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A Unicorn Greets Jesus On The Day Of His Birth

unicorn

Annunciation – as the Hunt of the Unicorn by Erfurt St. Severi (1470-80)

Excerpt from the manuscript A Lost Gospel

“We are all replaceable.” Glarus shrugged her shoulders. “The world has yet to stop for any man or beast which has ceased to be.”

“Even the gods?”

“Gods become replaced by other gods, yet the world continues.” Glarus slowed her pace. “Changed, of course – but generally for the better.”

“Will Yeshua change the world?”

“If he has not become too much a man.”

Glarus entered a path and started along it to her house. The two women followed her closely, still full of questions.

“What was it like seeing Yeshua?” asked Bettine.

“It was an adventure.” Glarus stopped at her door. “And it was frightening.” She turned to Bettine. “I was younger than you, and had never left the mountain longer than four nights travel.”

“How much younger?”

“I had yet to bleed as a woman.” Glarus opened the door but did not enter. “I was surrounded by strangers, and really had no companion except the unicorn – the sire of these two.” She walked into the house, and the young women followed. “I was given a gift to carry – myrrh – and was treated well.” She took a pitcher of water, and poured some into a metal pot. “I was one of many in the group with the kings.”

Glarus hung the pot over the hearth, and placed a block of wood into the fire.

“I was treated differently because they had gone out of their way to fetch me. No one could speak my language.” Glarus noted the young women were still standing, and bade them onto the bench near the window. “Even with our different accent, Bettine, we have little trouble understanding each other.”

“I have no trouble at all.”

“Their tongues were completely foreign. The man who spoke to me seemed to know the words, but could not put them in proper order.” Glarus paused in memory. “He could say `house’ for instance, but then had to use hand gestures to show me what I was supposed to do about the `house’. Had either of us been particularly stupid, we might still be trying to get into a house.”

“It must have been difficult.” As Bettine spoke, she looked around the house.

“Not really.” Glarus laughed. “I found it more humorous than anything.” She peered into the water. “They were people of good will. I did not mind the hardship.”

“What was he like?”

“The man who could say `house’?” Glarus smiled and pointed her finger. “What are you thinking, Sirona? We did not speak those types of words.”

“Not him.” Bettine was impatient. “Men think so much of themselves, we don’t have to take the time. Sirona was asking about Yeshua. What happened when you finally saw him?”

“What happened is that I slipped in cow shit. I think his father laughed.”

“That’s what you remember?”

“No. That’s not all I remember about Yeshua.”

Glarus eased the lid from the pot, and threw in a handful of spice and dried flowers, plus some dried apple slices. She nudged a burning hunk of wood into place, and returned to her seat.

“The kings had some information, but the rest they had to figure out. They had surrounded themselves with astrologers, navigators and philosophers. They knew from the Jew’s Holy Book that the baby was to be born in Bet Lehem, and the Star helped lead them to that town. It was a virgin birth, and – ”

“Virgin?” Bettine and Sirona squealed the word together.

“Yes – virgin.” Glarus laughed. “So both of you watch out.”

“You make us doomed either way.” Bettine exaggerated a shiver.

“Then you don’t have to worry at all – never fret about the inevitable.” Glarus paused a moment in memory. “We didn’t need the Star the last couple of days, but it had given us comfort during a hard and uncomfortable trip. That last night we waited on the outskirts of the town, and went in after sunset.”

“Were you afraid?” Sirona leaned closer.

“No. Why would I be?”

“You were going to see god.” Bettine glanced at Sirona as she spoke.

“To see god is a joy – not a fear.”

“And was he a baby?” Sirona giggled. “A baby god.”

“It was a time for the paying of taxes to Caesar, and Bet Lehem was crowded with people.” Glarus examined the fire for a moment. “The inns and resting places were fully occupied. We finally found Yeshua and his parents in a barn, beside one of the inns. He was settled with the animals, and sleeping in the hay.”

“But this was a god.”

“Yes.”

“But – ” Bettine sounded perplexed. “He should have been in a temple – or a palace. Not surrounded by animals.”

“There are more barns than palaces.” Glarus nudged the wood in the fire with a poker. “And more animals than priests. God is god of the world – not some carved gold in a temple.”

“But god can have whatever he wants.”

“Yes.” Glarus leaned forward and touched the young woman. “So remember what he chose.”

“What was god like?” Sirona was impatient, and pulled on Glarus’ skirt.

“God was the baby of a woman. A baby such as any of us could have.” Glarus looked at them closely. “You must not forget that. This god is as much man as god.” She stood suddenly and leaned toward the fireplace. “He was asleep when we entered. Even his mother was dozing as she held him.”

“What was she like?” Sirona didn’t realize one question interrupted another.

“Her name was Mary.” Glarus removed the pot from the open flame, and placed it upon a squat stone jutting into the hearth. “She smiled as her head nodded – she seemed quite peaceful. She was attractive, but not what one would call beautiful. She didn’t look much older than me.” Glarus looked mildly surprised. “She could still be alive, for that matter. She certainly seemed healthy enough.”

“Did she talk to you?” Sirona leaned forward, the heat of the fire against her face.

“She spoke to the ones who knew her tongue.” Glarus looked down at the women. “But no – not to me.” She suddenly smiled. “I saw her glancing at me a few times, as her husband talked to the others. And she took a liking to the unicorn – as did the baby.”

“Did she – ”

“What I felt most was her bewilderment.” Glarus didn’t realize she had interrupted Bettine. “She must have wondered why rich and powerful people were crowding into a barn to see her son. Giving birth for the first time was enough to get used to.”

“Especially if you had never been with a man.” Sirona grinned at Bettine when she said this.

“Yes.” Glarus laughed. “Being with a man is one of the easier parts.” She looked closely at them. “Not that you two are ready.”

“I feel ready.” Sirona again looked at Bettine.

“I don’t deny your woman’s time has more than come.” Glarus   stirred the pot as she spoke. “And you both turn heads, I dare say. But your duty must keep you unentered some years yet.”

“How long did you wait?” Bettine asked the question hesitantly.

“Wait for what?” teased Glarus.

“Wait to get … entered.” Bettine blushed at her question, but was obviously interested. “Were you much older than us?”

“It doesn’t have to be the same for you.” Glarus became serious. “When you know enough, and feel it’s time to start passing on your powers to – ”

“And there’s a man good enough.” Sirona shouted the words.

“That, too.” Glarus laughed. “Though God knows, there are always men about wanting your attention.”

“But when did it happen to you?” Bettine was insistent.

“As I said, it’s different for different people.” Glarus looked directly at the girl. “It would have been ten winters past your age when it happened to me.”

“Isn’t that late?”

“I didn’t know enough.” Glarus saw the look on Bettine’s face and smiled. “I don’t mean about that. And yes, I’d already wanted the feel of a man on top of me.” Glarus paused and stared into the fire. “I didn’t know enough about myself, or about the gods – or about the unicorn. I wanted to know the movements behind what we call life.”

“Did you learn these things?”

“No.” Glarus looked at them again. “I learned there was no one answer, no matter how long I waited.” She spread her hands. “So I stopped waiting.” She was quiet again. “I eventually found I was not going to be like this Mary – with or without a man in me. I can not have children, so I went out and chose the best.”

“Much like god chose Mary,” suggested Bettine.

The women were silent for awhile. Glarus stirred the pot, and tasted the liquid in the ladle. Bettine looked curiously around the house, while Sirona stared thoughtfully at her mother. She was hearing things she had never heard before.

“When did the baby wake up?” Bettine’s question broke into the silence.

“We hadn’t been there long.” Glarus began moving about the room, gathering some mugs together, along with food and utensils. “I think I was the first to notice. I just followed the lead of the unicorn, which already was walking toward him.”

“Did he touch the unicorn?”

“Yes.” Glarus took a loaf of bread from a cupboard, and removed some wedges of cheese from a pottery jar. “It was obvious Mary had never seen such a creature. I don’t think she was afraid, but she was hesitant to let the unicorn get too close to the baby.” Glarus ladled the hot drink into the mugs. “However, Yeshua reached out with his tiny hands, and tried to touch the ivory horn.”

“Did he touch you?” Bettine sipped the drink, and found the fruit tasted as if it were off the tree.

“Mary let me hold him, as she and Joseph prepared some of their food for the kings.” Glarus passed the platter of bread and cheese to the young women. “Food less grand than this. But still, the best of what they had.”

“You held god in your hands?” Sirona marvelled at the secrets she had never heard.

“Yes. While the others ate.”

“What was it like?”

“Damp.” Glarus looked at them both and laughed. “He was a warm and wet little baby, open-mouthed and smiling one moment, squeezing up his eyes in frustration the next. I still had the smell of myrrh on me, and he pushed his face into my breast, making contented baby noises. To the others, it looked as if he were trying to get fed. Joseph said something which made the others laugh.” Glarus chuckled as she took a bite of cheese. “When I finally heard what it was, I smiled too, even though I was embarrassed.”

“What did he say?” Sirona and Bettine asked the question together.

“Well. It’s no secret I’m big up here.” Glarus placed an arm across her chest. “I’ve had too much attention from too many men to let me forget.” Glarus cut more slices from the loaf of bread. “Joseph had said, that if the baby became too used to me, they’d have to use one of the cows after I left.”

“What did you say?” Sirona shared a glance with Bettine.

“It wasn’t my place to say anything. Anyway, I could tell he wasn’t trying to be offensive – or attentive. He was a poor man surrounded by rich and powerful strangers, and he was trying to be accepted.”

“Did Mary say anything?”

“Mary did not push out her garment, even if she was full of milk. After the laughter had stopped, I dared glance at her. She gave a shy smile and shrugged her shoulders.”

“If you hadn’t gone the way you did.” Bettine dipped her mug back into the flavoured drink. “Without following the star and the kings – would you have known Yeshua was a god?”

“No.” Glarus sipped from her mug, then placed it on the table. “But the circumstances were not natural.” Glarus hesitated before cutting more cheese. “The unicorn would not have been present, and I would not have seen them share time.”

“What did he do?”

“The unicorn?”

“Yes.”

“Both.” Sirona was excited. “When they were together.”

“They looked at each other with recognition.”

“But – ” Sirona coughed over her drink. “They had never seen each other before.”

“They saw more than just the bodies they possess.” Glarus placed her hands side-by-side on the table, almost touching. “When Mary realized the unicorn would do no harm, she held the baby this close to him. Yeshua reached a grasping little fist toward the ivory horn.” Glarus smiled at the two women. “You know how the unicorns avoid a stranger’s touch.”

“Yes.” They both again spoke in unison, and laughed.

“He bent his head carefully toward Mary, and let the tiny fingers rub against his horn. Yeshua’s eyes went wide as he sniffed him all over. The unicorn pawed in the dirt and the straw, and as much as his face is capable of smiling, I’d swear that he did.

“He didn’t even mind when Mary began to scratch him behind the ears. He moved his head so she could stroke the base of his horn, which he loves most of all.”

“I didn’t know of that place for years.” Bettine absently rubbed her fingers across the table. “I hesitated a long time before I even touched the horn. It can be so cold.”

“They don’t encourage contact,” agreed Sirona.

“Perhaps I was jealous. He encouraged Mary and the baby to do things for which I had waited years.” Glarus looked into the fire a long time. “He showed complete trust amid the strangers and the tumult. Usually, just the smell of humans and other animals make him disappear. This time, he ceased being wary, and concentrated fully on that little baby.”

“And Yeshua?” Sirona stared at her mother. “What did he do?”

“The baby turned his head, and stared at me.” Glarus again hesitated. “It was then I knew that I was looking into eyes which had seen the OtherWorld.”

DE

 

Christmas Is A Pagan Feast Upon Which Jesus Smiles

2014-DE-5835-limmat-V.'14 014                                                                                    ABL photo                                                                                                     

“The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.”

~ Clement Clarke Moore

 

Christmas is a fake that has taken root like the holly, and it survives tenaciously. It has become a goodies grab fest, and helps keep our commercial society stable. Perhaps reason enough to exist.

The wily Christians conquered the outnumbered Celts, and supplanted their winter festival with the birth of their God. The wily pagans live on in the numerous traditions the Christians stole, so perhaps it is a fair trade. And no doubt those wily pagans chuckle over their cups o’mead, noting that this celebration of reverence has become a surfeit of greed.

I have been no fan of Christmas for decades, but its mixed legacy encourages me not to abandon it. My Christian background enhances my enjoyment of the music and traditions. Most commercial intrusions can be muted or turned off. I do have some personal traditions I follow religiously.

I do not even rail against Santa Claus. I heard his sleigh bells one Christmas Eve, when I was four. I saw his sleigh runner tracks in the snow a couple of years later.

I have even been mistaken for Santa a couple of times. Once, in the line-up in a bank near Christmas, a two-year old pointed at me. Unfortunately, my presence terrified him, and he started to scream and cry. I was wise enough not to go Ho Ho Ho. Another time – but this happened in early fall – a family approached me as I walked in a park. A boy, who looked to be six or seven, stopped in his tracks, then ran back to his parents. “Santa Claus!”  He pointed. Happily he did not cry. They walked past me in silence.

Also, for decades, I lived close to a residence where one of the very first recitations of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas happened. The author of that stirring piece, Clement Moore, who wrote it in 1822, sent a copy to his godfather, the Rev Johnathan O’Dell, of Fredericton New Brunswick. However, the poem was not published until 1837.

But, this year, I heed the whims of Christmas Present, who snicked me up the side of the head in a grocery store on the weekend. I went looking for milk, as the in-store sound system blared “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause”. When I took out my container of 2% partially skimmed milk, and looked at the best by date, it said December 24. Christmas Eve. Still magical after all these years.

I hummed along about Mommy and Santa and then purchased a personal Christmas treat, which I would normally get a week before the day. Italian Panettone Classico, a fruit cake chock-a-block full of raisins, candied orange peel, eggs and sourdough and (they tell me) natural flavour. I have already had a generous slice.

Why wait for Christmas?

And, I’m not a total Scrooge, as I have written some Christmas tales.  Here is a wee segment from The Elephant Talks To God:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I want to see you,” said the elephant, and the words raced from his mouth. “I don’t have to see you, you know that. I’ve believed even before you talked to me. But I want to see you, it would mean so much. I wasn’t around for the Baby, but cows and sheep and things got to see Him. I can’t explain but it would … ”

“Go home,” said the cloud.

“You’re not angry with me?” said the elephant.

“No.” The cloud started moving away. “It’s an honest request.” The rain stopped falling. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” said the elephant.

“Sing some carols,” the voice was distant. “I like them.”

The elephant turned and started through the woods. He ignored the tasty leaves within easy reach and the tall grass near the brook. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible so he could join the singing he knew was happening later in the evening.

He turned along the trail, snapping a branch here and there in his haste, when he noticed the stillness, the hush which had overtaken the forest. He slowed down and the stopped in his tracks. He turned his head, his small eyes squinting into the brush. There was movement coming toward him, and when the trees parted, he went to his knees with a gasp. Tears rolled from his eyes, and a golden trunk gently wiped them away.*

*Last line edited from an error in the book.

The Elephant Talks To God on Amazon: http://www.amazon.ca/The-Elephant-Talks-Dale-Estey/dp/0864924593

DE

 

Franz Kafka And His Kafkaesque Life

Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka was born in 1883, so he would probably be dead had he lived.

I wonder what Kafka would think about the worldwide communication and information of today. He was a rigid fixture of the staid (he hated using the telephone). He also was a keen observer of the world around him (he wrote the first newspaper report about aeroplanes, and he invented the safety helmet). It was more this deep divide in his personality which caused him his problems, about which he so famously wrote.

He did not fit into his personal world, yet he fit into the real world perfectly. He was adored by his friends and by many ladies. He was respected at his work and rose to a position of power. His stories were published to acclaim in his lifetime.

Kafka lived a Kafkaesque life. He died a Kafkaesque death (he caught tuberculosis because he drank “pure” unpasteurised cow’s milk). He was rigid in his personal beliefs (until proved wrong), yet he was a beacon of compassion to others.

Kafka was always on a tightrope. He looked at things with such accuracy that his comments can seem bizarre. Supposedly his last words were:  “Kill me, or you are a murderer.” They were to  his doctor, as Kafka beseeches for an overdose of morphine.

I have written much about Kafka. This is a diary entry I had him write in my novel “Kafka In The Castle”:

03 July 1917

The anniversary of my birth. In honour of the day, I do not make it my last.

DE

Kafka Passport Reaches Twice Expected Price At Auction

Alas, I did not get it. And to think they gave it to Kafka for nothing.

I am contemplating a novel dealing with the time frame of this passport. Kafka attained it near the end of his life so he could travel to Berlin and to sanatoriums in other countries. But, he was already doomed.

DE

Sold for US$ 37,500 (CA$ 49,742) inc. premium

Bonhams

KAFKA, FRANZ. 1883-1924. Czechoslovak Passport Signed ("Dr. F. Kafka František"), [Prague, June 1922].
Lot 182
KAFKA, FRANZ. 1883-1924.
Czechoslovak Passport Signed (“Dr. F. Kafka František”), [Prague, June 1922].
Sold for US$ 37,500 (CA$ 49,742) inc. premium

Letter To Franz Kafka

19.09.2015

Dear F:

Though it will give you no pleasure (well, ‘little’ pleasure) you are correct in all your observations.

Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies that run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right-wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held sway over the city where you spent your life.  All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better.

Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.

Sex is highly over rated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly “’tis a consummation devoutly to be had”.  Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

People are just one damned thing after another. Of course, so many people have brought you blessings that you throw up you hands to ward off the snake. Sometimes loosening its grip.

There is no castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human.  Which is why you never tried.

Except the grave, of course.

Except the grave.

Yours,

DE

The Trial is over.

Kafka And Fame

(Charles University – Prague)

There are rumours (none of them started by me) that Kafka had direct dealings with Einstein, Joyce, and even Hitler.

The first two are more than possible. Einstein taught at Charles University when Kafka was a student there. Joyce was in Prague when Kafka lived there. It is quite probable they travelled in the same literary circles. Went to the same coffee houses (which Kafka frequented). Attended the same readings, or literary events, or even book stores.

The Hitler connection is far more tenuous, but based on fact. Hitler was treated, in Munich, by a doctor who had dealt with Kafka’s family in Prague. And Kafka did visit Munich in the right time frame. Kafka did, after all, predict Hitler’s world as much as he did the Communists.

Although I have, in my novel about Kafka,  “filled in” his missing diaries, I never give him such speculative encounters – tempting though it was. All events in my Kafka novel are based on detailed research from his own writings, writings of his friends, and multiple biographies.

I have written one short story that is totally speculative, where Kafka is encouraged to meet “the Austrian with the tiny mustache”, so as to kill him and stop an impending terrible war. And save his sisters from the camps.  But that doesn’t  happen in my fiction, either.

DE

The Jewish Gal On The Way To Dachau

I once received a post card from Auschwitz, saying: “Wish you were here.”  From a friend with a ‘certain’ sense of humour. Yes, I know we choose our friends as opposed to our families, but I probably would have done the same. Irreverent humour is but one response to that which is beyond response.

As it was, the post card took me back to my university days, when I worked on a farm in Germany in lieu of getting into a Goethe Institute. Not particularly taxing farm work. I could relate the painting of apple trees or escaping from the midst of a herd of bulls after breaking my whip on one of their backs – but I won’t. If I ever get to my memoirs however . . .

After the farm I travelled through Germany and parts of Europe,  mostly by train.  One of my stops was Munich where, as often as not, I stayed in a Youth Hostel. And there I met the Jewish gal on her way to Dachau. She was from the US and not on a work experience as was I. Dachau was the specific destination for her.

She either borrowed postage stamps from me, or I from her – I don’t remember, though I know we exchanged them.  We had the part of two days together (no – no nights) and then she was on her way. I don’t remember if she asked me to accompany her to Dachau, but I think not. Although I was going to Britain to visit relatives, I believe I would have taken that extra day.

As it was, we exchanged addresses and, upon our return to North America, we wrote letters. And, as it was, we arranged a visit to my New Brunswick home from her New England home. That was quite a leap for less than twenty-four hours together. I picked her up after dark at the closest airport. During the drive I stopped in the middle of forest for two hitch hikers. She must have been a bit concerned, but she said nothing. I remember the deep smell of pine from their clothes, as they had been working in the woods.

She stayed with my parents and I for four days (no nights there, either). She told me that when her mother was talking to her grandmother on the phone about the trip, she heard her grandmother bellow across the room “IS HE JEWISH?”

Thus does memory flow from a post card.

I don’t, alas, remember her last name (this being decades ago). At the time she was studying to be an air traffic controller. Whether she  became one, and whither she went, I do not know. When I last communicated with her she was attending Brown University. She did not discuss Dachau with me.

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