October 12, 2009

• A Thought on a Past Life

  I’ve written about my past lives before. One in particular has always made me angry for the unfairness of my death. Not that death came to me fairly in (m)any of the lives I recall, but this one in particular has always rankled me. It has in fact made me quite biased towards the Christian Clergy.

  In most of my lives I have been murdered for one reason or another. Killed for convenience or to make a statement. The thing that has always bothered me about my past life in the 1100s however is that I feel to blame, at least partially, for the way I ended. I have drowned, starved, been pushed in a snake pit, strangled twice (and eaten by a crocodile the second time), stoned and set on fire, hanged by the neck until dead, died of stomach cancer, and jumped from a speeding car to escape my kidnappers, but approximately 900 or so years ago, I was stabbed in the back while I was drunkenly stumbling back to my room in the dark.

  Say what you will about my various deaths, there were none so ignoble as that death 900 years ago. I can’t narrow the area down better than saying it was somewhere in the north of England, somewhere near or possibly in Scotland. I was a bard and childhood friend of the lord of the area. I lived in his keep. I entertained his guests. I was part of his household.

  At that time, the Pagan religion was on the wain, mainly because it could give your “just” neighbors a reason to invade and take your lands “for God.” So for the sake of appearances, we were saddled with a weaselly, sour faced little priest who never was happy unless everyone around him was miserable. And I made it my mission in life to torment and belittle him to the amusement of all. I made a complete mockery of the little man and his faith.

  I had always thought it was him who stabbed me in the back, but I was reading today and the thought just came to me that maybe it wasn’t him. It doesn’t matter what I was reading beyond the fact that it used reincarnation as a central theme of the story. There’s no continuity between what I was reading and the errant thought that came to me as I stared at the page.

  I never saw who stabbed me in the dark. I was drunk. One reason I don’t drink now or in any way blunt my mind. Possibly a reason I don’t sleep soundly or for long. It was dark in the hall that led to my room. All the torches were out. Something that should have roused my suspicion, but I was drunk, and it did not. And then someone stabbed me in the back, low and on the left side. All this time, I thought it was the mealy mouthed little priest silencing his tormentor. But what if it wasn’t him.

  Curious I never had this thought before. I never thought anyone else would have reason to stab me in the dark, but it came to me while I was reading. There was one other person who would have had cause to kill me, if only to keep people from thinking he was hostile to Christianity. The thought made me cry because we were like brothers, but it could have been him. He laughed just like everyone else when I would make fun of the priest, but I knew it also made him anxious because the priest could call down our neighbors on us with little provocation. It could be that I was sacrificed on the altar of convenience once again.

  I don’t know who killed me 900 years ago, but this thought made me cry; it was such an aha moment. Why didn’t I ever think of it before? I’ll likely never know which of them it was, but in all this time I never even thought it could be anyone other than the priest. I should have. I feels like it could be a true thought, and I honestly don’t know if I cried because it is true, because he was like a brother to me and just the thought of such treachery hurts right down to my soul, or because it’s an uncharitable thought unworthy of our friendship.

  I just don’t know.

  • 10:36 pm
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