness; for when he had put aside all other considerations but trust, when he had let go of the past and his attachment to it, the Spirit of Life had been free to move. It had answered his plea. That faith itself had borne him through the storm of doubt, secured upon the cross of salvation, was not so evident; but he was yet young in the spirit, and Neborr was his name.
While Neborr was thus entangled in the throes of comprehension, a traveller approached leading a donkey. He stopped nearby and, unloading some items from a donkey’s pack, began preparing a fire.
Neborr glanced up from his prayer and smiled upon the stranger. “Welcome,” said the stranger in a quiet, but strong voice. “When you are finished with your communion would you join us for breakfast?” Neborr, who was terribly unprepared food wise, could hardly suppress his joy.
“I would be honoured,” he replied, hoping not to appear too excited.
“Then it is done, Neborr, my friend,” said the stranger as he bent over the fire.
For a second or two, Neborr was silent, wondering how this man could know his name, and appear so familiar. “You know me,” whispered Neborr, in an almost timid voice.
“I have known you since you first sat under the oak tree. As I know everyone who has crossed the river of Angorcine, and the many that have been overcome by her power and turned back,” the stranger replied. “But come, sit yourself down and eat, for you must be in need of sustenance. My name is Knowledge and this is my closest friend Patience, and our pleasure is to serve you as companions of the ‘way’ if you so choose.”
Neborr needed no encouraging as he sat, ate and drank like he has never eaten before. It was the first meal of his new life and food had never tasted so good. “May I ask where I go and what I should do now that I am out of Miconecos?” said Neborr.
“What is it you seek?” replied Knowledge.
“I seek the will of the one that brought me here,” answered Neborr. “Then he would not have drawn you here without marking a way,” offered Knowledge.
“I have only a dream,” said Neborr, “twin peaks that are sometimes clear and sometimes vague. They sit upon a great range and are prominent in their surroundings. I spied them as I entered the river but have no knowledge of their whereabouts now.” Knowledge remained silent for some time but when he spoke Neborr was humbled by his explanation.
“Those peaks,” he said, “reside in all men’s hearts, obscured by fear and ignorance. From time to time men catch glimpses of their magnificence and are ennobled by their presence in their affairs, but the cares of the world flood in to overshadow their insight and the great peaks are again consigned to memory; then from memory to myth.” He poked at the fire, turned and looked deeply into Neborr’s eyes. “If you are called to seek these on your journey to understanding, know that you must do battle with cowardice, apathy, and their guardian fear. They will tear your psyche apart from within and your body from without. For until now your life has been theirs to rule, as you have been their ignorant slave. They will not find servitude to their liking.”
Neborr’s body shook upon hearing this and he was somewhat challenged by the revelations of Knowledge. Though he knew in his heart that forging the river was not an end in itself, but merely the first step on the path of reunification, of becoming, he also knew, only too well, the persuasiveness of his carnal nature. But he was pleased that he was not alone and gratefully embraced what Knowledge had to impart.
Thus, they idled away the morning with companionship and endless cups of tea, all the while falling upon verbal discourse as if it was the breath of life itself. Knowledge fractured the dry, caked earth of Neborr’s complacent existence, delving deep into the dry, shifting sands of his soul. Drawing forth the welcome waters of life, and Neborr drank deeply from the well of their offering.
“If you choose we three may journey some way together,” offered Knowledge. “For, as knowledge is pointless without a purpose, we may well serve each other in this endeavour.”
“I am new to this kingdom, this way of knowing, and would proudly have you as my road companions, and be honoured by your presence. In fact, without you, I would wander aimlessly and certainly err from the King’s highway,” admitted Neborr. “If I may ask,” he continued, “where do our travels lead? What must we expect, there and along the way?”
“Reality does not condescend to speculation. Know only, that to wander successfully in this realm is impossible without faith. As you already found in the river, temporal strategies (attachments) serve only to hinder progress by binding you (us) to preconceived goals and outcomes. What you will find on your journey is what you imagine you will find, as with what you lose. Lay no greater weight on either, for the land of Mia, our ultimate goal, is beyond human comprehension, therefore beyond idle speculation. It may be approached only with a pure heart that walks by faith alone.”
Three days they remained engaged in such intense rhetoric, never far from the campfire, till on the morning of the fourth, having loaded Patience with their small supplies, they moved northward, parallel to the river. Patience led Knowledge along a sun-drenched river bank, beautiful to behold, whilst Neborr brought up the rear. His thoughts were able to drift, as he ambled in their wake, and in quiet, almost unconscious reverie, the passage of time appeared suspended. Not diminished by the absence of the past or the vague possibility of the future, but ennobled. Time appeared as one long now -- a warm welcoming pleasure that flooded every pore of his being, and invaded every atom of existence. For the first time in his life he felt a purpose, a part of something so vast and unimaginably beautiful. And beautiful would never describe what he sensed, felt, experienced, and only partly understood. Ahead of him marched two great warriors, (seemingly gigantic in proportion) and the ether appeared to fold and move aside to facilitate their passage; then to close in around them in one perpetual, liquid motion. They strode with caution, but in the absence of fear, as ones who know this highway well. The road, the river, the hills, trees and grasses all acknowledged their passing. They were welcome in this landscape, had been here before; though before was a concept Neborr’s mind had ceased to compute. That they were lords of this domain was obvious, even to Neborr’s limited understanding. He felt assured of his passage while he trailed in their wake.
Around noon (the sun was overhead) they drew aside from the path and settled down in a shady grove that overlooked a large village, some ways off, nestled in a sheltered bend in the river. It looked quaint and inviting from a distance and Neborr was excited about the prospect of a visit. “That is the town of Tubod,” said Knowledge, “settled by refugees from Miconecos, or other domains beyond the river Angorcine, and all the regions of Rafe. It has been a gathering place since time immemorial and pilgrims have gravitated here to prepare for the wilderness that lies beyond the great mountains of Promise. We can pick up some supplies here on our way through, as we cannot avoid this town on our journey, though that would be preferable.” His voice tapered off almost to a whisper.
In the cool of that same evening they walked in the streets and markets of that odd community, replenishing their supplies. Neborr, chatting to the locals, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Quite ignorant was our young traveller, of things pertaining to spirit, and so was he also ignorant of his surroundings. This Tubod, the town of doubting; the town of a thousand timid souls! Knowledge remained aloof, whilst Patience, with his usual aplomb, went quietly on all fours looking neither right nor left, bearing the supplies with the grace of a saint. He was a rock of stability, amid the uneasy current of Tubod.
They hurried on unhindered till they passed a party of people congregated outside a small shack on the outskirts of town. Distress hung in the air everywhere and on every face. It was relayed to our travellers that a party was preparing to leave Tubod for the mountains of Promise when suddenly several of their number were overcome with an all- consuming ailment, an ailment that had them bedridden and unable to stand. Our friends were caught up in the melee and Knowledge was sought out and asked for advice. Upon entering the hut they saw three people, all of mature age, writhing in pain, lathered in sweat, and cursing in frustration. Five people stood at one end of the room, alternately praying and praising. Their prayers ran like a hypnotic mantra that dispelled little of the negativity that permeated the house. Knowledge appeared angered (when Neborr had expected compassion) and ordered the congregation to silence. With order restored to its quiet domain, Knowledge approached the bed of one victim, and ordered him to sit up.
“I will say this but once,” he almost commanded, “as I have said it a thousand times before. All sickness is of the mind and a direct result of the years you have spent in doubt, and its environs. Insight led you out of the regions of Rafe to cross the river Angorcine but, because you crossed within the security of groups, because you failed to trust your King to bear you through alone, you have not been purged by its waters. It is indeed a stream of great ignorance, but immersion in it allows us to see ourselves as we really are. To accept the ignoble state of our being and, in repentance, cast our forlorn fate upon the mercy of him upon whose highway we profess to travel. If you have not been purged of ignorance, you will remain in Tubod forever. Doubt will consume you, body and mind, and your dream of perfection will die before it gives birth to even the smallest portion of hope. You are sick with doubt! Seek Insight and he will lead you to understanding, and understanding will reveal a way out of doubt. But I have said all this before, and yet you tarry in Tubod. You cling yet to some vain belief that you might yet journey in the comfort of community, but you forget that your forebears wandered aimlessly in the wilderness for years and, though achieving their physical goal, failed to comprehend its spiritual significance: the awesome potential of an offered relationship with their Creator, and the eternal gift that understanding would bestow. If you will not stand alone in this endeavour, you will never stand alone with Christ. The path is open before you; the way has been made clear. Divest yourself of dependency on others, of ignorance and of doubt, and your feet will indeed stand firmly upon the path of life ... for the path is life.”
He spun on his heels and strode out into the street, where a large crowd had gathered and, where Patience stood quietly chewing his cud. A great quiet had fallen upon the listeners standing around the house, and they shuffled aside as Knowledge and Neborr left the premises. All eyes cast ground ward, in humility or shame. Few saw that Knowledge’s criticism was for their ennoblement. Pride alone blinded many to their shortcomings, and thus they travailed in doubt. “To live in doubt is not to live at all, for in Tubod they mistake the olive branch for the rod,” whispered the Spirit, in counsel to Neborr, and he was shaken by this encounter.
Knowledge called to Patience and, with Neborr bringing up the rear, our troop made to exit Tubod. The crowd parted to facilitate their passing and, without looking back our trio made their way toward the hills that surrounded Tubod. And many they were, and formidable to the uninitiated. Suspect, Disbelief, Skepticism, Dubiety and Suspicion, thus ran the titles of the mountains surrounding Tubod, and there were many more.
They made their way up into the foothills toward the cordon of peaks. These mountains sheltered Tubod from the bitter winds of the western plains, but also hemmed it in by the river Angorcine, and therein lay its dilemma. Fear of the unknown on one side, ignorance on the other. To be found here was to be lost here. Doubt was never a place to live, though many would pass through on their way to understanding.
Neborr paused upon his climb, and glanced back over Tubod. From his high vantage point it looked innocuous enough, nestled beside the river, fringed by these sturdy ranges. He allowed his thoughts to wander back to the sick room and was filled with a great sense of pity for these travellers who had tried to make a difference to their lives, and he felt hurt that Knowledge had dealt so roughly with them. So lacking in compassion, he thought.
As these thoughts invaded his consciousness, he felt the full weight of the power of Tubod, and was immobilised in the centre of the path. Whatever he reasoned seemed unreasonable. A great, all- encompassing ache overshadowed his soul. He was being cast down off the hillside, into some bottomless pit, as he allowed his thoughts to spiral outwards, to embrace this confusion that permeated the ether. His whole being was infused with lethargy, as he plunged into the turbulent, strength- sapping pit of doubt.
But a pit it was not, in appearance, but rather a pleasant glade full of fruiting trees of many varieties, with a small stream running the width of a narrow garden. A wall of rock enclosed its isolated entirety, from the aperture through which the water trickled to the bed of sand through which it leeched and disappeared. He was alone, of that alone he was sure. There was no sight of Knowledge or Patience or anything familiar at all.
He was bemused by his circumstances and set about exploring the perimeter, eager for any possible means of escape. The sheer cliffs that formed the boundary of his confinement were impassable, with not a foothold to be found. Whether this place was pleasant to the eye or not, he felt vacant and dispirited. A hopeless, forlorn chill settled upon his soul and immobilised his spirit. He ran this way and that in his body and in his mind chaos ruled complete. “Jesus,” he cried out in his confusion. “I am lost to Knowledge and Patience and know not how I became separated. Save me from myself; from the doubt I have harboured since birth?”
“Neborr,” he heard vaguely in the distance. “Neborr,” this time louder and accompanied by a vigorous shake! And Neborr heard Knowledge calling, as if from the end of time, and found himself once again on the hillside above Tubod. Knowledge had hold of his shoulders, and was lowering him to the ground, where he sat bemused and disoriented for some time. Slowly, his addled brain regained some focus. Knowledge spoke and Neborr took comfort in that sound.
“We had no choice but to pass through Tubod on this journey and the risk of you falling under the satanic sway of Doubt was foremost on my mind. But to find truth one must uncover the lie, and this exposes us to its deception. No illusion gives up without a fight, for they have held sway over mankind’s consciousness since time immemorial. Deception holds only the power we indulge it, hence must we learn to deny it access to our thoughts. By focusing on the ‘way’ we stay in the ‘way’.”
“For I tell you Neborr, it is man’s thoughts that are manifest in his life, so the onus remains with the seeker to keep his thoughts pure of petty deliberations. Focused only on understanding, not endeavouring to speculate on the duty of others,” (here Neborr experienced a pang of guilt). “Do not doubt my motives or methods for they belong to Him that I serve, the Father of all thought. Be content to follow till you are called to lead; such is the way of understanding.”
“I am sorry,” whimpered Neborr, “for doubting first and then compounding the negative thought with empathy for my foe. For today I have understood the maxim, ‘that he who is not for me is against me.’”