/pt/ – Petrarchan

This children’s story was told to me in a dream. Not so long ago, three brothers from the Old World set out across the sea towards a new lands. The first brother, a Lawyer, said: “In the Promised Land, I can tell others they are free.” The second brother, a Farmer, said: “In the Promised Land, I can tell others I am free.” The third brother, a Hunter, said: “In the Promised Land, I can tell myself I am free.” And, as if by Providence, they soon saw the still waters of the coastline they had sought. There the Lawyer built a great city, with a harbor that could accommodate every trade ship in the world. He demanded extravagant tributes from his people - and, in return, spoke false promises of friendship and acceptance. “Now,” said the Lawyer, “you have been made free.” In response, the Harbor said nothing. It was only sea and had no ears to hear. The Farmer, having no interest in such cosmopolitan living, left in search of more fertile farmland. And, as if by Providence, he soon saw the black soils he had sought. There the Farmer build an endless plantation, with soil so rich that no crop ever need be rotated. He forced labor upon his people - and, in return, provided them chains and sackcloth. “Now,” said the Farmer, “I have been made free.” In response, the Farmland said nothing. It was only field and had no ears to hear. The Hunter, having no stomach for such injustices, left in search of denser wilderness. And, as if by Providence, he soon saw the rolling mountains he had sought. There the Hunter built a ramshackle cabin, with neither wattle nor daub to seal it. He told his people to disperse in the valleys - and, as a result, they might have no master but God. “Now,” said the Hunter, “I have made myself free.” In response, the Mountains said nothing. They were only landscape and had no mouth to speak. “You hear,” said the Hunter, “but you do not speak. I shall be your advocate. I shall speak on your behalf.” Through the Hunter’s own mouth, the Mountains spoke: “I am older than bones. There is no being in this world or the next who might speak for me. You have attained what you sought, and remained pure. Your brothers have fallen into mortal sin. Their afterlives will smell of burning hair and searing flesh.” At that, the Hunter and his people were all swept up into the sky by a mighty headwind. It was not long before they found themselves gently deposited in a shallow creek, now having been made nude. The Mountains spoke again, through every mouth in the crowd, as if a choir: “Attend to the Washing of the Feet. There will be no hellfire for you. Hell is an aspect of your temporal world; it is the state of separation from God. I am not Eden. I am the edge of the world. This place is Death. Your children’s blood will flow like rivers through these valleys. Mothers will drown in the gore of their daughters. For one hundred generations, there can be no respite for you in this life. There will be everlasting joy in the next. If you are to be both free and pure, that is the cost.” The people once again took to the hills, barefoot, saying nothing. A new race had been born. There was no need for words. Bleeding and Paradise await.