The summer days dragged on, cold days full of mist, some days bright with sun. I became less and less interested in the stable and the ponies, and before August was done, the nieces had given me up in disgust and I was allowed to drop away into my own unhappy isolation, my world without horses, without hunting and shooting, without tartans and without the Braemar gathering and all those other noble institutions.
Instead, I sat in the branches of a tree reading the novels of Alexandre Dumas, volume after volume, in French, and later, in rebellion against the world of horses, I would borrow a bicycle that happened to be around the place, and go off into the country and look at the huge ancient stone circles where the druids had once congregated to offer human sacrifice to the rising sun--when there was a rising sun.
Human sacrifice and the rising sun. Those druids were wild and crazy. Of course, they offered these sacrifices for people who were sick or going into battle. Merton, himself, is dealing with the absence of his father, who is dying of a brain cancer in a hospital ward. Perhaps that is why he is drawn to the Stonehenges of Scotland. He somehow understands their ancient purpose and the power of the sun (literally or metaphorically).
Tonight, I went for a walk just as the sun was setting. I strolled through the neighborhood where I grew up and saw it turn gold, then purple, then orange, and finally brilliant pink. The world was on fire with color.
I can understand why the druids found so much power in sunrises and sunsets. This evening, it seemed as if anything was possible. Trees could have danced. Birds, burst into flame. The dead could have climbed from their graves, and the terminally ill jumped out of bed and started cooking dinner. Nothing would have surprised me.
It was a miracle to behold, and it filled me with hope.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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