The Polisher's Nuts
It’s been a windy almost autumn day and as I walk through the park, freshly fallen horse chestnuts have broken from their shells and offer their freshly minted chestnuts. I imagine an ancient family retainer carefully polishing each conker and then slipping it, ever so carefully, into its shell which he seamlessly seals before attaching it to just the right tree.
Alfred pauses in his labours and looks up. My brief thought has nudged his awareness and makes him smile. Perhaps, he thinks, he will be able to rest soon.
But not yet.
Alfred gathers impossibly many of the pristine chestnuts and begins to walk through tree lined avenues — chestnuts gently fading from his pouch and becoming on to exactly the right tree in exactly the correct shell.
Most eyes would simply miss him as he walked. Even in the days before the reign of Science when the old gods did wander the byways, not many would have marked his passing. But I did, though I still don’t know how.
He came to me in that park on that day. He spoke of his long service and his role in the nature of things. He told me he was tired, and what was honestly asked was freely given.
So now I polish and walk the autumn lanes and make each chestnut just as it needs to be for the Pattern to unfold. My spirit roams the Land and renders service to the Old Ways and in the old way; ways that must be maintained or the world would unravel as it has begun to do already.
I see many things as I walk my paths, though I speak of none. Except once I saw an old man, tall, in a cloak and he had only one eye. I knew him and he knew me. It was sufficient.
It is indeed fortunate that my spirit can roam the byways as my body is confined by walls and drugs to the institution. I do what I can there to make a contribution, and do not blame them. I keep the door handles and taps clean and bright. They tell me that, apparently, I am delusional and have ‘episodes’. I do not blame them, they see with the vision they have, and I have my work to keep me busy.