(Final chapter: Heaven In a Kiss) … Don D. Bellew

 

An English translation from medieval French, this being the final section of a diary or memoir discovered in 1892 in the antique document division of a privately owned library in Lisbon. The original book is a leather-bound set of parchments dating to the late fourteenth century. The apparent author, Ignatius of Treylaine, is titled as signifies a retired or reclusive priest. First translation was done in 1918 into modern Portuguese. This version was made from the original and does not fully agree with the previous interpretation. 

 

We two men lay bound together on our bench as harsh breath rasped in chorus, commingled sweat beaded together and created tickling rivulets down cataracts of flesh-starved ribs and along the deeply creased fissures of our weary muscles. It was here, at this vulnerable moment of depleted tensions, within the flushed glow of accomplished bodily needs, here, when Valderone brought his lips very near and offered me, Treylaine, the careless option of surrender; yet shame read plainly in his low-pulled brow. Relieved surcease hid in the shadows of swollen lips though caution held his mouth ends tight and disapproved his gift.

How could it come to this, I wondered, that men might slide so far along the path of depravity yet harbor guilt and shame? Was the reason faulty that placed shame as crowning mark on illuminated soul? Depravity laid a region far past conscience, was it not so? Guilt served to rein in impulse when it would bolt from chosen path, an assured given? Were the tenets of a logical universe overturned by mere oppressive forces? Could sanctity only flourish in well fed, safe, contented entities blessed by freedom from constrained ill choice? Are storied martyred saints a myth of fabricated heart's desire?

So may leather stropping scar the soul and pain damp men's mind from strength, and sin so be forced upon an human as an act of evil will. The doctrinal separation of mortal clay from blithe spirit but another illusion spun out of vain imagination on its cause to glorify quick dust and particles of fallen earth.  If air can move then why not the spirit fanned by evil hands? 

That Valderone showed guilt and I felt grieving shame must be the tattered remnants of a cloak we wore no longer. Were I to drift the finger span gap into that comfortable kiss must Heaven spurn me for fallen petitioner and is such sad kiss the limit of all joy I shall ever know? "Why do I think only in form of questions," I, Treylaine, murmured to my uncomprehending friend. "Why, if dreams are made to please desire, do I not fabricate an occasional answer?"

Valderone lowered his eyelids to shut impasse. His unplucked kiss relaxed into a grimace of silence and he pulled his arm into a less pressured place between us.  Our bodies could not draw apart within taut leathern strap constrictions but the very afflicted minds which I pondered found a private distance within blind isolation. With his eyes closed, I had no need to double the curtain between us, so I studied the surface of the sealed sanctum before me.

The dark, southern-country man was not a pretty youth. He was of middle years, a serf-born workman by his rough hands and sun burnt skin. Possibly, he was a fisherman to have spent much of his time naked under a blazing sky. A field hand of his age would bear the round back and slack belly common to the marketplace vendors and their sons but Valderone stood tall and straight. He might have been an athlete, perhaps a wrestler when he was young.  I wished I knew the man's language.  If we could all along have shared our thoughts then perhaps this errant habit of our bodies would not have manifested as a poor replacement for communion between friends.  Most certainly, our contact was forced by our gaolers but a gross craving for comradeship had surely turned that close touch to lustful end.  How long had it been, now?  Endless months?  We had no energy to devise a method of counting the nights because our days were grueling drudgery of mining this red ore so prized by our captors.

We had not arrived together, I remembered. I had already been in the mines long enough to learn to eat the squalid mess when it was served. I had learned the pangs of starvation already.  It might have been so long as a full month while I was thrown nightly into a muddy cave with a hundred other men and left to fight over the food that would sustain only half our number.  That ordeal taught me that my charity was subservient to survival. A bitter lesson to learn for one long trained in spiritual matters; well taught but never tempered in privation nor temptation to strengthen my doctrines' tensile edge. As a group, survivors of the cave warranted better victuals and more exacting labors. I was then removed from the cave and put to the benches by night; lashed firstly to a pale giant of a man on his narrow bunk, but that man died in a fall from the crater's edge that was possibly a craven suicide. The pale man was my bed partner only long enough to sense the hopelessness of his blue eyes and memorize the haunted sighs of his sleepless nights.

Then I was tied in to sleep next a pair of black-skinned boys. They looked like twin brothers. They shook with fear and trembling at every noise and sobbed two nights out of three. In a week, newly constructed shelters were ready and then it was I came to be paired with Valderone, at least, that is what I understood the man's name to be.  Even quiet conversation brought angry prods from a guard's long wooden pole, but enough words were whispered in the first night to be certain we shared no language but that mute song of heart's longing.  We both wanted to be free, longed for comfort, solace from our horrible situation. We undoubtedly shared a need for gentle touch, for consideration to balance the brute handling by our captors.  All this we could understand without words to frame the dumb emotions. When our sore, scraped hands found each other in the dark it was with a duet of gasps and clasped desperation we expressed the grip of hand to hand and the resulting sensations of trust and companionship. Some measure of tenderness is surely a vital need of body or of soul. This fierce clasp of a fellow hand came to me more welcome than a bit of chewy meat in a dipperful of gruel at feeding time.  The dark man grunted his gratitude as well, and each night quickly shifted his arm to accommodate our conjoining palms.

I recited a silent prayer of thanksgiving, my first since my captivity. I thanked my God for the kind touch of a fellow man... a touch I acknowledged as the Hand of God in the world, and I mutely recited psalms given over to love as a blessing pouring forth from Heaven.  I overcame the slight embarrassment of a work-stained hand held as symbol of God's love by picturing the scarred hand of Christ and meditations on the humble miracle of God projected into the sinful sphere of Earth. I wanted to share my fervent joy with Valderone but could not translate the sublime nature of my thoughts into our limited hand signals and facial expressions. I settled for lifting our joined hands together between our hearts and smiling beatifically at my companion. Valderone smiled back with an agreeable nod and slept with his head against my shoulder.

I knew quite well the first time lust tainted our intimate bond. As sin often does, it slipped in and simply colored our thoughts, renamed our comfort.  Our hands were joined between us and I prayed silently while Valderone fell into his natural easy sleep. I often lay awake a while and maintained stillness to avoid disturbing my friend. 

On that night, Valderone began his tossing, usually left until near dawn, almost immediately after falling asleep. A dream, a vivid frightful dream, I called it. Then Valderone turned towards me within our tied bonds and, still sleeping, drew our hands into his crotch. His long nose produced a regular chant of sawing snorts and his manhood swelled to heated tension against my fingers. No sin fell on a sleeping man and a body's natural function, but I had the conscious choice to disturb my sleeping friend by pulling away from that intimate contact or to keep by and stand the onslaught of sensual, idle thoughts. I did not fear my sanguine nature, having never known its power, so stay by, I thought, and meet the devil face-on. I stayed in the compromise, for whatever reason I intended, but came to believe I lied unto myself of motive and of nature. The rigid and aroused state of my own male stem accused me. Softly, too gently to disturb his sleep, I retreated my hand from that curiously provocative posture.  I prayed for strength against temptations of the flesh while my member trembled in wanton excitement. The thought is of no import, I spoke to soothe my flushed skin, a man has a thousand sinful impulses in a moment while in this vale of tears but the balance of a soul weights on the deed of response. I turned away from all carnality with my vow. Sexual pleasure with another man is as forsworn of me as a woman's bedded bliss. Such small sacrifice I make in honor of the divine sacrifice made by Him to whom I owe my soul's redemption. 

Valderone stirred and perhaps missed the warmth his dreams had lingered round, moved closer to me and, still in slumber, reached out his empty hand for its lost touch. I gasped when his hand shoved blunt fingers against my proof of sinful thought. He caught my heated sin to his hand and gripped reassurance. Valderone sighed, not without pleasure.  Over many nights, our hands found accidental ferment between us. Sometimes a thigh, tossed over leg, found loincloth askew and naked skin with fever heat. We made no disgust of each other, not in smells of dirtied skin nor fetid breath nor farted odors. Of high pride that bore disgust, we were entirely lacking. Humility taught tolerance and acceptance. Thus, the native rush of blood to engorged member came to be no more than a grinned admission of humanness.

We have the innocence of boys, I considered. We are not men when we make no choice of occupation and relationship. We have not even the design of our garments or our foodstuff left to our decision. We are but slaves to do the bidding of our masters. We have not even the power of words to say our resolve aloud to witness each. How does dogma fit to pattern a slave without the habit of a choice to sway?  That we do not choose death to slake these tribulations, that is God's strength working within us.  Each morning as we pass the brink of the unguarded crevasse into the mine, that is when Valderone glances at me and lifts his brow in teasing challenge. He knows I think of it, he must have seen me pause to look below.  Whenever I walk briskly past that brink, he congratulates me with a wink and he smiles. I have seen the morning when he glanced, too, at an ending of his own device. 

I saw the blue-eyed giant leap into that prideful death, or fall by accident, who can say for sure ... I saw the same unfocused gaze on Valderone more than once and stepped between him and the tempting maw.  We teased, now, of courage to go another day and face the unknown, unreasonable demands of an unjust universe. How can a man ever understand chaos until it swirls around him day and night?  If I had leave, I would go back to my masters and teach of hell.  We are dependent. We live at the mercy of the guards. We are assigned by them and we are provided by them, as sons by a cruel father.  We are not men to follow rules of man and society. We are animalius, the human oxen in a field of labor. As animals or small boys, our sins are insignificant. We are a negligible stain upon a dirtied world.  There is no nobility of man without the sin of pride; I spoke quietly of expiation to Valderone. My heart gave forgiveness to us both. We two are saved from sin by our inaccessibility to pride. Pride may not rest upon our brows, so furrowed are they by pain and vexation. Valderone did not understand my words but he knew me as his friend and well-wisher, and nodded his agreement.

How vain that we should lie here, in this bed of torture (we were by now bound into our nightly tandem bindings), and believe our salvation lies in denying the sustaining love one man may give to bless another. I am sore grieved that I am brought to this point, of denying love because its core may rest in lust. Who am I to judge the heart of love?  If I may be damned for thought as for the deed then perhaps I would best give the most love I can give, as a mortal man, and let God judge my heart.

No, I murmured to my uncomprehending friend, I should not call such perversity, love. I am only a hungry man seeking sustenance. I am lonely because I cannot banish doubt from my heart and make room for Christ's presence. I ceased to talk as the guard came near, but I continued with my thoughts: I am made of the stuff of recreation, to people this land with children. Though I vow not to make a woman wife, my loins grow as a plant left to the wild without husbandry. Some wild plants grow a vast size and prosper in their neglect, as my rebellious organ thrives unbidden. If I could cast aside my doubts and discern a full understanding of God's guidance, then would His strength save me from violating His holy way. 

Then Valderone took my hand, curled against me like a nestled brother, and softened my heart with gentleness. You see, my Lord.  We are not so lost as idolatrous prostitutes. We make no broken mirror of sacred love but join our bodies for the affection of boys. I have never been tempted to kiss his lips and fall to lustful carelessness, I have only found the needs of my sinful body stronger to resist than I expected. See how restful he sleeps, forgetting the horrors of the day, while my arms comfort him. Can this cradle be a sin?

Then, drifting into sleep myself, I did not couch in thoughtful words or explanations the tidal joy that swept over me as Valderone shifted and took in his grasp the throbbing human scepter thrust into his side by that cradle of comfort and sinless man. Only when his fist-stroked storm left me breathless and relieved did I remember to regret the deed and sink into dreams of flagellation. 

Now, back in the moment, I stared at the tight-closed eyes. Now he tempts me with a kiss. How like Satan he deceives. He seduced me with his comfortable warmth and understanding, as if I needed more than spiritual peace. These guards may only taunt my body yet I call myself their slave. What am I to this man who has the power to prise me from the Aged Rock of Salvation?  Do I not make a slave of my heart?  How can God enter in when this clay lump fills me so?  Give me strength, Father, to deal mine hatred out in holy anger. Make me Thy weapon on evil.  As we pass the cavern ledge by morrow, help me send this demon fly to his reward, Sweet Lord!  I shall not let this devil stand before me; he will fall behind my path and go to Your judgment, Lord.

Tempts me with a kiss, does he? A kiss as Judas used to signify Christ to his captors. I can kiss with reverence this dead clay mask, I vouchsafed, in honor of the friendship I once felt before he led me into hinterland of sodomite wilderness. I shall kiss him good journey to his destination. How generous is the heart with lies and self-deception, thus to hide our true need and intent.

Armored by my deceitful thoughts, I bridged the space between our lips and laid my thirst on Valderone's mouth. The dark man stirred and clutched at me, would have embraced my trembling body but for the constraints of bondage, still, he found my cheek to caress and my shoulder to squeeze. A kiss, I sighed ... a kiss worth a soul's perishing must surely be within the infinite bounds of God's mercy. So thus I surrendered to earthly love, and found paradise enough. 

That was my sin: that thought of resignation. Long I have regretted and repented that error of my limited understanding. Many years, now, and many prayers later, I am come to a fuller comprehension. With His unlimited forgiveness, I know God has placed me in the path to discernment and a fuller enlightenment. I can grasp, now, that Holy Blessing in disguise and thus be fully grateful.

As I took Valderone's scarred hand and his soiled clay body to my heart as a representation of Christ in each soul ... thus should I have accepted his kiss as the gift of Divine Love clothed in mortal vestment. Who am I to turn away the beggar or to refuse to aid a cripple? Every needful stranger may be Christ appearing to us as tests our heart and offers opportunity to serve. How can the eye not see Him in all creation when it is entirely made of Him Who parted the light from darkness?

If He poured out His love for me, can I refuse love to any? At what price do I set my own love? Is my love so much more dear than His? God does not reserve His love for the perfected man but gives it freely to all mankind. Whenever I may give comfort to the body or to the heart of another, is that not an enactment of His endless love?

When Judas leaned in to deliver that kiss to Jesus, why did He not refuse it? How could I refuse the kiss of Valderone? Did Jesus sin as he loved Judas?  How, then, can I sin by loving any man?  No, my sin was not in that kiss but in the prideful shame of giving it.  I wish I had given in purest joy and gratitude.  I wish I had the wisdom, then, to love as freely and generously and as unselfishly as He showed us is necessary to deserve a place in God's Kingdom. I do not regret the kiss; I only regret my hesitation. God knows my heart. Even before I knew it, He knew me and placed me in the way to understanding. He gives Love. He teaches love. He is love. That one precept is perhaps the most difficult for selfish man to grasp and put to use. I am forever grateful that He refined my heart in that oven, burned my body away to such selfless weakness that I was able, finally, to love with just a small fraction of such a grand and divine passion as He gives us each moment. If Christ is every beggar, then He is every lover. If He is every cripple in the streets, then He is every body and heart in need. Whenever we say no to love, then we reject Him and set our mortal flesh as prideful fuel for the fires of the lost.

Into the wedding banquet, the first shall be last to enter and the last shall be first brought in to feast. Those who suffer the refusal of the love of mankind are the first in His sight. The most highly held saints of hardhearted doctrine will be made to wait outside the chamber until they have come to understanding and begin to open their hearts to love and forgiveness. How they will weep when they are brought to see. How they will mourn. Amen. 

Ignatius Treylaine in the year of our Lord, 1381
(Burned for Heresies against the church, 1402)

              The End                  

 

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