Written by Lazarus Carpenter
Once upon a time, within a world, within a world, within a world, there was an island. A green, lush, quiet little island surrounded by sandy beaches to the west and high cliffs to the east. The south of this land is defended by the sea, with almost constant waves of over thirty feet high, rolling two hundred meters inshore every time a wave hit. You could neither leave nor arrive by this route for fear of being battered by huge rollers. To the north, fierce cold winds blew across granite cliffs, providing homes for thousands of sea birds. In the centre of this island, a mountain climbed almost to the sky. From its peaks, all that was known, that could be seen, was known and could be seen by those who knew what they were looking for.
On a green plateau deep in the forest’s centre, tall trees provided much-needed shelter for our wise old man’s home. He lived alone and done so for many, many years, and the islanders protected him from any outsiders encroaching on his desired self-imposed solitude and isolation. Many years passed since the old man arrived on the Island. The old man appeared very old when he arrived, and after all these years, he still did. Never did he seem to have aged, ever. Nobody questioned it any more as the old man witnessed many generations come and go during his time. Islanders were born, lived and bore children, grew old and died, but the old man was still there, never changing, always the same age… old!
He lived high on the mountain plateau alone, and to the islanders, he was a living, breathing legend. If they were ever ill, a trudge up the mountain paths would be rewarded by the old man’s warm welcome. A cup of herbal tea on arrival, and whatever illness they came with, they left without it. In the old man’s world, very little changed, and this was how it should be. Of course, the days turned into months and years, whilst the seasons floated by decade after century. But for the most part, little changed; the islanders lived a simple life and had very little to do with those outside of their world.
The old man remembered how the world outside the Island exploded through greed, avarice and war after war. But for a reason only he knew, the island was not affected and although life existed outside in the wider world, the two worlds rarely came into contact with each other. Since the wars that plagued the outside world centuries past, all survivors had chosen a place to live and stayed there. Survival was imperative; thus, respecting the space of others and trading between themselves was the only option. All was peaceful these days; mankind had nearly destroyed itself through greed, but out of all the bad, peace had been found, and there was a clear collective change in thinking, an evolution of the species.
The island was a microcosm of the wider world, peaceful, green, and all life sacred without the rituals of religion and madness to poison each other’s minds. But now there were no more wars, there was no need for war, and mankind had grown out of their need to kill for reasons even they did not understand any more. The old man had seen all of this! All of it! He had welcomed the peace that now permeated everything on the planet. All of the needless wars he had witnessed over the centuries had given him great emotional and spiritual pain. But nowadays all was quiet except for the sounds of nature and children’s laughter.
It was a beautiful day and the sun was high in a clear blue sky. Our old, wise man stood on the plateau, blinking in the sun’s glare. Gnarled fingers played with the ends of his beard, and he moved slowly from one foot to the other, staring at something in the distance. There was a cloud of dust on the mountain path below. Somebody or something was coming.
As the dust cloud began to dissipate the old man caught sight of who created it. A muscular man sporting a pronounced limp staggered along the path, supporting himself with a long walking pole; his progress was slow. Every step taken threw up dust, marking his journey uphill. The old man leaned against an ancient tree stump, watching the stranger limp along the path, climbing the mountain slowly and deliberately so he did not trip and fall. A noonday sun shone high in a clear blue sky bereft of clouds as the stranger arrived tired and worn out after his gruelling climb. The old man passed his visitor a wooden pitcher brimming with spring water. Silently accepting the pitcher and lifting it to his lips with quivering hands, he drank deeply, quenching an enormous thirst. The old man stared at the stranger, his eyes piercing the visiting soul and seeing everything he needed to know. Gesticulating enthusiastically for him to sit and wait, the old man disappeared through the door of his ramshackle dwelling.
The muscular stranger sat down on green moss with his back against an ancient tree and closed his tired eyes, his thoughts drifting back through the mists of time. He was a fisherman and lived on the other side of the island, making his living feeding others as well as his own family. A few months ago, his fishing boat was thrown upon the rocks amid a foul dark storm. Although he survived, a leg trapped in the sinking boat was broken in several places and forcing its release only served to make matters worse, tearing at sinew and muscle. Since the accident, fishing has been very difficult. First, a new boat must be built, but his leg took months to heal. Fortunately, other villagers sprang to his aid, gifting food for the family and assisting in boat building. Today, everybody helped each other and shared anything necessary with another when needed without question. But since the healing of fractures, bones, though knitted together, left his leg a couple of inches shorter and marked limp. Muscles torn, sinews ripped had left him with searing pain, and not a man known for moaning and complaining; only his silent pain-ridden face told the story.
A door in the ramshackle abode opened, and the wise old man stepped over the doorstep, holding a jar in one hand and, in the other, a wooden pitcher full of steaming liquid. The stranger started to rise to his feet, but the old man gesticulated silently for him to stay sitting with the tree supporting his back. The stranger did as bade, relaxing muscles and stretching his legs. Passing the pitcher full of steaming liquid to him, the old man looked closely at the scarred and battered limb. Placing the jar on the ground, he slowly moved an open palm along the limb, from thigh to foot, sensing and feeling every inch. The stranger held the pitcher, unsure what to do with it, and watched the old man carefully. An aroma rose from the steaming liquid, which he could not avoid inhaling. Within moments, a calmness spread throughout his body, beginning in his feet. When it reached his shoulders and neck, his eyelids fluttered, feeling heavy, and his eyes closed as sleepy dreams filled a calm mind. The old man dipped his fingers and creamed gel from the jar, rubbing it between his palms. He looked up at the stranger’s face. He was asleep now with a broad smile across his face, and not a hint of pain could be seen. Massaging and rubbing the gel into the muscles and concentrating his attention on the sinews between the joints, he worked tirelessly for three hours. The stranger slept on, oblivious to the treatment given. The old man stood, ageing bones creaking and gently shook the stranger’s shoulder until his eyes opened.
Not a word passed between them, only all-knowing smiles. The pain on the stranger’s face had disappeared, and he stood up. Amazement is one way of describing his expression when he noticed the shortness in his leg was gone, no limp would slow him now. He felt again as he did before the wreck, and the awful storm made him a cripple. Wondering what to do with the pitcher of now-cooled liquid, the old man read his mind and took it from him. The old man watched as the stranger hopped from foot to foot and stretched his legs. Reassured he was not dreaming, the stranger took the old man’s hand, nodding his gratitude in silence. The stranger opened his knapsack producing a chicken and three bottles of wine, leaving it for the old man.
The wise old man was smiling, another healed soul. Peace and quiet, no words needed.
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Lazarus Carpenter - Author 