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Triumph of Lost Souls
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Triumph of Lost Souls |
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SPIRIT Senior Member
since 2002-12-29
Posts 1745California Desert |
TRIUMPH OF LOST SOULS Throughout the ages the menacing hand of poverty has deprived the heart and soul of those touched. Bereaved them of dignity and confidence. Stripped them of the will to live. Truly the Devil's advocate, creating dishonesty, greed and discouragement in lives already fraught with despair and heartbreak. A breeding ground for illiteracy, laziness and self-contempt. Harken then unto this tale where the Devil loses his hand to the Angel of God, even after many years of labouring in the belief that he was in complete control of the situation. Where he actually gives up possession of not one lost soul, but two, after the chain of love he diabolically severed is repaired in a simple, unconscious act of forgiveness. If, gentle reader, you do not believe that there are both, good and evil forces at work in the every day world, then waste not your time, read no more. The same holds true if your ears are sensitive to hearing about a coarser way of life. Also ignore this written epistle if you have no empathy towards those less fortunate than yourself, and if you do not believe in miracles. If, however, your curiosity is peaked, then read on. I am indeed honoured to have your attention. The village was very small. Many of those who lived there lived on the boundaries of poverty. Many more lived below this line. Very few, if any, lived above it. A dismal cloud always seemed to hang over the region and the inhabitant’s therein. Grey skies were always prevalent, as were cold winds and an overpowering dampness. It seeped into the walls of the homes and into the hearts of the villagers, who lived within those same walls. Emily Wren, or Emmy as she was known, was a child of such conditioning. Adept at lying and stealing and with a strong sense of survival, she left her home at seventeen to make a life for herself in a neighbouring town. Emmy was far older than her years. Her father, a thatcher by trade and lazy by nature had abused her, time and time again, for his own selfish satisfaction. The sexual assaults on her small body left her with a feeling of emptiness, self-loathing, and a guilt, that was not hers to bear, and an enormous distaste for the male of the species. John Wren was a crude and oafish man. His hands were strong and cruel, never loving. They never caressed, only pained as he took what he considered his to take. Nonetheless, these acts against nature and the laws of God gave Emmy a sense of power. She sensed that a man would grovel to touch the female body, placing the female, for a short period of time, in the controlling position, which could then be used very advantageously, for personal gain. Emmy was young and yet so old. Pretty and yet at times, ugly. Her face and attitudes had been touched by the quality of her life, which at the best of times was far from good. The opportunities for employment were few and far between, but Emmy's fetching smile and young budding figure had earned her an honest, if somewhat menial position at the local tavern. The tavern fed and bedded down travellers passing through and Emmy's job was to clear the tables and turn down the beds for the weary journeyers. The kitchen at the tavern was very large. Meat cooked on a spit over an open hearth. The tavern owner was known for his generous nature as far as food in his establishment. Knowing this, the travellers felt this made up for the high prices of his beds. They also knew that they would not have to share a bed with any other guest, as in some inns, and so the tavern was always a hub of activity. The cook saved Emmy the better scraps from the dinner plates, whilst the rest went to the two dogs that slept by the hearth. Emmy's hours were very long and the tavern keeper allowed her to sleep on the floor on a goose feather pallet. In return for which she was to make herself available to him on demand. He had lost his wife due to his impotency, but he still desired to press a firm young female form next to him. Emmy satisfied his need, and he in turn, tried to do what he considered right, by her. She discovered the art of flirting and used it to her full advantage. Her eyes and body made promises she would not keep. The travellers, full of wine and food, were tempted sorely by this lively young wench who put crock bottles of hot water in their beds and turned down the sheets so invitingly. With a toss of her hair she would allow them a glimpse of her maidenly breasts. Maybe, she would sometimes allow them a slight touch, and many times she received an affectionate pat on her bottom, as she would turn to leave the room. Her tips far surpassed those of other girls working in a like position. She hoarded these tips behind a loose panel in the pantry. The young men, she discovered, were not so easy to pry money from. The older men, however, were tantalised by her teasing, and if they were ugly as well then they paid even better. Honoured, no doubt, that they should be recipients of this delicious child's attention. Emmy, took their money eagerly and with no conscience. She hated them all. She laughed at their obvious stupidity. They were fools, each and every one of them, but they would make her rich. Emmy, never having known or experienced love was totally taken aback by her reactions to a young sailor who stopped at the tavern on his way back to his ship. Tall of stature, he moved gracefully in a perpetual fluid motion. An unruly mop of dark curly hair enhanced his good looks. Blessed with laughing eyes and a mouth that was inviting in its fullness and made even better by white even teeth. His very presence seemed to light up an entire room. Looking at his hands, Emmy was shocked by the long fingers and non-callused condition. She wondered what it would be like to be caressed by such gentle looking hands. She was aware of him looking at her and for once she was unable to flirt. She felt uncommonly coy and knew that her cheeks ruddied at his look. His was the last room to be attended to and Emmy was scared and embarrassed to enter with the hot water bottles and to turn back his sheets. Emmy did not leave the room until the early morning hours. Never in her life had Emmy known such ecstasy. His touch, gentle yet strong, seemed to transport her to another dimension. She gave herself fully, her passions equal to his. Her body, young, straining and eager rose to meet his into heavenly oblivion. For a short and memorable time they were as one. Emmy left his room still not knowing his name, but with her body glowing from his touch and her ears hearing the promises of his return. In a few short hours Emmy had, for the first time in her life, known gentleness at the hands of the opposite sex. She was loving. She was loved and unbelievably happy. Nothing ever again could mar her joy at this time. The sailor, smiling, jolly and very handsome had indeed been an exciting lover. He created a fantasy world for Emmy, which she lived in far beyond the solitary night at the tavern. She cradled herself in the warmth of his unfettered impulsive zeal. He had taken her far beyond the realms of reality. He had given her more than she had ever known, at the same time took more than she had ever been willing to give before. For a few short but precious hours she had felt loved and protected. He had supplied her with an escape from her tawdry existence, and she felt unwilling to return to it. But return to it, she had to, so she tucked the memories deep within the recesses of her mind and continued on with her life. It was much the same as it had been before the sailor's arrival on the scene. Emmy found herself tiring quicker than usual. Her breasts hurt and her menses, which had always been irregular, had stopped completely. A bitter nauseous ness would greet her in the morning hours and try as she might she could keep no food down, not until the noon hour. Having seen her mother through several pregnancies she knew without a doubt that she was with child. Her delicate condition was made more so by the knowledge that she was unwed, and knew not the father's name. All she was sure of was that he was a sailor with gentle hands. He had given her unquestionable joy, which had now brought her down to this disgrace. The tavern keeper kept her on as long as he was able to, not wanting to lose her, but when her condition began to show and cause talk, he had no choice but to relieve her of her position. His sister, an elderly spinster, crippled with arthritis, needed a companion. Emmy would earn no pay, but she would have room and board in exchange for her services. She would be allotted privacy and a place to call her own once the baby was born. Emmy felt that she had no choice but to comply. She packed her few meagre belongings and took her small savings hoard and moved in with the tavern keeper's sister. The sister was a very lonely lady and she loved having Emmy live with her. Emmy had a warm bed in her very own room for the first time in her life. There was never a shortage of food, good nourishing food. How wonderful not to have to go to bed hungry. In spite of her predicament Emmy felt well and truly blessed and thanked the Lord daily for this turn, for the better, in her life. Every day, also, she begged forgiveness for her past transgressions, and she felt at peace with herself. She was very content at this time in her life. The child, a boy, was born on a dreary, damp day and the labour had been long and hard. Emmy had suffered terribly. The birth had been made worse by the coarse, uncaring local woman who acted as midwife in the event. Somehow, at that time, Emmy could find no love within herself for her son. She resented his intrusion into her life. She went through the motions of motherhood because she had to, but she was loath to do it for any longer than necessary. To interrupt here, it is wise if the reader realizes that in telling Emmy's story it is not to condemn. Rather it is to raise sympathy for the plight of the young girl and perhaps to make the reader see that what happens next, although tragic, is perhaps, somewhat understandable. You are not being asked to sit in judgment, nor are you asked to condone. Simply, to open your hearts and to thank God that you travelled on smoother roads. Emmy nursed the child for three weeks. Three short weeks that seemed like a lifetime to her. Her body and head ached from the mess she had made of her life. She no longer thanked God for her blessings, but instead, drew herself closer and closer to the temptations offered by the Devil. At one time the Devil had feared to lose her, but her emotional instability once more gave him the winning edge. He was certainly not going to let her slip away from him again. A monastery sat about a mile out of town. Large buildings compounded behind extraordinarily high walls made it inaccessible to the local residents from the surrounding towns and villages. The holy men within were known to be devout, gentle and caring. They wore hooded robes of dark brown, belted with gold cord around the waist. The clean- men were the students of the order, whilst those who had given their lives whole-heartedly to Christ wore beards and their hair was long. They grew their own vegetables and fruits. Cows were kept for their milk, not for meat. Chickens and ducks supplied eggs in abundance, which they traded in exchange for the other staples they needed for their survival. Flowers and trees could be seen by the masses if one looked through the cracks in the heavy iron trimmed wooden gate. The gate that kept the outside world out and the monks in. It was to this place that Emmy took her boy child, on a day that was wet, windy and grey. The weather suited her disposition well. She wrapped the boy in several blankets and placed him in a basket that she had taken from the tavern keeper's sister. The walk to the monastery was long and cold. When she arrived at the gate she placed the basket on the steps and pulled the large chain that operated the bell inside. For good measure she hung on to it for longer than need be. As soon as she heard the creaking of the monastery doors she let go and ran into a nearby wooded area. A monk with a kindly face beneath a long beard of salt and pepper grey slowly opened the gate. He looked around for whoever might have rung the bell when his attention was attracted by a small cry from a basket on the steps. He peered between the folds of the damp blankets. On viewing the baby boy he raised his eyes heavenwards and crossed himself. He then appeared to bless the basket with its precious cargo, and then he picked it up very carefully and retreated from whence he had come. The gate closed heavily and the finality of what she had done seemed to rest heavy on Emmy in her hiding place. One might wonder if the moisture on her face was from rain, or tears. The latter choice is a more Christian view and one hopefully shared by the empathetic readers of this story. The closing gate also spelled out victory for the Devil, who was beside himself with satanic glee. Emmy was a moth to his candle flame and he would make sure that she never escaped from him again. Emmy scurried away in the opposite direction from where she had come, and was never seen or heard of in the area again. Not only did she severe the cord between herself and her infant son, but also between her friends and acquaintances, who after many weeks of wondering about Emmy and her child, let her slide from their minds so that they could carry on themselves. They were free in the knowledge that they had done all they could have done for her. The monks, all God fearing men, named the boy John Paul. They prayed that he would be healthy and strong, then they could find a Christian home in which to place him. But in His infinite wisdom God appeared to have a different idea. John Paul was prone to seizures; he suffered some physical deformities and stammered very badly. Accordingly, the monks raised him, themselves, behind the high walls of the monastery. They were totally devoted to him. Each considered himself a father to the child. He was well and truly loved. As the years passed he appeared to be full of love, fond of living. His eyes would sparkle when the monks would give him lessons in religion, the teachings of the Lord and the blessings of the Holy Trinity. They raised him in the knowledge that a better life was lived through the pen, through peaceful solutions to problems, not by the sword or other violent means. His mind was quick, his intelligence superior, but he could hardly walk, and he never ran. Aware of his speech impediment, he kept himself somewhat quiet, although the monks had no apparent trouble in understanding him. After all he was the child who lit up their lives just by his very presence. As a teen, as his body and voice altered, as he became a young man his reasoning of his situation changed somewhat. He took personally his bodily weaknesses. Saw them, misguidedly, as a way for the Lord to take it out on him for his mother's shortcomings, weaknesses and terrible sins. Times when his body would shake uncontrollably and his mouth would foam made him even more convinced that this was the reality of his situation. He was burdened by his deformities; he felt it was a crushing load that he carried alone, his problem, and he knew not what to do about it. Regardless of this erroneous belief, he loved the Lord and got much comfort from His words. In times when he was not feeling sorry for himself he was convinced that in time patience would gain him his reward. He definitely believed in a life where pain and sorrow would be unknown. He knew that he was a good seed, diligently planted. In his heart, felt sure that eventually he would grow strong and tall, for that, surely, was his birthright as a child of a loving Father and God. Without a doubt he knew the Lord was his Creator, his Master and His was the say. The monks had taught him this, and he realized that a time would come when he would be commanded and he would obey. He would become so impatient at himself, and yet deep down he knew that ultimately he would gain that which was rightfully his. He knew within the recesses of his consciousness that the time would come when he would rise above his afflictions. He would be, without a doubt, victorious. The Devil wanted this boy's soul and caused him much pain and torment. Sooner or later the young man would be his, for who could go on forever under such conditions and not give up their belief in the Supreme Being. At times John Paul could actually feel his faith slipping away from him. Oft times, in desperation, he would cry out long and hard for his freedom from his crippled body and doubting soul. He pleaded to get close to the Lord, to burrow in the warmth of His love. He cried out in exasperation, he wanted to go home, to be admitted to a higher life. The deeper his despair the happier the Devil was, and the harder it was for John Paul to stay on the sight of righteousness. The monks loved the young man so much that they suffered for him, and with him, in his anguish. They, also being wise men, knew the solution to John Paul's problems. They were not at liberty to tell him, it was something he had to handle himself. It was his own personal fight 'twixt God and Devil. It was his decision and his alone, which way to go. They knew that the key to cleansing his soul was by a simple act of forgiveness. Forgiveness for a mother that he had never known. Physically, consciously, he blamed her for nothing, for he neither knew her or outwardly cared for her. Mentally, subconsciously, he was terribly scarred by her obvious neglect. He felt deprived of not being her son. It was his impaired attitudes that sat far below the surface of his being that had made him so weak. To be strong he had to be forgiving, then and not before he would be free to surrender his soul. He had made himself a prisoner in a cell of deeply engraved resentments. He was his only cure. It was on a night like he was born that he dreamt of his mother, suffering terribly. He saw her weeping, pleading for her son's forgiveness. Begging for his love and over-looking his deformities. A voice from seemingly nowhere, was it the voice of the Lord? kept prodding him to say the forgiving words that his mother so longed to hear. Another voice kept intervening, telling the young man that no forgiveness was deserved, nor should it be given. God and Devil fought hard and long for the soul of John Paul, but as should be. Good was victorious over evil. With a cry, the words carrying far throughout the monastery, John Paul forgave his mother and wept with relief. Even though still in a sleeping state the burden removed from John Paul was enormous and instant. The monks who heard smothered their ears. John Paul's forgiveness gave him the right to surrender his soul. When John Paul awoke he found that his pillow was wet. He jumped out of bed for the very first time in his life. He was joyous and exuberant. His body was whole. It was no longer the crippled body he had so long lived with. Excitedly he talked, and discovered that he no longer stammered, his words were clear and articulate. His heart was filled with untold happiness. Robing himself quickly, he ran, no he raced to the chapel. He knew he had to be quick for today was the day he would meet his Master. He reached the altar and lit a candle, somewhat wondrously, for his mother. Then he knelt, reverently, to pray. The monks fearful prayed for their young charge, clasping their Psalters close to their bodies. As they prayed they saw John Paul fall to the ground. He went limp and his eyes glazed. The monks stood scared and unbelieving as a heavenly light descended, proving to be an Angel Host that gently raised the boy, taking him to the Eternal Place known simply as Home. In a bed in the home of her sister lay a woman. Old beyond her years. She had lain in a state of virtual non- existence for a long time. No words had come from her lips, nor no look of recognition for those who cared for her. The doctor could find no physical reason for her illness. She had lived a hard life. Had known many men and many bottles. She had lived her life with a guilt that she could not dispose of. Self-hatred was her downfall. Was on a night like that when her son was born that she rose in her bed. Her sister, rushing to her side, was amazed to find that not only was she recognized, but that her sister had a serene, ethereal look about her, she was even smiling. She was informed, in a joyous tone, that he that mattered most had forgiven her sister for her sins. A light filled the room and the sister in the bed, with amazing clarity, broke into singing praises, whilst her sister knelt at the side of the bed and fervently prayed. An Angel of God descended and gently and lovingly lifted the forgiven woman and took her to the Eternal Place to await her reunion with her son. The Devil could not believe that not only had he lost the boy's soul, but his mother's as well, after such a long time of being in control. God was exceptionally happy at the outcome, knowing that to grow and really be joyful, one sometimes must suffer the consequences of one’s own actions. John Paul and his mother, Emmy, were re-united, never to be separated again. To live together, protected beneath the Wings of Angels and the Glory of the Supreme Being. If we traveled backwards, from end to beginning, would the road, I wonder |
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Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
SPIRIT, Well you have me curious. But... it is too long for me to read right now. I'll be back.  If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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SPIRIT Senior Member
since 2002-12-29
Posts 1745California Desert |
It is long isn't it - sorry 'bout that. |
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Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
I'm not complaining...just been up for 20 hours and want some sleep.  If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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kaile
since 2000-02-06
Posts 5146singapore |
Hi SPIRIT, well I read it all...i was wondering whether the stanza below that was in the middle of the story should be left out...because i kinda found it distracting..i however understand why you are trying to do here..just my humble opinion i'm glad the story ended on a postitive note...rather soul-affirming... To interrupt here, it is wise if the reader realizes that in telling Emmy's story it is not to condemn. Rather it is to raise sympathy for the plight of the young girl and perhaps to make the reader see that what happens next, although tragic, is perhaps, somewhat understandable. You are not being asked to sit in judgment, nor are you asked to condone. Simply, to open your hearts and to thank God that you travelled on smoother roads. |
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SPIRIT Senior Member
since 2002-12-29
Posts 1745California Desert |
I appreciate your opinion very much and thank you for reading, but NO! I wouldn't leave that out. This story is written for the 1700 - 1800s' and I think that these little sidelines fit in quite well for that period. I wrote this several years ago and have dissected it more times than I care to admit and I can honestly say 'no more'. |
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