©2021

Domini

It was a day of immense, intense excitement and anticipation

the morning he and the others had patiently, and impatiently, awaited.

It was the culmination – then of a weary and depressing road of self deprivation as they plotted, schemed, connived and cleverly sought to contrive the sleekest, slickest plan to ensure that they were the first – the very most first in line when the doors opened.

Of course they were well prepared, thoroughly rehearsed – smooth in their talking techniques…..they had, he was sure, anticipated every possible instance of what might go wrong.

A year! A whole year they had plotted, slaved and saved to reach this point – and, as is it was the custom, it could only be – would only be, this year. For the day after tomorrow they would have all passed through the rigorous ritual of rights – to be no longer ever qualified to have a second chance should they fail.

Being the leader, that burden fell to him to carefully explain, to devise – to strategize their plan.

And now, a scant two hours before they were due to present themselves, it was time to gather their packs, retrieve their hidden currency, bundle themselves against the frigid bitter cold, wrap thick woolen scarves about their heads, ears and necks and set off.

Him, in the lead.

The others, typically would follow in single file.

But that part was not written – not written like all other elements of the ritual requirements.

If Berkely wished to stride alongside him for a piece, chattering about his plan once admitted, well – that was okay.

Being the leader he had gained a modicum of elegant reserve – such that his mere attitude, or downwards glance across the bridge of his overly high nose, might convey command.

Or, if Hyacinth, her burnished and coiled red, coppery hair spraying out from under the brightly patterned headscarf as like beacon in that early morning gloom – if Hyacinth were to slide closer to him and with a warm toffee-like smile, ask him is he was truly now excited.

Regardless, he would without breaking stride push on over the snow-packed roadway, allowing himself to get lost in a mindless fascination for the odd-shaped and infinite number of size, shapes and form of the big snow puffballs that lined the side of the road.

Their boots squeaked against the rigid packed snow. His grandfather had always warned him – ‘When you hear yer boots a’squeakin’ against the road snow – ya knows it’s probably ne’er been quite this cold.’

There was no stopping – none. Not for needs of any kind – be it pain, toilet or cold. There existed only a crisp straight line between their starting point and their destination.

If one tired, got sick, was too fatigued they were simply left behind. It was understood that they had abandoned any right to continue, to catch up. Their only option was to, in a sense of humbling shame, turn about and return to face derision and embarrassment by the others.

As the hour moved on both Hyacinth and Berkely dropped back – back into single file. If anything his strength blossomed – he stepped more lively, carried by the dawning exultation of a successful arrival, a triumphant achievement.

And then, the last curve in the roadway before turning into the downslope that led to the village square.

All clouds had drifted off, slipped apart to leave the sharp white light of the moon focused, it seemed, on only the centre of the square.

At that point he raised his hand for all to stop. They did and slowly drifted up to stand alongside of him.

Inhaling deeply, raising his eyes to the moon, and with a slow exhale he said softly, but clearly, “We are now where we have always been intended to be. A few more moments and we will stand, as soldiers, in a strict straight line, facing the portal – which will open to greet and welcome us on this momentous morn. Are we ready, all?’, he asked.

No words – not a sound. Only a solemn bowing of every head, momentarily – and then as he set off to descend the rise towards the square they fell in, again, behind in a straight but proud line.

Arriving at the bordered edge of the square, he took up position directly in front of the heavy carved oak doors, their brass handles and hardware shining like gold in the moonlight.

They stood, rigidly, neither talking or glancing about. Not curious or concerned about others who drifted into the square, some to fall into line behind them.

Time passed like treacly molasses. Most others might well have fidgeted and fussed. Not they.

And in time, with a coarse sound of a heavy weight being dragged, the large double doors opened wide.

A golden light flowed, like a river, outwards to grace and to bathe them in a suggestion of warmth and welcome.

Shortly one of authority seemed to appear to the right of the doors. Raising a scroll to eye level, the voice began, ‘Jason, Rebecca, Berkely, Hyacinth – and on until twenty-one names had been called.

As each name rang out the line moved forward in a measured step.

Upon the twenty-first that passed through and into the large stone arch, the doors began a slow and silent closing.

A wail went up from all those who had not gained entry.

The scribe, once the doors were again shut, dark and silent, turned to the assembled remains, announcing, ‘We are, for this year, this season, done now once again’

‘You may leave and find your ways about your lives and purpose.’

Anno domini sequen tal

©michael moore 2021