The Parable of the Child, the Child’s Teacher and the Graveyard

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what eternal secrets do you think the NSA learned by spying on the Pope?”

Josh spoke thus:

A child was staring at a graveyard.

“What are you looking at?” the child’s teacher asked.

“I’m waiting for them,” the child said.

“For whom?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are you expecting someone to come through the graveyard?”

“They’re in the graveyard,” the child said.

“Who is in the graveyard?” the child’s teacher asked.

“The ones who are going to come,” the child said.

“Who’s going to come?” the child’s teacher asked, “Do you have friends in the graveyard?”

“They’re all my friends in the graveyard,” the child said.

The child’s teacher looked out into the graveyard.

“Do you mean the dead?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are you friends with the dead?”

“They’re not dead,” the child said, “They’re black.”

“Who is black?” the child’s teacher asked, “Are there people who come to you?  Do people come to you and talk to you?”

“They don’t talk,” the child said, “They come to me.  They’re happy to see me.  I’m happy to see them.”

The child’s teacher dropped down to the child’s level and looked into the child’s eyes.

“Do they touch you?” the child’s teacher asked.

“They sometimes touch my hands,” the child said, “They sometimes touch my feet.  Sometimes they touch my hair and face.  They come from that way.”

The child pointed to the cloister on the opposite side of the graveyard.  The naked branches of the trees in front of the cloister stood out crooked and black against the grey sky.  A breeze moaned through the branches.

The child’s teacher stood up and looked for anyone coming from the cloister.

“Do they take you anywhere?” the child’s teacher asked the child, “Do they ask you to do anything?”

“They don’t ask me to go anywhere,” the child said, “They don’t talk to me.  They just come.  Always here.  Always this time of day.”

Evening was closing in on the child, the child’s teacher, the graveyard, the cloister and the black limbs of the trees.

“They’re coming,” the child said.

The child’s teacher stood up, peering into the gloaming for sign of approaching figures.  The only movement the child’s teacher could see was a shimmer of movement among the branches, black on black.

As the child’s teacher watched in the direction of the cloister, a group of black shadows rose from the trees and approached the child and the child’s teacher.  The child reached into a coat pocket and brought out a handful of seed.  As the shadows approached, the child flung the seed upward.  The seed rose black against the sky, then fell, dun on the twilit path.  A murder of rooks descended on the seed.

The child held out a hand, palm up, and a rook came to rest on the child’s wrist, pecking at the seed in the child’s palm.

“Rooks!” the child’s teacher said, relieved, “You were waiting for rooks!”

The birds milled around the feet of the child and the child’s teacher.  The child’s teacher looked around.

“We really shouldn’t be feeding the birds, you know,” the child’s teacher said.  As a rook approached the child’s teacher, the child’s teacher held out a hand to the child and asked, “Spare us a handful, won’t you?”