Gorma Tales of the Camino: Stephen in the Churchyard
One fine day, as all days on the Camino, the path led beside an ancient stone church. Gorma was drawn to it immediately, not for its great ornate arches or windows, but for its simplicity. Standing alone in the misty fog, it felt very old, from a time long ago, filled with songs and stories she could almost hear. Just as well, it was the Church of San Tomás, and so of course Gorma gave her walking stick, Saint Thomas, a drop of the holy water in the basin near the entrance, so that he might be refreshed, then leaned him against the heavy wooden doors, so they could speak if they wished, wood to wood.
As she turned from the doors, Gorma saw an old man disguised, with white hair, a blue shirt the color of a sunny sky, and eyes trained to hide the truth of suffering. He was sitting at the edge of the foggy churchyard, looking far away into another time, pretending he was studying the birds in the trees above.
“It is peaceful here, don’t you think?” Gorma asked him, settling onto the bench beside him, for she knew he was not at peace, and wanted to see how he would answer.
“Aye, this churchyard could bring peace to the Devil’s own,” he replied, still looking out into the beyond.
“What is it brings you here this day?” Gorma asked him, wrapping herself warmly in her cloak while eyeing his thin shirt in the chill, for she was certain it was not by chance, and wanted to see how he would answer.
“Ah, well a man of Northern Ireland can often be found sitting among the tombstones of a churchyard. Which church is the only question,” he replied. “Just by chance, I happened into this one, along the way.”
Gorma studied him carefully now. “And where will you be going from here?” Gorma asked him, for she knew perfectly well, and wanted to see how he would answer.
“Oh Gorma, Gorma, this is the question that worries like a dog at a bone, is it not? Where to be going from here?” He said his name was Stephen, and he was from the North of Ireland, where things are not always as they appear. Stephen had gained a fortune for himself there, but had lost something precious in the bargain. “Now I wander this road, my way without purpose. This path or that, makes no difference to me, for they all lead here, to headstones in a churchyard. It’s a life wasted, really.” And he let out the deepest, saddest sigh.
“Where is your home?” Gorma asked. “You could go home.”
“Indeed, between Belfast and Newcastle, at the foot of the Mourning Mountains, stands the home of an old man, that I moved into when he passed. This is where I live.”
“But where is your home?” Gorma asked again.
“That’s what I say to you, Gorma, there at the foot of the Mourning Mountains, the home of an old man passed is where I live.”
“Where – is – your – home?” Gorma asked a third time.
“Ah, Gorma, Gorma, the whole of Northern Ireland is home! The troubles, the quiet, the green lands, mountains, and the wild sea. I stay in that house, but my feet get to itchin’, and I have to go out and walk the paths again. I cannot stay in that house! I have no peace!” And here Stephen’s eyes looked fiercer, more determined.
So quick as Saint Thomas learned the thoughts of the old church doors, Gorma took the knife of love that Hernani had given her, and used it to cut the misty shroud of regret that surrounded Stephen. He blinked at Gorma in shocked surprise.
“Your life is not wasted – don’t you see?” Gorma said, still standing, now gesturing toward the clouds above. “You have forgotten what you love, and the tears you work so hard to hold back have veiled your vision. Your vision of your kingdom, Stephen; your kingdom, that place where you truly live. Can you see it now, without the mist obscuring your sight?” Then King Stephen of the North of Ireland rose to take a stand, and looked into and beyond time, clearly and with love, and saw his kingdom standing open, waiting for him to return.
Peace is loving the troubles too. Gorma knew that hard though it may be, we must not squander our talents and fortunes on cold comforts. We must spend them, like our days, in the service of our most noble purposes – what we were born to do. We cannot keep our hearts locked away; a king’s ransom will just as well pay for a kingdom to flourish, after all.
King Stephen looked back over his shoulder at Gorma, and they both smiled. His white hair shone with wisdom and experience, and his sky blue shirt had become his royal cape, tossed over one shoulder as he stepped forward with purpose, head held high, returning at last to his true life.
Gorma picked up her walking stick and walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, gauzy clouds passed gently across the face of the moon; but they did not last, and soon the moon shone clearly over the Camino, and far away to the North besides.
Buen Camino, Stephen.