Outward Bound

Exactly a year ago, we loaded the boot of the old car a final time and drove off. I remember that the Gooner was the last to bid farewell, rushing up to us as we turned out of the car park to give us three Easter eggs as a present. I will never forget that moment.

But the second unforgettable moment from that last day was actually driving out of the gate. I saw the rust on the gate, the peeling paint, the cheaply tendered workmanship, and then like the light of the face of God, there was a sensation of — *snap* — freedom.

"You will never have to return," said the voice. It wasn't the voice of flaming cherubim at the gates of Eden; it was more like the voice of the descending seraphim at the devastation of the cities of the plain. I had the crawling sensation that if I had actually looked back, I would have turned into a pillar of salt (or at least, a pool of electrolytes).

As we turned the corner, I heard the harsh and knowing caw. I looked up into the gnarly tree at the edge of the old place, and there they were, two huge ravens. I had seen them many times before, and they had inspired me much. The look in their eyes wasn't so much a goodbye-farewell, as a zaijian, an auf weidersehen. "We will be seeing you again," it said, "but not here. We have to wrap things up first."

I felt oddly reassured. Months later, when the news began to trickle out of the place, I knew I had left in time. Chesterton describes the purge of the faithful in beautiful lines:

And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not Kismet; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."

Except that of course, some people (heh) had not the language to say such things. Yet indeed they were sifting the sands and shifting the saints and harrying the faithful to the uttermost ends of the earth. I can only wonder at what was on their minds. It made no sense, and the vast network of the brothers and sisters of the Wyvern gave me encouragement and told me it looked senseless to them too.

From what I hear, some people still claim the wisdom of Solomon, but merely attempt to seal up power for themselves. I feel like a djinn who escaped the bonds of lead and clay created by an apostate king; or perhaps like a David who has avoided being hit by two quick spearcasts in succession at the hands of Saul.

But enough of that. "Courage was mine, and I had mystery; Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery," said a poor sad poet of the trenches. I feel like adding, "Freedom was mine, and I had both." I was outward bound, that bright and azure day. It was the first day of the rest of my professional life, and the scent of the burning grass and the billowing trees was the scent of the light of dawn.