The Ship and the Cross
I woke and lifted my head towards the quiet warming rays of the morning sun. My movements sent sand and dirt tumbling through my black curly hair, down across my brown, sun-coloured shoulders to disappear into the darkness of my sleeping hollow.
The creaking of my bamboo hat as it pulled free of the surrounding earth and roots reminded me of the noises I heard as I slept: among the sounds of timber flexing on a bobbing sea, the voice of arcane man jabbered and sung. Calls and sharp commands pierced the dawn as ropes creaked under the weight of the small boat you lowered, the clank and scrape of armoured breastplate sliding down the flanks of your galleon, a stifled curse.
My dream did not surprise me as all who live in this part of Heaven had seen your egg-shell ships sailing past - sometimes near, sometimes trailing the horizon, never passing close enough to excite investigation. There was, as usual, a strong breeze blowing up the beach towards the tree line where we sleep. Sometimes, in what is now our history, this same wind brought the sounds of distant lands floating across the incalculable seas. Laughter, shouts, cries of pain, whispers sent to remind us of the past, all these uninvited guests came: we heard their story and then we let them go.
The sound we hear now, firm tight cloth applauding the crown of the early morning sun as it lifts its head from under the horizon, brings my eyes to rest on the tumble of rocks spread across the far end of our gentle harbour. Scattering into the clear blue water, the rocks record the history of countless lapping waves: giant boulders, ripped apart and smashed into ever-decreasing fragments, catalogue the anger of countless uncaring storms.
There, where the dark cross pierces the white sand, hangs your flag white with its fearsome double-headed eagle, red.
I did not dream I saw your ship or the small boat which quietly thrust onto the beach, spilling your robed and armoured people onto the innocence of the sand. I saw through my closed eyes as you chose a spot where your symbols of hope and future - the signposts of our end - would stand untroubled and easily read by others. We all watched as you dug into our body, your metal blades sinking deeper and deeper into the dark layers beneath, heaving them up and scattering them around like blood. The sounds of pain vibrated through our tiny island but we were powerless to stop you. We heard the cries of our parent as you invaded its soul with your Holy Spirit, felt its convulsions and watched as you tied us with your clanking chains to your world, your time. In your footprints, we can see who we'll become.
Although lying between the earth I know everything, I have seen every detail of your triumph. Looking up, your eyes fall into the void of the early dawn sky, but you do not see the morning rainbow of green and purple and blue, you do not care for the eyes of angels where a million parallels watch their own dawn. You seek to know, to limit what we cannot discern or measure. You are the dark race: the one confused by words, the babbling seekers of the definite, the unchangeable.
Reliant, as you insist on being, upon words, you are cursed to wander, building fabulous castles of pure sound, each brick a word, all held together with hope and adorned with faith: you seek, you search - but what do you find, can you even remember where you are from? Or the face of your mother?
Today, with the last moments of serenity disappearing with the night sky, we have found the unbearable heaviness you carry wandering freely within our house. And so we pass, but we will leave it to others to mourn.
After washing and eating we will pull down your symbols, bind them to a small bamboo raft and push them, burning, out to sea. We will not speak of your intrusion but our eyes will be alive with words, our hands will know what has to be done.
After thanking the sun for its gifts and the land and sea for their hospitality we will say goodbye to what is no longer our home, disappear into the jungle covered hills and slowly climb up into the mountains where we will watch, and wait for your return.