THE HERMIT AND THE SAVAGE
I will tell you here about what
happens to those who don’t believe in the Almighty and the Son of God and
who blaspheme in deeds, words, and Name. Actually, I’m writing about the
savage who flees from human law as well--woe is he! Not only from human
sins and vices, theirs and his own, but who now wanders and lives as a
beast on the edge of a thick forest, and I, a nameless hermit praising His
Name in daily prayer, occasionally must strain my eyes toward him through
the crack in this cell, and I realize that my eyes witness sinful things,
but here I atone for them by recording them in this chronicle, letting it
serve as a warning for all who might do likewise in the future. So, not
only has this outcast from God and men not forsaken his former vices but he
has also acquired new ones, and now he lives in a cabin with a she-wolf.
(God have mercy on me for mentioning his sin!).
But for this the Almighty punished him with a horrible death,
as I will relate, in six days, just as He once created the world and all
who die or live, who are still or move upon the earth to glorify His Name,
Amen.
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE FIRST DAY
This day the unseen Angel of God spread the forest trails and
meadows with thorns, and he, pursuing some god’s deer, trod on a large
hawthorn spike; for no sinner can finally escape His punishment, no matter
how long he avoids it. This first punishment may not necessarily be the
final horrible judgment for his sins; it may also be a warning, so that the
poor sinner chooses the right path through repentance. For no matter how
severe the punishment and revenge of God, His mercy is also great. Glory be
to Him!
(I’m writing this on a sheet of parchment, and here’s what
I’m writing on its back, I, the Christian—the chronicler of his
sufferings.)
At first, he probably did not even try to remove the great
spike from his foot. The pain came so suddenly and sharply that he stood
leaning on a tree at the very spot he stopped in his hunting, still panting
from chasing the deer and perhaps calmly watching his blood flow, until it
coagulated in a large dark spot on his foot. He must have felt reborn from
this throbbing pain, something his healthy body had not felt for a long
time. And then he deliberately did not want to remove the thorn, because he
wanted the pain to linger as long as possible, built into his body. Thus he
was returned to the wonderful world of suffering, which he had forgotten
during the time he wandered and lived healthy and strong, but as an animal,
no longer as a man.
Now I see him stumbling in pain towards his cabin, but with a
new expression, illuminated with heavenly light. He limps on one foot,
stops and sits, but it is obvious--new waves of pain pulse in his veins.
After a while he starts dragging himself through the low brambles and sharp
stones. But what is that compared to his renewed, regenerated soul? Here he
is in front of his cabin, his hands bloody, with fresh spurts of pain from
the primal tree of suffering, which he bears in his body as the spine of
his human nature. Tears stream down his face on their own. Not out of
natural pain, I believe, as much as from his excitement. Regardless, these
are still human tears, and I rejoice that he has been returned to human
frailty. For, what are we all if not worms that squirm before the eyes of
the Almighty, at His feet!
He spent the remainder of the day lying in his cabin without
a sound, not even a moan. God knows his thoughts then. But now, in the
evening, he mutters something, something like a sob or hoarse giggle, who
knows. Before falling asleep, he starts singing a sad song, which I don’t
know, nor can I hear the words.
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE SECOND DAY.
The Angel of God sent yesterday to administer punishment to
this infidel prophesied: "All other wounds inflicted on thee shall heal,
but the one God hath sent upon thee shall not heal, for it is punishment
for thy transgressions!" Man, you worm of God, why don’t you understand
your suffering, why don’t you confess your sins and prostrate yourself
before Him to pray for your soul's salvation? Don’t be stubborn, for you
hope you will avoid His seal, but perils yet await you.
This morning, I observe that he is still trying to remove the
thorn, sitting before his cabin in the first rays of the sun. I hope not
because he wants his pain to cease, because it can persist without the
thorn and develop further on its own, for it has penetrated him deeply
enough to last as long as he does, that is, forever. But the thorn seems to
have penetrated so deeply into his open wound that, fortunately, all of his
attempts to remove it are vain. Now he gives up and raises his wounded foot
high, as if he wants to show it to me, or perhaps to Him! It’s still not
too late yet; he can beg for mercy…
But there's nothing like that. There, he is withdrawing into
the shade of his cabin and lies there throughout the day, dragging himself
around it, as if around some thought of safety that never comes to him.
Only at noon, now, in the greatest heat, he manages to drag himself to the
spring, some ten paces from my cave and this cell. He thirstily lowers his
head and then his leg too, slowly and painfully. I can also see it from
here, how inflamed and swollen it is, from the ankle up. I still watch him,
but he, seeming not to know that I’m watching, drinks water again, laps,
wretched thing, as if he could slake his pain in this manner. And he drags
himself again to the shade of his cabin. As if I didn’t exist--not once did
I notice him looking toward the cave. You can see his pride is still there,
the first and foremost of sins.
And perhaps he wants to suffer it all alone and stubbornly
doesn’t bow to Him, and so, now, at sunset, the first fever begins. You can
see how he shakes and sweats in the last rays of the sun, how he turns over
and over. From time to time he merely moans quietly, through his teeth,
like a beast still, thinking that he can forcibly draw up his pain within
himself.
Then, I hear nothing more, no matter how much I listen. I
wait for him to sing his sad song from yesterday, but it’s gone. At night
I’m awakened by some moaning or howling. Maybe the she-wolf has come. I get
up, but nothing can be seen in the moonlight, and I hear nothing more.
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE THIRD DAY.
I pray for the salvation of his soul, when he himself won't
seek it. For I feel as if I suffer the pain he feels, and that his sins are
mine. And blessed be my soul for that, Lord!
And yet, stubborn, proud being, why don’t you pray for your
own salvation, and why don’t you surrender to the will of God? Fall to your
knees, at least the good one! Don’t turn your face from this divine
manifestation visited upon you, and don’t face your Death in darkness.
He expects the she wolf, and from time to time he even gets
up, groping for one of the beams of the cabin. At early dawn, the day still
not far from night, after I prayed for permission during my first prayers,
I left my cell and quietly descended to the cabin. He lay inside sleeping,
breathing heavily. I admit I didn’t know what to do, so I circled the
cabin, thinking, until I stepped into a pool of pus and blood, and I
immediately felt the thorn under my bare foot. It seems that the thorn fell
out itself in this flow of festering blood, perhaps yesterday as he churned
with fever. After the thorn impregnated his body with human pain, the pain
itself pushed it aside as unnecessary. Forgive me, Lord, that I couldn’t
help leaning down, and I took the long, thin, fatally sharp thorn with me
to my cell. But at least I washed it at the spring, and I keep it, as You
sent it to him through Your Angel as rightful punishment.
And now he looks toward the forest, expecting the she-wolf.
He needs her as never before, as if she could deliver him from his
suffering, and not prayer and repentance before Him who sent him the
justified chastisement. But what if she doesn’t come? What good is he for
her now--weak, sick, and human? She must have sniffed around the cabin at
night, sniffing and smelling him.
Noon passes, and he still waits for her, sitting with his
wounded foot stretched out, or standing on his good one and leaning on a
cane. Finally he drags himself in this direction, his tongue hanging into
his beard, and I see his whole foot now; there is an open wound up to his
ankle. He plunges it into the spring with his teeth clenched and starts to
clean it with his trembling hand, no doubt cleansing it of worms and
maggots. From time to time he stares in bewilderment, and now I see that he
doesn’t expect the she-wolf anymore, but he’s afraid of death, and this is
why he trembles, out of fear. But why doesn’t he look toward me, why
doesn’t he ask for help, even from me, the despised hermit?
And again, nothing. He lapped up some water and returned,
dragging himself toward the cabin. Now, twilight already, he gets inside
the cabin and starts howling in pain again. The fever has returned.
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE FOURTH DAY.
I pray for him. May the Almighty forgive him for his sins, or
at least spare him from suffering. I pray for myself too. May God give me
the power to resist and not go to him. And may I find mercy because I
suffer for him too, and not for myself alone.
Lord, I’m begging you to bestow on me this double suffering,
and hear my prayer for us both!
(On the back of this parchment I write nothing today, because
nothing else occurs, except my suffering and his, but I neither go to him
nor does he come to me, and today he didn’t even come to the spring.)
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE FIFTH DAY.
I no longer make a distinction between the front and the back
anymore, just writing as it comes.
I wonder from early dawn whether or not I am a man, a person.
All night I prayed to Him to let me act upon my conscience, send me a sign
at least, and even forbid me to go to him, that is, strike me down with a
bolt of His lightening. If he would send me His Angel to stab me straight
in the heart with his thorn. But all this morning, nothing…
Well, then… Lord, still I will go. Damn my contemptible
hermitage, and the absolution of my own sins, when I don’t assist my
Brother and I let him die over there like a beast. Punish me with His
suffering too, destroy me, here, whenever you want, but still I have to
help my Brother, as the Son of God teaches.
And here I go (it’s not too late yet to crush me, Lord). I
take my medicinal herbs, and yes, the cross, a water jug, and I go to the
spring first to fill it. And then straight over thorns and stones to his
cabin. If only I am in time. I’ll lift the whole cosmos with my feet. I
approach and notice a shadow burst into the cabin. The she-wolf, I think.
Will she attack me? I wonder and slowly creep toward the entrance. The
stench of his wound stops me at the threshold. But just for a moment, until
I get used to it. I go inside and see: he lies on a bed of dry leaves and
is breathing, whimpering. He’s alive. I think, thank You for this, Lord!
And I greet him in His Name: "May God help you!" The she-wolf
at once stands and growls, but he calms her down with his hand. So, he’s
still aware. Now the she wolf lies down next to him like a tame dog. I lean
over him and see: his whole foot has putrefied and only blackened skin
contains the pus that drops from it in white globs. Now he looks at me with
wide, bloodshot eyes, as if he sees me for the first time, as if I hold the
only thread of salvation for him. And what can I do? I slowly turn my head
left and right several times. He understands and closes his eyes. I cross
myself and want to press the cross against his lips, but half-way I am
jolted to my senses. I fling aside the cross and the herbs.
Then I leave. I inhale deeply and call out: "He’s dying, you
mother-fucker!" I yell at the sky, the sun, the surrounding hills, but
nothing, as though nothing is happening!
AND IT WAS MORNING AND EVENING, THE SIXTH DAY.
He lay dying for a long time, from early morning to high
noon. He uttered not a single word while he was conscious, and he didn’t
open his eyes until his final breath, when he stared at me with eyes wide
open, and he remained like that, with an empty expression. Then we knew he
had died, myself and his she-wolf. I pressed his eyelids closed and dragged
him out of the cabin to the nearest soft soil. I dug out a shallow hole
with my hands and fingernails, together we covered him with the surrounding
sod, and, instead of a cross, I placed a bare, hard stone on top of it.
And now I leave for the forest with the she-wolf, leaving
this parchment behind. Farewell, ascetic life; farewell, world of God;
farewell, human suffering!
