The Prophet

A rambling to Erin, August 2008

As a prophet once talked of his shoes. Many footsteps you will take, repairs you may need, and feet you will walk beside. He then proceeded to wear his only pair of shoes for the entire day, after repeating the experience many a time, he noticed something quite peculiar. They did start to smell. The prophet could not believe that the shoes he had doted over could do something so unpleasant. So he took his shoes down to river and washed them. Thus endith the parable of the shoe.

So, you must understand that the parable of the shoe became a closely guarded secret, in the last land to the North, a secret cult, connected only through myth and a smattering of pass-codes was established. In the cold, arctic silences, the cult of sandal became a source of hope for many.

And thus it was a young man, sheltered by a tattered anorak, from the blizzard, who came into town. And as he passed down the street and into the maze of alley ways, he came across a wizzened man smoking a long, curved hook pipe.

Into that man’s ear, he whispered the secret pass-code. A word which seldom passed the lips of men, ‘Happy Birthday’. The man stirred from his whist slumbers and drew aside a roughly pulled scrap of curtain.

The young man drifted down the long, dank passageway. Eventually, the light increased and he entered a large atrium, tapestries hung from the walls and teased black bear pelts warmed the ground. A drumming sound, filled occasionally with the clash of mental came from the next room. He drew aside another curtain and he was flooded.

Light, sound and colour hit his face with a rush of non-opaque emotion. The scents of roasted meat and toasted nuts drew him in, pricked with the scent of precious perfumes and surrounded with an impenetrable acrid smoke that not only filled his nose, but watered his eyes.

A banner above the dias, at the far end of the room, proclaimed in large letters, ‘Rineay Irthdaibay Appihay’. As he stood there, strong hands took his coat and presented him with a goblet of mead. The party lasted long through that dark night, much merriment and feasting ensued.

For long nights hence, the young man remembered the lap of the beautiful girl on which he slept. For many years hence he came to that secret place every year. Thus time became legend, legend became myth… Happy Birthday!