The Wait of the Soul

Part 1

He watched.
He always watched, what else was there to do?
The living moved about so clumsily, stumbling between crisis and disaster, the two states only separated by periods of sleep or seemingly pointless activity. It was the only amusement to be had in the tedious hours he spent wandering the castle and town.

No, it was no longer a town; now it was a city. What had once been his walled, fortified home had become dwarfed by progress. Of late the fragile buildings, like their occupants, had spread out, leaching into fields and forest. Most now, was gone, replaced by what he heard called 'motorways'. What he saw were rivers of angry machines, where all moved forward and back in pretended urgent purpose.

It was the pretence that irritated him most. They pretended there was a point to all they did. The storing up of useless objects, shuffling them from place to place, and with such a show of pressing importance. He had looked over shoulders at lists carried and ticked off. Listened to intense conversations about orders, deliveries, and the failures of both. He had sat in alehouses as the same mortals discussed games and wagers. Loves won and lost, though they hardly seemed loves to him, so swiftly were they replaced. The affections were so shallow that momentary separations seemed to actually cause new ardours to occur. His experience of such things were of happiness lost, painful longings, unreturned affection, then violent death.
All at his own foolish craving for power and riches.

Even the Church had slipped into passivity. Sin, it seemed, no longer existed. It had been replaced by 'mistakes'; mere errors of judgement, unfortunate circumstances, or, worse still, the sinful act somehow became a virtue. If this were true, how was he still made to pay for sins that no longer appeared even to be sins? Why was he to serve punishment for all his mistakes? He had known many wretches, sinners of the foulest kind. Whoremasters, thieves and murderers, rich men all. They had paid their way to heaven, even that he understood, but he had denied himself so many times, suffered the torture of passions rejection but never had he lied at confession. Many times he had tried to put right his wrongs, though mostly he failed. Always God knew his heart, as black as it ever became.

At first, the vagaries of it all had enraged him, then as time went; it became anger, then annoyance. Now it was simple irritation.

There were things he understood to be improvements. Water was clean and in constant supply, but the people squandered it, as they squandered all else they had. Higher purpose appeared to enter the lives of few he watched. In all the years of his servitude in this place, he had noted only perhaps two or three instances of truly noble actions.

The first was by a soldier, at the time when the country had again split itself in two, populace 'gainst king. Intrigue and greed had paraded themselves as honesty and integrity once more, the guise of politics hiding the usual offences. The county had been for Parliament and the soldier wore a sash of sea green. He watched as the troops occupied the town. There had been only cheers from the people as the commanders took up residence in the best homes. The soldiery was billeted in wherever they could find shelter and comfort. But these men were different from those of his own time. They did not dice, drink to excess, nor try to fornicate with any woman available. These men sang psalms, shouted praises to God in the stead of crude oaths.

He listened to one particular soldier, a noisome man of the firebrand ilk. The talk was of liberty, enfranchisement for all. He had scoffed at what the man said. That all were equal on this earth was clearly nonsensical. But when he thought of all the buffoons and greedy fools he had been forced to obey in his days of service, he made them right. A proud station in life did not necessarily bring with it a superior intellect.

Then in battle, he had seen that same man put himself 'twixt a fallen drummer boy of the King's colours, and the pike head of his own company. The act was tragically foolish, both died. But in that death, the older man held the dying youngster, soothed his heart with gentle words. While about them more pointless blood was spilt in the name of men's follies.

So much he had seen, it would have been easier to forget, but the lively innocence of thought the men voiced made him long to debate with them. Perhaps it was not such nonsense after all. Perhaps they were right in other things too, that women be man's helpmeet and boon companion, not his possession.

Once more he remembered his own wife. She had been small, but as he minded, bonny. The sweating sickness had taken her within the second year of their marriage. He mourned her loss; she had kept him warm and satisfied, even made him laugh. He had called her his 'little brown bird', grown to love her even, in a quiet unassuming way, yet alas their time had been short. The daughter she had given him was too small to survive without her mother, and she died also.

Her marriage portion had been a tidy manor, however, in his youthful foolishness, he put his trust in the malicious fiend who proved the author of so many of his ills, and lost that too.

But Arlette had long ago gained Paradise with their child; he doubted they would ever meet again.

Of course, there had been other women, other loves gained but not earned. Even an unrequited longing for a pure, brave lass who would not have him. Again his sins were too great for her to forgive. She too died.

He stilled, looking toward the east, it was growing light.