The Shroud
Lillian Craig recounts a visit to a religious icon in her book, Eras of the Ape.
It was frayed around the edges.
That was first thing I noticed. Wispy threads hung limply, no longer part of the design, but desperate to escape. Yet with nowhere else to go but dissolve and vanish into their ethereal origins. The weave clung to them, determined not to venture into the limbo the frays wished to lead them. To become the sidelines of a story that had so long stood the test of penetrating stares from critics and admirers alike. Eyes that demanded answers. Or simply sought solitude. Themselves wishing to lose their minds somewhere in the layers of the weave. To be carried away on a thread of time, free of the bonds with which Fate knots our choices.
I allowed myself that journey and closed my eyes. The mysterious imprint opened his, bluer and deeper than the oldest ocean. Would I drown? He stepped from the cloth and took shape in my mind. Would I be lost beneath the waves of the past that rose before me, forcing me to look beyond my present? He stood, an immovable shadow of the man the robe had once shrouded. His countenance was serene. His hand reached out. The silken touch of the shadow on my cheek jolting me out of my trance. I came up for air, inhaling deeply, as the answer settled on the shore of my mind.
The moment had passed. But that moment was enough. I knew.
I returned his serene and peaceful expression.
“Thank you.” I walked away.
