Deeper Faith

STICKS

Even thrust deep in the sand for stability, the staff rose five and a half feet above the smooth, multi-colored pebbles. Gordon rolled one of the small stones around his mouth to help slake the thirst that would come from the afternoon sun. He knew, of course, that it would be prudent to seek some small shade and simply sit until nightfall, but his mission required visibility. A hidden monk may be a safe monk, but accomplished little! The slotted cross on the top of the staff served as a suitable hanger for the long white robe, the brown edging and piping blending effectively with the mesquite and rabbit brush. The artificial tree cast a conical shadow on the burning drift, a safe haven for pack, boots and beads. Food! He would have to find food. Later! His sun bronzed form cleaved the surface of the pool in a dive defined more by yearning than practice. He drank. He rejoiced! The spring that gave birth to the twenty foot pond spoke of the mysterious underground river far beneath, whose life-sustaining force filled the basin two days each month, then retreated until the Goddess guided moon coaxed the spring into life once again. The pool appeared on no map but was well known in legend by the tonsured pilgrims. It took a special leap of faith to walk 60 miles to an empty hole in the ground. It required only awe and a pounding heart to watch the miracle of birth -- rebirth -- of the soothing waters. A primeval lust had stripped the clothes from his corpulent frame. Training and discipline had brought him to his knees in payer for this special gift. It began, "Good job Lord..."

"The ducks knew about the water too-- probably calculated their departure from Canada to arrive here today. Gene algebra -- or a little nudge from Him?" chuckled the gristled priest. "Maybe they're the same thing!" Dinner! The pond was still -- waiting; his snare just beneath its glistening surface. It had only taken minutes to whittle the thorn gaff hook and braid the line from the inner bark of the swaying willows. The rock anchor had been selected for its beauty as well as weight, a nice addition to the pool, blending well with the others showing through the crystal depths. The bait and hook, drawn by the stone to six inches below the surface, would insure that the unsuspecting duck would never return to the surface. Now -- to bring them down.

The contents of the pack were laid out in neat piles, each essential, each selected to work in harmony and efficiency with the others. The ritual of unpacking was as orchestrated as the packing, each item fitting into a pre-planned space, following a custom that was centuries old, developed through expediency in the rugged hills of 16th century Spain. Gordon picked up the two plain sticks from the center of the array, then replaced them as he considered the length of the shadow projected from the staff towering behind him. He glanced at his compass and performed a quick mental calculation involving longitude, rear-azimuth and magnetic offset. The small stones he set out would now mark off the hours, the larger ones indicating the Masses he would say while waiting for James to arrive. The thought of a long, sweet night ahead beckoned. "Oh night that guided me, oh, night more lovely that the dawn," he chanted to the winds. "No need for concealment here, but my house is at rest." The sticks were once more in his hands; and the tactile stimulus of the edge notches took him back -- back.

He had studied the bush for several hours, praying, planning, deciding. Mountain mahogany -- a tree actually -- useless to the practical world, and cursed by many 4 wheel drive enthusiasts. The incredible strength and resilience of the branches that punctured tires and gas tanks could be turned to a Knight's task. When he decided on the sections of trunk that would become his cross, Gordon marked them with a silken tread and returned to the chapel. Others would cut out and trim the raw stock, but he knew not how. No regular saw or drill could cut through the rare wood, composed of naturally braided long and short molecules that dissipated and reflected attempts to destroy it. He would have 40 days in the desert to shape the branch segments into these two slim strips. When he later began his silent pilgrimage, the two pieces were laying by the sanctuary fountain. Now, the hand finished strips would never leave his side, even unto eternity. They seemed cool to the touch, oblivious to the scalding sun, a physical touchstone to the memories of long years of purgation. "The only thing I own," he thought, "I wish my spiritual cross were as easy to carry."

Each night in the wilderness, Gordon had charred the wood in his fire, partially to prepare it for the next day's honing, and partially in contemplation of the ancient story of how man and soul had to be tempered and prepared, pride and sin burned away. The following day would find him scraping the outer layers away on the sharp edges of granite and ruffing the reduced sticks in sand. When he returned from his ordeal in God's desert forge, the shaped sticks were laid by the fountain, not to be seen again until he began his first pilgrimage. By then the precious pair had been completed by hidden hands and tools, notched, polished and blessed. They served him well.

Gordon easily climbed the small hill behind the spring, chanting as he scaled the huge rocks. The two sticks were now locked in the center, forming a balanced "X" with a slightly curved plane. From this high perch the carefully thrown tool sailed out like a boomerang, several hundred feet above the glittering pond. To the ducks it seemed like a hawk circling for the kill. They settled to the water. With its wondrous flight complete, the whirling "hawk" returned to the monk, who, with a quick twist of the wrist, separated the tool into two cold sticks once again. The roast duck was very good.
The sinking sun appeared to float on the shimmering mirage lake in the distance, seemingly unwilling to touch the ground. Gordon knew how quickly the light could vanish in the pure desert night but he did not rush his preparations. Each practiced movement was accompanied by a payer; the small flask of wine to the left, the chalice wiped clean, and the flat box of hosts placed to the right. The two containers were unique to the wandering knights, bright gold, of course, on the inside, but dull gray on the outside. The unknowing might think them made from pewter or anodized aluminum. No. Only titanium lent strength to the thin walls while weighing scarcely more than paper. Function, simplicity and beauty -- very much like the lonesome priest who prepared for the solitary mass. The two favored sticks now formed a true cross and rested atop the staff, far above the ground. The amber rays of the setting sun caused the distinctive shadow to lengthen and grow. When the monk raised the chalice above his head in offering the two simple, joined sticks cast an awesome shape upon the ground -- larger than a man -- and the humble priest was not alone.

faucon