How many days has it been? Days… No. Perhaps months. Years? YEARS?! I ask for his help. May the Pantokrator guide my weary strides, for I fear my body will fail me soon—the pain, the hunger, and the thirst, which is worst of all—before I can reach my destination. Before my pilgrimage can finally end…
I am not sure when it started. I cannot see the beginning. Some days, I see the face of my dear mother. Calm. Serene. Free of her pain, at last. Surely, I think, that was the beginning. Other days, however, I hear the ruckus of my forge; only it is no ruckus, but a song, each hammer-strike another creation, another shaping. Surely there it was, I think, where it all started, when I witnessed the power of something dead becoming living through will and skill and art. Others still, the beginning came from the search, the discussions—with my wife, with my friends, with pastor Klausma—about life and meaning and the future and the past. Surely, I think in those days, it started with all questions having one answer: death.
I think that by the time the dreams came, at least, it had already begun. I think. They started with a whisper. And the whisper became a name. Other voices lost substance. They lost meaning. They lost color. And thus, my pilgrimage began.
Initially, I must confess, my former life—my wife and children—sent pangs of longing across my heart. These emotions, detriments to true faith, faded with time, however, and for that I am grateful.
Others joined me in my journey. Strangers from distant lands whom I was united with only in faith. Together, we traveled over great mountains—the range of the sky-reaching Claustrines—and traversed lands rife with savages and monstrous danger.
Many of them died. And many were to die still.
Then came the stillness of the desert. For countless moons we saw nothing but ruins, half buried in the sand, and heard nothing but the keening cries of lifeless winds. When it rained—rare as it was—the water tasted of nothing; we drank and we drank, but the fruit of the heavens never quenched our thirst. Then came the starvation, an endless pit in the stomach that I carry with me still…
For the sake of our sacred mission, the dead—with at least one of us destined to die with each passing day—did not go to waste. Our blessed communion was that of flesh and blood, and through their passing—though some did not do so willingly—the rest of us were granted the strength to carry on…
During this time, the visions never left me—and I suspect the same was true for the others. When the sandstorms would subside, I would see it in the far distance: a pillar of dark flame piercing the very heavens. It called to me always, guiding my every step. Sometimes I found myself before it, yet when I dared look at its source, the visions would come to a halt, and the lifeless expanse around me would greet me once more…
As I write this, the last entry to this journal of mine—a testament to my martyrdom—I am the only one remaining. My elation is not dampened by the death that came to my fellow pilgrims, however, for I finally see it—the end to my journey lies within arm’s reach.
It appears to me now, in the not-so-far distance, a great city—ruined yet still sacred and grand beyond imagining. The name comes almost instinctively as it reaches my lips—its sprawl of stone and marble reaching beyond the horizon.
Capitas.
…and tears stain the page as I write these words. I see it clearly now—reaching toward the very heavens—and in the swirling flames of the pillar I feel His love, Hazlia’s, guide my final steps into faith undying…