In my imaginative reconstruction of the parable of
the prodigal son, I have conceived that the
younger brother is named Nikva, the older brother
is named Mainan, there is a daughter who
is younger than both and her name is
Hayanita, and in the second poem, last week,
she went to find her younger brother and
is bringing him home, and that's where we
pick it up today.
Four nights they walked and slept by day.
Beneath the carob branches lay the daughter fast
asleep from hard and weary nights, and keeping
guard beside her lay the prodigal, his moving
lips inaudible, restless and awake.
Transfixed on bloody bark and branches twixt the
earth and sky where traitors used to hang
with common thieves, accused of treason toward their
sovereign king and in the act of plundering
his wealth.
The lips of Nikva spoke a wordless speech,
O father, cloak this worse than naked son
with rags and feed me from the garbage
bags and let me live with slaves, for
I have treated you with scorn and my
contempt was worse than all the blame that
stained this bloody tree with shame, which now
with life and leaves arrayed spreads out and
covers me with shade.
I do not ask to sit with kings,
but only shade beneath your wings.
And so the prodigal rehearsed his speech and
waited for the first signs of his sister's
wakening.
Mid-afternoon she stirred.
I'll bring you water if you like, he
said.
I'd like that, Nikva.
All the bread is gone, you know.
I know.
Let's try to make it home tonight.
The sky looks happy in the west.
I think we'll make it.
I'll go get your drink.
When he returned, the packs were rolled and
Hayanita said, I told your brother you would
come.
What did he say?
But Hayanita hid her face as they began
to walk and didn't answer him.
Some talk of pain is good, you know.
I know.
He said he didn't care.
Just go and waste your breath, he said.
The tears rolled down her cheeks.
How many years has Mainan felt this way,
he asked.
Unless he's keeping something masked, he never cared.
I'm not surprised.
He never wrote.
To be despised is sometimes good for us.
I don't deserve his pity and I won't
demand his love.
The way I spurned our father surely has
well earned for me whatever Mainan feels.
How great his love must be that reels
with hate so long.
Perhaps if he believed that I have come
to see how precious is our father's care
and how unspeakable and rare his heart and
noble is his mind, then maybe there would
be a kind of softening of Mainan toward
my soul.
I wish for such reward, my brother.
But I fear the wrath of Mainan grows
along a path far different from the one
you hope.
Oh, that his anger were the scope and
measure of his love for all that our
great father is.
But gall and bitterness are not born from
the thrall of mercy, nor do come from
treasuring the fountain of delight we call our
father's love.
There is another stream that feeds the bitterness
of his good deeds.
Now, as the evening came and they began
to climb the rugged way that leads up
to the great plateau, all conversation ceased.
Below and now behind these two, ten years
of emptiness burst to the cheers of every
waving stalk of grain, a bubble in the
wind, and feigned the beauty it possessed before
it broke.
His back now to the shore beyond the
western rim, the sun stood trembling on the
road, the one where he had run the
other way as though it were just yesterday.
Before him lay what seemed a sea of
endless gold.
What enemy, he thought, could make a boy
believe that any distant world could weave a
better beauty than this place?
Then suddenly he said, My face, my hair,
I'm filthy, Hia.
Look at me.
She smiled at him and took a long,
deep breath and said, Let's go.
The old man's chair rocked to and fro.
His lips moved silently as though he sang
some favorite song.
The glow of golden red and crimson rays
had set the western field to blaze as
if some cosmic cause were found for merrymaking.
But no sound was heard except the rhythm
of the rocking chair.
And then, above the rail, the old man
saw two shapes and stopped.
He thought, I know the capes that Hia
Nita wears.
He took the rail and stood so he
could look.
And then he saw her lift her hand
the way she always did, then stand and
let the other shape go on.
He knew, for all his soul was drawn,
and there was no resisting this.
He left his cane, and lest he miss
a step, he jumped them all and ran,
forgetting that he was a man of dignity
and that his knees were bad.
He often thought, With ease some day I'll
run on these and more.
Is this not what they're ruined for?
He stopped just long enough to see his
eyes and take a breath.
And then he embraced the boy and pressed
his face against the foul and crusty place
he used to kiss the lad goodnight and
pushed his fingers through the tight and matted
hair.
And there, with plain and heaving sobs, released
a pain built up four thousand nights.
And then the weeping son said, Father, can
perhaps you make a slave of me?
For I have sinned and cannot be your
son.
To which the great old man replied, I
have a different plan.
And then to servants gathered by, he said,
Bring me the ring and my best robe
and leather shoes and take the fire and
fatted calf and make for us the finest
feast that we have ever made.
For this, you see, my dead son is
alive and sound.
He once was lost, but now is found.
And they began to celebrate.
As usual, Manon was in the field and
working late.
He'd been there since the crack of dawn
and worked all day.
Let duty not be shirked, he liked to
say, and took some pride in his long
hours and liked to chide the servants that
he could out-serve them every day and
out-deserve them all.
He heard the music from the house and
saw the servants come out dancing on the
lawn.
His first response to songs and joy, a
burst of anger.
This is not the way to serve their
Lord.
What holiday have they declared to frolic like
a carefree child?
If I must strike them, then I will,
to see that they learn how to serve
and to obey.
What's all this racket here, he snapped.
A servant overflowed and clapped, He's back!
He's back!
Nikolai is back!
He frowned.
And in the prison shack with other thieves,
may I suppose, Oh no, Sir Manon!
Master chose the fatted calf and killed it
for a feast and said, Bring wine and
pour a goblet for my son and let
all work be put aside and get my
ring and finest robe with joy and put
them on my living boy.
The older son was stunned and stood there
by the fence he'd made and would not
enter.
Then his father saw him by the fence
and went to draw him in.
Your brother's home.
Come see him, Manny.
He has changed.
You'll be amazed.
I'll tell you, Father, what amazes me.
That he can strut here like an honored
guest, although he took your hard-earned cash
to throw it down the sewers of Noah's
and that you subsidized his brash and wicked
reveling of horrors and made you weep behind
those doors for ten years while I slaved
to make a profit in this place.
So take your pick, my Lord.
The wicked one in there or me, the
working son.
I'd like to think that all these years
you have enjoyed the place.
It sears the soul, Mainon, to take your
rage to bed night after night.
You wage a war against yourself.
Beware of other mistresses whose snare is just
as deadly as the kind your brother sought.
Oh, be not blind, my son.
All that I have is yours and free
for all time it endures.
But if what you desire is proper pay,
bequests will never come that way.
Come, join me at the table, son.
The labors of the day are done.
But Mainon stood there like a stone and
sent his father back alone.
The girl was watching from the door.
And as her father passed, once more perhaps,
he took her hand and said, Our little
girl can raise the dead.
She turned and saw the shining face of
Nikva laughing in the grace of life.
Then through the evening shade beyond the fence
that Mainon made, she walked.
His face was streaked where sweat ran down
through pollen dust and met his tangled beard.
The garments that he wore for working stank.
And at the middle of his fingers there
were blisters on both hands.
Despair seemed written on his frozen face.
In vain, he thought.
He said the race and pace were all
in vain.
The hours, the years, the sweat, the plans,
my powers for naught.
Bequests don't come that way.
Then Hayanita kissed the gray and brownish coating
on his cheek and said, Hi Manny, you
look weak.
Can I get you a drink?
He shook his head.
No thanks.
Mainon, it took your breath away what father
said.
I think I understand.
The dread you feel right now that all
your sweat has been in vain, it's true.
And yet, it is a gift to know
bequests are free.
And loaded treasure chests of grace all hidden
in the ground are never earned but always
found.
And dancing doesn't come that way.
And happy parties are not pay.
Day labor is of no avail.
The gift of joy is not for sale.
You've labored not to do what's bad and
now it's hard to just be glad.
But Manny, look.
Your father and the servants and your brother
stand inside the door and bid you come.
And listen to the children drum.
She took his hand.
Come.
All is well.
And thus, the fetters broke and fell.
He waked as from a lifelong trance and
said, May I please have this dance?
And now, oh Christ, with candle three, let
there be light so we can see the
way between two forms of death.
And with that light, oh, give us breath
to live again.
And bring us back from pleasures in a
foreign shack or from the pride of weary
arm while working on the father's farm.
From demon sloth and pleasures raw or demon
toil and pride of law.
The pathway home from either place is opened
by the word of grace.
Come to the light of candle three.
Remember that bequests are free.
The ticket that you have to show is
this, that you are glad to go.