The darkness that you see when you close your eyes, that is the night.  And the vague points of light that swirl in your night, those are the stars.  What makes the stars dim and uncertain is the filmy mist that fills the night. You lick your lips and taste the saltiness that’s settled upon them like a vaporous caress from the misty night.  You hear the sibilant whisper of gentle waves washing the shore and you know the sea is calm tonight.  It’s high tide, so the sea in its surfeit doesn’t pound itself against the shore but sends its waves softly like gulls gliding.  The damp sand beneath your bare feet feels cold, having lost the day’s heat long ago; for it’s night, late night, so late there’s nearly nothing left of it but a brief epilogue—a wavering, ghostly bridge between darkness and dawn.

You shiver in the salty air as a chilling breeze blows off the sea.  You are dressed for hot day, not cool night, for it’s dawn that has beckoned you from your warm bed.  You wait patiently for its arrival.  You know there is no hurrying the day.  It will come in its own time as it always has before.  There are many things you know about your life, but what you know most assuredly is that the sun rises each and every morning without fail.

Your whole life, for as far back as you can remember, you have been on this beach each night awaiting the rising of the sun.  Yet you do not wait alone.  Even now you can hear the soft breathing and gentle rustling of your family, your neighbors, your whole village as you wait together for sunrise.

You stare out over the sea, trying to discern in the darkness the thin line where day begins.  You think you can see it now that milky blotches of grey light suffuse the blackness of night, but it is only false dawn that has fooled you once more.  So you resign yourself to more waiting, though you feel as if the sun will never rise, that you’ll be waiting on this damp, chilly beach forever.

At this moment of deepest doubt you sense a subtle shift in the night and look to the eastern rim of the sky, which is unmistakably grey now.  There’s a tension to the people around you as all eyes are riveted on the cloudless horizon that even as you watch is turning white with a hint of blue.  Now you can see where the sky and sea meet, and you are certain you can make out a rosy glimmer at that nexus.

Then, so quickly you can hardly believe it, there it is, the glowing orange rim of the rising sun peeking over the sea’s long shoulder at the flat edge of the world, shooting fiery rays into the vaulted sky.  Rising, rising, rising, the boiling, bubbling orb oozes out of the sea to hang suspended just over the horizon, fully born and fully risen once more.

As the stunning rays of the rising sun shoot across the sea’s flat surface directly into your eyes, you hear the litany begin as it does each dawn, two voices, a woman’s and a man’s, echoing every line:

At the end of the prayer you bow your head in silence for a moment of private thought and gratitude.

Then you walk across the beach towards the fishing boats anchored in the shallow cove.  Today it is your day to fish, and you are eager to get started.  You like to fish, but then you like all the work of the village:  fishing, mending the nets, tending the fields, teaching the children, caring for the very young, the very old, the infirm—all of it brings you a deep satisfaction.  Everyone in the village works—the young, the old, the strong, the weak—everyone works, for work enriches one’s life, and it is a blessing to share the labor and its fruits.

Just as you are about to climb into your boat, you suddenly hear a sound you’ve never heard before, yet you recognize it at once.  Your village is small and remote, extremely difficult to reach because it is isolated from the world by the treacherous currents offshore and the high mountains landward.  Few visitors ever make it here.  Yet the sound you now hear is so distinct in its intentions that you know it at once:  drums, war drums beating out the rhythm of impending attack.

You turn to look up at the ridge above the village.  Onto the long ledge overlooking the cove marches a large band of soldiers, fierce, brutish men fully equipped with long spears and gleaming swords.  No sooner are they in place, staring down upon the villagers still gathered on the beach, than a huge, white stallion gallops onto the flat lookout rock just above the soldiers.  Its rider forces the horse to rear back, kicking its forelegs in the air and neighing so loudly it sounds like a scream, terrifying and chilling.

As the stallion comes crashing back down upon the rock, you see sitting upon it the largest man you have ever beheld.  He is a giant of a man who wears an armored breastplate and leather kilt, with bands of silver around his massive arms.  His face is bearded, yet still you can see that it is heavily scarred, long lines of purplish hue chiseled this way and that.  His eyes blaze with contempt and disdain for you and your people.  You know at once that this is a man who revels in war.

Again he jerks back on the reins and the huge horse rears up, screaming its war-like cry.  In mid-air the giant soldier pulls a heavy sword out of the scabbard hanging from his waist and holds it up by the gilded and jeweled hilt so that the flat of the wide blade catches the first rays of the rising sun to reach the outcropping.  As the sun’s rays strike the blade, he pivots it ever so slightly, sending the bright light back into your eyes, blinding you with it.  For an instant you can see nothing at all except the lingering image of the flashing, blinding sword blade.  The gruesome image flickers, then burns itself forever into your mind.

Before you can quite see again, you hear the giant speak, his deep, husky voice penetrating with cold command:  “My name is General Xanthar. I have been sent by my King to demand tribute from the people of this village.  From this day on you will turn over one-half of all you gather from the sea . . . and one-half of all you harvest from the land.  You have one day to consider our demands and submit.  My name is General Xanthar, and I have spoken.  Tomorrow at this time you will speak.”

He smiles coldly, as if he’s made a cruel joke.  A third time he rears the stallion back, then disappears from the rock, the terrifying neigh echoing along the ridge.  The drums resume their martial beat, and the soldiers fall back from the ridge.

Without comment the people of the village know what to do.  Everyone—the old, the lame, the sick, the strong, the powerful, the young—everyone immediately goes to the center of the village and enters the meeting house.  The large hall accommodates the entire village, either on the open first floor or in the horseshoe balcony.  The morning sun streams in through the many high windows, filling the hall with light.  From its steeple high overhead comes the tolling of its booming bell.

Dong!  Dong!  Dong!

Three bells mark the moment of speech.  The meeting opens.  Any person may speak and the rest must listen until the bell strikes three times again.

First to rise is a young man whose strength and cunning is legion.  He shakes a closed fist in the air as he shouts, “I am not afraid of Xanthar!  Who will join me in the morning?  We shall sneak into the mountains long before dawn.  When the fools come marching with their rat-a-tat-tat announcing their presence, we shall fall upon them and destroy them one and all!”  He glances around the room once before repeating with great fervor, “Who will join me in the morning?”

A thunderous chorus of “I!” rings out from all the brave young men and women of the village, swept up by this fervent call to action to save their village.  The roar they make shakes the entire building to its very foundation.

Dong!  Dong!  Dong!

The room grows still and silent.

Now a granny stands up, a tiny baby nestled into the crook of one arm.  Her white hair is pulled back into a neat bun, her grey eyes blink sadly as she gazes about the room taking in each and every person there.  Finally she speaks, her high voice wavering in the still-charged air of the hall:

“This thing you plan . . . you must not do it!”  Again she slowly looks round the room, then continues.

“We are a peaceful people, and if you make war in the name of peace, you will destroy the peace forever.

“And have you considered what will happen to the rest of us if you should fail?”  She pauses to allow time to think.  Then slowly so as not to wake the child, she holds up the sleeping baby for all to see.  “Who among you would see this babe at the end of Xanthar’s spear?”

Dong!  Dong!  Dong!

Next a middle-aged couple stand up to have their say.  They are well known in the village for two reasons.  First, they have a house full of more children than any other in the village.  Second, from raising those children they are so in tune with each other that they instinctively know what the other is thinking and feeling.  Thus it is not uncommon for them to finish each other’s thoughts aloud.

The woman speaks first, her voice full of hope and good intention:

“I know what we can do.  Tomorrow morning, long before Xanthar returns—”

Here her husband continues her thought:

“We can go up into the mountains as was suggested by our young friend.  But instead of fighting, which the granny rightfully cautions us against—”

Now the wife picks up the thread without pause:

“We can hide in the way-back caves where they won’t ever find us.”

“And when they discover we’ve abandoned the village, they’ll eventually give up and go away.”

“Then we can come back home and live again in peace.”

They stand looking pleased with their plan and themselves, when suddenly the angry young man erupts into an indignant roar:  “I WILL NOT HIDE FROM XANTHAR!  Are we rabbits that we run and hide in stinking holes in the rocky ground?”

Dong!  Dong!  Dong!

And so it goes on and on throughout the morning and into the afternoon, one person after another having their say about the crisis and how best to resolve it.  People patiently listen and respectfully respond to the plans and proposals put forth.  Outbursts like the young man’s happen but are rare.  This is, after all, a time for dispassionate reason, for clear calculation and rational disposition.

As the hours wear on, however, and no consensus occurs, there comes a point in early evening when a shift, very definite though quite subtle, occurs in the discussion.  Instead of rebutting the specific proposal made, the subsequent speaker rebuffs the person who made it:  “We all realize that your suggestion has some merit, yet you have never been known for the gift of strategy.  You are, dear friend, as your chess game consistently demonstrates, a person of great heart but little forethought.  And so I suggest that we . . . .”

Once that kind of demagoguery rears it ugly head, it isn’t long before it blows its foul breath into the unsuspecting faces of all present, infecting them with its mean spirit:  “Just last week I saw you sneak a glance through the uncurtained bedroom window of your neighbor’s cottage.  Now you say that your plan is the only ‘honorable’ solution.  You make me sick with your pompous hypocrisy!”

And so it goes on and on, ever deeper into the seductive garden of personal attack and recrimination.  The secrets that were sworn never to be revealed, the indiscretions that were harmless enough in context, even the foolish mistakes and outright transgressions that make up the woven fabric of lives entwined—all these come pouring out by late evening until the hall is a dire scene of psychic bloodletting such as swords and spears can never achieve.  For who knows better how to pierce and jab, slice and hack more accurately at our most vital parts than those we trust and love?

The evening tears into night as the villagers tear into one another.  Alliances are easily made and as quickly dissolve, for the caustic acid of a people turned against itself spills and splashes indiscriminately.  As this barrage of endless accusations unfolds, a dense, stinking fog rolls in off the sea and sets itself down upon the village.

Just before midnight after an especially malicious attack, a momentary lull ensues.  A young child stands up in the center of the hall and pleads, “Please!  I’m so tired . . .can’t we please go to bed?”

Everyone looks at the miserable child fighting back her tears of exhaustion and hunger.  The adults are suddenly ashamed for having forgotten the children.  Immediately the meeting dissolves without resolution, and the children are hurried  home.

As the children, quickly fed and tucked into bed, fall into exhausted slumber, their elders continue the fray:  “Why did you let out about my cousin’s mishap?  You promised when I told you that you’d never tell a soul!”  Or, “You’ve ruined a life-long friendship with your unjustified attack.  How could you?”  Or, “I shall never be able to look them in the face again after what you said!  And your idea for escaping harm is absurd.  Why I think we should . . . .”  If personal knowledge made the fighting fierce before, now deep intimacy provides the cruelest weapon of all—love withheld and turned against the beloved.

When at last all the villagers crawl wearily to bed, sleep eludes them.  With the towering walls of hostility built brick-by-brick between them, they spend the night wide-eyed and restless, wallowing in their wounds and wondering what the morrow might bring.

The fog thickens.  It chokes the flues in the smoking chimneys, damping the fires so low that they burn badly, filling the houses with noxious fumes.  Those who sleep at all dream of fiery, burning places where eyes smart and breath inflames the lungs.

The night goes on and on, slipping ever deeper into itself.

At last the eldest arise, certain that it is time.  Yet as they look out their windows into the fog-filled night, they wonder if perhaps they’ve misjudged, so black and bleak is the night.  Then the middle-aged people rise from their beds, and some of them actually return to bed, so certain are they that day is too distant.  But finally, though the night would seem to last forever, everyone is up, the children are fed, and one by one the villagers make their weary way to the shore.

Standing there, waiting, waiting, shivering in the cold, wet fog, the villagers ache with a yearning for the light. Not even false dawn appears, offering its trick of hope.  Nothing but black night abounds, growing deeper, ever deeper, ubiquitous and all-consuming.

Finally someone gives voice to what everyone fears:  “Could this be a day the sun doesn’t rise?”

No sooner are these dread words uttered than the villagers feel a deep rumbling.  They feel the rumble before they hear it, hear it before they see its source—a vast meteor blazing across the night, its deafening roar vibrating within them, shaking them to the core.  The meteor’s light cuts through the fog as it falls directly towards them.  Closer, ever closer it comes, hurtling through the darkness at tremendous speed, growing ever larger and more imminent, ever brighter, consuming the entire sky and transforming it into a blazing ball of burning fury.

The villagers scream and run from the beach just as the meteor strikes the sands where they stood gaping skyward only moments before.  The whole world quakes with its landing, so wrenching is the impact.

When the earth finally is still once again and the roar has ceased at last, the villagers come shakily, tentatively back to the shore to stand around the huge crater the meteor made in the sand.  Standing side by side on its rim, there is precisely enough room for each villager.  Leaning over the edge of the crater, they peer into the giant, smoking hole.  As they look down they see multi-colored mists swirling above a fiery, glowing mass.  In the ever-changing mists they are startled to see unfolding before their very eyes what appears to be some sort of vision.  It is the same vision for each of them, yet it also is unique to each individual.  For what they see as they gaze into the crater are the events of the preceding day.  They watch first in fascination, then in horror as they see themselves arguing and fighting, wounding and slashing, attacking and maiming—all in the name of preserving their life together.

A mirror can teach us many things about who we are and appear to be.  Yet a mirror can be a devastating thing when it reflects a self that shocks and repulses us.  The vision is just such a mirror to the villagers.

They are so mortified by what they see of themselves, so very hurt and humiliated by their own actions, that a mournful wail filled with regret and remorse rises out of them.  In one overwhelming voice of despair, that piteous wail fills up the lingering night sky, fills it all the way back to its dark horizon.  There it reaches over the edge of the world and veritably pulls up the waiting sun.  That bubbling, boiling orb rises gloriously over the sea.  Its radiance spreads and diffuses the fog until the light reaches the villagers on shore, whose faces it bathes in a glow that is surely celestial.

And thus the litany begins:

At the end of the prayer and the silent moment for reflection, the villagers pause uneasily, then turn to face each other in a gesture that both seeks and offers forgiveness.  Gazing into each other’s open faces, smiles of acceptance and understanding begin to appear and grow.  A child laughs.  That simple, spontaneous outburst spreads among the villagers who join in until the whole beach is rollicking with the unrestrained, joyful laughter of a people who have found themselves and each other once more.

With a lighthearted step you head across the sands toward the boats in the cove.  Today it is your day to fish, and you are eager to get started.  You like to fish, but then you like all the work of the village.

Just as you are about to climb into your boat, you suddenly hear a sound you’ve heard one time before.  You turn to look back at the ridge overlooking your village.  It is as you know it will be:  The large band of angry-looking men come marching out to the beat of their drums.  The pounding on the rock above them announces the presence of the huge, white stallion that rears up and neighs horribly.  The giant sitting imperiously upon the horse holds up his sword to catch the rays of the rising sun.  But as the white light reflects back into your eyes, you are not blinded in darkness as you were but a day ago.  No, instead the reflected rays of the sun fill your entire being with light.  You are not afraid at all, but calm and ready for what may come.

Your people turn and walk to the base of the cliff upon which the rider waits.  They stare up at him expectantly as he thrusts his sword back into its scabbard with a loud ringing sound that cuts through the still morning air.  He gazes with contempt upon the crowd below him, then says in his husky voice, “My name is General Xanthar.  You know the terms of our demands:  one-half of all your food must be consigned to my King from this day forth.”  He pauses for a moment for effect, then says, “Do you submit?”

Silence.  Not one villager replies.

Xanthar is irritated with this lack of response, which he assumes is the indecision of a cowardly people.  Again he repeats his question, but it is more like a challenge as he shouts, “Do you submit?”

Again, silence.  No one answers though everyone continues to stare openly at Xanthar.

Then the young child who stood forward the night before now stands forth from the crowd.  Craning back her head so that she might see Xanthar so high above her, she says simply and with a sweet lilt to her voice, “You can have whatever you need—we have enough!”  She smiles at Xanthar, then steps back into the crowd.

The child’s effrontery disgusts Xanthar, who says contemptuously, a snarl in his voice, “I do not deal with children.”  He spits out this last word as though children are a disgusting part of the race.  “Who will speak for this village?”

Now the granny stands forth, a tiny baby crooked into one arm.  She raises a finger on her free hand and, pointing it at Xanthar as at an unruly child, says, her quavering voice clear and strong, “What the child says is true—we have enough to give to you.”

Xanthar starts to object, but she quickly cuts him off and says with impatience, “Now come down off your high horse, young man, and have a cup of tea with me so we can talk about this thing.”

Her simple refusal to acknowledge his superior position enrages Xanthar.  Growling low in his throat, he says, enunciating each word for emphasis, “I do not deal with women!  Is there not a man among you?”

This final taunt finds its target in the young man who originally had wanted to waylay Xanthar and his soldiers.  He has hung back until now, committed to not violating his people’s peaceful ways.  But Xanthar’s sneering challenge to the men is too much for him to bear, and he bounds out of the crowd to stand in the open.  He is so angry that his whole body shakes with rage, every muscle taut and ready for action.  Shaking a fist at Xanthar he shouts so loudly that the stallion skitters: “XANTHAR!  XANTHAR!  Come down from the safety of that high rock and you and I will settle this matter between us by—”  But in mid-sentence he breaks off as though suddenly recalling something of utmost importance to him.  “Wait!” he says, more to himself than aloud.  Shaking his head from side to side, struggling to regain control, he is a man caught between competing passions.  “Wait!  I . . . I do not . . . I do not want to do this.  I . . . I will not shame my people in this way.”  He breathes deeply for several long moments, resolving something within, then continues in a calm voice:  “We are a peaceful people, Xanthar, and it is as the child says—we have enough.”

Then he looks directly into Xanthar’s cold eyes and says, very deliberately, “I am a man, Xanthar, and I am proud that the child speaks for me.”

Now he has regained his composure completely, and there is a new-found strength to him, a dignity that was not his even just a day ago.  The taut muscles of his face have relaxed, and he speaks with a confidence that is inspiring.  Without needing to confront in any way the imposing figure so high above him, he says, “I am a man, Xanthar.  And I am humbled that the granny speaks for me.”  He pauses, the silence a living presence between them.  He pauses again to be sure that Xanthar will, for once and all, hear their message:  “What she says is true—we have enough to give to you.”

Then, and as he looks up at Xanthar his face becomes resolute and unyielding, not angrily but righteously so.  As he speaks he extends his right arm completely and holds his palm up at right angle to his wrist in the traditional gesture meaning “stop.”  He says, quietly at first, “We will not submit, Xanthar.”  Then louder he repeats, “We will not submit, Xanthar.”  A third time he says it, shouting now so that the mountains resound with his passion:  “WE WILL NEVER SUBMIT!”

Without lowering his right hand he slowly brings forth his left hand from behind his back and holds it, too, palm-opened, but parallel to the earth in the traditional gesture of offering.  When he speaks his voice is calm, conciliatory:  “But we will give you whatever you need . . .”  His eyes close, and the struggle he feels so keenly inside is played out on his all-revealing face, which is transformed slowly from unveiled hostility to unrestrained acceptance:  “. . . and we will do it, Xanthar, with love!”

“Fools!” Xanthar scoffs, waving his giant hand in an arc of dismissal.  “How dare you refute the absolute authority of my King?  And who are you to offer us assistance?  Do you know what he will order me to do when I tell him of your insolence?”  A gleam of satisfaction appears in Xanthar’s eyes.  “Yes!  I will take your message back to the capital.  My name is General Xanthar, and I shall return!”  He rears his horse back, but it is strangely silent.  His men follow his retreat, but their drums do not beat.

The villagers turn and without comment proceed to the work of the day.  You walk back to your boat, pause for a moment as a gull soars nearby, then climb aboard.

XANTHAR, MEANWHILE, BEGINS the long trek back to his king.  Spurred on by his antipathy for the villagers—he believes they defied him—he drives himself and his men relentlessly, cutting days off the already difficult journey over high mountains and through arid valleys.  When at last he reaches the capital he goes at once to the palace where he is granted an immediate audience with the king.

“Your Majesty,” Xanthar says as he enters the royal throne room, bowing low and approaching the king.  “I arrived only moments ago from that small fishing village on the outermost fringes of your kingdom.”

“And how did you fare, Xanthar?”  The king leans forward on his throne, obviously eager for news.

“The upstarts agree to your demands for food but refuse to submit to your royal authority.  I am prepared to return at once to teach these rebellious fishmongers a lesson in humility that they sorely need to learn.  My men are exhausted from the journey, but with fresh troops I could—”

“No, Xanthar.”  The king’s voice, which rarely rises above normal speaking levels, is harsh and overloud.  Xanthar is shocked, and for the first time since entering the room he actually studies the king’s face, which he finds worn and even haggard looking.

“But your Majesty, surely you will want me to impose the full weight of your authority.”

“Not this time, Xanthar.”

“But we cannot allow such impudence to go—”

“I said, NO, Xanthar!”  The king actually shouts at him, his voice echoing slightly in the huge chamber.  “Not this time.  Much has changed in your absence.  My people are hungry, some starving, and every soldier I have available I need here in the city to maintain order.  You and your men will return to the village at once, as you so gallantly offer, but you will go as head of a trading mission, bringing with you whatever goods we have that they might find of use.  Get that food, Xanthar, but give them equal in return.  We need these people and their willing cooperation.  We need them now and, from the reports of drought in the western fiefs, we shall need them for some time to come.  Diplomacy has never been your strength, but make it so now, General.”

Xanthar starts to object, but the king cuts him off.  “Get this straight, Xanthar:  The great privileges of rank that you and I enjoy so keenly are in jeopardy without an immediate and steady source of food for the people.  Go, Xanthar, and send back that food without delay.”  The king waves a hand of dismissal at Xanthar, who reluctantly backs out of the room.

XANTHAR SURELY DOES not want to return to the village bearing gifts when he threatened to come bearing arms; but he is, first and last, a soldier, so he obeys his king, begrudgingly, but faithfully.

Much to his chagrin, when he finds himself back on the lookout rock above the village, he gets down off his high horse and goes to have tea with the granny.  Much to his surprise, he finds that he actually enjoys it, for she clearly is his match in the verbal sallies and subtle ploys of diplomacy as he practices it.  Moreover, he discovers a soothing quality in her that somehow compensates for this new role he finds so distasteful.

Days turn into weeks and weeks into months as Xanthar reluctantly oversees the shipment of food back to the realm.  “This is no work for a soldier,” he is often overheard muttering to himself.  Despite his ill temper, however, every day that he spends in the calm atmosphere of the peaceful village seems to soften him.  Without realizing it at first, he finds himself becoming more and more fascinated by the villagers’ way of life.  As he later tells his king, “Your Majesty, I marvel at these people.  They live so simply, yet elegantly, too.  They have little more than basic needs, yet they don’t clamor for riches.  To them a good story after a hearty meal is reward enough for a day’s labor without demonstrable pay, for they all work for free and share what they produce according to need, not want.  At first they even refused our goods in trade for their food, saying, ‘If you have a true need, it is both our duty and our pleasure to help.’  I had to insist by saying we would be insulted otherwise, but even then they took only what is truly useful to them.

“Our people, they love too well grand words like compassion and humility.  They put them on like new clothes for being seen but never worked, too dainty for the soil of the earth.  But these fisherfolk, your Majesty, . . . they, well, they live these concepts, so much so that they don’t even have a word for compassion.  Fascinating, is it not?”

The months turn into years.  Yet Xanthar, long since relieved of his diplomatic responsibility, lingers.  With each day that passes he participates more in the life of the village.  He tends the fields, teaches the children, mends the nets, cares for the very young and the very old.  Thus it is that when the granny puts down the newest baby from her old arms and takes to her death bed, Xanthar is there, waiting with her through her last, longest night.

At the foot of the bed, his head bowed in prayer, sits the angry young man, now not so young and never so angry as he once had been.  And at the head of the bed stands the young child who had spoken for the whole village long ago; but she is not young anymore, and her head, too, is bowed in solemn prayer.

At the old granny’s side, his huge paw of a hand gently cradling hers, sits a giant of a man whose eyes spill over with tears, the liquid jewels from the wellspring of his breaking heart, tears running like rivulets down the deep scars that line his battle-worn face.