Descending down the final slopes along
the mud-slid road toward the city gate,
our Preacher comes upon the damage done
by th'raging rapids from the peak above.
Before his eye the gate is toppled down
and split across its middle, splintering
and waterlogg'd. The towers at its sides
still stand, but chunks of stone have broken off
their walls t'expose th'interior inside.
He steps upon the fallen gate to pass 10
the threshold to the city, where he finds
some many structures crumbled by the tide,
with shops and homes, entire market streets
alike in shambles, tiles from their roofs
to litter streets in shards all broken up;
and timber frames all beaten down and snapp'd;
and cobblestone uprooted from the mud
that cakes foundations crack'd and streets along;
and sopping awning cloths from stands that fell;
and fruits and veg'tables now torn to shreds 20
along with paste from bread all soak'd and mash'd
to add their rotting stench atop the mess.
Our Preacher makes his way through city streets,
rerouting when he comes upon a path
disaster's struck much worse to block his way,
whilst citizens do rifle through and lift
the wreckage into wagons to convey
the broken pieces to a dumping site
in order to rebuild what they have lost
because of him, and whilst he passes by 30
these working crews, there's many turn to him
to glare suspiciously, for all did hear
his voice before the storm, yet wonder how
to link the two together in their minds;
how should they take th'event that hath occurr'd
as one of his designs if all they've seen
him do's transmute and send their elderly
and ailing to reside among the stars?
For none would ever call this miracle
that he's in truth committed unto them 40
by such a name—so glorified and good—
when only ruin seems to be th'result.
He comes upon the central square and finds
by now it's mostly clear'd of its debris
with only bits of rubble here and there
along its edges and its centre point
and puddles wherein parchment soaking wet
and falling all apart are resting sound.
He presses through toward th'adjacent street
and walks along the muddied tawny stones 50
to come upon his chapel, entrance doors
both crack'd with splint'ring wood, but in their frame
and clos'd. He makes his way around the back—
the alleyway completely slick with mud
that rises up along the walls as well—
to come upon the entrance to his house,
which—due to the enclosing alley walls—
is only water damag'd, not so crack'd.
He enters through the portal to his home,
ascending steps to come upon his floor 60
whose carpet's damp, but mostly all is fine
except for skirts of couch and chairs, and feet
of table in betwixt, and trim of th'walls.
He presses past his living quarters t'ward
the chapel in the front and opens to
a space that's largely similar to that
before the flooding, save the pews did shift
a little, floating on the water fill'd
the structure, and the water-damag'd wood;
the dais—at the elevation same 70
as that behind within the house in back—
is mostly left untouch'd and lectern too.
Returning to his living quarters, he
accepts a seat upon th'upholster'd chair
and here he sits for hours whilst he thinks
and gazes blankly in his reverie
at nothing in particular at all.
The Author takes this opportunity
of nothingness to copy what she's penn'd
within her manuscript to th'other one 80
since leaving from this place those days ago
toward the coastal village to the south,
but as she copies down the part in which
our Preacher melts the falling avalanche
he knocks upon the door and enters in
at her response affirmative to him.
He clears his throat and opens up his mouth
more times than once before he says these words:
"How goes the writing? Seems you're doing more
these recent days than you were doing ere." 90
The Author laces fingers on her lap,
replying to protagonist with this:
"Perhaps you spoke too soon when you declar'd
it time I wrap'd it up with th'epilogue,
for you have given much for me to write
these passing weeks that otherwise I would
have miss'd, and by extension history."
Our Preacher nods, attempting now a grin
or something happier than he appears
to her, so rack'd with guilt he can not hide 100
for any longer 'neath his countenance.
"I'd like to speak about these entries you
have made," he says, unable meet her eyes.
"I'd like to know how I am written in
this story. How I'm represented to
the future generations who may read
this text. I want to know how may they judge
the character you're making out of me."
The Author tilts her head in puzzlement,
for she—naive and young—can't comprehend 110
the meaning of our Preacher's words to her.
"Whatever do you mean your 'character?'
I watch ye live your life and then record
the actions you enact, commit and else.
I'd think that those eventu'lly who read
this work will have t'interpret all the rest,
for I am but th'historian who writes
the piece. I'm not a moral arbiter."
Our Preacher places hands upon his face
and pushes up his forehead to his hair 120
to lace his fingers through and groan whilst he
doth squeeze his lid so tightly over eye
it wrinkles up with creases discontent.
He takes a breath to calm himself and says:
"The actions that I take are horrible!
Or rather do they end in such a way,
but never do I want t'inflict this harm."
The Author shrugs. "I thought you didn't care,
for when you interview'd when we arriv'd
within this city sev'ral months ago, 130
you told me not to differentiate
between the halves of ye; and as I've seen
ye time and time again since merging t'one,
commit your same atrocities, I think
it almost dothn't matter anymore—
the personalities—for nothing's chang'd,
and I've no reason exculpating ye."
Our Preacher thrusts his finger to his chest
and clearly states his words for her to heed:
"I'm guilty of mine actions—I agree— 140
but also do I feel guilt within
that weighs upon mine heart a thousand times
for ev'ry single sin that I commit.
If what I've heard is right, you're telling me
you only write the actions that I do
and not th'emotions and desires I
possess inside—th'intentions of mine acts—
which I would never claim would justify
the things I've done, but rather would allow
a reader's sympathy to humanize 150
somewhat the soul enshrouded in these sins."
The Author grows defensive of her work
at this, deciding Preacher's overstepp'd
the bounds of his opinion over his
biography and spits these words at him:
"I'll write your life objectively as is,
as such is history, regardless your
intentions with the plans that you enact.
Your heart possesses not a place within
the history you've made; what counts alone 160
are th'actions—plain and simple truth and fact—
that anyone with eyes can see themselves.
I'll not allow mine own perceptions t'write
these lines like men who flourish every end
with meaning and philosophy and such
meanderings of commentary depth.
The seeds you sow by light of th'rising sun
are fruit you harvest 'neath the golden moon,
regardless what you wanted them to be."
A quiet moment strikes, unsettling her 170
upon her finishing her monologue.
And just as th'hairs upon her arms erect
themselves, the Preacher takes a step toward
the desk whereat she sits and reaches with
his Glove—obscur'd except for fingertips—
to grab her manuscript upon the desk.
The Author swipes it, hugging to her chest
and leaps out from her chair, it tipping back,
to duck beneath his grasp and switch their spots
so he is by the desk and she the door. 180
He turns to her again—her heart alive
and anxious with a frantic pumping beat—
and says: "I have th'ability to stop
ye in your tracks if you should run away."
She glances at the blacken'd hand he keeps
concealed typic'lly beneath his sleeve,
now visible that he begins to roll
it up, and whilst she knows that he's correct,
she dashes out the room and desp'rately
descends the stairs to tackle down the door 190
and fly from him along the muddied streets
with shouts and crashing glass behind her head
propelling her yet more the desp'rately.
The scenery of muddy streets and all
are pass'd in blurs of yellow, brown and black
like animations flipped too quickly, whilst
the opposite applies to those who roam
the streets, who turn to gaze upon her form,
too slowly shaping mouths around their words
for her to understand the questions ask'd, 200
like why she runs or what the danger is;
or maybe it's her mind that's numb'd and slow'd,
for thought escapes her through the frantic rush
with only but a single goal in mind
around as many corners as she can
so possibly exert herself to twist
until she slips, collapsing in the mud
upon her knees within an alleyway
whilst hugging tighter still her manuscript
with aching legs and embers in her throat 210
and sobbing gasps and blurry vision hot.
She turns her gaze behind, but finds not he
whom she's been following for all this time
and now escapes to keep her work intact
and possibly her life for all she knows,
and though relief now washes over her
she knows he must've let for her t'escape,
though still her fright's too much for her to see
where she's mistaken in their argument,
as often both the sides hold valid points 220
yet fervently deny the other's claims.
And so with heavy breath across her teeth
to curse the crazy bastard, now she stands,
continuing to hug her manuscript
as close as possible within her clutch
and walks the streets away from Preacher's grasp—
a spectacle of brown'd cerulean,
denying all the way the words he spoke
to her today of representing him
for what's encapsulated in his heart. 230
Yet though her mind is made in such a way
today, opinions change with care and time
in much the way as seeds which grow to boughs
and blossom out to fecundate their arms,
rewarding those who toiled for their health
with forms they always did intend to take.
However, what the Author can't predict
is just how late she'll be perceiving this,
for th'way in which this fact's important to
our Preacher's reputation's coming soon, 240
as she's forgotten in her room upon
her desk, the second manuscript she keeps. 242