Wanderer (The Way of a Pilgrim)
Part One
Scholars on Dartmoor: from this week’s Summer School
It’s been a crash-bang-wallop of a hot summer so far. Mercifully it’s cooler today as students of myth, poetry and landscape gather at my annual summer school. Tonight I will be attempting a precarious and rarely uttered Arthurian tale, involving a werewolf no less. It’s a wonderful group, from all over the world and I’m delighted to be amongst them. Do have a rummage over at our events page as we have a lively autumn and winter planned.
This week’s Stack is dedicated to the memory of my dear cat Harry who died with me this week. He was filled with days and ready to go. You’ve heard him mewing and purring on the audio now and then. I loved him dearly and we both knew it was coming. For nearly twenty years he’d rarely been more than a few yards away when I was writing.
Over the summer I am working on a new version of the classic work of Russian religious literature, The Way of a Pilgrim. There are several excellent translations already available, so there doesn’t seem an immediate need to provide another one. However, there’s a kind of storytelling quality to the narrative and a vivid engagement with both nature and God that I feel could be dwelt in and enjoyed. Hence what you are about to read, something I’m calling Wanderer. It’s the same story but re-told in new way. This is in part of what storytelling does. For a few weeks here at Beasts & Vines, I will place the next bit of the tale (one of seven in The Way of a Pilgrim) alongside anything else I’m thinking about that week. Thanks to my friend Deacon Nicholas Kotar for making the suggestion in the first place.
As I go I realise it’s a story that tell us a lot about the zeal of a beginner, the span of youth to wisdom, the power of pilgrimage, singleness of vision. The wide-eyed lad in the middle of the story reminds me of countless folks I’ve met by the fire preparing for a wilderness vigil. We likely admire and are exasperated by him at the same time. He’s ‘a-bit-much’ as we say in England. But that has its charm and that has its power. He’s cleared the decks of all distractions. He’s certainly not taking the quick route. And in that we should take note. Everything around us seems to be seducing us into ease-over-everything these days. Instant delivery of our desire, not so good with our longing.
I’m not advocating the boy’s approach for all and sundry. I feel more attached to the earth than ever, and happily so. I love conversation, suppers with friends, gleeful conspiracies, good coffee, roasting up a chicken, kids rollicking, anyone-at-all producing chocolate, even a sob. A storm. And as for whisky and the fireside, sheesh. How much soul can we take? I don’t generally fetishise dry crusts, sore feet and a dispassionate eye.
But.
There are times to feast and there are times to fast. And we have a leaning to those deeper depths, when we listen.
And this, I think, is where Wanderer comes in.
In this time of renewed interest in spiritual practice, even religious vocation, I think this story has something for us. It’s certainly talking to me, generally in uncomfortable ways, which is usually a good sign. I work slowly, just a few paragraphs a day, no rush.
WANDERER
Part One
19th Century Icon of St Nicholas
I don’t have a home you’d likely appreciate.
Tracks, fields, forest. Gullies and freezing streams. Huge skies, pale stars. Oh, the stars. You may judge me lowly as a rat or wolf, and I’d not deny it. There’s a smear of sin on everything I get up to. I can’t shake it. My redemption is a God of Mercy, the celestial blacksmith that through his mighty forge renders me a Christian. Lovingly pounds me into shape.
Stalking endlessly, I grub Russian tracks with almost nothing. Don’t weigh me down with worldly things. A bag of dry bread to gobble, against my chest the Holy Bible. That’s the lot. You can keep your baubles and your blankets.
I am Wanderer, walker of the vagabond life.
To be fair I’d notice a bear charging at me, I’d keep an eye for a dry patch to camp, but that’s not my focus. I’m walking a road without ruts and puddles. It’s a road of words. It’s words – subtle and powerful – that fill my interior. These words walk me, I not them.