He sat perched in his old place, where he had sat a thousand times before. From that lofty height he turned and gazed upon the green patched floor. He saw all that there was to see; there the smoking chimneys and there the willow trees. Nothing could escape his gaze, there was nothing there he did not know. He knew the lanes, their bends and straights. He knew the hedges, farms and loam. He knew each cheerful homestead and each happy family. He knew the little streams and brooks, he knew each bird and tree.

This is my home he thought to himself, quite contentedly. Why is this not my native land, where all my life I’ve been? I could not leave, I never could, for other pastures green. This is the place where I was born and it’s where my bones shall be. Truly, he thought, I know no other, who loves this land like me. In this final thought he was disturbed by a kindly chuckling sound, and sheepishly he turned to see his good friend sat there on the ground.

“None but you dear friend,” said he, and he sat down there beside Him. “For you knew this place before I was born, and you’ll be here long after. You saw my father grow up tall and you saw me on his knee. You saw my forebears come down the hill in that early century. You saw them plough and hunt and fish and build all that I see. You saw my father take the path up to this perch of mine, and soon I’ll show my sons up the way to where my father lies.”

He looked sadly then upon the grave that held his father’s bones. There soon he too would lie, amidst the dirt and stone. Yet fear of death he did not feel, for his father had held no qualms. No better place for a man to lie than there beneath the clouded sky, high up and watching o’er the place where his children would run their race. Sooner or later they’d join him up near the sun, to stand their watch till the end times come. And always, always there would be, his dearest friend for all to see. He would sit there basking in the heat, impervious to Time’s marching feet. Staunchly there He would remain when Winter’s chill rolled in again. He would see the Spring flowers upon the graves, and He’d see Autumn rains wash them away. Each year He would begin anew, and this pleasant home, though much might change, would never forget its father’s ways. Up they’d come, up through the path, forged by hands in ancient times. And there they’d meet their dearest friend, oh friend of all the ages past, who knows the first man and the last and who never, not for all time, shall see the fading of this green valley. 

The man was old, old in his bones, and he stood up with a groan. About him swirled the winds of Time, through the crags it howled and moaned. He looked again at his dear friend, who had not yet said a word. But something had changed in that short time, something deafening but unheard. His dear friend was smiling still, as he always had, but somewhere in those bottomless eyes he detected something sad. At His signal the old man turned to look upon the grave; the grave in which his father lay, so noble and so brave. And the sight that greeted him was foul – it drove him to his knees. For there in place of flowers and bees laying rotting deadened things. And past this he looked, on down the hill, on to the little town. Its familiarity had fled, it seemed twisted and cast down. No birds there were, no little trees, and the streams were clogged with filth. The hedge trimmed fields were fallow and bare and the people bent and still.

Suddenly beside him his dear old friend appeared. The man looked where He pointed, from where Time’s winds were sent: up to the sky above the peaks, up to the firmament. And there he saw a dark descend, a veiling of the sun. He watched it pass through all the land where once he’d laughed and run. And the mountains seemed to crumble and waste away to dust, until all was just a wasteland, where men but wept and cursed. Beholden to this vision, he could not help but weep, and turning to his dear old friend he saw those same tears on His cheeks. His old friend began to speak, and what He had to say was enough to make the good earth tremble and night come over day. He did not speak in thunder, no lightning did He employ. His voice was soft as summer wind, though devoid of summer’s joy. Behind it lay a sadness deeper than man could know: a solemn regret and dreadful threat that, though in-kind words intoned, seemed to carry a grievous weight that hammered upon the soul.

“My good fellow”, began the dear old friend. “Buried you will be, beside your father’s grave. But none more after will be laid – none more that I can save. I shall be the only one to watch over this place: the joyous view that we share now shall be forgotten by your race. No more shall men come to the mountain, they’ll stay down there on the floor. A pleasant view, a couple of graves – what are these to worldly men, enshrined in power so great? ‘Tis the nature of men to do such wrong, learning only of their folly when the world is too far gone.”

The poor old man was broken and scared, and would have died right there of sorrow, had not his friend drawn him close as he shook unto his marrow. “But…but you might do something… something to stop it all? You might do something to prevent their fall? This is my home, my good green land! The land of my fathers, who left it to my care. How could it end with me, upon this mountain top? How could so great a thing ever still and stop? You are…the Lord, oh say that you are not! The God I know would not let this pass, he would such things allow! Oh, say that this is some cruel trick and all will be right from now!”

“Do not tempt the Lord your God” came the swift reply.“I know how much it pains you, but know I too can cry. In giving man his Will, I gave him then a choice. I set him on a crossroads, where freedom has its voice. And with that Will your fathers built this green land for you, and with that Will you followed their plan so faithfully and so true. But the minds of men are weak, and the good times breed the bad. The works of men must pass away, just as you must return to the clay. One cannot outlive the other, for the memory is weak. No matter the laws that you lay down, the promises you extract; always there must come at last some foolish, selfish act. It will render all your work undone and your legacy defiled. This is the fate of all who live, and it pains me then, that Will to give.”

“But why then, friend, why do it at all – if all that we make is destined to fall? It seems cruel and hopeless and twisted, and it makes me feel so small! Why do you tell me this, as I go to my funeral pall?”

“I tell you now” said his dear friend softly, “because you would have discovered all in time. But your work has not been hopeless – it is the will of the Divine. In this little green valley here you have improved the fate of mankind; brought it forward one faltering step, one step more in the great climb. Though all will be forgotten, in time your heirs will learn. Out of darkness comes the light, and this coming age will yield respite. To history they will look – and they will see you shining clear. A prophet from the olden time, a great and mighty seer! They will look on what you built and they will take it as their own. They will advance the cause of man in ways you cannot know. And they will see how all you built did fall to the great dark, and they will fiercely guard against the sin with which you all are marked. And yes, in time, in ages on, they too shall fall and fail, but through this cycle of history mankind shall yet prevail. You are but one chapter in the story, one page in the great book, but sainted you shall be in time for the things you undertook.”

Some forgotten words came to the old man there, echoing from his boyhood fair. Up he had climbed, his father behind, pointing the way to the top. ‘Neath the dozing sun they’d smiled and run ‘till at last the day was done. Sat on the ground he’d listen and note the lyrical words his father spoke. They came to him now, and he spoke them aloud, face brightening from his dark frown:

“The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him.
The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him.
It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.”

The Lord God smiled on through His tears for, though He knew all His creation, the spirit of man still never failed to astonish and amaze Him. “I see”, said He, “that you now know the truth of things quite plain. It is a noble labour, a thankless task, to share the work with God. Many will hate and many will laugh, and yet you still plough on. The hope and glory of your boyhood have not quite left you yet, and that spirit shall sustain mankind in the time that’s left. But for you, true man, the work is done. The time for peace is soon at hand, your battle has been won.”

Though it pained him then to know that his sons would not lie near, the old man wished for nothing more than to rest with his father here. He looked once more upon the town to which all his life he’d given, and he felt content for well he knew that he had done the will of heaven. Gazing now for the last time upon his valley green, he saw her lanes, her slopes and brooks, but he knew that he must leave. And vibrating through his aching bones he felt the Love of God, and he smiled as those glorious words did his soul embrace:

“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, and I have kept the faith.”

– Arran Kearney