Waylaid Speech

Tongues waylaid in their speaking

By other tongues more prominent

Oft, out of vanity, build monuments

To their unspoken words. And in their

Daily seeking for a proper silence

In which they may pronounce that to which

Their whole soul has succumbed,

They are as one blind to all truth but their own

And bitterly chide that which does not pertain

To their own claim. Lord, may these words

Be not the tokens of a defeated whim
That in their speaking, they die without knowing

A higher truth than that which they hold within.

May they turn the soil of the heart

And sow saintly seeds of virgin love and temperance.

May they birth a rose of truth that speaks itself

Without vain presumption of something higher.

Drink Life

Time is a wine uncorked and well-aged,

of vintage untraceable, a bottle from whose

infinite depths all men satisfy and slake 

their need for life and oblivion,

till, quavering, they heave and wretch forth

their measured existence and give way

to eternal slumber. They wake not knowing

whence they came nor to where they’ve arrived.

Their head aches, their body reels. Foolishly,

they believe they have survived. Their entire lives

seem but dreams—all fortune pursued, forgotten.

In that sober country, those who lived most soberly

are well prepared. Therefore, drink of time and relish it,

but of beverages that may promise a fuller life,

beware.

Snippet from Story

The day the royal carriage arrived for Moses and Father Peters was a blustering, snowy day in December. The wind was fierce and icy cold, and snow drifts were piling up on the roads. The two white mares that were harnessed to the carriage looked incredibly strong, and they were nickering and bowing their heads as Moses and Father Peters entered the beautiful gold carriage. The inside of the carriage was extremely luxurious, with red velvet upholstered seats and cherry-wood arm rests. A bronze radiator hung from its ceiling, which made the carriage very warm. They set off at a brisk pace and the horses somehow didn’t seem to be bothered the least bit by the snow drifts. Moses was wearing his black hooded mask over his tailored suit and coat, and the Father was wearing a great woolen coat over his tunic. The trip to the capital took a total of two days. After trekking through the snowy Meliandra Mountains on the first day, they spent the night in a fine hotel in a small town called Buckerton, where they were given the finest suites. Moses fell asleep as soon as his head touched the downy pillow, and he dreamed dreams of the capital and the king. The second day’s journey was much shorter, as they entered the Capital at dusk. As they drove along the road surrounded by the rocky, barren, dry steppe of the Outer Country, suddenly the Capital came into view. It was situated in a huge, lush valley right along the grand Veganda River, which shone a deep shade of blue as it gently flowed to the West, where the sun was setting. The sun looked huge, Moses thought, like a giant orange sponge soaked through with light, and that light was spilling onto the river and onto the great gold towers of the Capital. Upon beholding this sight, Moses was close to tears. “Father Shepherd is in that sun,” he thought. “I can feel his warmth in it, and see the luminousness of his eyes. He is leading me on toward my destiny, I know it.” And then the carriage began its descent into the valley.

Beginning of story

 It was just approaching one on a cold, stormy Autumn night, and Sarah Saluda, surrounded by her husband Antonio, her midwife, and the midwife’s assistant, lay on her bed, writhing and screaming from pain. The delivery was not going smoothly, and there was a great deal of blood. Antonio couldn’t bring himself to ask the midwife if Sarah was going to die. Instead, he stood—pale, with his jaw clenched—watching the scene in silent horror. 

The child, it seemed, was either being stubborn and refusing to exit the womb, or was too large to do so on its own will. Either way, the child had to come out, or else Sarah would surely die. “Christine,” said the midwife to the young, pretty assistant. “Hand me the scalpel, please.” Christine opened a leather bag that was situated in the corner of the room, and removed a pouch containing several sharp blades. She removed one of the blades and gave it to the midwife. Antonio, noticing the blade, gave her a wild look. “Don’t you worry, Antonio,” said the midwife. “Your wife should be fine. We just have to make an incision in order to remove the child.”

Obviously terrified, Antonio said nothing, but only nodded in reply. He again turned his gaze upon his wife’s face, which was pale as alabaster and covered in beads of sweat. Her blue eyes looked up at him desperately. “OK, now,” said the midwife. “We’re just going to make a small cut here.” She inserted the knife and began to cut. Sarah let out a loud scream. Antonio, finally losing control, yelled at the midwife. 

“What are you doing? You’re going to kill her!”

“Not at all, sir,” said the midwife. “I am saving her, truly.”

Finally, Sarah passed out, and all that could be heard was the sound of the baby crying. “Oh, my,” said the midwife, who was now holding the child. “Oh, my. Please, Antonio, you mustn’t look. Christine! Cut the chord, quick! This child is of the Devil.”

Antonio, seeing the child, froze. He felt his blood run cold. The newborn baby, which appeared to be a boy, was hideously deformed. Antonio went to the corner of the room, put his hand on the wall, and tried to catch his breath.

“Well,” said the midwife to Antonio, “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to keep it. What will you have me do?”

“Kill it,” said Antonio, without turning around. 

“Oh, now Mr. Saluda, we can’t…”

“Just get it out of here!” he cried.

The midwife looked down at the baby which she held in her arms. What could the world do with one so ugly? She had never had such a situation before, and indeed she had never been trained for it. But she had heard at some point in passing that the church was liable to handle such crises as these. Yes, she would bring the child to Father Pryor at the church. If anyone would know what the right thing to do was, it would surely be Father Pryor.

“OK,” said the midwife. “I’ll take him away.”

After instructing Christine to sow up Sarah’s belly and watch over her, the midwife walked with the child in her arms out into the rain. Quickly, she walked up the muddy street toward her small cottage at the end of the lane. Once there, she found her husband in his cobbler’s studio, and showed him the child. “Lord,” he said. “Why would God bring something so wretched and so innocent into this world?” 

“I don’t rightly know,” said the midwife. “But he certainly would go straight to the Devil should he be let to live in this world among common people.”

“Yes,” said the midwife’s husband. “But what should we do with it?”

“We need to take it to Father Pryor,” said the midwife. 

Her husband agreed. They put the child in a basket and covered him up with a blanket. The midwife’s husband saddled his horse, took the child from his wife, and rode across the vast heath that separated the town from the church to bring the child to Father Pryor.