THE MESSENGER

The Messenger was the first book I wrote, and I have rewritten the second half four times over ten years. It is a fantastic story that is quite difficult to tell. Humanity is obviously a cancer on this earth. We murder, rape, lie, cheat, thieve. We are greedy, manipulative, awful creatures. The entire evolution of our planet revolves around the plants and animals changing to protect themselves from humanity. What if you were given the ultimate power to change humanity into a benevolent, compassionate species? What if we were not driven by our lowest instincts, but our highest? How would you even begin such a task? Where does free will end and forced will begin? What if the fate of the entire planet rested solely on your ability to be the judge, jury and executioner of all mankind? The Messenger is a tale of aspiration and optimism.

THE MESSENGER

Veron sat at his desk, his back to the fireplace. The pine logs were full of pitch, which popped and shot out hot clinkers into the steel screen that was pulled across the opening. Occasionally, a well aimed clinker would blast through the slim parting in the screen and the cinder would make it to his cabin floor which was littered with small, black burn marks from the years of hot embers landing on the hardwood. He turned in his chair and crushed the ember into the floor, snubbing out any heat remaining, then went back to his work. He was writing in long hand with a quill pen. The scratch of the pen moved across the paper was satisfying.

No sound invaded his ears. No clocks ticking, no dog yawning or cat scratching. No children running through the house. It was as quiet as a morgue, which it would become when he breathed his last breath and no one was there to care for the body. Veron was 84 years old. He had lived a long, productive life. His youth was full of adventure and incredible life experiences, which he was transcribing to this paper. But he was old and this would be a long, cold winter alone.

As the sun began to fade, he stood and steadied himself a moment against the head-rush that comes with age. He stretched his old bones, and reached to the wood bin to put another log onto the fire. As he opened the screen, another clinker, anticipating his movement, shot out and cleared the mesh, landing on the floor. Once again, he crushed the ember under the toe of his leather house slipper and finished the chore. He pulled the doors shut tight on the little stove, closing off the air available to the flames. This would allow the wood to burn slowly and trap the heat inside the steel box. The log he put in would burn all night, providing heat to the little room until morning.

He shuffled across the room to fetch the kettle from the table and he filled it with cold spring water from the bucket. He walked it back to the fireplace and sat it on top of the old iron top to heat. He removed a chipped crockery mug from the open cabinet and fetched some honey and his tea canister. Fumbling through the drawer, he located the tea strainer and poured a small portion of the cut tea into it. Prepared for tea, but with the water not yet hot, he stood by the fireplace, watching water heat. It was quiet enough in the room to hear the rush of the flames and the beating of his old heart.

He did not allow any memory or thought to come to his mind. Years of loneliness had made him a master of shutting off his emotions. They were always on the periphery, but never allowed to come to the front.

He stood quietly until he heard the low rolling of water in the kettle , removing the kettle, he poured the hot water into the chipped crock. Steam rolled in a lazy chimney from the kettles spout and the smell of black tea suffused the air. He poured a long, thick rope of honey into the cup from a cedar stick he kept in the honey pot then used it to swirl the honey into the cup. He wrapped his big hand around a jar of oatcakes and walked across the room to his large, overstuffed chair, placing the cup and the jar on the small pine table next to him.

He took a moment to light the oil lamp on the wall next to the woodstove. He trimmed the wick down low then settled into his chair, drawing the knitted blanket over his shoulders. In the quiet of the evening he sipped his tea and nibbled on the oatcakes. There was great comfort in abandoning the social cacophony and material trappings of civilization. He had done his time in society and he had now earned the privilege of leaving it behind and adopting a simpler life.

The next morning found the floor cold, but the room retained the warmth of the stove. Veron rolled from his bed, wrapped his winter robe around him and slid his feet into shearling booties. Three steps to the fireplace, he opened the damper and waited while the smoke cleared from inside the stove, then opened the doors wide. A pile of ash remained but he knew that there was still ember and coal beneath the grey layer of ash. He stirred the ash with a pine stick, uncovering several chinks of glowing coal and placed several thin split wands of pine crisscross atop the coals. Leaning in close, he gently blew on the coals, watching them redden and glow brighter with each breath. A small flame finally flickering up and touching the new wood, which eagerly burned with this new heat and oxygen cocktail. Once flaming, he added larger sticks and a good sized log and pulled the screen across the front of the fireplace. His first task done, he started his day.

Morning was the best time of day for Veron. There were chores, routines and tasks needed to be done. Morning was a busy time. No time for a still mind or to dwell on the past, but to be productive.

He pulled on winter clothes and his heavy boots. His thin skin got colder as he got older. He bundled up thoroughly and lifted the antique latch on the cabin door. The burst of cold air rushed in as he opened the door and he braced his body against it. This was a moment of life, the harsh cold, the tensing of muscles, the shiver as your body met the winter air. It reminded him that he was still alive, still ambulatory and still of sound mind. He quickly shuffled through the well-worn snow path to the barn. He had cleared the doors of snow after the last storm four days ago and the door easily swung open. He quickly shut the door behind him to keep the sparse warmth in the barn. Inside, a cow, two horses a fat pig and several chickens moved about freely. He had never believed in penning up animals in small stalls. They all got along fine and passed the winter in relative warmth together in this old barn.

He climbed the wooden ladder to the loft and forked hay into the feeder for the livestock. He was careful in climbing back down the ladder. A fall from any height may break one of his old brittle bones and he would be done for.

He opened the wooden lid on the oat bin and scooped out a portion of oats into a wooden pail. He portioned out some to the horses and scattered the rest on the floor for the pig and chickens. He fetched his shovel and spent several minutes mucking out the shit that littered the floor. A barn was never clean, but it was important to keep it as tidy as possible. Once neglected, the waste seemed to multiply at an exponential rate. A little effort now saved his back later.

He walked to the far corner of the barn and stepped down a short set of stairs into the root cellar. He cut off a quarter pound of slab bacon and a collected a small jar of spiced peaches from the shelf and returned upstairs. His final act was to remove four large brown eggs from the chicken nests. He placed these carefully into the large pockets on his jacket before stepping back out into the snowy cold and walking back to the house.

He kicked the snow off his boots on the steel grate outside the front door before stepping into the warmth of the house. His cheeks instantly flushed with crimson, as the warm air hit is cold, stubbled cheek. He stripped off his jacket and hung it on the brass hanger on the wall. His boots came off and he settled his feet back into the shearling booties. He removed the eggs, bacon and peaches from the jacket pockets and walked across the room to the stove and small counter that served as his kitchen.

Soon, the bacon was sliced and cooking in the cast iron skillet. The eggs would be cooked over-medium with slight crisping at the edges and the spiced peaches would be eaten right from the jar. He ate at his desk, this being the only decent place in the small cabin to sit and eat. The fire at his back and the endless quiet of the room.

He would not leave the desk after eating. He simply moved his plate aside, drew out his pen and fresh paper and began to write. The words flowed easier in the morning hours. His mind was fresh and the light filtering in through the small windows illuminated the room with a warmth that was equal to the fire. The scratching of the quill on paper, the occasional shuffle of his booties on the floor and sound of wind picking up and moving through the trees. A storm was coming.

As the wind picked up, Veron set about securing his home for the inevitable storm. He checked on the livestock and insured they had food and water. He closed off the wooden windows to keep the wind out and the heat in. He forked a few extra portions of straw onto the floor for the stock to hunker down in. He brought extra provisions up from the cellar and double-checked his efforts before heading back to the house. The wind was much stronger now, and the sky a steel white, lined with dark grey and black outlines, heavy with snow.

He spent a good 20 minutes fetching wood from the woodshed and stacking it up in the house. He would likely not be able to get back out for a few days. He wanted to insure that he had enough on hand. His last task was to make certain the snow shovel, with its wide wooden blade, was hanging on its hook just outside the font door. The door opened inward and he wanted to be able to reach it to dig a path to the barn when the storm broke. A leather tether held it fast to the side of the cabin

When his preparations were complete, he slipped out of his winter boots and into his shearlings. He stoked his fire, put on a kettle to boil and waited for the storm to come

A storm in the mountains is not an event to be feared. It is an event to celebrate. If one is properly provisioned, a storm drives all predators into their dens. It keeps the wolf, bear and human at bay. No one and nothing moves during a mountain storm and in that fact lies a great comfort. For although Veron was an old man, and he was in a remote wilderness, there were many who wished him ill. Many who would track him and seek revenge on him. Veron did not live his life in fear of these people, but he was wise enough to recognize the threat and be aware of it. The winter storm would set his mind at ease, if only for a few days.

Night comes swiftly with the dark clouds of the storm. While he could have lit a lamp and written, he took the darkness as a good omen that he should turn in early, and he did. He peeled back the warm flannel sheets that covered his only luxury, a city-made mattress. It was perched on a bed he had fashioned from logs some 50 years earlier, when he was younger and his family came to these mountains on holiday. Now he was alone, but the bed was a creature comfort he loved and the sheets were fine flannel covered in layers of quilts made by his wife, mother and even grandmother. He was wrapped in the generations of family love and he slept the sweetest sleep in this bed nightly.

†††

And like every night for most of his life, the man came to him in his dreams. There was always a knock on the door and he would rise from bed, put on his slippers and answer the door in only his nightshirt. When he opened the door, the man would be there. He would politely invite the man in but he would decline, instead, asking Veron to join him outside for a walk. When Veron stepped out the door he would walk directly onto the streets of faraway lands, or on seashores, across the unending sand dunes and through small unkempt villages. Each night brought a new place, a new season and new adventures. They talked about the people, and their cultures, the wildlife and environment, the politics and the religion of the regions. Each night he would go to sleep in his small bedroom and he would explore the world in his dreams. Each morning he would wake refreshed, alert and ready for the day. It had always been so since his earliest memories.

And this night, as he drifted off to sleep, the knock came at the door and Veron put his feet on the floor and slipped feet into his shearling booties, he answered the door in only his nightshirt and when the door opened, a blast of snow and ice hit him with the force of a blizzard. Shocked, he slammed the door shut and stood there, hands on the door shaken awake, covered in melting snow.

This was a dangerous moment for Veron, for not only had he never left his dream and actually answered his real door; the consequence of losing ones mind in the dead of winter in this remote wilderness was very dangerous. He had known those who had lost their minds and it was a frightening thought.

He walked across the room to his washbasin and used a towel to dry his face and arms. His face was pale and his hands shaking. He sat on the edge of his bed and thought carefully about those whom he had known to lose their sanity. It was always a slow, viscous slide into that darkness. To his knowledge he had woken that previous day with a clear and present mind. Perhaps that was how it always was to those who lost their minds, one day they felt perfect, the next they were someone else. As he fretted over this development he sensed a presence. He stared at the front door for the longest time. His eyes burned but he dared not blink. And then there was another knock on the door.

To most of us, this would have been a tremendous shock, but to Veron it was a relief. Knowing he was not losing his mind, he quickly went into action, for if there was one trait he possessed, it was to be quick to action. He walked to the door quietly and removed his archaic sabre from the sheath above the door. This weapon was old, but razor sharp and well maintained. In the hands of Veron, it was a formidable deterrent to any unwanted visitor.

Veron stood poised by the door. Every instinct of his youth and training was on high alert. He was old, but he operating purely on training and instinct. This was his element, regardless of age.