Why did I follow him?
Because he was old, newly recovered from illness, and I feared he had no strength?
No; I was old myself. We had been married for many years. I knew what he could do.
Because it seemed senseless to travel three days just to offer a sacrifice?
And yet he had been called farther. He always went.
Because he was not himself?
He was never “himself” after one of his Encounters.
Some people called them spells. Spells, as if describing some small complaint, disturbing but transient. Or maybe he was restless again—a good man, a good leader, but filled with wanderlust, despite his years.
They were not spells. He had always claimed he talked to God. One God. The Only. The Eternal.
Was he mad?
I sometimes thought so.
But also there was this: In the presence of the Eternal, the light is not golden as people expect, but a cool silver-green, balmy and warm on the skin, fecund and alive, like the miraculous beginning of the world. It is light that has traveled from that time to this, a great, moving, nurturing mass, benevolent in a large and mysterious way. There are no doubts then. You know without knowing.
Then comes the erosive passage of time. Yesterday’s miracle does not suffice for today. Yesterday was easy, with the radiance of the Eternal still shimmering from his clothes, his eyes. Today is hard: the harsh light of a desert morning, the sour breath, a dull ache settling behind the eyes.
On that day, his color was not good. His...
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