CHAPTER VIII - The Life of Raymond Brooks
Raymond and I lived in Northwood Forest; a vast woods ranging from the Channel near Drentwych to the old western borders of Wessex; to the north it expanded and separated us from the Scots. The trees closer to our settlements were rather small, for the local population often harvested timber as close as possible to home. Wood-theft was also a widespread crime amongst the various lumberjacks. This is why Raymond had chosen to travel deeper into the forest to harvest one of the larger, older trees. Raymond’s cabin was quite large relative to the neighboring homes; it equaled the size of three hovels merged together into one. When I inquired as to why his cabin was so big, he said that he liked his space. But there was more to it than that, I reasoned. My guess was that he had a large family once upon a time and that they all had left, each in his turn, leaving him alone in his venerable age. He was a very fatherly figure, and I could well imagine him with scores of children running about.
One normal, autumn day Raymond and I labored at chopping such a tree as he preferred to harvest. This tree was tougher to chop down than it had appeared to be at first, and both Raymond and I grew tired before it fell. Other trees loomed high above us, some of their peaks painted white with snow. Though no snow or rain was falling at that moment, it was quite chilly. I liked this weather. It made the world seem beautiful and calm — kind of like how I felt. The sounds of small animals and birds kept us company, though, and I felt safe sitting by Raymond’s side. I watched him light a bonfire and blew air upon the embers when instructed.
“Master Raymond, may I ask a question?” I said, after we settled for supper, our dishes spread before us.
“Of course,” he replied, and I hesitated a few moments, trying to think of how to pose my query.
“What drives you to act so kindly?” I finally asked.
“What do you mean?” He replied, puzzled by question.
“Well, you took me in when you had nothing to gain from it. I, a wounded soldier with people probably out to kill me. The way I see it, you had everything to lose and nothing to gain, so I don’t understand why? Please tell me,” I said.
“Not everything is about gaining or losing,” he replied in calm tones. “And it’s not true that I had nothing to gain. I saved a life, and I think yours is a life worth saving,” he said, yet his expression told me there’s more beneath the surface.
“Why me? You don’t even know me,” I protested.
“I don’t need your life’s story to know your heart, and it doesn’t matter. I’m not your judge. For me you’re a soul in need, and as such it’s my duty to give assistance,” he said calmly.
“Duty? Assigned by whom?” I asked, pressing him further. I wanted the god-awful truth.
“Self-assigned, by my heart as a Christian. It’s my duty to help those in need,” he replied quickly. I knew there was more to it than that, but I changed my mind and decided that I should not delve into matters which he wished to keep to himself. My mind was not satisfied. I wanted to know, damn it. But I’d be a dick if I repaid my savior with interrogations. The turmoil was probably evident on my face.
“Why, you don’t think your life is worth saving?” He asked, after an awkward silence of studying me.
“Yes! I guess ... I don’t know. I don’t know for sure, maybe I’m a villain and I don’t even know,” I replied honestly.
‘If he won’t come forward, at least I will,’ I thought.
“What crime could a boy your age do to damn you so completely?” He asked.
“I don’t know! I can’t remember, but there’s guilt. I know there’s guilt in my heart, and I can’t remember why. I don’t know my crime, but it’s there, running like a bleeding wound across the very foundations of my soul,” I replied. And there it was, as honestly and boldly as I could put it. It wasn’t him I wanted to interrogate, it was me. I rubbed my eyes, I wanted to go away, I wanted to stay and open Pandora’s Box.
“So take this opportunity to ask forgiveness of the Lord, and mend whatever it is you feel needs mending,” he replied, still amazingly well-composed.
“But what if my crime is not against God, what if it’s against my fellow man?” I asked, as I felt the Box’s lid start to open.
“Then ask forgiveness of that man once you see him,” he replied.
“Not all crimes can be forgiven,” I replied, feeling a hole in my soul, my heart burning, and growing frustrated with these feelings for which my mind recoiled at the recollection.
“Forgive yourself then, or find a way to make amends, lest guilt consume you.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Go on, eat your food.” I did absent-mindedly.
“I killed,” I said after finishing my food, having no better way to restart the conversation so I just opened the Box and dared reveal what was inside.
“That’s a soldier’s job, Jesus knows ...” he said, and I stopped him.
“Not as I did,” I replied, tears in my eyes.
“I don’t understand,” he said, becoming very attentive.
“My brother, I fink I killed my brother, and it’s haunting me forever,” I said, staring at the ground.
“You remember this or you just think it?” He asked, caring perhaps more than he should.
“It’s a feeling I can’t describe, but I know it’s real and it won’t leave me be,” I said, looking away from him.
“Did you mean to do it?” He asked calmly.
“No! I don’t think so, maybe … no,” I said. “I don’t know!”
“So for all you know, it could have been an accident,” he replied.
‘It could have … yes!’ I thought. I hung on his explanation as if my life depended on it.
“Yes, it must have been an accident, though I feel responsible,” I said.
“If it was an accident, your guilt can only hurt you, unless you find a way to make peace with it and move on,” he said simply.
“How can you make peace with something like that?” I asked, clenching and unclenching my fists.
“You must, for life goes on no matter what. Either you go on with it or you wither and die. There’s plenty of guilt in my life too, but I don’t let it rule over me,” he said.
“You make it sound so easy,” I replied.
“Never said it was, you just don’t have any other choice,” he replied, and I stared at the fire silently, trying to sort out a lot of blackness and some scrambled images running across my mind.
“It’s rather simple, boyo. You’re handed out what you’re handed out. We’re not all born equal, so there’s no use resenting fate,” he said.
“But it’s not fair!” I protested, feeling an old anger stir to life, and an image of blond hair blowing in the spring wind.
“No, it’s not, but you have a choice, and it’s a simple one, really. You do what you want to do, go your own way, carve your own fate,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
“I’ll explain, then,” he said, grabbing a twig and drawing in the sand.
“There are three kinds of fates,” he explained. “The first is the fate of being born,” he said as he drew the word ‘vitae’, which is Latin for life. He was highly educated for a wood-chopping-hermit-in-the-woods.
“You can’t change the circumstances of your birth, can’t choose your folks, can’t choose your gender, can’t choose your race. Do you know what I’m saying?” He asked, hinting at a deeper meaning I could not yet see.
“Yes,” I replied, as so far it was clear as I took his words literally for what they were.
“On the other side we have death,” he said, and drew the word ‘Morte’, the Latin word for death. “You can sometimes choose the way you die, but you can’t stop death. That’s the second God-ordained fate,” he explained.
“I understand,” I said.
“Now, in between, you’ve got the last kind of fate called ‘experience’,” he said and drew the word ‘experience’ in the sand. “This is where your freedom of choice comes in. You can do whatever you want between those two fates, birth and death, and this is the fate that matters, since it is the one that is yours to shape as you see fit. And you shape it by making choices. For this fate, God gave us a guidebook, to tell us how to experience a good life. But he doesn’t force us to travel his way, you can experience life in any way you want,” he explained at length.
“I understand,” I replied, thinking this over. His words were clear, but I wanted to protest.
“I’m happy boyo,” He replied awkwardly. He wasn’t happy at all.
“You say we have no control over birth and death, but have control over our life,” I said.
“Yes …” He agreed preparing for my challenge.
“But I say in life, we have little to no control at all. For you see, we’ve got rules, and people telling us what to do and what’s right and wrong, even what’s proper to fink.”
“Of-course, freedom is a valuable thing, and one must always be mindful and protect one’s freedom,” he replied. It was a statement which seemed filled with flaws, although sounding pleasing to the ear.
“I fink freedom is an idea, but it doesn’t exist in real life. Suppose society crumbled and there were no nobles, no soldiers, no rules … each person would have to fight for everything, to protect his family, to gather food. A world without rules will be a dark world indeed,” I said, and I had more to say, but I wanted to hear his reply.
“Of-course, the rules of society are there for a reason, to preserve your wellbeing, but one can choose to live outside of society, as I have,” he replied, keeping his adamant composure, even when challenged rhetorically by an adolescent.
“So I say there is no freedom. You can choose to live confined by society, or to live as an outlaw. You can sometimes choose your craft, and sometimes even your wife. But I say choices are limited, and therefore even between birth and death, a person is limited.” I felt my argument was sound, and that made me a bit sad: I didn’t want to bring him down.
“That is where you’re wrong,” He replied without missing a beat. “You think freedom is divinity. I’ll explain what real freedom is. Freedom is the choice you make to do the right thing or the selfish thing. You can’t always choose your wife, but you can choose how you treat her. You can’t always choose your profession, but you can choose to dedicate yourself to it and excel or to slack at it. Even when a soldier’s life is imposed on you, you make a choice on what kind of soldier you are. And you always have a choice of what kind of person you can be. That is true freedom, and no-one can take it away from you because it was given to you by God — the freedom to choose,” he replied, and I was humbled.
“I understand,” I said, and this time I meant it. I felt better now, and in a way after releasing all my troubles, I found hope. I can be a good person; a better person. I have a choice, and I choose to be noble, like Raymond o’ the Brooks.
“Will you tell me your story, how you grew so wise?” I asked, hoping for a change of subject.
“There’s nothing in my story that would cheer you up. Perhaps it’s best to let the past die out,” he replied thoughtfully.
“I’d like to hear it nonetheless, if you’re willing,” I replied, now eager and intrigued.
“Well, boyo, there’s seem no stopping you … very well then … I originally came from a land further to the north ...” he began, and I listened carefully, making myself as comfortable as I could.
“People were different there, taller and stronger than any here. We were a warrior nation, though few of us remain today. I wasn’t much of a warrior compared to my brethren. It wasn’t that I lacked skill, but I lacked interest. My concerns lay elsewhere, in things far more tender and pleasurable,” he said, and winked at me. I didn’t get whatever he was hinting at and my face remained blank.
“I mean to say, Boyo, is that I was far more interested in women than I was in wars. I courted a young lady by the name of Lianna, and she indeed was fair. Raven-haired, clever green eyes, and a sharp mind. We spend many an evening — after doing our chores, debating and arguing all the facts of life, and every time, boyo, every time she left me confused, discouraged, miserable, and longing for more. She had something to say about everything, and most often it was radical, revolutionary, bittersweet, and demanded rumination. I fell in love with her, and though she would have said my affection was towards her flesh and not her spirit, this was not the case, no!” He said, and his eyes took a nostalgic gleam.
“As fate would have it, I was called to war before I had the chance to propose marriage. I had saved a fortune to pay her father for the privilege of her hand, and he, a sharp, shrewd, and greedy man, knew of my affections, and would demand no less than everything I owned. I had managed to raise enough gold and jewels to purchase her, yet as the fates would have it, I was called to war and her wedding ring remained in my purse,” he said, his eyes glazed and haunted.
“So I went to war and I fought. I didn’t care who the enemy was or why I was fighting. I fought only to return to Lianna, and propose to her. Five years of soldiering changed me, Boyo — changed me to the very core of my soul. I forgot myself, who I was before the war. I lived in the forest for five years, fighting again and again, I can’t even remember against who — I don’t care to remember. But I was strong, and I survived,” he said, taking a sip of water from his water-skin to calm himself. I sat beside him stunned, wanting to say something, but I didn’t know what. I was eager, yet at the same time frightened to hear what happened to his love.
Somewhere deep inside of me I wondered, am I too in exile from my lover …?
“In the end I found my way back home, a shadow of the man I used to be. My face was heavily bearded and crusted with dirt. My clothes were not my own, but belonged to a dead man who had worn them before me. My hands, my fingers, were blackened by ashes, sand, and blood. In other words, I looked as if I had gone to Hell and back. I could not have Lianna see me like that. So back I went to the forest, and bathed myself in the river, washing clean my body but not my soul. There was still blood on my hands, a stain that can never go away,” he reflected.
“Raymond, may I ask a question?” I ventured.
“Yes, by all means boyo,” he answered, his face relaxing and his tone lighter.
“Why five years at war, why were you the only one to come back?” I asked. He paused for a few moments, trying to make a decision, and then he spoke.
“I have died, Boyo,” he began darkly. “I died and came back to life. There’s no doubt about it. A blade pierced my flesh and as sure as heaven, I remember myself lying in a pool of blood. Then ...” he paused.
“Then what?” I asked, looking to the ground, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze as he spoke those words. “Then an old man appeared out of nowhere, he just materialized behind my killer. I listened, trembling in awe and fear as the old man struck my killer with thunder and lightning, destroying his body completely. I can see his face even now in my mind, smell the brimstone and witness the smoke. I thought him a demon and called out to God with my final ounce of strength. But he healed my wounds, Boyo — healed them,” Raymond repeated.
“Did he say anything?” I asked, in awe of his story.
“Aye, Boyo. He said unto me the wisest of words,” Raymond answered and breathed deeply. “He said that angels hide as common men, watching us, serving justice or mercy as God sees fit. ‘Why me?’ I asked, and what he told me I cannot repeat Boyo, though I can admit our meeting was not by chance but of fate.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, fervently.
“I cannot say,” he replied.
“Well, go on with your story then!” I pleaded. “Please,” I added.
“On that day I swore my life to Christ, and this is why I was the only one to return, Boyo,” he said with a far-away look.
“Where was I?” Raymond suddenly asked, as if waking from a sleep.
“You had bathed in the river,” I said.
“Yes, yes. I had bathed myself then returned home the second time, seeking my Lianna,” he said and grew silent, his face turning grim.
“And what happened?” I asked after a few moments, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence that settled between us.
“And, her father had wed her to another man while I was gone, that’s what happened,” he said, and was silent again.
“What! That’s not fair, why did he do that?” I asked, protesting what I thought to be a horrible ending to this tale.
“He said that all thought me dead, and that he had only his daughter’s best interest in mind. Though I believe he had his own best interest in mind, for he was paid a handsome fee. He requested then that I refrain from seeing her, and I silently turned my back to him and left,” Raymond said.
“Where did you go?” I asked, still immersed deeply in his story.
“I went to Lianna, of course. Her husband blocked the door, yelling at her to remain silent. I chopped the door down with my axe, struck his face with the hilt, and proceeded to take her with me,” Raymond said, and his eyes shone in remembrance of a rage he had not forgotten.
“What happened then?” I asked as he once more became silent.
“Then we made love under the stars and together we built this cabin where I still live,” he said, tears in his eyes.
“Why so sad then? Where is she now?” I said, and then caught myself, for his silence told it all. His eyes gleamed and stared into mine, as if digging into my soul.
“… She was still the wife of another man. Justified or not, our love was a sin against God and he punished us, for I had coveted and taken the wife of another man,” he replied with tears in his eyes, and I for once remained silent.
“And I have bettered my ways since then. I had come to fear the Lord and keep his commandments … And I pray, every day that he would forgive me, and deliver me to where our love would be possible. Any place where we are together will be an Eden to me,” he said, and stared at me silently.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be; you gave me your confession and I gave you mine,” he responded.
“I wish I knew what to say,” I replied.
“Don’t be sad for me, Boyo. I did find another love eventually, got married, had children,” he said.
“Still, it seems unfair and sad,” I replied, still engrossed in his story.
“Come on, Boyo. The autumn winds blow chilly come darkness,” he said, and we made way back home. My mind was now filled with more questions and fewer answers than it had ever been.
