There are a million stories of Glen and his family and their days overseas like seeing the Mona Lisa, which is now covered most of the time, and climbing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which no one is allowed to do anymore, but those stories can wait.  They visited battlefields, like Bastogne, Verdun and Normandy, and palaces like the Alhambra and the fountain of lions which was pretty good for a people who had no graven images.  There were castles and a whole walled city of Carcassonne, and the beaches at Cannes where the children were not allowed to go.

            Sister Carol fell off a canon in Lisbon and left her stuffed animals in Rome.  They got mailed to a future stop, the animals I mean.  It would have cost too much to mail the canon. 

            Brother Tom made a baseball bat and found an acceptable ball during a week’s rest stop in Austria.  Several German boys joined the game, but it was hard to play ball in a field where the grass came up to the knees. 

             There was a Ferris wheel in Vienna so big it had train cars for coaches, and the Lipizzaner Stallions that danced as good as Trigger.  There were so many things and so many stories, but eventually the family found a big boat in Rotterdam and headed for home.

            School was just school after that, though it was hard to get into the routine again.  Glen missed his one room school, Don Antonio at the chalk board, and that early morning bell that rang merrily from the church steeple and called the children to come and learn.  By contrast, the bell in his school sounded like a prison bell, and the school felt a bit that way as well.

            Still, life in general went back to the way it had been before the trip overseas.  It was almost as if that trip never happened.  Glen supposed it was to be filed away for later remembrance.  So Brother Tom got all the attention and managed the parents to his liking.  Sister Carol, being the baby as well as the only girl certainly got her share, and Glen went back to being the disappointment and afterthought if he was thought of at all.  In a way that was fine, because Glen understood that when he was thought of it was in the most negative and critical way possible.  Even when he did something right, it was never right, and when he did something well it was still no good.  Life was empty and hard for Glen, but at least Glen imagined it could not get any worse.

            It got worse.  Yes it did.  

            Glen was taken to the school psychologist who supposedly knew all about children.  After only a single one hour examination, the man, an amateur, rightly surmised that Glen was not working up to his potential because he found certain things boring.  Glen wished he knew enough back then to suggest that what he needed was some positive reinforcement, but he did not.  The solution the man came up with could not have been worse if it had been conceived by the devil himself.  He said, don’t make it easy for him.  If there are obstacles in Glen’s way, he will rise up and overcome them.

            From that day on, Glen’s life became a living Hell.  His parents were already inclined to be negative and critical toward him.  Now they had official sanction to ruin whatever he was involved in, interested in or went after.  The man said don’t make it easy, but Glen’s parents interpreted that as meaning make it as hard as possible if not impossible.  What Glen needed was guidance, to find something he was good at that he could pursue, something that his parents could support, where they could be proud of him.  What he got was their every effort to make everything as difficult as possible, and in every sense, for a child, impossible.  Under no circumstances were they going to say a positive word, and Glen floundered, directionless for the next twenty years, which just reinforced in their minds that Glen was hopeless and useless.

            I cannot tell you how many things in Glen’s life his parents, and in particular his Mother with her prime networking skills destroyed.  They got him fired from two jobs and in a third they moved him from the fast track to the never to be promoted in a million years track.  Back when Glen was trying to invest in church ministry, he struggled in three churches.  There is nothing but circumstantial evidence that they interfered, but it is very strong circumstantial evidence, and Glen has often wondered exactly who his mother called and exactly what she said. 

            “Thank you for hiring my son.  You will need to keep on his back to get good work out of him.  I wish you the best.”  That would be enough.  Any employer or church member would hear:  “Thank you for hiring my no-good, retarded son who needs his mother to call on his behalf.  He is lazy and useless so I sarcastically say, good luck.”

            It was not far along and the ground improved.  A hardy desert grass obscured the path, but it was a welcomed sign.  Glen felt sure he was getting somewhere, and it was not much further before he smelled the green.  His eyes caught it moments later, though it was still far off  He heard the wail of the men that followed him and thought they might stop and might even go back to their cave.  They did not stop, and he was actually glad for the company, poor as it was.

            “There is life up ahead,” Glen spoke to the air.  “I can see the green and smell it in the air.”

            “It is perdition.  It is purgatory.  It is death.”  The three men responded to Glen’s words.  Glen could not see it, but he did decide it would not hurt to walk carefully and keep his eyes open. 

            “Now gentlemen.”  He spoke up so they could hear him.  “I don’t know what perdition is, I don’t believe in purgatory and life isn’t death so there you go.  Besides, it smells like home – not mine, mind you.  Like Dorothy where if you go looking for your heart’s desire you don’t have to look any further than your own back yard.”  The others said nothing.

            It did not take long to see the big house behind the trees, and it was a real big house like an old southern plantation home or the kind of manor house sometimes found on out of the way roads in England.  It also did not take long to see the chain link fence.  It was laid out perfectly.  Scruffy, dull green tufts of thick grass with barren brown dirt between was on one side and a lush carpet of green, well landscaped with trees, bushes and flowers was on the other.

            “What is with the fence?”  Glen turned at last to face his three followers.

            “There is a sign,” the Leader responded and the Officer pointed a short way down the fence.

            “What, no Cheshire cat to go with it?”  Glen was joking but they were not smiling so he lost his grin, stepped down and read.  “Keep out.  You are not welcome or wanted here.”  He turned to look at the three, but they looked surprised.   They whispered before the Leader asked.

            “What sign are you reading?”

            Glen raised his brows and pointed to the sign.  “This one right here.”

            “But that is not what it says,” the Treasurer said.

            The Leader hushed the man and read the sign he saw.  “Welcome.  Come around and in by the gate and you can have a mansion of your own.”

            Glen squinted at the sign.  He did not see it.  He squinted at the three men in their pompous rags, and decided to encourage them toward something better.  “So, why don’t you take them up on the offer?  It sounds pretty good.  New clothes, I bet.  A warm, comfortable bed to sleep, food whenever you like and who knows what all.”  He let his voice trail off because they looked horrified by the whole idea.

            “But I need to be the leader,” the Leader said.

            “And I need to decide everything,” the Officer said.

            “And I need to keep the accounts,” the Treasurer said.  “And all the money.”

            They turned as one and began back they way they came.  There was no chance of saying anything more even if Glen could think of something to say.  He looked again at the sign.  It clearly said, “Keep out.”

            “Pardon me.”  Glen turned and saw a man through the fence.  He smiled because the man was smiling, but he held his tongue.  “Why are you on the wrong side of the fence?” the man asked.  “You should be in here.  I am certain.”  Glen watched as a young woman came to join the man and add her smile to the group.

            “The sign says Keep out.”  Glen responded.

            “Not possible,” the man said.  “Surely you belong here.”

            “You certainly don’t belong there,” the woman added.

            “Story of my life.  I don’t belong here but I don’t belong there either.”  Glen lost his smile and had a sudden insight.  “Your home is in heaven?”

            “Yes, certainly,” the man said.

            The woman looked up at the man.  “It must be.  It can only be heaven.”

            Glen nodded and turned away.  He ran to catch up to the three men but never found them and never passed them.  When he got back to the cave they were not there, either.  It did not make sense, but he thought overall the whole adventure made more sense then he imagined it should.  He squeezed through the crack in the back wall of the Leader’s room and found his flashlight.  The world outside the cave was beginning to fall into night and he knew he had to go.

            It was not easy climbing back up that steep incline, but he had to get back to where he belonged – or at least where he belonged more than where he had been.  The flashlight slipped from his hand when he reached the top.  He heard it clatter back down to the cave below.  There was no way he was going back to retrieve it.  All he had to do was shove himself the last foot.

            When his mother came in to wake him up that morning, Glen felt like he had not slept a wink.  He had not, and what is more, his flashlight was missing.

            Glen found the table in the Great Hall set for six with tableware that looked to be pure silver and gold.  The goblets were fine crystal – jewel embedded.  The food on serving platters and deep dishes looked steaming hot and smelled delicious.  There was fish, bird, meat of some kind, potatoes, rice and at least a half-dozen vegetables.  There were cheeses and fruits of all sorts so that Glen was not sure he could name them all.  The wine was decanted, both red and white, and there even appeared to be brandy and six glasses on a tray for after.

            Glen spun slowly all the way around.  There were no people to be seen, no cooking fires or stoves or so much as a cupboard for all the priceless dinnerware.  How that feast came to be there, Glen could not imagine; but then it did not seem to faze the residents of that cave community one bit.

            “Dinner.”  The leader came out into the Great hall and hollered, while Glen stared.  The Chief Officer and Treasurer quickly joined him beside the table, and Glen did not quite know what to do.  He felt he ought to be invited, but he needed to be invited first.

            “Citizen.”  The leader did invite him, but not to the table.  He clearly pointed to down below, off the ledge where the table was.  He waved Glen to stand in the inch-thick dust that had not been disturbed for years as no one came there and no one but these three lived there.

            Glen complied, but slowly, and imagined there might be some ceremony before he would be included at the table.  There was a ceremony, but not what he expected.

            While the Officer and Treasurer bowed their heads, the Leader tore off a small chunk of bread, picked up an ordinary cup of red wine and turned to face the gallery in the great hall, a gallery which consisted of Glen alone.

            “Citizens.  As we partake today of our noon dinner, let us remember the great sacrifice your officials are making on your behalf.  We work hard for you all, to see that your needs are met in every way.  We do our very best to take care of you all.  We spare no labor in our body.”  He held up the bread.  “Neither do we spare our very life’s blood for your sake.”  He held up the wine.  “Let us give thanks for those of us who are here to watch over you and provide this great and bountiful feast.”  He leaned down in Glen’s direction and held out the bread and cup.  “Here, citizen.  Share in our bounty.”

            Glen took the bread and cup and spoke softly.  “Thank you.”  Then he watched while the three up at the table took their seats and dug into the food with abandon.  They spoke some to each other, but never so much as looked again in Glen’s direction.  After a moment of disbelief, Glen found a place in the stones where he could sit.  The bread was very good and the wine warmed him, but it was not enough to sustain a bird.  And he decided while he ate that he had indeed fallen into a loony bin and wanted no more of it. 

            Glen stood when he was done and stepped to the cave entrance.  The sun was bright, but straight up overhead and it only took a moment for his eyes to adjust.  He was just about to step out when one of the three above noticed and shouted.

            “Wait!”

            Glen turned to listen.

            “I do not advise going out there,” the Leader spoke first.

            “Going into the outside is not allowed,” the Officer added.  “It is against the law.”

            “You can’t go.  There is work to do,” the Treasurer added.

            “Thank you, but I am going,” Glen responded.

            “But you’ve been paid,” the Treasurer shouted as Glen turned away and stepped out from the cave.

            It was desert outside.  Nothing much grew there and probably nothing much could grow there.  While that made Glen doubly curious as to where the feast might have come from, it did not stop his feet from walking.  He headed straight out from the cave and was only partially surprised when he heard the shuffle of three sets of feet not far behind.

            When Glen paused, the feet paused.  Glen looked to the ground and saw the remains of an old path.  It might have been cobblestones once upon a time, but it was hard to say.  The stones were too few and spewed from the earth at odd angles.

            “Where does this path lead?”  Glen wondered and shouted the words, though he did not turn his head.

            “To disrespect,” he heard the Leader.

            “To the end of choice,” the Officer said.

            “To poverty,” The Treasurer added, and Glen smiled.

            “I’ve been once to the Pit of Poverty.  This may be my way home.”  He walked at a good pace and the others did their best to keep up.

            The Great Hall was as empty as before, only this time Glen thought to lower himself off the raised platform and down to the floor below.  He saw it was covered with an inch of dust and undisturbed for ages.  He knew then that the men in the rooms never came down there.  He also knew there were no other people – no one as he imagined to come in and out of the Great Hall or go in and out from the outside.  There were no workers, no citizens, no people of any kind.

            Glen thought for a moment that he had come into a loony-bin, but again his curiosity rose up and he wanted to see what the treasurer had to say.  It was the last cave, and he imagined door number one, two or three.  According to the game this should have been door number one, but then he started at door number three.  This time he knocked on the stone archway before he spoke.

            “Excuse me, the chief officer said he would whip through the papers so I could receive assistance.”  It was a statement, but he made it sound like a question. 

            In this room a very round man sat in a very small chair in front of a tilted table.  This man had one book, a ledger, and he was going over it most carefully.  He looked up when Glen came in.

            “Be with you in a minute,” he said.  “It would not do to have these numbers add up wrong.”

            Glen stood quietly while the man worked, but after a while he grew tired of waiting.  “Excuse me,” Glen said again, but the man was not moved.  So Glen began to inch forward as if wanting to take a look at the book.  The man responded by picking up his quill, he put a period on the page and closed the book quickly.

            “Now, what can I do for you, citizen?”

            Glen had to repeat himself.  “The chief officer said he would whip through the paperwork so I could receive assistance.”

            “Hmmm.  Well, he would,” the fat man frowned.  “But I see no paperwork here.”  He looked at Glen and smiled a smile that said, sorry. Glen could not stop his tongue from asking.

            “But the chief officer decided, so that should be good enough, shouldn’t it?”

            The frown came back and deepened.  “Sadly, it does not work that way.” 

            “Why?”  Glen wondered.  “What is it you do here?”

            “Why, I’m the Treasurer, the Treasurer.  I oversee the accounts, the treasury.”  Glen shook his head and some red rose up in the man’s fat cheeks as he furrowed his brow to match his frown.  “Look, the Leader can recommend all he wants, and the Officer can decide things all day, but I have to determine what we can afford and not afford.”  The man got down from his little stool to stand on his stubby, fat legs.  He put one hand on the tilted table which Glen guessed was a desk of some kind, and he began a more thorough explanation.

            “It is really quite simple.”  The man cleared his throat.  “Public money cannot fairly be shared.  It is the one thing in life that must be vested.  Why, if we let the ordinary people have their own money there is no telling what they might spend it on.  It would be anarchy, I tell you, everyone for themselves.  Only one can rightly oversee the public trust.  It is a great and grave responsibility to have such control, I know.  But I believe my fairly large shoulders can bear it for a while longer.  It is good to hear your concern, but you can trust that I will bear the burden with honesty and spend only what is in the best interests for all.  Thank you.  Thank you.”  He waved, though there was no crowd to applaud. 

            “Of course,” Glen said, and though he still did not understand, he was not sure he wanted to.  He turned back toward the archway but the man waved at him and made a great show as he opened his desk.  The whole top of the table lifted and he pulled out a yellow, cardboard Banker’s Choice cigar box.  He was careful not to let Glen see the contents, though Glen caught a glimpse of a piece of string, a jack and a small piece of common quartz.  He also heard a few coins rattle and watched as the man carefully pulled out a copper.  He held it out.

            “Here, citizen.  The Leader has said we must be gracious to our citizens and since you say the Officer has decided, let this copper be for you.”

            Glen stepped up as the Treasurer closed the cigar box lid.  “Thank you,” he said.

            “Now the tax on earnings,” the Treasurer did not pause.  “Is two copper coins.”  He held out his hand.  Glen saw no reason to hold on to the one he had been given, so he handed it back, but then he shrugged.

            “I only have the one you just gave me,” he admitted.

            “I see, I see.”  The treasurer frowned again as he returned the coin to the box and the box to the desk.  “You will have to work off your tax then, I suppose.  Please see the Chief Officer next door and ask him for a work assignment.”  The Treasurer went back to his stool, his quill and his ledger and paid Glen no more attention.

            Glen stepped once more into the main cavern the others called the Great Hall.  He found a surprise.  The table was not empty.

            The Great Hall was the dusty inside of the main cavern.  Glen stood on a portion that was raised above the main floor and there was a table there with six chairs.  No other furniture adorned that whole cavern, but Glen imagined some stones and broken stalagmites could suffice for chairs and tables of a sort for the people. 

            Beyond the cavern – that Great Hall, there was a real opening to the outside.  The sunlight streamed in from there and it looked powerfully bright.  Glen wondered briefly if he had stumbled into a place that was too close to the sun.  He wondered if that was why these people lived inside a cave.  But he put that thought out of his mind when he came up to the table.

            It was scratched and dirty and like the leader’s throne, not well kept.  There was a thick-as-your-forearm candle in the middle of the table, stuck fast by candle drippings.  It looked nearly burned to the bottom but stubbornly ready to be relit.  One thing it told Glen was it would get dark, eventually.  The thing is, he saw no fire, pots, pans, food, plates, cups, knives or anything that might go on the table.  There was not so much as a cupboard in the corner, so he wondered what the table might be used for.

            “Hello.”  Glen thought to call out.  “Hello,” he called softly.  There was no one around.  He felt sure there had to be other citizens, but there was no one.  He found that curious.

            Just beyond the table there was another archway – another opening to a cave in the back of the cavern which was beside the leader’s cave and looked just like it.  This cave, though, had a desk and chair instead of a throne, and the man who sat behind the desk was so small he could barely reach his head and arms up and over the edge. 

            The little man shuffled papers with an air of authority and finality.  Some papers he put in one stack and some he put in another.  Some he signed with a great quill, and flourished the quill in a way that made Glen imagine a most flamboyant signature.  When Glen stepped into the room, the man looked up briefly and spoke as he returned to his papers and otherwise ignored his visitor

            “What is it, citizen?  Can’t you see I am very busy?”

            “Yes, I see your busyness.  The leader suggested I see you.”

            “Oh, he did?  He would.  But He knows I am too busy to bother with the common sort.  He should have known better.”

            Glen swallowed as his curiosity took hold.  “But what is it you are doing, exactly?”

            The man paused and looked up with surprise.  “Why, I am deciding,” he said.

            “You are the officer?”  Glen wanted to be sure.

            “Chief officer,” the man responded.  “It is my place to decide things.  I have to decide everything.  The leader can make recommendations all day long, but I am the one who has to decide what actually gets done.  Some things just aren’t practical.  Some are contradictory.  And not only that, I have to decide how things must be done.  So now I have work to do.  Good day.”

            “But the leader said there was something I might do and you would know what that is,” Glen said before he wrinkled his brow.  “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you deciding?”

            With that, the man put down his quill and got down from his chair.  That left only his tufts of gray hair sticking above the desk, and Glen watched it come around to the front.  He found this man dressed in a terribly worn three piece suit.  He had a gold watch and fob in his vest pocket and took it out to look at before speaking.  Once the watch was back in place he looked at Glen.

            “Briefly.”  The man cleared his throat.  “Power cannot fairly be shared.  It is the one thing in life that must be vested.  Why, if we let the ordinary people do whatever they wanted there is no telling what sort of things might happen.  It would be anarchy, I tell you, everyone for themselves.  Only one can rightly set the agenda for everyone to follow.  It is a great and grave responsibility to have such power, I know.  But I believe my small shoulders can bear it for a while longer.  It is good to hear your concern, but you can trust that I will bear the burden with dignity and decide only what is best for all.  Thank you.  Thank you.”  He waved, though there was no crowd to applaud. 

            “I see,” Glen said, though he still did not see.  He began to inch back toward the archway while the man went back to his high chair behind the desk.

            “Tell you what,” the man said once he was settled.  “I’ll whip you through the papers to approve you for assistance until we can find something permanent for you.  You go next door to the treasurer and he will help you out.”

            Glen guessed and raised his right hand.  The small man had to turn around and raise his own right hand before he could turn again and say, “Correct.  Turn right in the Great Hall and the treasurer’s office will be the first door on the right.”

            Glen nodded, tried to smile for the man and stepped back out into the Great Hall cavern.

            The light in the cave came in through several cracks in one wall.  Glen wondered if the light was from the outside.  He imagined it had to be and wondered further what that outside might look like.  It took considerable searching, but at last Glen found a crack that was big enough to squeeze through.  At thirty-something, he did not yet have the belly that so many men developed, so the squeeze was not too bad.  “Stress had its pluses,” he moaned as he tried not to rip the buttons on his shirt.

            It was not the outside, yet.  It was another room in the cave, and this one had an open archway for a door.  There was also a man dressed in a long, ermine lined robe, who sat on a high backed chair.  Glen might have imagined a throne if the chair paint was not peeling.  The man faced the open archway, so he had not seen Glen.  Glen stood for a moment and seriously debated returning the way he came; but then the man spoke.

            “Come in, citizen.  You have interrupted my thoughts already.  I might as well get a look at you.”

            “I’m sorry,” Glen said.  “I did not mean to interrupt.”  He walked around to the front where the man could see him and he could get a closer look at the man.  He avoided putting his back to the open archway, just to be safe.

            “A rather ordinary looking lout,” the man decided.

            Glen saw a man who was tall and gaunt.  He was way too thin, Glen thought.  “My name is Glen, and you are?”

            “I am the leader.”  The man appeared taken aback that Glen did not already know this. 

            “The Leader?”  Glen really did not know.  The man stood, and Glen thought he was too tall as well as being too thin.

            “Yes. The leader, the leader.”  The man gave a look of exasperation.  “Look, someone has to be the leader.  I am the only scholar here, the only one who is able to consider all the options and then recommend a course of action for the followers to take.  It is simple, really.  Someone has to be the leader, and by all rights it ought to be the intelligent one.  Don’t you think?”

            “Let me say this.”  The man straightened, grabbed his lapels and prepared to give a speech.  He cleared his throat.  “Authority cannot fairly be shared.  It is the one thing in life that must be vested.  Why, if we listened to the ordinary people there is no telling what sort of suggestions we might get.  It would be anarchy, I tell you, everyone for themselves.  Only one can rightly set the agenda for everyone to follow.  It is a great and grave responsibility to have such authority, I know.  But I believe my old shoulders can bear it for a while longer.  It is good to hear your concern, but you can trust that I will bear the burden with dignity and recommend only what is best for all.  Thank you.  Thank you.”  He waved, though there was no crowd to applaud. 

            “Oh, I see,” Glen said, though he really did not see.  He glanced at the archway opening and wondered if there might be a way out, and the leader spoke again.

            “Now please, if you don’t mind I have much to consider.”  He made a show of sweeping his ragged ermine robe aside and sat again on his throne.  “Why don’t you go down the hall to the officer in charge.  He will give you something to do.”  He pointed out the opening and waggled his finger like he was waving Glen off.  “And tell him I am not happy with him.  Part of his job is to see I am not interrupted by ordinary citizens such as yourself.”

            “Down the hall?”  Glen asked.

            The leader looked up and frowned.  “Do you know your right hand?”  Glen raised his right hand.  The leader almost scolded him for being wrong but at the last second turned his back, waved both of his hands and said, “Good.  Go out into the Great Hall and turn to your right.  The officer’s door is the first door on your right.”

            With that, Glen thought he had better go before the leader became seriously agitated.  He stepped through the archway and into the Great Hall.

            The fall went by rather quickly.  The family saw two newly released movies, The Alamo and El Cid, both in Spanish with subtitles.  Mom signed the boys up for Judo lessons.  It was probably the most exotic thing she could think of, though it might have been more appropriate in Japan.  Sister Carol got Flamenco lessons, which at least made sense.  Otherwise, it was regular business for Glen, going to school and coming home again. 

            Glen supposedly had school at home as well.  Mom brought the books they would have had back in the village.  She and Dad spent time with Tom who wrote some papers and the like.  For Glen they just said go read your book.  No surprise he was not motivated to do that.

            It was about mid-winter when Mom and Dad went off on a trip to Morocco and left the children home.  They had engaged a woman, Rosario, who cooked and cleaned for a very reasonable price, and by mid-winter they had little qualms about leaving the children with her for a week.

            Rosario was a wonder.  She spoke virtually no English, but by then Spanish school immersion had the boys well along on the Spanish basics.  Even so, communication was rough sometimes, especially when it came to traditions and customs that were so different from one side of the Atlantic to the other.  Keep in mind, there was no internet, no Google translations, no television to speak of.  Paco was the only kid in the neighborhood who had a little black and white TV, and the boys did get to see the Lone Ranger once or twice, in Spanish of course.

            When it came to things like Halloween, Rosario just incomprehensibly giggled the whole time.  Three children dressed in costumes went from door to door, covered all five doors in the house because, of course, none of their Spanish neighbors had any idea about the holiday.  Rosario ran around the inside of the house and got to the doors to open them and hear the children shout “Trick or treat.”  She gave little treats in each bag and giggled off to the next door.

            By the time Mom and Dad went away on their jaunt across the Mediterranean, brother Tom and Glen were once again anticipating boredom.  In truth, brother Tom was not inclined to sleep well that week, so he enlisted his little brother in a game.  When night came and the lights went out, the boys got their flashlights and went exploring.  The bed covers became the entrance to a cave and they each crawled under, in their own beds, to see what they could find. 

            Mostly, brother Tom read under the covers, at least for as long as he thought Glen was still awake.  Glen fell asleep head at the wrong end a couple of times, but one night, the night they went to bed early in anticipation of their parent’s return, Glen had a very different experience.

            He touched a pebble first, then a rock, and then he slid head first in the dark down a steep incline.  Fortunately, he held on to his flashlight and there was also some light that filtered into his cavern through cracks in the cave wall.  He had no idea where he was, except this was a cave, a real cave.  This was ages before Glen discovered Lewis’ classic Narnia books, but if you ever read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, you should have some idea of how he felt and how this happened.

            When he stood to look around, he felt taller and older than before.  It was not an illusion.  He was thirty-something, though he was not sure how that was possible unless it was some kind of college or seminary nightmare.  With that thought, he considered going back the way he came, but then the light got him.  He knew the inside of a cave should be utterly dark.  Where was the light coming from?  He wondered and began to search.

            This comes on the heels of the thought that people who haven’t the courage to pursue their own dreams will try and find ways to destroy yours.  This may be true about life in general, but it is certainly true of writers.

1.  Have you heard…?  Writing may be a nice hobby, but you really need to get a job, clean the house, do the yard, drive the kids, make the beds, make more money, and… 

2.  Have you heard…?  School first, family first, work first, shopping first, eat first, sleep first…  It seems everything else is first.

3.  Have you heard…?  Instead of staring at that computer (paper) all day you should be focused on your responsibilities.

4.  Have you heard…?  You are wasting your time.  There are so many more productive things you could be doing.

5.  Have you heard…?  You should wait until you retire.  If you want to write after you retire, that would be fine, no one would bother you.

            I try not to listen.

            I have not yet resorted to putting cotton in my ears, but I might.

1.  Writing is my job.  Work is my unfortunate necessity. 

2,  All of life is important and everything and everyone matters, but my writing is no less important.  It gets a fair and solid share of my time, not just whatever time is left over.

3.  Writing is also a responsibility equal to any other.  If everyone around me despises it, it nevertheless remains the primary responsibility to myself.

4.  Writing may not interest others, but for me it is the single most productive thing I can do with my life.  It is my calling, if you will.

5.  If I wait until I retire I will only be that much closer to death without having written a word.  At that point I might never get everything written I have boiling inside of me.

            But, while I understand this and others (apparently) do not, and while it is no more difficult to explain than I have just done here, nevertheless I do not explain it as I once did.  I do not defend it.  I do not try to persuade others.  There is no getting through to some people in any case.  And I certainly don’t argue about it.  I remember instead what Mark Twain once said:

            “Never Argue with stupid people.  They will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience.”  Even so.

            There is not much to say about the trip over to Europe except that Glen was terribly bored.  In 1962 there were no cruise ships.  There were ships that still crossed the Atlantic because airplanes were still exotic and scary.  But those ships were not designed with children in mind, and at eight-years-old there was not much for Glen to do.

            “Maybe after supper tonight you can have some ice cream.  Would you like that?”  The woman was trying to be nice despite her plastic smile.  Glen made a face and the woman looked at Glen’s mother.

            “He doesn’t like ice cream.  He never has,” Glen’s mother explained what was a well known fact in the family.  Glen could eat coffee or chocolate ice cream if he had to, but that was the limit.

            “How?”  the poor woman was stymied.  “Why, I have never heard of a child who did not like ice cream.”

            You have now so get over it, Glen thought, or something very close to that, but he kept the thought to himself.  He was only eight.

            When they arrived in Gibraltar, all of their passports got the first of many stamps to follow, and they picked up their Hillman wagon, a little European four cylinder that Glen imagined they might have to get out and push if they ever got to a real mountain.  Mom drove.  Dad rode the bus with all of their trunks and everything that felt like home.  Mom was aware of this enough to stop at a roadside stand.  She saw a sign that said Coca-cola.

            This was the end of August, and with the tourist season winding down, as it turned out they only had one Coke.  Brother Tom got that.  Glen got to try a brand new product by the company.  It was an orange drink called Fanta, never seen (yet) across the ocean.  To be honest, this was one time Glen did not mind getting the leftovers.

            After a few nights in the Hotel Mirimar, the family moved into temporary quarters in a farm apartment in a sleepy little fishing village just up the road from the city.  The village was Torremolinos, and it was sleepy.  Glen and Brother Tom were quickly bored when one parent was off shopping or linked up with the local consulate to try and find a more permanent residence in time for the school year and the other parent was busy packing and unpacking.  Sister Carol was not yet five, and the boys were not sure exactly what she did with her time.  The boys at least had each other, and for the most part, and for most of their growing years, that was okay.

            They climbed the hill out back.  They killed spiders.  They looked at the tile-lined pool which was not more than four feet deep at the deep end.  The farm girl who had to be sixteen and liked to parade around in a bikini – not that the boys being eight and ten got much out of the view – she would swim in the pool.  The boys just looked because the water was so dirty.

            Fortunately, before the boredom became acute, the family moved into the city to a nice residential neighborhood on a back street, just across the street from a Catholic church and school.  The school was fairly typical of the day.  It had two rooms, one for boys and one for girls.  The church bell went off every morning at six.  Ding-ding-ding-dingo / ding-ding-ding-dingo / dinga-dinga-dinga-dinga / ding ding ding.  You had to be there.

            Glen and brother Tom tried the American school in town first; but there all the Americans (along with other English speakers) were lumped in a single classroom taught by a would-be artist.  If Glen’s fourth grade was supposed to be colors and pastoral scenes and art history, it would have been fine.  As it was, he ended up with brother Tom in the one room schoolhouse across the street and home schooled on the rest.

            Don Antonio, the teacher, made an agreement with dad.  He took the boys and dad helped the man with his English.  I’m not sure how the English lessons went, but the boys got taught math, history (of Spain), geography (Spanish), and the like.  In a given week there were between eight and twelve separate categories, and grades were weekly with 10 out of 10 being the top grade.

            Dad wanted to encourage his boys.  He and Mom talked it over and they decided that any week where either boy brought home all tens, they would be taken out for ice cream as a treat.  Glen balked.

            “So if Tom gets all tens, he gets ice cream, and if I get all tens, he gets ice cream.  But I don’t like ice cream.”

            “Well, we will do something else for you,” his mother said, though they never decided or specified what that something else might be.

            When Glen woke up this time, it seemed lighter than before.  It did not seem like day, but the black of the night had given way to a kind of gray pall.   The man in white was by the table and he invited Glen to come and partake of his feast.  There were eggs and bacon, toast and soft rolls, sweet rolls and danish, juice and cereal, and plenty of milk.  It seemed enough for a dozen people, and Glen enjoyed his share.

            The man in white ate little.  He mostly stared at Glen before he began a casual conversation.  “Not many people climb this high.  Most find a way around the mountain at a much lower elevation,” he began.

            Glen paused in mid-bite.  That thought never occurred to him.

            “Even those who try often fall and scatter their bones at the base of the cliff.”

            Glen swallowed.  He had tried very hard not to think of that alternative.

            “How is it that you came to climb so high?”                                               

            “The Lady,” Glen said.  “Your wife said my way home was over the mountain.”  To be sure, he never thought of anything but going over the mountain.

            The man in white frowned for a moment in thought.  “She should know,” he concluded.  “And there are less than few who climb this high and see my wife first.”

            Glen said nothing.

            “So tell me, what brought you to the Prophetic Peak in the first place, and alone I might add?”

            “Prophetic Peak?”

            The man raised his brows.  “Of course.  Didn’t you know?”

            Glen shook his head before he tried to explain.  “I saw the sign for the Prophetic Peak at the six points crossing, but I never went down that road.  I tried one road, but I wasn’t wanted or welcomed there, so I set out into the wilderness in the direction where there was no sign.”  Glen paused to swallow again.  “I fell into the Pit of Poverty.”

            “You fell?” the man asked and intensified his stare.

            Glen felt it.  “I slipped?  I was pushed by the preacher.”

            The man’s eyes softened as he nodded.  “The church that thinks poverty is a good thing.”

            “I can’t imagine how they could get it so wrong,” Glen said, casually.

            “You seem older than you look,” the man remarked.

            Glen paused to consider that statement.  He spoke at last as he went back to his breakfast.  “I’m fifty-seven and I’m eight.  I don’t understand it, but that feels right if you know what I mean.”  He looked up to see if the man understood, but the man in white could not be read and he made no comment on that subject.  He turned instead back to the story.

            “So how did you get out of the Poverty Pit?”

            Glen wiped his mouth with a napkin and went on.  “I grabbed a rope and climbed up.  It disintegrated when I got to the top, but I grabbed on to the edge of the pit and 1192 pulled me up.”

            “1192?”

            “Sir Duncan.  He rides a great horse.”

            The man in white nodded.  “I know the one.”

            “I tried to follow him and ended up on the mountainside where I met your wife.”

            “And she said climb over the mountain and here you are.”

            Glen nodded.  That seemed to sum things up, but the man was not finished staring.  Glen thought to fetch his bag and cloak, though he was dreading his climb down.  He paused when he was ready and the man rose to join him as he spoke once more.

            “Few climb to this height.  Fewer still first meet my wife.  Even fewer have also met the knight.  But I cannot think of anyone who has touched all these things without knowing that this is the Prophetic Peak.  Come.”  He turned and headed out of the cave.  Glen followed,  and again tried to keep his feet in the old man’s footprints in the snow.

            The outside was all full of fog and mist and Glen revised his thoughts.  It was probably morning, but between the sun being still behind the peak and the cloud that appeared to have settled on the saddle of the mountain, it did not seem like day yet.  The man in white took Glen once again to the edge that looked over the countryside, and he asked the same question he had already twice asked.  “Tell me.  What do you see?”

            Glen was seriously tempted to say fog, but he thought again that was not what the man was asking, so he concentrated and was surprised to find he could see something.  It looked like death.  It looked like the liar himself settled over the land below, and Glen screamed and closed his eyes.  The man said nothing, but Glen heard the sound of wings and opened his eyes again in time to see a half-dozen white birds land near them.  They looked like doves.  They looked like the same sort of birds that sang that wonderful, heavenly song on the tree of life.

            “Please sing.”  Glen heard himself say the words softly, but sadly, it was enough sound to startle the birds.  They took off back into the fog, but their wings stirred the cloud and Glen caught something unexpected through the swirls.  The image of the liar that had so frightened him became itself swirled and vanished, like it had no real substance, like it was honestly no more than a picture to be blown off by the least wind.

            Then he caught a glimpse of beauty, love, wonder, peace and holiness all stretched out for as far as his eyes could see.  It was glory on earth.  It was so wonderful even to see from a distance it made him weep for the joy of it.  The vision quickly passed as the cloud closed in again, but by then Glen was looking up at the man in white who was looking down at him.

            “Stand up tall,” the man said.  “It is time for you to go home.”  Glen wanted to object that trying to climb down the mountain through that fog would be suicide, but the man pushed him.  For one brief second, Glen felt nothing beneath his feet.  He felt like a person pushed off the side of a cliff.  He felt like one shoved off the edge of the world, and then he woke.

            He was in his bed at home, in the village.  It was early summer and third grade was over.  The whole house was packed, besides.  They were going over the endless sea.  They would spend the coming year in a foreign land, one overseas.  Everyone was excited, but Glen thought of what his father sometimes said.  “I can’t wait to see what will happen next.”