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    The Roadmender
    The Roadmender
    The Roadmender
    Ebook105 pages1 hour

    The Roadmender

    By Michael Fairless

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In "The Roadmender," Michael Fairless explores the intricate relationship between human experiences and the natural world, using a lyrical and evocative prose style that immerses the reader in a richly imagined rural landscape. The narrative follows the journey of an unnamed narrator who, after a chance encounter with a mender of roads—a metaphorical figure representing healing and restoration—embarks on a path of self-discovery. Fairless integrates elements of philosophical reflection and allegory, creating a poignant meditation on the themes of isolation, purpose, and the interplay of life’s struggles with the natural order. Michael Fairless, originally a clerk in the civil service, draws from his own experiences of suffering and introspection, which he faced due to chronic illness. His profound understanding of loss and recovery is evidently channeled into the emotive journey within "The Roadmender," reflecting his belief in the restorative power of nature and human connection. Fairless's intimate knowledge of the English countryside further enhances the depth of his narrative, providing a vivid backdrop for the transformative journey. This book is highly recommended for readers seeking a novel that artfully combines lyrical prose with deep philosophical insights. "The Roadmender" appeals to those interested in the interplay between humanity and nature, offering a contemplative reading experience that resonates with the universal quest for healing and belonging.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSharp Ink
    Release dateFeb 19, 2022
    ISBN9788028237813
    The Roadmender

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      Book preview

      The Roadmender - Michael Fairless

      Michael Fairless

      The Roadmender

      Sharp Ink Publishing

      2024

      Contact: info@sharpinkbooks.com

      ISBN 978-80-282-3781-3

      Table of Contents

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      OUT OF THE SHADOW

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      AT THE WHITE GATE

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      photograph

      The white winding road

      I

      Table of Contents

      I have

      attained my ideal: I am a roadmender, some say stonebreaker. Both titles are correct, but the one is more pregnant than the other. All day I sit by the roadside on a stretch of grass under a high hedge of saplings and a tangle of traveller's joy, woodbine, sweetbriar, and late roses. Opposite me is a white gate, seldom used, if one may judge from the trail of honeysuckle growing tranquilly along it: I know now that whenever and wherever I die my soul will pass out through this white gate; and then, thank God, I shall not have need to undo that trail.

      In our youth we discussed our ideals freely: I wonder how many beside myself have attained, or would understand my attaining. After all, what do we ask of life, here or indeed hereafter, but leave to serve, to live, to commune with our fellow-men and with ourselves; and from the lap of earth to look up into the face of God? All these gifts are mine as I sit by the winding white road and serve the footsteps of my fellows. There is no room in my life for avarice or anxiety; I who serve at the altar live of the altar: I lack nothing but have nothing over; and when the winter of life comes I shall join the company of weary old men who sit on the sunny side of the workhouse wall and wait for the tender mercies of God.

      Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music everywhere—in the stones themselves, and I live to-day beating out the rhythmical hammer-song of The Ring. There is real physical joy in the rise and swing of the arm, in the jar of a fair stroke, the split and scatter of the quartz: I am learning to be ambidextrous, for why should Esau sell his birthright when there is enough for both? Then the rest-hour comes, bringing the luxurious ache of tired but not weary limbs; and I lie outstretched and renew my strength, sometimes with my face deep-nestled in the cool green grass, sometimes on my back looking up into the blue sky which no wise man would wish to fathom.

      The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown brethren in my sober fustian livery? They share my meals—at least the little dun-coated Franciscans do; the blackbirds and thrushes care not a whit for such simple food as crumbs, but with legs well apart and claws tense with purchase they disinter poor brother worm, having first mocked him with sound of rain. The robin that lives by the gate regards my heap of stones as subject to his special inspection. He sits atop and practises the trill of his summer song until it shrills above and through the metallic clang of my strokes; and when I pause he cocks his tail, with a humorous twinkle of his round eye which means—What! shirking, big brother?—and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of roads.

      The other day, as I lay with my face in the grass, I heard a gentle rustle, and raised my head to find a hedge-snake watching me fearless, unwinking. I stretched out my hand, picked it up unresisting, and put it in my coat like the husbandman of old. Was he so ill-rewarded, I wonder, with the kiss that reveals secrets? My snake slept in peace while I hammered away with an odd quickening of heart as I thought how to me, as to Melampus, had come the messenger—had come, but to ears deafened by centuries of misrule, blindness, and oppression; so that, with all my longing, I am shut out of the wondrous world where walked Melampus and the Saint. To me there is no suggestion of evil in the little silent creatures, harmless, or deadly only with the Death which is Life. The beasts who turn upon us, as a rule maul and tear unreflectingly; with the snake there is the swift, silent strike, the tiny, tiny wound, then sleep and a forgetting.

      Photograph

      The solitary cottage

      My brown friend, with its message unspoken, slid away into the grass at sundown to tell its tale in unstopped ears; and I, my task done, went home across the fields to the solitary cottage where I lodge. It is old and decrepit—two rooms, with a quasi-attic over them reached by a ladder from the kitchen and reached only by me. It is furnished with the luxuries of life, a truckle bed, table, chair, and huge earthenware pan which I fill from the ice-cold well at the back of the cottage. Morning and night I serve with the Gibeonites, their curse my blessing, as no doubt it was theirs when their hearts were purged by service. Morning and night I send down the moss-grown bucket with its urgent message from a dry and dusty world; the chain tightens through my hand as the liquid treasure responds to the messenger, and then with creak and jangle—the welcome of labouring earth—the bucket slowly nears the top and disperses the treasure in the waiting vessels. The Gibeonites were servants in the house of God, ministers of the sacrament of service even as the High Priest himself; and I, sharing their high office of servitude, thank God that the ground was accursed for my sake, for surely that curse was the womb of all unborn blessing.

      The old widow with whom I lodge has been deaf for the last twenty years. She speaks in the strained high voice which protests against her own infirmity, and her eyes have the pathetic look of those who search in silence. For many years she lived alone with her son, who laboured on the farm two miles away. He met his death rescuing a cart-horse from its burning stable; and the farmer gave the cottage rent free and a weekly half-crown for life to the poor old woman whose dearest terror was the workhouse. With my shilling a week rent, and sharing of supplies, we live in the lines of comfort. Of death she has no fears, for in the long chest in the kitchen lie a web of coarse white linen, two pennies covered with the same to keep down tired eyelids, decent white stockings, and a white cotton sun-bonnet—a decorous death-suit truly—and enough money in the little bag for self-respecting burial. The farmer buried his servant handsomely—good man, he knew the love of reticent grief for a 'kind' burial—and one day Harry's mother is to lie beside him in the little churchyard which has been a cornfield, and may some day be one again.

      II

      Table of Contents

      Photograph

      The little church at the foot of the grey-green down

      On

      Sundays my feet take ever the same way. First my temple service, and then five miles tramp over the tender, dewy fields, with their ineffable earthly

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