Author Archive

Patrick O’Conner’s Vision

Patrick O’Conner was going home to Cork on the ferry from Swansea on a night crossing when his vision occurred. He’d found a place to sleep at the back of the stairs that lead from the deck where the Duty Free shop is up to the Cafeteria. It was drafty but it was out of the way of too much light and the loudspeakers blaring instructions.

Patrick’s old bones were aching from sleeping on the floor, even though he had chosen a place with carpet. So he had only been slumbering fitfully when some slight noise nearby woke him. In the half daze that comes on you in the middle of sleep he looked and saw a young she angel kneeling near his feet nursing a baby at her breast. Her beauty struck Patrick and he thought she looked like a shy, anxious fawn, hiding away from public gaze. He mumbled to her that she could share his space but she didn’t reply, and Patrick noticed the lovely shape of her, and her wonderful blonde hair. Her breasts were full and revealed by a tight red cotton shirt. Her legs, from his place on the floor, appeared long and slim in the jeans she was wearing.

When the need to empty his bladder next woke Patrick, his visionary angel had gone. But wandering unsteadily along the swaying deck to the toilet he saw a short girl with matted blonde hair and wearing boots who was carrying a baby. Could this be the same girl? Patrick felt she had a look about her suggesting she might be able to leave open wounds with words alone. In his half daze and slight dizzyness from the swaying of the SuperFerry he wondered whether it could be possible for a person to have a soul looking amazingly different from their body. Maybe she was some sort of angel disguised as this five-foot dropout with matted blonde hair.

It intrigued Patrick enough for him to follow her and watch to see if she changed back into his vision at any point. When the ferry docked at Cork he continued his surveillance. The girl, for that’s all she was, probably less than eighteen, eventually turned to face him. “Is it something your on old man?” she asked. When Patrick simply shook his head, she said, “Then what is it you’re after?”

Without guile Patrick said, “I’m after knowing if you’re an angel who knelt by the stairs while I slept?”

This seemed to make her nervous for, as it turned out, her name was Angie. Some friends mocking her when she became pregnant and deserted by her young lover had called her Angel Arse. Rejected by her good Catholic family for being an unmarried mother she had been sleeping wherever she could find an open door. That was how Patrick came to offer her shelter in his small home in Bantry.

Rumour spread through the little town that Patrick only took her in so he could roast her tender little lamb-chops on his spit. Or at least that’s the way the chef at Villiers restaurant put it. Other people said it was disgusting that a man of his age should take-up with a young girl like that. But such people didn’t know about Patrick’s vision. They hadn’t seen Angie looking like a young holy fawn sheltering her baby, with shining hair and body like a sweet goddess.

There was some confusion in the town though. Terraced houses in a small town are never very private. And what’s wrong with being interested in your neighbours after all?

So on occasion Patrick’s voice had been heard crying out in a wonderful vibrant and full way, “Oh God! Oh God!” And Angie’s voice had been in there too in a weeping laughing way calling, “Oh Jesus Patrick. Oh Jesus!” So there was uncertainty about whether the sweet lamb chops were on the spit, or whether the passion was religious.

Whatever may have been the case, the gulf of differences that separated Angie and Patrick were certainly bridged in some way. And after all, they both loved the baby.

The Boy and I

The boy followed me in the road, looking at me without embarrassment. It was usually small babies who stared, and they can’t tell what they see. But the boy now walked in front of me, in the dusty road, turning to look. I smiled at his undone shoelaces, and his grubby face.

“Who are you?” He asked.

I stopped and sat at the base of a tree, off the road. “Who do you think I am?” I replied.

He sighed as if I had suddenly placed him in a classroom, and it was an uneasy place to be. He closed his eyes for a while, then opened them and said, “I don’t know, but you’re hiding aren’t you?”

I smiled again. It was interesting to watch his expressions. He didn’t show any fear.

“No, I’m not hiding, but I’m not drawing attention to myself either. Why do you wonder if I’m hiding?”

He thought again for a while then looked down at the dust. “I have to hide sometimes,” he said. “My Ma and Pa aren’t popular around here, and I’m different to the other kids. So I have to hide sometimes. An’ I wondered if you were like that too.”

“Well, maybe in some ways. But I’m wondering something too. I wonder what you can see that makes you ask these questions. As far as I know, I don’t look any different from other folks in general; not unless maybe you look very close.”

“I have to look at people,” he said, looking up at me. “I have to see what they might do if I let them near. I’ve been locked up a few times.”

He stopped speaking. “So?” I prompted.

“So I looked at you as you came along, and I ain’t seen anyone like you before. You’re not a regular person are you?”

“I was born a regular baby,” I said.

“But you’re not regular now,” he replied, getting more confident. “You keep shiftin, and sort of glowin, and I ain’t seen no one like that, except maybe Jeff Handries when I came on him after he climbed out of Mrs. Jefferson’s house, while her husband was away.”

I laughed aloud and reached out to tousle his already untidy hair. “I guess that gets you that way occasionally. Did he look so strange then?”

“Maybe. Not strange, but a crazy smile, as if he was big inside, like a big space, and Jeff Handries didn’t usually look that big. And he wasn’t angry at me being around. He just looked at me as if he could see right into me. Then he smiled some more and walked off.”

“Well, okay, so maybe I’m a bit like Jeff Handries, except I don’t need to visit Mrs Jefferson to feel like that.”

“Why not? What happened?”

“This is my secret,” I said, looking right at him. And like Jeff Handries, I knew he would keep it. “I was born a man, but I let something into me.”

I paused a while because the boy looked at me with such wide eyes, I thought for a moment he was going to fall into me. But he held on, still with a look of amazement.

“I let it in, because it was beautiful, and I was lonely. So it grew in me, and there’s not any me left that is separate to it. I am it — and it is me. But there are lots of us in here living as one — like a big lake, all merged. It is a wonderful thing.”

Then I let what I am shine out of me to the boy. He looked at me for a long time, slowly softening. Then he said in a very gentle tone, “Will you hold me?”

I opened my arms and he comfortably fitted in, and we sat silently as the evening came on.

The Hand

When Life was still making the original people who lived on the earth, it created a little Black Boy. He arose, still asleep, from the Great Waters, and was gently washed to shore by the waves.

As the Great Waters edged him lovingly onto the firm earth he began to wake up, and looked about him in wonder. Life had already made trees and flowers grow. There were also birds, butterflies and bees to fly among them.

There were animals on the land and in the waters. And although he didnt know it, it had been a great fish that had helped the waves push the little Black Boy to the shore.

When he awoke, the little Black Boy did not know who he was, or why he was here. He only knew that he was something wonderful, and had the gift of happiness from Life. Everything on the earth, in the sky and in the water recognised him as their youngest brother. That is, even the plants and stones loved him. For they knew that although he was the youngest, when he grew, he would be able to do all that they could do and more. He would be able to sit as still as the stone, or run like the deer, climb trees like the monkeys, fly higher than the birds, dig in the earth like the rabbit, or swim through the waters like a fish. But none of the creatures or stones or plants of the earth minded, because as he lived amongst them, he shared all his happiness and life with them.

This was because when he first came out of the waters he could speak to all things. For even stones and grass can talk. But it is only the animals who began to talk with sounds, and then people came out of the Great Water and made words. Before this, all things spoke to each other with feelings. It was the wind and rain, lightning and thunder, and the elements, not content with this, that began to make sounds just to be different. When Life brought forth the animals from the Great Waters they heard the thunder and rain, and the trees moaning in the wind, and copied them.

So as the little Black Boy walked on earth, the things of earth called out “Hallo little brother. You are one of us, because we are all the children of Life.” And the little Black Boy played among Lifes children, and grew. He would chase the rabbits, wrestle with the bears, run with the wolves, or sleep happily on the warm mud banks of the rivers. Each animal or living thing on earth told him what its pleasure was. In this way the worms said to him “Our pleasure is to dig in the ground to let the air and water in. We bring up food from deep down for the plants.” And the plants said to him “Our pleasure is to take hold of the earth with our roots. And with the power that Life has given us, we lift it up for the Sun to bless and change into living green. Love us little brother, because you have hands, and you can bend us with the power of the Hand. For we are your brothers, and are all the children of Life.”

And the animals said, “Little brother, now we must do your bidding. But be gentle with us brother, for the Hand has great powers, and will make many things that may destroy us. Let your power be as wise as the wolf when he pulls down the deer.”

Then Life, the Mother and Father of all said, “I have made you all, and now to the human I have given the Hand. But, little Black Boy, remember that these are all my children, and the power of the Hand is given you to make the Earth a place of beauty, and to help Me in my work of creation, and to help your brothers in their pleasures. For their pleasures are wise with My wisdom. In this way you will find a pleasure greater than all other things upon the earth.’

So the little Black Boy had found his pleasure in the Hand, and in using it. With its power he tore down trees and made them into a place to live. With its power he dug into the earth to discover rare stones and to shape them into beauty and usefulness. With it he found food among his brothers, taking them with the wisdom of the wolf. He made clothes, and he made fire, he made great things upon the earth, and vessels to sail across the waters, and many other things, all with the power of the Hand.

But the little Black Boy began to forget what Life had told him. He began to forget how to speak to all the things upon the earth and in the waters, and even in the sky. S o many wonderful things had he made with the power of the Hand that he became proud and began to look down on his brothers and think of them as low and stupid. So he hurt the earth and the creatures, the plants and the trees, using them for his own desires instead of for their own pleasures, or the way of Life. And in his pride and hurtfulness, he forgot that the hand had been given him by Life, and was not his own. And in forgetting, he used the power of the Hand to make for himself a life of pleasure, of riotous living, and against the ways of Life.

But the little Black Boy became unhappy. Now that he had forgotten how to talk to all things, and had only the sound of his voice, he felt lonely, and miserable.

One day, he walked by the Great Waters, crying because he was unhappy. He looked at the Hand and said “You have brought me nothing but loneliness and tears. I hate you.” And in his anger he threw the power of the hand into the Great Waters. But he felt no happier, and because there seemed nothing else he wanted to do, he threw himself also into the Great Waters.

Then the Great Waters closed over him and invaded his mouth and nose. Then they invaded his head and chest. Then they invaded his whole body. Only then did Life speak to him, saying, “You have hurt your brothers who are my children. And because you are all of one family you have hurt yourself and made yourself lonely and unhappy. Yet in your pride you have blamed your unhappiness upon the Hand.

“ Yet because I love you, you are forgiven. You still have the gift of happiness and love I gave you, and I will not take it away. But you have turned it into despair, hate, anger and loneliness through the things you have done. So now you must uncover your happiness again by undoing those things.”

Then the Great Waters rejected the body of the little Black Boy. They pushed him back upon the land, where he lived and worked to undo all the harm and hurt he had done with the power of the Hand. In fact, he is still doing it.

Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – The Hedgehog Who Lost His Reasons

Seeing that the bushes were growing over the stream at the bottom of our garden, I put on my wellington boots and went out. Wading into the stream, I began to cut back the branches and weeds.

As I was working busily away, Peter Hedgehog came and stood on the steps leading to the stream and watched me. He looked very worried and said: “Why are you doing that?”

“So the stream doesn’t get blocked”, I said.

But when I said that, Peter looked more worried than before, and said: “I thought so, you’ve got a reason. You’ve got a reason for everything.” And he looked so unhappy I wondered what could be wrong with him. “Whatever is the matter Peter?” I asked.

“I haven’t got any reasons” he said, “humans have reasons for doing things, and I haven’t got any.”

I stopped cutting back the overgrowth and looked at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, he went on, “You had a reason for getting up this morning, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “I had to help to get the children to school, see that the fire was filled with coal, and take Tramp for a walk. I also had to collect some seaweed from the beach to make manure for the garden.”

Peter sighed very deeply and began to walk slowly away. As he did so, I heard him say, “He hasn’t got just one reason for getting up, he’s got lots, and I haven’t got any. I could just stay in bed and it wouldn’t matter. I just haven’t got any reasons.”

I caught up with Peter just before he went into his home under our house. “What is all this about reasons anyway?” I asked.

Peter looked at me sadly. Then, as if talking to himself, he said, “What reasons are hedgehogs here for? What reason is there for getting up in the morning or going to bed? There’s no reason for me to be here at all.” Then he walked past me slowly and went into his house.

Having seen Peter in thoughtful moods before, I felt it was best to leave him alone, and so got on with clearing the stream. I didn’t see Peter again all that day; and the day after that he only came out twice, wandering about without seeming to go

anywhere. On the third day he looked decidedly thinner, so I think he must have not been eating. Going out into the garden I saw him looking out of the door of his home. “Do you think there are any reasons for hedgehogs?” he asked when he saw me.

Doing some very quick thinking, I said: “Well, hedgehogs do help keep gardens free from harmful insects, and you have always been an interesting friend.”

He just looked at me and said: “Hmmm” and didn’t speak any more. He stood like that all day. I was quite worried about him.

But the next morning – my goodness – he was singing. It was something about “There will always be hedgehogs and hedgehogs and hedgehogs and hedgehogs and hedgehogs!”

Anyway, I went out to see what was happening, and he was eating and singing and singing and eating; and when he saw me he shouted loudly: “What a wonderful morning. A perfect morning for hedgehogs – perfect!”

“Seeing the change in him, I said: “Did you find the reasons you were looking for Peter?”

“Reasons!” he said. “Who wants reasons? Ha – I’ve got something better than reasons. You see, I’m a hedgehog,” and he said this very proudly and went on singing about “Hedgehogs and hedgehogs and hedgehogs” again.

Being very curious now, I asked, as soon as he stopped singing: “What is it that hedgehogs have got then?”

Looking straight at me he said: “Whenever I need food I feel hungry. When it’s time to get up, I feel like going out. Then I feel the wind and the warm sun. I feel happy, I feel strong – I haven’t got reasons – I’ve got feelings.” And on he went again, singing about hedgehogs and I didn’t disturb him because, after all, how much nicer to do things because you feel you want to, instead of only reasons.

Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – Trouble is His Middle Name

Being well known to certain people in Amersham, it was not thought unusual when Peter took a coach ride to the Zoo in London. He was very good during the ride, and didn’t feel sick, or lean out of the window to shout rudely at dogs.

He had saved up his pocket money – which I give him for keeping the garden clear of snails and things – and had decided to visit his cousin the porcupine in Regents Park Zoo. He had also decided that he was going to make the journey, there and back, without getting into any sort of trouble.

As his middle name is Trouble, however, this was rather difficult for him. As soon as he arrived at the Zoo he somehow managed to completely miss seeing the main entrance. Instead, he wandered down the grassy slope to the canal nearby. This posed him quite a problem, as he wasn’t in the mood for a swim, and yet he could see the Zoo on the other side.

Peter’s philosophy is that whenever you are standing, and there is a chance not to – don’t! So while he was figuring out how to get over the canal, he sat down.
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Just at that moment, a very large and colourful barge, full of people, came floating gracefully along the canal. This immediately raised Peter’s hopes, and he went running along the tow-path towards the barge, shouting and waving a small umbrella which he had thought wise to bring with him.

The man who was at the helm of the boat, and was telling all the people about the Zoo, didn’t at first see Peter. It was only when he noticed everybody was looking in the opposite direction to the Zoo that he saw him, and heard his shouting!

“Hey, Captain – ahoy there.”

The captain, or whatever he was, obviously was not used to seeing hedgehogs running along the towpath waving red umbrellas and shouting “Hey, Captain!” This was obvious by the way his mouth dropped open in surprise, and by the way he nearly crashed the barge into the side of the canal.

He came so close to the bank that one old lady became frightened and leapt ashore. Or at least, most of her leapt ashore. One foot didn’t quite make it, and dragged in the water, getting wet. Unfortunately, her shoe came off in the water as well and began to float slowly away.

Meanwhile, the captain stopped the barge, and amidst laughter and cheers, fished the shoe back with a boat-hook, and helped the old lady, who was saying a lot of unpleasant things about him, back onto the barge.

In the general confusion, Peter had also managed to climb aboard. When the captain finally got back to his helm to sail the barge away, Peter was standing behind him, and made him jump by shouting, “Take me to your leader! I wish to be transported to the other side of this river. I have an urgent appointment, and I mustn’t be kept waiting.”

The captain, who was by this time in a nervous state anyway, became so annoyed he snatched up the boat-hook again and ran after Peter in a very threatening manner. Peter found it hard to mistake his intentions, and went running off round the side of the barge using his umbrella to balance with.

They went round three times, much to the amusement of everybody aboard, before Peter decided he had better jump for it. The barge had drifted away from the bank, so he had to swim hurriedly out of reach of the waving boat-hook.

It really wasn’t Peter’s lucky day, because after all that he was still on the same side of the canal as he started on.

He never did get inside the Zoo. Having got soaking wet, be began to feel very cold and to sneeze. Dragging his dripping umbrella after him, he caught the next coach home. Even so, he had to spend a week in bed with a chill. That’s why his close friends call him Peter-Trouble-Hedgehog!

Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – Peter And Misty Mouse

When the summer holidays finished, and Peter saw all the children going back to school, it gave him an idea. He was standing under the horse chestnut trees that hang over School Lane, at the time, and he began to walk up and down talking to himself.

“There’s something very noble about school,” he said. “Very noble indeed. It’s full of learning and painting and drawing on the blackboard.” He walked up and down a bit more, then stood staring up the lane to the school. “I’m almost tempted to go myself,” he thought. “But I suppose it’s hard work learning to write, and make plasticine models.”

He was just about to walk away, when he suddenly remembered the afternoon sleep the infants have. Then his eyes opened wide with surprise at not having thought of it before, and he said in a very loud voice, “”And school dinners.”

The children were still in the playground when he arrived, and the new infants class were just getting ready to go in. He stood on the end of the line, and watched all the mothers kiss their children goodbye, and realised that he wasn’t the only one to

be going to school for the first time. Then the teacher, who was quite thin, had thick glasses on, and had white hair, said loudly, “Infants one – this way.” And she led them into the classroom. When they were all inside and she had shut the door,

she said, “Let’s get to know each other, shall we” All make a big circle round me. No – not like aeroplanes, those two boys -just stand still, and I’ll ask you your names.”

Peter happened to be the first one she looked at. She couldn’t see very well, and she put her head very close to Peter, and stared at him through her thick spectacles. “My goodness,” she said, whatever’s happened to you? Doesn’t your mummy ever comb

your hair? And look at your nose, it’s all black and shiny, you look just like a hedgehog.”

Peter gave a sort of hedgehog smile – which is more like a twinkle in the eyes than an opening of the mouth – and said, “I am a hedgehog, Mrs.”

“Now dear,” she said, trying to pat his head, “don’t let’s be silly shall we. You can make believe your a hedgehog during playtime, but not during class. And my name is Miss Tinghouse, not Mrs. Now, tell me your name and be a good boy.” “I’m Peter Hedgehog, Misty Mouse”, he said, trying to say her name properly.

“Ah, well, I suppose you’ll grow out of it” she said, trying to pat his head again, but getting her fingers pricked. “But you really must get your hair combed before you come to school again.”

After Miss Tinghouse had got to know all their names, and had explained about school, it was time for milk. “Now Infants One, line up, and I will give you your milk, and a straw.

Peter hadn’t realised they were given milk too. He couldn’t quite manage to be first in the queue, but he was first to finish his milk, and he joined the end of the line again. There wasn’t any milk left when his turn came, and he ran back to his bottle to see whether he had left any in it.

Soon, it was dinner time. All the children walked into the dining hall, and sat at little tables. Mr. Snorks, the headmaster, said grace, and women in white overalls and caps, began to bring the food in. When Peter saw it was sausages, he said in a very loud voice, “A-ha, look at dinner!”

All the children looked round at Peter and giggled, and Mr. Snorks, who had already begun his dinner, stood up to see who had shouted. “Quiet” he said, in a loud voice, and sat down again.

The sweet was rhubarb pie and custard. This time, Peter shouted “Rhubarb pie! Three cheers for the cook.”

Everybody laughed until Mr. Snorks bellowed, “Come here that boy.” When Peter came he said “Great Blotted Exercise Books! Whose class are you in?”

“Misty Mouse’s sir,” Peter replied.

“Misty Mouse?” Mr. Snorks shouted.

“Yes Mr. Snorks?” said Miss Tinghouse, getting up from her table.

“What’s this hedgehog doing in your class”? he asked, his eyes bulging.

“Plasticine modelling and painting,” she replied.

Peter began to creep out of the room in the confusion. He heard Mr. Snorks’ loud voice saying, “He’ll have to go Miss Tinghouse! He’ll have to go.” So he went. The only time he ever goes back is for nature study, and then only when Mr. Snorks is out. But even now he still talks about his wonderful days at school.

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Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – Peter Goes To Church

Late one night Peter felt like a walk, and wandered down to the High Street to look at the shops. He had only just arrived when it began to rain. The Memorial Gardens were near, so he went into the little summer house there, as he called it, to have a think!

But it was draughty, the cars made a noise on the nearby road and he felt damp “It’s no good”, he said, “I’ll have to go home. I just can’t think deep enough here.” So he got up to go. But he suddenly remembered that the church nearby was always open, and it was warm and dry inside.

By standing on a collecting box outside, he was just tall enough to open the door. It was warmer than he expected when he went in, and he thought somebody must have been burning incense, because it was thick with smoke.

It wasn’t until he was trying to find the most comfortable seat that he saw the flames dancing up from the front pew. All his prickles stood on end, “Oh grief, it’s a frier,” he said, “I mean it’s a fire, and I might get fried.”

It was a large cassock, burning in the front pew. It was standing on a thin carpet, and by pulling this, Peter pulled the fire onto the stone floor of the aisle. Then he ran round the church looking for something to put the flames out with. He found a fire extinguisher and banged the top before he realised it was too heavy for him to carry. All the water spurted up in the air. Peter left it shooting out like a fountain, and ran to the font, where a large jug of water stood. He managed to pick it up, and went stumbling towards the fire, nearly falling on it as he poured the water on the flames. They all went out with a hiss and a cloud of steam, and Peter sat down and puffed through his efforts.

When he felt better he went to the front of the church where the bell ropes hang, and holding onto one pulled up and down until the bell started ringing. In a few minutes the vicar came running in, followed shortly afterwards by a policeman.

“What is up in here”? the vicar called through the thick smoke. “I am,” Peter said, “I’m up here. I pulled on the bell rope, and it lifted me right off the ground”. Just then the bell swung the other way, and he came down again with a bump.

Sitting on the floor he looked up at the faces of the vicar and the policeman, and said, “Well your Revellence, I came in here to have a think, and I saw them leaping up and down in the front pew”.

“Who?” the policeman said, taking out his notebook.

“The flames,” Peter continued. “They were frames – I mean I was frightened of the flames. But I overflowed them with water. Whew – it was awful, I really think I’ll have to have a sleep now.”

The policeman wrote down his name, where he lived, and how he came to find the fire, and how he put it out. The vicar meanwhile went round the church opening all the windows to let the smoke out.

The next morning, Peter had only just got up when a newspaper man called to see him. He was a young man dressed in very tight trousers, and lots of pens and pencils in his jacket. “I understand you discovered a fire in the church last night and put it out.”

Peter, after his sleep, now felt much happier about the whole thing, and said, “Well, yes. I know it was brave of me, but I didn’t care about the heat and the smoke.”

“Was it that bad then?” he asked Peter.

Peter looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “It was so bad, even I was frightened,” he said.

The reporter wrote this down in his notebook, then said, “My newspaper is particularly impressed by the way you defied the criminals who tried to burn the church.”

“The criminals?” Peter said, surprised.

“Yes, two dangerous men were seen leaving the church just about the time you went in. It was probably you who frightened them off, because they left by another door.”

Peter couldn’t go white as some humans do when they are frightened. Instead he turned a sort of dirty brown. “Suddenly I feel terribly tired again,” he said. And that was the last the reporter, or I, saw of him all day.

Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – Hedgehog Thoughts

The other morning I put on my wellington boots and went into the garden to do some digging. Just as I was finding my spade, I heard a loud snoring sound. I didn’t have to wonder who it was, I knew only too well. It was Peter Hedgehog still asleep. I know he stays out late at night looking for things to eat, but it was high time he woke up. So I knocked on his front door, which is at the side of my shed.

When at last he opened the door, he looked at me a long time (he’s short-sighted you see) and at last said, “Ah I’m glad you’ve come, I’ve been thinking.”

“You’ve been sleeping”, I said, “I heard you snoring!”

“No, I wasn’t sleeping, I was thinking. I always make that noise when I think, it helps me to concentrate. But as I was saying, I am glad you came, because I have been thinking.”

He looked up at me with his bright little eyes as if that explained everything. I stood there for quite a long time, waiting for him to carry on, before I realised that I was supposed to ask him what it was he had been thinking about.

“What, er, was it you were thinking about, then?” I finally said.

“Ah yes” he replied, “I wondered when you were going to ask. I thought probably you weren’t interested. It’s my cousin Albert you see, I’ve been wondering about him. What happened was that he tried to cross the road, and a car, that wasn’t looking where it was going, rushed past and hurt his foot. So now he’s at home with his foot all bandaged up (that is, his back foot, because if he hadn’t run as fast as he did, it might have been too terrible to think about). But there he is at home, and here I am having to look after him, cook his meals, and run his errands, and it’s made me think, made me think really hard”.

“Well, Albert isn’t the only one you know, I’ve heard of others, and if another relation gets hurt, it’s going to be a very tiresome -business looking after them. So I think something ought to be done about it.”

“What sort of thing?” I said, knowing that with Peter, it was bound to be unusual – it was!

“Now, that’s what I have been doing all the thinking about. And what with thinking, and looking after Albert, it’s been a very trying week. But I’ve written this letter, and I wonder if you would post it for me, because I never can reach those letter boxes.”

Looking at the letter I had the shock of my life. “This is addressed to the Queen!” I said.

Peter sniffed a bit with his nose, as he always did when he was worried. “Is that bad?” he asked. “Somebody told me that the swans and seagulls belong to the queen; so I thought that if they are the Queen’s birds, hedgehogs must be the Queen’s animals!”

Here is what the letter said:

Dear Queen,

I hope you can help, because I am very worried. My cousin Albert has been run over badly, and so have a lot of other hedgehogs. If you would tell motor cars that they must be very careful about hedgehogs, I would feel very happy, and I think a lot of other hedgehogs would too.

Your loving animal,

PETER HEDGEHOG.

I posted the letter for Peter, and naturally we both waited impatiently for the reply. It only took three days to arrive, and when it did, I called Peter and read it to him. This is what it said:

Dear Peter Hedgehog,

It is very pleasing to me, to see your interest in road safety. Therefore, I have suggested that motorists should be more watchful for hedgehogs crossing the road.

The motorists, however, ask me to see that hedgehogs are careful also. They suggest that when about to cross a road, hedgehogs should try to use a pedestrian crossing; and always, look both ways to see whether any cars are coming. If you will please pass this message on to other hedgehogs, the motorists and I will be very pleased.

Signed,

THE QUEEN.

The last thing I saw of Peter he was running off somewhere, letter in paw. I think he was going to tell all the other hedgehogs who live in Amersham.

And by the way, if you happen to meet any hedgehogs, please tell them what the Queen said about crossing the road, and that goes for children, too.

Tales of Peter the Hedgehog – Peter Meets Sleepy

Peter Meets Sleepy

Sleepy is a goldfish, and is Peter Hedgehog’s best friend. Peter won Sleepy at a fair, and it’s strange how he did it.

When the fair comes to Amersham, which is where Peter lives, the roundabouts and stalls stretch the whole length of the High Street. Peter loves the bright lights and the confusion, so he never misses it. Because he is so small – that is, small compared to people, he is really a very large hedgehog – not many people notice Peter as he walks around the fair. When he came to the big lorry with open sides that sells fish and chips, he had to go to the back door to get served.
Peter Hedgehog

“Ere Joe, there’s an ‘edgeogg `ere, oo says `e wants a bag a chips” said a young man who was peeling the potatoes. Joe, who was rather plump, and who looked as if he rubbed himself daily with frying fat, stared at Peter. “As `e got any money, that’s the thing? We don’t mind oo we serves, as long as they got money to pay” Joe said, and he sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his white overalls.

Peter wondered why Joe’s mother had never taught him to blow his nose on a handkerchief, but he gave him the money, and Joe gave him a bag of chips. It took three bags of chips, complete with salt and vinegar, to make Peter feel as if he had eaten enough.

Only then did he wander off to have a look at some other things. He went on the roundabout, going up and down on the horses, and seeing all the people’s faces whiz past. But after two goes he knew that he really had eaten too much, because he began to feel slightly dizzy and sick.

Next he became fascinated by the giant helter skelter. Being a rather slow creature, the speed with which people slid down the shute made him excited. He paid his money, dragged his mat in the door, and then wondered how on earth he was going to climb all the ladders to the top. But in the end he managed to catch hold of somebody’s mat who was passing. He clung to their mat with one hand, to his own mat with his other, and closed his eyes so tight that they hurt. In this manner he proceeded in bumps and jerks until he reached the top. There he sat down in a corner for a long time, until his heart stopped pounding. Only then did he drag his mat over to the slide, heave it up, and sit on it. But as he did so he suddenly saw how very far away the ground was. It was so far away that he couldn’t help feeling that he was falling, and he started trying to crawl back into the tower. But at that moment someone else sat down behind him with a bump, making him jump. His mat slid from underneath him, he lost his balance, became frightened, and curled up in a ball.

The people looking up, saw what looked like a big brown ball come bounding down the slide, whirling round and round, and going faster and faster. Round the big tower he went, once twice, THREE times; then he shot off the end at enormous speed, hit a pile of mats at the bottom, and bounced so high, he sailed right over to the next stall, where he crashed into the pile of tins that one throws wooden balls at. He knocked them all over the place, and by the time he had uncurled, there were such a lot of people crowding round, laughing at his antics, and shouting “Give him a prize” that the stall owner asked him what he would like.

Peter wasn’t sure at all what was going on. After such a lot of rolling and bumping, he had a definite tummy ache. So when he muttered “Oh my fish and chips,” and rubbed his tummy, the stall owner thought he was looking hungrily at the goldfish, so he gave him one. Peter is really very pleased about Sleepy. He is company about the house, and whenever he tells anybody about how he won him, it sounds almost as if he did it all on purpose.

The Rock Beast

The aborigine, I cannot pronounce his name, led me across the land. It was a journey away from the white man’s life, and I carried nothing of the city, of electricity, cars, or money with me, not even a camera.

It took days, during which we lived off the land and I began to feel a living connection with the earth, with what grew from and in the earth, and with the animals.

As the sense of connection grew, I understood that it had always been there, but like most of us, I had been ignorant of it. My sense of it had been dulled, maybe almost obliterated, by ready packed food, meat already killed and cut, fruits already found and picked. Now I was involved in the search, in hunting for food, and in taking it when found.

In that new condition I was led to the hill. It was in a rather jumbled landscape, covered in some trees and scrub. And the hill rose from these surroundings, without great height or significance. But it was near the base of the hill the tribesman stopped and looked at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure why, but I could see tracks had been made to this spot by the passage of many feet. And where we stood was clear of scrub and natures debris.

Then, after watching me for some time, the man fell upon his knees, obviously moved by some strong wonder, and prostrated himself toward the hill.

Nearby, at the foot of the hill, great rocks were thrust out of the soil, and it was toward these the man looked and directed his adoration.

At first I could discover no understanding, and began to explain the event and journey as a superstitious ritual that I had no kinship with, and no need to follow. But it puzzled me why such a man, who was mature in a way of survival I was still an infant in, who was in no way a fool in his connection with the reality of the land surrounding us, should take this journey and fall before the rocks. And as I thought this, I realized what a conceit the white man’s ideas of native superstition are, and what amazing ignorance they hid. So I let my prejudices melt and gazed at the rocks.

Then slowly my blindness was eroded to reveal an older and deeper way of seeing. Gradually the rocks took shape, and I could see the magnificent head off a great beast. The rocks and their hollows suggested a huge muzzle and eyes. And still the vision cleared, and I felt the rocky beast was thrusting up from the depths of the earth; that the very earth and rocks had through unimaginable time become the beast.

I paused as the image penetrated me in this wild place. Then, further depths became revealed and I too fell upon my knees. For in the beast I then saw all creatures, myself included. And my heart knew the Beast as that grand mysterious process that emerged from the very rocks, the soil and processes of our Earth, and pushed, dancing through all its levels and forms, thrusting into life, into being, and into consciousness. And I knew myself as one face in the multitude of the Beast’s forms; a moment in its emergence, a footstep in its movement onwards.

What I had taken to be superstition and idolatry, I now knew simply as recognition. The rocks were rocks. But that deep life in me saw their shape and called upon me to look upon what they represented in myself, and see my wonder. For the Beast was the life within myself that had through untold ages lived and struggled and unfolded on our earth.

Then too I knew the great Beast in me was hungry — hungry for food, hungry for experience, yearning to be all it could be. And I knew the beast only consumes itself – for there is nothing else in this great circle of life.

That savage man then stood before me searching my face as we laughed and wept in recognition of each other.

The Shepherd’s Flute

  One night when the skies were clear, letting the cold stars frost the ground, an old shepherd sat alone on the side of a great mountain. The cold of approaching winter reminded him only of his age, and sadness crept into his heart as he wondered of what value his life had been. “All my life I have roamed the mountain” he thought to himself, “and I have taken to myself neither wife nor friends. Only the sheep have shared my years.” And his sorrow prompted him to question whether his life had been of value in God’s sight.

Below he could see the lights of the villages, and he thought of the many kindnesses and good things he might have done amongst them; of the burdens he might have shared, or the many moments lightened.

His sorrow deepened as he looked back on the past, remembering the unshared wonder of his lonely nights. He remembered the nights when a mellow summer moon lit the drifting mists, making the trees and hollows beautiful and mysterious in the half light. Memories of the warm perfumes of the mountain meadows, on nights when the gentle movements of the sheep and the distant murmur of the streams filled him with peace and happiness. He recalled the music he had made with his wooden flute as he sat alone but for the sheep and the mountain.

But all of this he had done alone, with none to know the beauty of it all. Then, taking out his flute he held it gently in his gnarled hands. But the outdoors and the mountain life had taken away its music, and the old shepherd wept.

Yet even as the tears fell from his eyes on to the flute he began to hear a distant sound. Looking around he could not see from whence it came, yet all the time it grew in volume. As he looked wondering into the valley it burst upon him as a great symphony echoing up from below. So beautiful and so sweet was it, that his tears of sorrow became tears of joy, and he stood up breathless to look into the valley laid out beneath him.

As he stood transfixed by the wonder of the silver toned sounds that told of the mountain in all its various beauties God spoke to him and said, “Old shepherd, do you not recognise the music?”

Overcome and frightened by the voice, the shepherd fell upon his knees unable to speak. Then God came forward and touched him upon the brow, and in that instant he knew that the music was his own. It was a fragment of the beauty he had unknowingly planted within each heart in the valley. It was the sound of his flute as it had been heard in the villages on quiet nights. At this his joy knew no bounds, transforming his features, and in that instant he died to this life.

On the spot where they found him kneeling the villagers have raised a rude stone cross to mark his passing. And sometimes, on nights when the clear skies let the cold stars frost the mountain pastures, one can still hear the sound of a distant flute, and an old man’s happy laughter.

Day’s End

Miguel Jesus Rodriguez slowed his pace and stopped walking just where an unpaved lane ran uphill from Anche de San Juan. He was carrying the folding wooden framework on which he hung the necklaces, crosses and bangles he tried to sell each day on the pavement of the Jardine in San Miguel de Allende. His wife, young son and two daughters, who often sat or stood with him on the pavement, had already left carrying the bags holding the unsold merchandise. It had been a good day. The new arrivals – the North American holiday-makers – had liked the Mexican craftwork he offered. So Miguel felt satisfied with the day, and was in no hurry. Standing for hours each day on the pavement in the sun and occasional rain, had taught him patience. Besides which, the lane ascending to his left exuded quietness. It seemed to absorb the noise of the taxis and buses struggling up the slope of Hidalgo.

Without being conscious of it, Miguel Jesus took a few steps up the lane. Then he became aware of what he was doing and stopped. He knew where the lane led. As a boy he had run through all the alleys and blind turnings of the town. This one led to the edge of the houses, up on the hill where the desert began, and the cacti flourished in the dry dust. He remembered this and tried to recall how many years it had been since he climbed the lane and left the traffic rumble and the claims of work behind. He couldn’t remember just when, but the attempt did produce a feeling in him of a divide, a threshold, on one side of which was the open opportunities and sensitivities of childhood; and on the other, the invisible but tangible demands of family and work.

Miguel was not a deep thinking man, but this divide, and the different world of experience on each side, was suddenly clear to him. He sensed the lane as a threshold, and perhaps if he walked up the hill, he might cross over the divide. He found a crumbling stone wall to hide his wooden frame behind, and walked on. He walked slowly, even nervously, because the feeling of shifting and change was very real. And while the far side of the divide was natural to him in childhood, he was a man now. The passions and pain of childhood felt too raw for him to experience.

But the lane was not in fact threatening him. The feeling he met was more akin to having looked at a big stone wall for a long time, then having somebody point out a pattern lost in the stones. The wall suddenly reveals images previously unrealised.

So things were flashing into Miguel’s awareness as he slowly walked away from Hidalgo. It led him to feel he was walking away from a world. It was not a world made up of houses, people, hills and desert, but of ideas, feelings and convictions of what was important, and what consequences were linked with actions in the world of adulthood.

Looking ahead up the hill, and then looking back toward San Miguel, the world of objects remained the same. Yet Miguel could feel the relationship with the road, the houses, and himself, shifting. He stopped walking again to look back. There below him, almost as real as a tree, or the scraggy dog licking water from between the rugged stones of the road, he could see the whole world in which his energy had been immersed. There was the concern about feeding and supporting his family; the struggle to keep a roof over their head; the difficult feeling about what status or recognition he had with and from those around him. He could see his immersion in how, through trading, he might claim a share of the world’s wealth, and beyond that, the humiliation of seeing other apparently ordinary men and women manage to amass extraordinary properties and goods, thereby becoming masters and mistresses of him.

Then there were the minutiae of his concerns, such as whether the rain would last, and keep away custom, pushing his family to hunger, and whether his mother’s poor health meant she was dying.

As he looked back he wept quiet tears, seeing how lost he had been in that world. It had all seemed so real, and surviving in that world was important, as was his mother’s health. But his tears swelled because he was on the threshold of another world, one that promised something more. So with some inner pain he turned and walked up the hill.

His cries became louder, like a poor beast in pain. But he didn’t know why, only that something was trying to emerge from within him, and was tearing through whatever was in the way of its progress toward birth. It thrust up into his chest and throat, ripping through constrictions and hesitations.

At one point he stumbled as if drunk, and cried out involuntarily. “I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” But even as the cry left his lips he staggered to his feet again and reached the desert.

And there it was, the doorway to this new world of experience. And he walked through into an immersion in love such as he had never known. It was a love that knew every tiny part of Miguel, and drew him to itself. He sensed it as a being so vast, so huge, he failed to comprehend it and fell on his knees before it, only managing to say, “My God! My God!” over and over.

Then the being appeared to touch him, and he was no longer Miguel Jesus Rodriguez who had been born in San Miguel de Allende, and lived a few years in its streets and houses. In an instant he was a river of life that flowed through all time, touching life in a body again and again, leaving shells in its passing. Shells on the seashore of a timeless ocean. A small part of Miguel’s mind that still clung to his life in time and the body, saw how insignificant his concerns in that world were. He knew, as if he had always known, that the being he was now knowing himself as, permeated all living things, and no one could die, because they were all held and loved in this ocean of life beyond time. Miguel knew that all tribulation was a way of trying to get reluctant humanity to cross the threshold he had walked through.

Then the being touched Miguel again, and light burst out of him in a final tearing of barriers.

Miguel realised he was on his knees at the edge of a dirt track. Nearby was a huge cactus, at the base of which the wind had piled empty coke cans and torn plastic bags. It was the world he had walked away from, yet all was changed. The same scarred old cactus, the cluttered rubbish of cans and car parts were there, but Miguel was aware of a shimmering dancing incandescence that he was part of, but yet was forever unknowable, all in the same instant. Miguel saw it, yet nowhere on the dusty desert could he point to it. But everything he looked at was IT. And because he was also himself the illusive shimmering he saw in everything, he felt at the centre of things. Gradually he stood up and reached out to nowhere in particular, took hold of his mother, and she was healed. There was no distance here, and everything that could ever be, already existed in the shimmering. So he had opened to his mother what was already hers to have.

Then, suddenly it was gone. The cactus and the coke cans were no longer moments in a timeless, space-less world. They were no longer part of the essence that was also Miguel Jesus Rodriguez. There was distance now between himself and the houses down the hill. He was no longer the river flowing through time. He was alone in the desert.

When he had walked home and opened the door to his small house, the children were all in the patio standing around Ignatz, his wife, as she cooked the tortillas. They all looked at him as he walked in carrying the wooden frame. He could see a hint of anxiety in their expressions, and watched it melt away as they gazed at him questioningly.

Then Ignatz smiled and the children moved to him slowly, still gazing at him and wanting to touch him.

He stood still, allowing them to approach him in their own manner. Little Maria held out a kitten she was carrying. Miguel picked her up in one arm with the kitten, reflecting the love she was radiating to him. Then Chico and Francesca moved to his other arm. He looked up to see Ignatz with a tear rolling down one cheek. He smiled at her, and no words were necessary.

The Sacred Shrine

The day is carved into my life as a lightning flash might, that unexpectedly in the night, stabs fire into a nearby tree.  The eyes see it, and the heart feels it.  Just so, that day has left a wound of wonder in me, and images that are as bright to me as the light that cleaves the sky.

I am a man of the North people; a hunter in my tribe.  Our land is rocky and hard; dark and frozen for much of the year’s cycle.  But we are a strong people, and proud of our ways and skills in living with this land.

On that grey day five of us men went to the hunt.  The dogs were already in full energy even before we left, knowing our purpose.  But they were quiet as we called upon our gods for help.  They too knew they would go hungry if the gods did not guide our footsteps.

Ogdir had dreamt of the rising sun that night so we headed East, walking slowly with little sound through the forested mountains.  It was good to feel the manhood in me, as rugged as the rocks and trees around us, as alive as the creatures whose skins I wore to keep me dry.  The misty lakes we walked by, the weathered trees, were as much in me as outside.

Then, as one, we stopped.  The dogs too, still, silently looking at our faces to read our intention.  For there, partly hidden through the trees, standing in a small clearing, was a magnificent antlered male stag.

Slowly, creeping behind trees for cover, dogs warned to stand until called, we moved toward that wonderful beast.  We felt the strength in it, and saw its agitation.  It knew something was approaching, but did not know from where, and so hesitated from flight. Poised, some small sound as we notched our arrows, some odour of us in the still air, sent it flying away.  Even so, an arrow caught it in the flank as it ran.  And then the dogs were after it with us running too.

It climbed a rocky crag, up and up away from us. Through trees, over rocks, across streams we ran. And when we came upon it the dogs had backed it against a tall rock on the edge of a precipitous drop. It stood, fiery, intensely alive despite its oozing blood, fighting the dogs off.

But as we neared enough to fire an arrow it paused and looked on us, proud and uncowed, its head erect and eyes blazing. Then, with a bellowing challenge, as if daring us to follow, it reared and leaped full into the void, falling down and down out of our sight to its death.

We stood completely still and silent, the dogs also, staring into the void. It was a tremendous silence; our hearts had felt its challenge to follow it into death. We had heard its huge and wonderful defiance of us, understandable even to the dogs. It had leapt to break itself, rather than be broken.

We left the body of the creature where it lay, to honour its life and death, only covering it with rocks to mark it as a shrine to that great beast. And without words we walked back to our dwellings, feeling as if we had seen a god who had spoken a great truth to us. A god in the body of that beast, fearless in the face of death.

The Light In My House

In my heart there has always been a place I have kept ready for the Lord to live in. Then unexpectedly, just yesterday, he came saying he would now like to live in the room I have kept waiting. That the one I love so much has come to live in my house has dazed me. With tears in my eyes I have run to all my friends telling them of my happiness and wishing to share it with them. I wanted them all to come, to see for themselves how wonderful it is to be near the Lord.

But soon I began to wonder about whether my house was good enough, and I am not the best person in our village. My love swept all those feelings aside though. I was too happy to feel concern, and every ordinary thing, every table and chair, every spoon was now transformed. I didn’t even feel they were mine any more. I wanted him to have everything. It was all I had to give, and there was nothing I wanted now I was near him.

Today my friends arrived at the door to visit. I wondered, how do you introduce someone to God? I was still wondering what to do when they walked in, and he knew them all as if they were old friends. He knew their names and all about their family, their children and I couldn’t believe my friends had not met him before. They all talked and laughed so warmly it opened my eyes to something about Him I had never known before. It is that God is the light in our life that leads us to make friends; to be interested in each others lives in a caring way; to reach out in friendship after an argument; to know what it is like to be married and have children, and care for others. When we allow those parts of our life to grow in us we let God grow. It is all so everyday and matter of fact we overlook how wonderful it is. I have friends who look up at the stars to find meaning in life. But God is right here with me living in my house and saying hello to my friends by their first names.

I am still a bit dazed, because as I said, the Lord only made his home with me yesterday. And this evening, when I stood in the market-place, I wondered what was happening to me. Was it all real, or was I dreaming? Just then a baby girl, just walking, let go of her father’s hand and stood looking at me full in the face. As she looked I felt as if she could see the Lord shining inside of me. Then with arms wide she ran to me and held up her face to be kissed. The child seemed to know that Love had come to live in my heart – and I let Love bless her through the kiss. I knew also I had not been dreaming.

Fear In Penrhos Forest

  Something urged me out of my den long after the sun had set. I went cautiously, sniffing the air. The frost was in my nose, and the mist. I started south on a track padded along many times. Few creatures were about, but I was wary. Age makes you more cautious. But I wasn’t hunting, because my belly was full; not hunting for food anyway. Maybe I was looking for a mate, but I passed many scents that had mild promise, so the drive wasn’t urgent.

It was good to move my body. Good to follow my head, follow my nose, follow the track I knew. It would lead me back to my den, and I could sleep again when my limbs had moved in freedom.

Then it was slower climbing the hill back across the Penrhos height. And suddenly, near the top, a young female of my species was coming towards me from another track. I could see her body tense, and maybe seeing me coming toward her made her panic and turn on to the track in front of me. I kept my steady pace behind her, but she swung from one side of the track to the other through what I sensed was uncertainty and fear.

I am old, but I am still strong, yet even I feel some fear out in the forest. Perhaps there are not many, but there are a few predators that would try to tackle me. But this young female, in season, and weaker, would be the target for many predators, and she knew it, fearing I might be one of those she needed to escape from.

Seeing this in her fearful stumble, I called to her, “Let me pass and walk in front of you. Then you will not feel afraid.”

She hesitated, still anxious, and I said, “Let me pass, then it will be easier.”

She drew to one side nervously and I passed. “Thank you,” she said quietly as I went by.

Padding on, I thought to myself, “I feel some fear, and I am stronger, and have fewer predators. You, with so much to be afraid of, I cannot imagine how you feel. May the spirit of the forest watch over you!”

Tess and the Lake

I know a man whose name is Nigel. He is married to a woman called Tess.

Now Nigel and Tess live in a place just East of Doncaster in Melbourne. Most of you know Nigel and Tess, this is because they are similar to so many likeable people. Most of you get on well with them, especially Tess; she is such a likeable person. You must have met Tess up the road. She loves kids. She would always ask you in, kids as well; or even the dog if you had yours with you. She loves dogs.

But there was something that Tess would worry about sometimes. She was a good mother. She was a good wife. But something vexed her, particularly as she watched her children growing up. At that time it was noticeable that she started inviting friends in less than she had previously. She wasn’t so easy going with people anymore either. What worried her most was that she couldn’t figure out what the problem was.

Neither could Nigel. As you recall, Nigel is an easy going person. He’s one of these fellahs who’s got his head stuck under the bonnet of his car a lot of the time. But he has always been there for Tess, and the kids could always join in with what he was doing. He loves Tess, but he wasn’t a complicated sort of a guy. At least, not enough to figure out what was ailing Tess.

Neither did the doctor – figure out what was ailing Tess. He did give her things. He did try his best. He examined her and did the things doctors do. They take lumps of you out, look at them, and say, ‘Well, no, there’s nothing really wrong with you Tess! I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t be a bit more helpful.’ And that was about it, with the doctor.

Tess started going for walks alone. That was so unlike her. That was not the Tess that everyone had known. It just wasn’t her. To tell the truth she used to go to the lake that was in the reserve not far from where Nigel and she lived in Doncaster East. In fact she often thought of throwing herself in and sinking to the bottom.

She didn’t. And I think what saved her was that she loved her children. If you imagine Tess standing by the lake without the children or Nigel, well, she would have been in the lake, wouldn’t she? And she would have been at the bottom without even knowing what was bothering her.

There are quite a few people at the bottom of that lake – the lake of despair I mean – because they didn’t have a Nigel or children in their life.

The pity is that we don’t really know why they threw themselves in. But happily Tess didn’t. Even so it was difficult for Tess to go back to her home and family. But she did go to the house, to her children, to Nigel, and to what was eating away at her good feelings. She realised when she got home that she had either got to find out what was eating her inside, or she would be at the bottom of the lake where some of her neighbours were. They were down there now, and so might she be if she couldn’t deal with the shadow that was darkening her life.

Tess started asking herself difficult questions about what she felt. She came to some quite difficult answers as a result. One of them was that there is a disease about in our times. It isn’t a disease like small pox, or tuberculosis, that one can easily give a name to and shows signs in or on the body. So it has been creeping around getting into people’s homes and lives, infecting them and urging them into the lake. And people haven’t recognised it or seen it coming. So it has got a lot of people to the bottom of the lake.

Tess felt that the root of it all was that none of us any longer live close enough together, and we don’t hear the wind or the birds any more, or know what they are saying even if we do hear them. This leaves great open spaces in our soul. They get filled with shadows.

If I were an old Aboriginal storyteller I would end this story about Tess’s life by saying – And into that great open hole in Tess’s soul crept the shadows of the dead. Not those dead who the wind lifts up to the sun and stars. No, it was the shadows that collect at the dark bends of the creek, where the trees hang over the river and the flotsam collects in the dismal light. Spirits who never got any love get washed into that shadowy place and wait for people to pass by who have lost their own inner light, and fasten on them, eating their hope and joy away out of their desperate hunger.

These shadows of the loveless dead wait for people with holes in their soul and make their life inside the living, eating away at their heart.

Of course there is a cure for that. That person with the dark spirits of the unhappy dead in them is brought out in front of the whole tribe and stands in the middle of us all. The one whose soul is sick then tells us how dark they are inside. We all understand that because we have all been dark inside occasionally. So we would all go to the person and touch them. Some of us would bring the person a few nuts, or some special thing to eat. We would visit that person and say ‘We don’t want those dark spirits eating away at your soul’. Please come and look at our new baby, or see the spear I am fashioning.

But here we are in our own times, where we all live so far apart from each other, and so what would you do if you were Tess? How would you meet the darkness inside? I asked a few people, and here’s what they said.

‘I would go and get pissed.’

‘I would sit out on the porch and have a smoke in the evening and let it all wash over me.’

‘There are plenty of groups about now that can help you work through that sort of problem. I would find some help’

‘I know what I’d do. I’d go and kick my old man in the balls for not paying me enough attention, but having his head stuck under the friggin bonnet of his car.’

‘I would go to church and light a candle to Our Lady and ask her help.’

‘P’rhaps leaving home would do it for me. Not having the worry of the house and kids and my old man moaning at me all the time.

‘I would get the doctor to give me something that worked. They’ve got stuff now that will deal with depression. If I couldn’t get it from one I’d try another.’

For myself, I would get hold of that darkness inside me and pull it around so hard to give it the sort of shit it’s been giving me. Then, as I drag it out of the shadows, I’d make it stand naked in front of me till I could see for myself what a pitiful thing it is. Till I could see right into the misery causing it to exist in me, and where its roots are. Then I would dig up its roots and put it on the compost heap of my heart and let it rot down into something life giving and useful. The light that gave it life in the first place would then shine out of it.