Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  “Howdy,” Micah greeted the man and waved for his friends to come over. “You know Cory, but this is Dane and Tandy. I figured you’d like to have a face to put with their applications.

  “I am very happy to meet you boys. Do you have a decision yet?”

  “We haven’t even talked about it.” Micah responded. “Give us time.”

  “I will, but I actually came to talk with you about this morning. Is that okay?”

  “Just a sec,” Micah went over to Coach and then returned. Yeah, would you like to go into the Coach’s office?”

  They walked into the building. “Are you looking forward to summer, any great plans?” The priest was making small talk, giving himself some time to put his thoughts together.

  “I’m going to Norway. So what did you want to talk about?” Micah was more of a ‘to the point’ kind of person rather than a ‘chitchatty’ one.

  “I just wanted to say that your Responsorial this morning was heartfelt. I think that you’ll be a priest someday,” the Monsignor smiled.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. There is a problem with me going to St. John’s. I considered your story about pretending to believe. But that feels wrong. It’s like I am insulting both your faith and my principles at the same time. I can respect what you believe; I just can’t believe it myself.”

  “In your reading this morning, you said the words with power, with clarity and with certainty. At the moment you recited that Psalm, you believed. Not only did you believe, you ensured that those listening believed as well. That is all I ask. Consider the moment and have faith in the instant.”

  Micah nodded. “I can do that,” smiling at the priest, because he was relieved that the man provided a way out of his dilemma.

  But then Micah thought that he needed some clarification, “People interpret things based upon the paradigm that follows from their experiences. The meaning I captured from the psalm is likely different than your understanding. Everyone nuances things a little differently. We each approach the eternal personally and uniquely. Is that what you mean when you say to have ‘faith in the instant’?”

  The Monsignor brightened. “That’s it.”

  “It’s funny,” Micah continued, “because when I spoke at the funeral, my intent was to make the words live. It was important that the prayer echo with truth and life, because I knew the people sitting in the pews needed to be reminded that there is something greater, that death is not a conclusion. Does that make sense?”

  The cleric shook his head yes. “A good priest understands the needs of his flock. We serve them; that is our job. Many in the clergy forget that and become lost in the bureaucracy of the church. Instead of becoming Christ-like, we devolve into Pharisees and forget the love and passion of Jesus. You are being summoned, Micah. You need to listen.”

  Most of what the priest said was lost on Micah, but the boy could see how deeply Father Mathias held his faith. The priest paused before continuing, “Mr. and Mrs. Derocher spoke to me after the service. They told me what you said. ‘He lives.’ They inferred those words as coming from Guy and not from you. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, that’s true. He is alive, more alive than you or me.”

  Chapter 16: Trondheim

  Lake Michigan appeared flat like a steel-gray mirror. From high in the sky, it seemed lifeless. Cory watched through the window next to his friend, peering at the lake and the clouds at 10,000 feet and rising.

  The Krigsman’s drove from Amarillo to Chicago to catch the plane for London and then on to Oslo. The driving took a good part of two days, including a stop in Seneca where Micah dined with his grandmother, uncles, aunts and cousins. And now, a half hour after take-off, he was on his way to Europe: a little afraid, a little sad, not excited.

  After Guy died, time seem to jump forward. He ran, boxed, rode Styx and thought. He lost the 5000 meter race to Vega, his only defeat, but once again signed up for boxing starting in July. And he pondered many things: aloof; residing within his vibrant mind; ignoring family and friends. So many things ending, so many things beginning, decisions put on hold thus prolonging uncertainty. He became better friends with his ‘shrooms. Tripping made the world more tolerable. He was ashamed of this; it felt like a weakness.

  Depressed his mother said. Probably.

  Micah and the Krigsmans sat in 1st Class, a bump-up from coach afforded by Francis Krigsman’s older brother who worked for the airlines plus there were seats available. Seven hours to London and then a half day wait for the flight to Oslo, where they would spend a few days with Mrs. Krigsman’s family and then a train trip to Trondheim.

  Harry’s smell was everywhere. Guy’s death did not cause his doldrums, but his dreams did, foul and terrible dreams where he was being chased and hungered for by that maniac. The old foreman was not gone. He had caught glimpses of him around the creek and once at school. Mr. Dorsey didn’t know. Micah couldn’t tell him; he knew what had to be done but had no confidence in himself to do it when the time came.

  And the time would come.

  The Atlantic extended seemingly forever below him; the flight was past the mid-point to England. Moonlight reflected off of the dark water, and it produced in him the feeling of being lost. If he could, he would have opened the window to dive the 30 thousand feet into that cold, iceberg infested ocean. Resolving what? Nothing! Worry only made it worse, and he told himself that over-and-over. But his sane thoughts struggled to convince the insane ones.

  “I need to shake this,” he muttered. Cory heard him but did not respond. He only stared at him with his puppy dog look. Cory loved Micah.

  Ellen Krigsman, who was sitting in front of the boys, stood and came around. “Cory, your poppa wants to talk with you for a little.” She sat next to Micah and raised the armrest that separated the two seats and took his hand.

  “Sometimes life can be overveldende.” (Micah smiled, she meant to say overpowering, but her Norwegian often got in the way of her English). “Things seem to fly at us from all directions. Sometimes that is our fault and sometimes not. It doesn’t really matter; they still cause us pain. Emotional pain is worse than physical. Friends help us cope, but often even those we love cannot help. So it comes back to us.”

  “When I feel life’s pressure, I turn to the Holy Mother. She has never failed me. It may take a power greater than we to return us to happiness.” She waited for a couple of minutes before continuing. “You know the story of Moses at the Red Sea?” Micah shook his head ‘yes.’ “Moses stood facing the water; the Hebrews in their thousands stood behind him. In the far distance, the dust rose from the approaching Egyptians. Moses raised his arms in praise of God, asking Him for aid and reproaching Him for his failure to help. Nothing happened. Then he ordered his people forward stepping first into the water himself. Instantly the sea separated, and the multitude of Israelites went forth into the unknown. Moses and his people made it across without loss, but the Egyptians were utterly destroyed. What is remarkable? Moses had to take the first step before God acted. That is always the case; we must make the opening move. With God, it is always a tit for tat, a covenant, a contract.”

  “Now, I know you’re not pious, but it doesn’t matter, the moral of that story holds true regardless. Whatever is burdening you, make the decision to let it go, to take the first step. When you do that, the weight will be lifted and your happiness restored.”

  Micah contemplated the woman’s words before tears trickled down his cheeks. Ellen Krigsman took him in her arms and embraced him like the child he was, something that everyone forgot, even himself. At that point, he released his burden and it freed him, at least for the moment. A mythical sea parted allowing him passage, but behind him the enemy pursued. Micah had no doubt that the water would once again close and crush the nightmare. But in the process, he might also be smashed. Yet he had no qualms, for whatever will be, it will be. The inevitable often cloaks itself in imperfection. As he experienced the love of his friend’s parent, the grassy perf
ume of Cory’s mother merged with the flowery scent of Tellus, the Black Mother, confirming the rightness of her words. The depressive hue of the world morphed into the wonder-filled color of certainty. Micah was whole.

  ~

  “It was good that you were able to see your family,” Francis Krigsman spoke as they sat at a small café in the city center overlooking the Trondheimsfjord. Micah sat shivering in the midmorning sun. Summer in Norway was a lot like winter in Amarillo, only the sun never set, and Micah struggled to acclimate. Otherwise, Trondheim was very beautiful, beautiful in a different way than the Texas Panhandle. Ellen Krigsman told him that he must have a perceptive eye to see the beauty in such a desolate place as the High Plains, but there was no other place he would rather be.

  “Yeah, Uncle Cecil was in Oslo for business anyway,” he responded to Mr. Krigsman’s remark. “He brought Michael and Lelo along so I could meet them. But Michael is not my real cousin. Actually, he’s my brother.”

  Francis and Ellen had a confused look on their face. “You mean like Cory is your brother, you two are very close?”

  “No, Michael is my half-brother. We have the same father.”

  “Well isn’t that interesting,” Francis Krigsman smiled and his wife sort of frowned.

  “My mom doesn’t think so.” Micah said matter-of-factly. “I also have a half-sister back in Missouri.

  “Family histories are always, uh, Mor, hva er 'nysgjerrig' på engelsk?”

  “Nysgjerrig,” she thought for a moment, “that would be ‘curious’ my dear,” responded his wife.

  “Yes, family histories are always curious.”

  Cory and Micah giggled.

  “I apologize,” Micah said. “I am playing with you. Mr. Dorsey is always talking about sociology and anthropology. He likes that stuff. People don’t realize that social norms differ between cultures, sometimes radically. So when I told you about my half brother and sister, you made a judgement based upon your cultural standards, and your reactions reflected that. My dad is Native American, and if you look at the marriage traditions of many Indian peoples, my family would be closer to their norm rather than the Christian one.”

  “Are you talking about matrilineal and matriarchal peoples?” Mr. Krigsman asked.

  “Yeah,” responded Micah. “Marriage is viewed very differently. In some societies, my father would be my mother’s oldest brother, since my biological father may not be around. In fact, each of my siblings could have a different biological father. The mother and her family are the only consistent thing. With that said, Michael is my biological half-brother, but not my cultural brother since he had a different mother. But clan would also make a difference. If Michael’s mother and my mother were of the same clan, we would be closer like brothers, but if they were of different clans, any formal relationship would be shakier. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes in a bizarre and convoluted way,” answered Cory’s mother.

  “We need to talk about your activities,” Francis spoke. “I don’t expect you boys to hang around grandpa’s house. You are free to investigate Trondheim, but you need to check-in with me once-in-a-while. There are some nice hiking trails nearby, and I can set you up with a guide for those trips. Why don’t I go ahead and make some arrangements for a couple of days of hiking. You got the phone numbers to call in and some money if you get hungry, and you know how to find your way home?” He addressed Cory who nodded yes. “I want you both to have an excellent time here.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Krigsman finished breakfast and then walked up the street toward the river, while the boys went toward the waterfront and were soon confronted with an overpowering stink. They stood in the center of a large fish market.

  “You Norwegians sure like your fish. The smell makes me want to puke,” Micah nudged his friend.

  “I guess when the wind blows out of the southwest back home, you just love the smell of the Hereford stockyards,” Cory said as he gently elbowed him back.

  “They’re both disgusting. Let’s get out of here.” The boys walked away from the market following an inlet of water. They crossed a bridge and entered the central train station.

  “Where are all of the kids?” Micah asked.

  “In school, they don’t get out for summer until the end of June.”

  Micah looked at the train schedule. “Let’s take a train to Östersund, Sweden. It’s not too far.”

  “What’s there? I think we’ll need our passports. And we’re just kids. They may not let us cross the border without parents.” Cory did not seem too interested.

  “We can add Sweden to the places we’ve been.”

  “I’ve already been to Sweden. We can ask dad. He’ll probably say okay.”

  The boys walked out of the station and headed toward the River Nidelva.

  “Let’s go to that church,” Micah pointed toward a large green steeple in the distance which was visible from most all of Trondheim.

  “That is Nidaros Cathedral where St. Olaf was buried. Parts of it is almost a 1000 years old,” Cory educated his friend. “They give tours sometimes,” and the boys headed to the church which was on the other side of the city center.

  It took time to reach the large church. The boys watched restoration work on the church’s western front and then entered and stood near the High Choir, all alone in the gigantic sanctuary. They sat quietly absorbing the atmosphere of the holy place. Micah had never been in such a building before, and it caused him to remember a book he read about sacred time and sacred spaces. It proposed that when someone enters a place such as this, both space and time change to an alternate reality. Thus when participating in the Eucharist, the worshipper does not just reenact the Last Supper of Christ but crosses into the same moment and place as the actual event. The magnificence of the cathedral produces the effect that allows the celebrant to traverse from the secular into the sacred.[7]

  Across from where the boys sat, Micah noticed a monk standing opposite them, his face blanked out by the cowl of his cassock. The figure was tall, lean and projected a feeling of anger but mostly profound grief.

  “Why aren’t you boys in school,” a deep voice from behind them spoke in Norwegian. Micah jumped in surprise losing sight of the friar for an instant, but in that moment, the monk was gone.

  “We are Americans,” Cory responded in Norwegian. “School is already out for us.”

  “Americans, but your Norsk is very good,” the man responded.

  “Norsk is my first language. I am American, but my parents are Norwegian,” Cory responded in English. “This is my cousin. He speaks Spanish and English but not Norsk. He is sort of backwards.”

  Micah smiled.

  “This is my church. Would you like a tour?”

  The boys jumped up and followed the man as he guided them through the edifice. It took a good part of two hours. They even climbed to the top of the tower which gave a remarkable view of the city.

  It was past lunch by the time they finished the walk-through, and the older gentleman led them to a small café. “I apologize, but I am called Per Froseth. I am an unofficial tour guide for the cathedral. What are your names?”

  “I am Cory Krigsman and this is Micah Sherwood. We are from Texas, U.S.A.”

  “Ah cowboys, and where are your horses and cowboy boots?” Per teased.

  “Back in Amarillo.” Micah responded. “Who was that monk I saw in the church?”

  “Monk, I’m sorry but there have been no monks here since the Reformation when the Lutherans chased the Catholic Archbishop out of Norway.”

  “But I saw a monk across the room from us. I’m sure he was a monk.”

  “No, you are mistaken.”

  Micah said no more about it or anything else. He only sat and listened to Cory and the old man talk mostly in Norwegian. After a half hour, he got up from the table and left, but by the time he got a block away, Cory had caught up with him.

  “You are such an ass for leaving like that.”

  Mica
h looked at Cory, “And you are an ass talking in Norwegian and leaving me to sit not understanding what in the hell you were saying. Plus I didn’t like that guy.”

  “You hate him because you saw something he didn’t. You see things all of the time that Mr. Dorsey doesn’t see, but that doesn’t bother you.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’m a jerk.”

  “Yeah, a Triple-A jerk. Let’s go report home.” They walked along the river and scrutinized the houses, apartments and warehouses which were painted in bright colors, something you would never see in America. It gave the city a vibrancy that Micah liked. The U.S. prides itself on its individualism, but the Norwegians are truly individuals and not afraid to show it.

  They walked over a bridge to an area known as Bakklandet, where grandpa Krigsman lived. It was a small house, so the boys slept at Cory’s youngest uncle’s flat. He was a bachelor and worked nights.

  “I’m going back to that church tonight. I need to understand what the monk wants,” Micah informed Cory. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want. I bet we can get in without a problem.”

  “You’re just asking for trouble, but I’ll go in case you get caught so I can translate.” Cory was also looking forward to an adventure.

  At this time of year and this close to the Arctic Circle, it was never really dark, the sun hung just below the horizon even at midnight. Amarillo became a ghost town at twilight except along Polk Street where teenagers hung out and the city’s cops harassed them. But in Trondheim, people were out walking and conversing. Couples young and old strolled along the river hand-in-hand. Cafes were busy, and the city lived.

  It was midnight when Cory and Micah crawled under a shrub across from the giant cathedral, where they waited for the strollers and visitors to return to their homes and to sleep. After the last couple disappeared, they waited another half hour and then went to the north door of the edifice, pushing it open to enter. Faint light lit the transept where the boys stood momentarily before stealthily making their way to the seats they had taken that morning. The church was heavy with smells and whispers and gloom. Micah felt the weight of a 1000 years settle upon him. He heard the laughter of babies and the laments of mourners. The Latin Mass quietly reverberated within the vaulted ceilings, a language and tradition that died in this church and hundreds of others soon after the advent of Martin Luther and the Reformation.