Loch Adhartha - Conclusion

the conclusion to Night On Loch Adhartha by Shay Phelan

Wait, though - what was that? Some shadow is moving among the white, fur-coated bushes. Now he is standing by the lake, not far from you, gazing across the ice, listening, his mind penetrating the silence. Someone small and twisted, like the frozen mountain streams, someone with unkempt hair, clothed in rags, someone you think you know. He takes a tin whistle from his pocket - you see it glinting in the moonlight - and he begins to play. And then you recognise him - the simpleton who plays and dances sometimes in the village street, until the children gather and laugh, and drive him away with their taunts. Once or twice you would have intervened, wouldn’t you? But you’re an adult, with an adult’s fear of embarrassment - never ready to reach out until he’s gone. Now the tune he plays is broken and wounded, but you are fascinated, curious to see what he will do. While he plays he begins to dance.

Out across the lake he half limps, half leaps, and the sight is so strange, almost macabre. Now he is turning, pirouetting slowly, bowing as if to the moon. The music is flat, almost comically so, but the tune somehow haunts the night like a wind from the east, moaning through a key-hole. Out, out on the thick blue ice, dancing like a clock-work toy clown whose heart and body are scarred; the simpleton moves to the centre of the lake, pouring his soul out - for whom? There’s no one here but you, and he is unaware of your presence.

At the centre of the lake he stops, his head lifted towards the sky. The strains of the tune reach higher, sounding more plaintive, more impassioned. Quite suddenly he is silent, standing stock-still, waiting, listening. And then you suddenly find that your heart has entered the silence with him.

A tiny wisp of cloud crosses the moon, and in a brief moment of shadow everything changes. The simpleton begins once more to play, and as the moon reappears a veil lifts from your eyes. Someone is dancing again on the ice, someone graceful and beautiful, someone luminous and brilliantly, dazzlingly white. The music is from heaven; the sad haunting air is now solemn and majestic, full of the wonder of pure love. Is that the simpleton you see, gliding and playing like a son of Heaven? Well, yes, that was the simpleton, transfigured now and glorious, changed beyond recognition, and he is lifting your heart into a different world. For the eyes and the ears of your heart are opened, and you have entered the song of his spirit.

All around the lake, in the crystals glittering on the snow-crusted hills, radiances of heaven are twinkling through, worlds within worlds, as if each frosty particle of light were a key-hole to glory. There are angels in the whitey-blue snow-drifts; you don’t see as much as feel them joying in the dance. The tune echoes and amplifies, multiplying out until the hills are filled with enchanted harmonics, recurring peels of exquisite joy, and there are voices everywhere, crying “holy, ho/y”. Voices near, in the peels of music and the glittering crystals; voices far, in the distant twinkling of heaven’s stars, voices like new tongues welling up from the deep recesses of your own heart. Still the transfigured dancer leaps and pirouettes across the ice, playing, dancing for - Whom? For Someone you cannot see but Whose fragrance has permeated the night, like the music of the dance, a fragrance of eternal goodness.

The dancer comes to a stand-still once more, and there is again a hush, a long moment of fervent expectancy. But what is it in you that cannot wait, that wants to do something now to make your mark on the night? Excitedly you begin to clap, an applause too sudden, too soon; and the awkwardness of it breaks the atmosphere like a dull, heavy cough. The effect is cold water to your own heart, and the dancer cringes and crouches over, a simpleton once more, his face full of terror as he looks towards you. Now he turns and hobbles away from the place where you stand, dreading the taunts that he has come to expect from the world of men, dreading your derision. No, no, you cannot allow him think that of you, not after what you’ve experienced. Chase him immediately, quickly, across the ice, slipping, sliding, you must overtake him and tell him what you saw, tell him what you felt. You must see his face smile again, transfigured by joy, knowing that you understood. “Wait - please wait! I want to tell you something…”

You have never been more in earnest in your life and that earnestness carries in the ring of your voice, urgent to his ears. He stops and turns his face tentatively towards you again, unsure, still frightened. You know you must be brief, and say what you have to say.

“Please... please... I just want to tell you what I heard… what I saw… when you played, when you danced.” His eyes are full of apprehension, yet he waits, hearing you out. Now how should you express what you have to say? But suddenly you realise that it’s very simple, really, very clear. “When you played, I heard the cry of your heart, and I heard what God hears. When you danced I saw what God sees.” That’s it, that’s all he needs to hear. You can be silent now and wait for his response.

While you spoke the simpleton’s eyes had read yours, even as he listened to your words. Now slowly the expression of dread and suspicion melts from his face, and his eyes lighten with joy and intelligence, and a sweet, un-wordly wisdom. You can see the outward form of the simpleton, the rags, the twisted body, the unkempt hair; but in his eyes you see once again the endless brilliance of the Dancer.

‘Thank you,” he whispers, and with sudden humour he bows, like Nureyov, like Astaire, like Flatley. Then he turns and slides off the ice, disappearing into the wide winter world. There is no need to follow, or to say any more; when you see him again, in village streets or country lanes, you will know him, and he will know you.

The journey back to your room and your bed is full of deep, enraptured thought, and all the wonder of revelation. It feels as if you have broken into the very kernel of this awesome night, glimpsed the heart of its Creator, and learned something rich, priceless, yet free. Something about worship.

N.B. “Loch Adhartha” means “Lake of Worship” in Irish.