Summits and streams

We picked our way along the gravel banks of the river, a trickle in its summer wane.
Me, barefoot in the light of the rising sun, looking around for a sturdy branch to assist my travails. Others streamed about me, reflecting the river and spilling forth along the well-trodden path leading to the summit of Mount Urnath. So many sinners, creating a fluid backbone - the black spine of God’s mountain.
In the car park below, I had taken off my socks and shoes and held the stones and dirt between my feet, as if for the first time. My two boys, Donald and Reece, were joining me today. They looked so excited by the spectacle, all these people, gathered together to climb a mountain.
The boys kept their trainers on and said they’d scout ahead for a sturdy stick. From bitter experience, I knew I’d need one.
Thousands would make the journey from the hospitable car park - where kind ladies served tea and orange juice - to the rugged peak above. Most would do it barefoot.
I chatted to some of my fellow travellers as we followed the burbling River Streath to the base of the mountain.
Donald came back with a long brown stick. It was perfect, and I told him so. A smart height to help my hobbling, and its gnarls would provide a good grip for my hands. Reece followed on behind, annoyed and bitter that he didn’t find the stick, didn’t receive the praise.
I ruffled his hair and asked if he’d tell the story of the mountain and why we were climbing it today.
He gave a beautifully flowery account of when the monk, St Neil of Urnath, first heard the voice of God asking him to go barefoot up the grey mountain, on the 16th of August, 1622.
When he reached the summit he got down on his hands and knees, begging forgiveness for his sins and promising to atone for his wrongdoings, in the eyes of God.
At this, he was dazzled by a wondrous light and a great warmth, which he said was paradise revealed to him; the peaceful heart of Christ. From that moment, the barren mountain-top around was said to have sprung to life, with all manner of mosses, lichens, grasses and trees beginning to grow.
St Neil stayed, weeping with joy for three hours, before climbing down to tell his fellow monks in the nearby abbey about the miracle that had occurred.
I smiled as he told the story, my youngest, blessed with a gift for speech and storytelling. I could tell other travellers, other pilgrims were listening too, impressed with the zeal of Reece, like a young John the Baptist or, perhaps, St Paul himself.
Halfway up the mountain, small streams burst out of the heather and criss-cross the mountain path. Donald and Reece had to carefully step past them, but I was only too happy to let the cooling waters wash and sploosh over my blistered and bloodied feet.
I’m not sure if it is best to concentrate on the pain or rather meditate about God and think only of the summit. Should I be glorifying every crippling step, remembering Christ’s path to Golgotha? Or should I attempt to transcend this purely physical process of pain and struggle?
The war in my head, created by these two concepts, usually causes my annual journey to the peak of Urnath to be one of real anguish. But then, that’s no bad thing, I think.
Donald tells me he’ll accompany me bare-foot, next year. He wants to show me he’s a man. I nod at him, though I know I won’t let him. But, one year…
We reach the summit after just over an hour’s climb. Thankfully Urnath is not the highest of peaks. The summit is packed, people are everywhere - kneeling down and begging forgiveness for their sins.
It is organised chaos, though. There are two lines, two fast moving queues. One moves towards a small covered area where a Catholic priest is taking Confession.
People need to be kept moving, you see. They need to start their journey back down the mountain before the summit becomes dangerously crowded. It seems almost like a drive-through confessional though, God forgive me!
The boys join the Confessional queue, whereas I join the line for Penance. I drag my dusty feet along towards the two robed monks, remnants of the same order of St Neil of Urnath’s.
This queue moves a little slower, though a little more certainly. Each man, in turn, removes his shirt, and kneels beside the monks. One monk washes your back with holy water. You make the Sign of the Cross, and say the Act of Contrition. Then the two monks take turns striking your back with birch twigs.
Sometimes, as the blows rain down, I look to the sky to see if paradise will be revealed to me. But today I find myself looking towards the ground.
I notice that the well-trampled summit is almost devoid of the green life God once ignited here. I notice the red streams trickling out across the brown dirt floor.
And I notice my own tears, falling to the ground, mingling easily with the dirt and the blood. Such beautiful anguish, and my mind is clear once more.

Aftermath

Excuses raged about inside his head, though as he attempted to speak of them he heard his conscience arguing against them and instead stayed silent.
His trembling hand slowly reached across to the grey device on the table in front of him. He felt the raised shapes on the buttons; squares and triangles.
Shutting the light from his eyes and his head, he concentrated on the reasoning going on inside his skull. Why was he fighting himself, his reasons?
The realisation came that, deep down, he knew he had always been fully aware of what he was doing. His so called reasons could not be thought of as any excuse. He was definitely guilty.
The young man tried to focus his thoughts. There was no light to dazzle his brain, but the low whirring sound from the dictaphone he fondled filled his ears, growing annoying and irritating.
He stopped holding the small rectangular device, laid it down and pressed the button furthest on its right. A short click and the whirring died. The man was alone with his thoughts.
After a period of darkness that was impossible to quantify he screamed. He said aloud: "It honestly wasn't my fault," and he seemed to be trying to convince himself. He put his head in his hands and wept, until he slept.
A buzz awoke him with a start.
The man leapt from his seat - he’d needed that sleep - and again came the short buzz, clearer and sharper now that he was more alert. His eyes snapped towards the closed curtain where daylight fought to find the slightest gap through which to gain entrance into his lamp-lit room.
His glance swung to a digital clock display. Its bold red figures screamed at him that it was now 10.30 in the morning. The buzzer sounded once more and he calmly pulled the cord that turned off his desk-top lamp. He had an idea who might be at the door. It was about time for them to call.
The letterbox on his front door rattled open, a voice filtered through: "Hello Mr James, are you at home? Just like a quick word, sir. Come along."
Silence was easily managed and the letterbox rattled shut. The door was thumped a number of times before footsteps slowly faded away into the morning.
He considered rooting out the binoculars and peeling back the curtains to spy his would-be visitor. Though he was twenty-three floors up, he feared the windows would now be watched around the clock.
Still, he felt pretty safe behind ‘Fort Knox’, the affectionate name for his front door. Not as flimsy as the original doors, his landlord had been pleased to allow him to install it. It took an age to unlock, though.
His attention returned to the miniature machine on his desk. “How technology had advanced,” he marvelled within his head. “How small things have become.” His thoughts drifted between the confession he had recorded and his recent caller.
How many were there? How long before they called again?
It was a strange thing to know you’d never safely set foot beyond your apartment again. Life become a sort of flimsy toy, one that you treasured but knew you couldn’t stitch its head back on, when next it fell off.
He began to wonder why he had assumed he would simply be able to hide from his past deeds, hide from consequence. They would not stop looking for him, they would always look for him.
Over the coming hours, more mental anguish awaited.
He remembered his normal life. He thought about the concept of guilt and tried to sneer. He remembered the darkness he worked in. His little machines. His playthings. The pump of adrenaline. The deafening noise. The screams and suffering. His powerful hands, the catalysts. And then reliving it all on the television when he made it home.
Looking around he saw another remnant of his past, his ordinary briefcase. A useful thing to carry during rush hour for a faceless man, someone who blended in. The sales pitch for this brand had been that the case could withstand the impact of a charging elephant. Its owner had never tested this claim, but he certainly hoped it to be true.
When next his doorbell sounded, he stood up, opened his curtains and unclasped the window.
About twelve hours since the last call and it was dark now.
There were to be no more buzzes. The letterbox opened and the same sharp voice from before sniped: "Open the door now, Pete. No more games, mate. What you did wasn't in play."
There was scratching at the door, and then a series of blows shook it. They would gain entry, eventually.
Sliding a lock, the briefcase popped open hungrily. He flung the pocket recorder into its maw and then shut it tight. He had purpose now. He was impressive when he had purpose.
The man hauled himself up onto his window ledge, briefcase in hand. He was doing the right thing.
There were whispers outside and then a small bang that rocked the door from its hinges.
The man smiled, patted his briefcase comfortingly and stepped out into the cold night air as his apartment exploded in a miasma of sound and light.