A Monk of Dreams: A Fenlands Fable
All stories begin with inconvenience. The farmlands, teeming with dew dropped rye and barely, quaintly grew beside the marshy rivulets; the Walpole family had been in the Fenlands since the first wall and pole were built. Little Henry Walpole, or Hen for short, began to notice the marshes retreating towards the faraway shore. No more skipping stones or catching insects or mud pies or rafting—this was a deep inconvenience for Little Hen. He decided to find the murderer of his beloved rivulets.
Before Hen even stepped upon the thoroughfare, he could see trails of black smoke and hear the clamor of men at work. As he approached, he suddenly witnessed a proud man, draped in a luxurious indigo cape lined with snow white fur. Clustered around him were men clad in armor.
"Men, shall we move onwards?"
"Aye Sir!"
"And bring the marsh to her end?"
"Aye Sir, the end!"
"And remove the impurities from the land?"
"Aye Sir, for the advantage of the commonwealth!"
"Then let us resume our upheaval of beastly Nature and her woes!"
"Huzzah!"
Swiftly, the men resumed their march across the marshes, evidently drained and stampeded. Little Hen found himself in the deep entrails of the rivulets, the emptied channels now bulleted by the men's footsteps; a crushed poppy appeared from under the clot of mud: uprooted, dismembered, a broken image of what it once was. Hen's hand plucked up the flower's remains, which were beyond repair or even examination; yet the crimson petals still maintained their brilliance.
"Hallo!"
Hen heard a distant shout. He turned to see a man approaching him.
"Hallo!" Hen replied.
"Did you see 'em, kid?"
"Who? The men in armor?"
"Aye and look at what they've done." He paused and looked up at the desolate sea of mud.
"What for?"
"The Earl of Bedford's order, that's what for. He commissioned these men from Cromwell's army," he paused, sarcastically noting, "So that we may benefit the industry of the republic."
"What was wrong with our industry before?"
"We hadn't formalized it, the marsh don't bode well with regulations. But that's all over now. Our fine marshes are being gutted and drained."
"No! Is there nothing we can do?"
"Don't despair, lad! A lot of us come now to stop the Earl and his men. We call ourselves the Fen Tigers—we will stop at nothing to defend our Fenlands!" As soon as he expressed his last remark, Hen heard dozens of men chanting, armored in mud and armed with scythes.
"Join us!"
"But where are you all going?"
"Didn't you hear me chap—to stop the Earl and his men!" The Tigers began to notice Little Hen and his questioning.
"Huzzah! Join us and defend our moors, our crop, our homeland!"
"Aye Sir, I will."
And off went Hen, with the Fen Tigers, traversing through the wasteland.
Hen had never fought before. A sheepish doubt chipped at his heart, which pumped with no rhythm of a tiger's pounce. However, the Tigers began to chant and sing, reminding Hen that not all hope is lost—and, according to their song, what is lost can be regained here on earth.
"Good sir," Hen peeped, turning towards the man he first spoke with, Rebel Joe. "Surely the Fenlands are not the only hamlets being fashioned in manner of industry?"
"Aye, young fellow, aye indeed."
"Are we all alone, then?"
"Aye, we are the last of us. Elsewhere they live as if wound like a clock, and they make these funny little machines, which seem to make a great deal out of them too; they must worship a different god. We'll be like them monks, alone in all the world, waiting to be plucked."
"Monks?"
"Aye, lad, monks like them marshes."
"I've never seen any monasteries."
"Aye, they intended that much. They sayest they practice a holy life; nay, they fled the world cause they're frightened."
"I cannot blame them. Pray, perhaps they know something we don't. Where can I find them?"
"Doubtful." Rebel Joe paused. "Eh, I doubt he's still alive—but I heard of a monk, they called him the Monk of Dreams because he sleeps so much. Many great princes and poets have visited him; they return as if in dreams awake."
Before Hen could inquire into this strange Monk of Dreams, the Tigers began to shout. Monolithic engines became visible from within the fog; at once, the Tigers hacked and dismembered them. Yelling ensued; Cromwell's iron brigade threatened their muskets and soon the two forces were scrimmaging recklessly in the sullen glade.
Little Hen, afraid and distracted by visions of cities and God, turned upon his heel and started on the blemished highway.
Reader, forgive me for neglecting the natural limitations of time and place, which are most pressing upon our lives. It seems our hero, Little Hen, is a sprite or changeling, but I protest, he is only a boy. And because of that, he began to grow frail from traveling. Upon descending a hill, Hen soon looked out upon a vast metropolis, festooned with ribbons of smoke and spindles of steel. In our weaknesses, even the wasteland appears prosperous.
The World's City, as it came to be called, compelled Hen to enter through the adamantine gates, whose radiance rendered the moors hideous. The basaltic masonry induced a chill upon Hen's brow, though luckily, he was blasted by the fiery breath of two great furnaces flanking the foyer. The city's inhabitants were unlike anything Hen had ever seen. It was not due to their general outlandishness—in fact, there was nothing general about them. All were distinguished and alien from one another, as if each man were an island.
Many city folks wore garish colors in geometric cuts; some rejected such extravagance and wore linen sacks; while others dressed in fabric as light as feathers, or clad themselves in political slogans, or wore what they hated as a form of protest, though many changed their style every day, as if blank-slates. It was not just a matter of dress, but the tools these people used, which often overtook and distracted them; though the tools varied, they each promised convenience, and so the city was vast and autonomous. In fact, these people became tools themselves.
As Hen amused himself by observing these strange individuals, a peculiar beam flashed upon his eyes, beckoning him to follow suit. He came upon a man wearing nothing but mirrors and a globular lamp sitting upon his crown.
"Hullo!"
The strange man said nothing.
"Hullo, sir!"
Confused, Hen stood right beneath the man's chin, catching a glimpse of his reflection, shouting:
"You!"
"Fiddlesticks!" The mirrored man cried, paused, and contemptuously examined the boy.
"Who are you and what are you doing?" Hen inquired.
"You are not from here."
"Aye, but how did you know? There must be millions of people here."
"Because nobody asks questions."
"Why?"
"Ha—how silly! Why, you ask? Because why should it matter what other people do or why things are the way they are? It takes one away from themselves—which ought to be avoided."
"Why should I only be concerned with myself."
"Because the self is limitless, infinite. Our self-progress constitutes our technique, which results in the benefit of the World."
Upon hearing this, Hen was indomitably perplexed.
"But why benefit the world if you are only to see to yourself?"
"I am the World."
And without proper farewell, the mirrored man walked away, casting Hen in a series of fragmented reflections.
Hen wandered through the city, which seemed to have no end, in hopes to find rest, but to no avail. Besides, he felt terribly lonely in this place.
Wishing to leave the World's City, Hen returned to city's gates; but this time, a cloaked figure barred Hen from leaving.
"Good evening, please excuse me." Hen politely chirped.
"If you wish to leave the World, you must first answer me this," the raspy voice replied, "What is out there that is not already in here?"
"It seems you have everything in this city, but there is something the moors have that this place does not, but I cannot name it…" Hen thought long and hard, "Aha! That's it—this place lacks the things which cannot be named!"
The cloaked figure vanished, and Hen fled from the city, which came to be called the World.
Hen traveled by moonlight; nearly crushed by the weight of exhaustion, he caught the glow of poppies, numberless, in a vast meadow. He found a nice cluster and fell asleep.
"Hail!"
Hen awoke to a kind voice and the morning light. He saw an old man, wearing a simple white habit.
"Hullo! Are you a monk?"
"Indeed, little one." The monk replied, sitting next to Hen, "But tell me, what brings you here all by yourself?"
"I am looking for the Monk of Dreams."
The monk chuckled, "I forgot that was what they once called me."
"Why did they?"
"I suppose I have always been fond of naps, which have induced many a dream." The monk stood up, with a wistful smile, "Follow me."
So, Hen followed the monk across the field of poppies. They soon arrived at a quaint monastery, entwined with curls of ivy, perched upon the seaside. They entered through a galley way, and sat underneath an arch, looking out toward the seemingly infinite horizon.
"You say you have been searching for me?" The monk finally asked.
"Aye, I was told you might know why the world as we know it is vanishing."
"I see. It's odd, people have been wanting to know that since Adam and Eve first ate of the forbidden fruit."
"Nay, this is an entirely new matter. Our land is being drained; my people are being uprooted; mankind has become tools of a monstrous machine; and there is nothing I, or anyone, can do about it."
The monk remained quiet for a long time.
"You are right; there is nothing you or I, or anyone, can do about it."
Hen looked puzzled.
"But we need not fret over what has already been taken care of." The monk continued.
"Taken care of? The world is ending!"
"Don't you see, the world of man was always doomed to end."
"Then all is for naught! All is hopeless!"
"Nay, you misunderstand. The world calls me and my brothers and my sisters mad; they say we sleep and take our dreams for reality; that our doctrine is opium; our faith mere childish nonsense. But the world misunderstands. Do you not see how plentiful these poppies grow, despite the marsh? Or even how earnest the moors adorn God's creation despite their wildness? Or how the sun remains despite the storm? Do not conflate the particulars with the infinite—for if you do, then you are right to say that all is hopeless."
"But sorrow and fear flood my soul, and I forget what is truly infinite. How shall I always remember that the sun remains despite the storm?"
Before the monk could reply, the dense fog that hung over the sea began to dissolve, embalmed by the glow of the sun, which, for only a moment, revealed a perfect beam, forever unbroken, even by the likes of mankind.
Cheers to inconvenience—so that we may find God's infinity in our infirmity.
The end.