Prisoners of the Dance

by Cropper

Grissom and Sara in Medieval England. Warning - This is definitely AU.

10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"Soon We Will All Be Going Home"

There's a lonesome, homeward looking bird

Sailing west, without a word

Sailing his shadow, DC highway, coming on

Everybody watches 'till he's gone

Grissom urged Odysseus through the stormy night as fast as he felt the horse could safely run along the treacherous, rain-soaked roads. While he trusted Nikolai to honor his vow that he and Varrick would remain at the inn, Gil had no way of knowing who, if anyone other than Queen Sofia, had been involved with Tarek's murderous plot. His only though at that point was of Sara and her well-being. He had to take her someplace fairly close where he could be certain no one would be able to get to her and cause her further injury. He knew of such a place, only a few hours away, and closed his mind to everything other than the task of seeing Sara to safety. Grissom told himself not to dwell on what he had done, that Sara was all that mattered. There would be time enough later for recrimination and self-loathing, and entire lifetime for condemnation and penance.

Hunching his shoulders against the rain, Grissom risked a glance down at Sara. Her eyes were closed, her face half hidden beneath his chin. Other than to return his dagger to him, she had not moved. While gratified that she placed so much trust in his ability to protect her and find haven against both the storm and other potential villains, he was growing more and more concerned by her lethargy. He hoped that her mind was just protecting her from the harsh memories of Tarek's attack as opposed to her suffering a more serious injury that he had somehow not seen when her first found her.

He pulled her more tightly against his chest and they rode late into the night until they finally reached the imposing iron gates of Saint Benet Monastery. Although numerous lean-to sheds lined to outer walls, Grissom bypassed them all and reined Odysseus to a shuddering halt right before the entrance. Had he been traveling alone he might have begged a corner of one of the huts or just roughed it in the weather. However, he had Sara to consider. She was soaked and injured and he needed to get her someplace dry and warm.

Aware of the increasing pain and stiffness in his left thigh, Grissom dismounted gingerly, gradually adding more weight to the injured leg until he was certain he could support both himself and Sara. As he reached up to assist Sara from the saddle, he became aware that several people had poked their heads from the rough shelters along the wall and Grissom raised his eyebrows in alarm as one made bold to approach. The knight placed the bulk of his body between the Princess and the stranger, uncertain whether the man posed a threat or was just curious about the new arrivals.

The traveler, garbed in the rough dress of a peasant halted abruptly in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at the sight of the bold Maltese Cross embroidered high upon the right shoulder of Grissom's long-sleeved black undershirt. His mouth gaped open and he started to retreat for he knew immediately that standing before him was the legendary Black Monk. No one else in the kingdom wore such an emblem. The man scurried back to his own shanty to whisper to the others of the rider's identity. Soon the gossip had spread and all of the travelers were awake and peering through the gloom in an effort to get a glimpse of the famous warrior.

Grissom ignored them and wrapped a steadying arm about Sara's shoulders as they slowly made their way to the portal of the gate. The man who had first sought to send them along their way approached again, this time with his hat clutched respectfully to his chest as the rain battered his head. He nervously plucked at Grissom's sleeve to get his attention and when the knight whirled to him, he introduced himself as Javon and hesitantly offered his assistance. The knight arched en eyebrow and regarded the man intently before nodding to indicate his consent and thanks. Javon unwound Odysseus' reins from the saddle pommel and took his place behind the Black Monk and the mysterious figure shrouded tightly in a dark cloak.

Reaching for the handle of the knocker on the outside of the gate, Grissom paused, his hand wrapped around the cold metal as he considered the time. Without the assistance of the moon, he had no way to judge the time. Shrugging to himself and hoping he was not interrupting one of the canonical hours, Gil raised the huge clapper and allowed it fall back against the post with a resounding clang.

Moments later a hooded, black-mantled monk appeared and he and Grissom engaged in quiet conversation. Motioning silently for the knight to wait, the monk disappeared only to return swiftly with another monk whom Grissom recognized from previous visits as Brother Timothy. The monk listened quietly while Gil shared just the barest details of his tale and then motioned the small party inside the monastery gates. Once within the cloister, a Novice led Javon and Odysseus to a barn on the opposite side of the muddy garth while Brother Timothy hurried Grissom and Sara towards one of the small, neat guest houses located near the infirmary.

Once inside the guest quarters, Grissom wasted no time in stripping the two drenched cloaks from Sara's shivering form. He reached over to snatch a thick blanket from one of the low-slung pallet beds to wrap her in and settled her on a brightly braided rug before the fireplace. Brother Timothy busied himself with starting a fire with the kindling and wood stacked near the hearth as the door swung open and the Abbot of St. Benet's Monastery strode into the small house. Grissom's face softened at the sight of the older man, his anxiety vanishing for just a moment as he sighed with relief. "Father Ralph."

"Gil." The Abbot greeted the younger man warmly, his voice full of affection as he crossed the room to enfold the knight in a fatherly hug. "Tis good to see you again so soon, my son. What adventure brings you to our cloister this night?"

Grissom hurriedly explained the kidnapping, ensuing skirmish at the inn and the nature of Sara's injuries while unbuckling his belt to relieve himself of his weapons. He placed the heavy belt on the hearth, stripping off his rain-drenched, blood-soaked tunic as he spoke. "Due to the gravity of the situation," he said, his voice muffled beneath the wool of the soggy garment as he pulled it over his head, "I was forced to leave in a hurry and had precious little time to prepare. Myria packed what she could," he continued, finally freeing himself from his sodden tunic and tossing it into a corner, "but I fear I am lacking the herbs and salves I need to properly care for the Princess."

Father Ralph gave Brother Timothy some quiet instructions and as soon as the monk slipped quietly from the room, the Abbot turned a critical gaze towards Grissom and Sara. His face clouded with concern and he rubbed an age-hardened hand over his bald pate as he watched the younger man wince and roll his left shoulder several times before kneeling next to Sara. His worried eyes touched upon the bloody strips wrapped around Grissom's thigh and Sara's purpling cheek and he bowed his head briefly in prayer before moving to sit in a wooden chair away from the fireplace.

There's a cold sky breaking where he's been

Flying westward with the wind

It kind of makes me wonder

When these empty eyes will find you

Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend

Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend

Brother Timothy and a young Oblate returned carrying a heavy iron cauldron packed with supplies, a smaller kettle and a large wooden bucket filled with fresh rainwater. Grissom pulled his attention from Sara long enough to nod his thanks and Brother Timothy, at the Abbott's reassurance that his services are no longer needed, left the guest house with the Oblate trailing behind. Father Ralph busied himself with unpacking the various herbs, salves, covered jars and corked bottles and added water to both the cauldron and kettle and hung both on hooks to heat over the now roaring fire.

The air within the small room filled with a myriad of pungent earthy odors as Father Ralph added dried herbs and tinctures from corked bottles to cauldron and kettle. Grissom paid little attention to the Abbot as he began to slowly unwrap Sara from her woolen cocoon. Setting the blanket near the hearth to keep it warm, he began stripping Sara's sodden garments, brushing aside her half-hearted protests and feeble attempts to grab at his hands.

"Sara, leof-mon, you are soaked through. I need to remove these wet clothes to get you warm." The sound of his voice, or perhaps the absent-minded endearment, seemed to calm her and she stopped struggling. Grissom quickly finished removing her torn clothing and wrapped her back in the blanket before pulling a straw-stuffed pallet mattress before the fire and coaxing her to lie down.

"Will you allow me to treat your wounds?"

Sara opened her eyes and searched his face, reaching a trembling hand to touch his beard before wordlessly agreeing with a tiny nod.

"Are you sure, Lemman?" Grissom persisted, swallowing heavily. "I am going to have to remove the blanket and touch you in very private areas." She nodded again, whimpering softly as she turned away and drew a quivering hand over her face as if to hide.

Grissom drew a deep breath and released it slowly as he reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it above her waist to inspect the damage between her thighs. He clenched his jaw tightly and released a low, primal growl at the sight of the smooth, creamy flesh. Sara's once flawless skin was now raw and bruised, marred by angry scratches where Tarek had groped and fumbled in his haste to savagely claim her. A wave of pure fury crashed over him at the sight of the damage caused by his brother and Grissom's hands shook violently with suppressed rage as he silently accepted a warm, wet cloth and jar of ointment from the Abbot.

Father Ralph withdrew again to the shadows, watching silently as Grissom first cleaned and then soothed the aromatic slave over Sara's abused flesh. His hands were soft and caring as he worked, and murmured softly to her the entire time, low, tender words of sympathy and affection that the Father had to strain to hear. He finished his ministrations between Sara's thighs as quickly as possible and removed the blanket further to treat her neck and chest.

The Abbot's brow raised in concern and alarm as the knight gazed upon the mottled bruises along the graceful column of Sara's neck and the purpling bite mark imprinted upon her breast. Fiercely, Grissom squeezed, compressing the heavy ceramic crock so tightly that it cracked beneath the pressure of his hand. Father Ralph was well acquainted with the compassionate man hidden beneath the maille of the Black Monk; he had watched Gil grow from boy to man and knew well his gentle soul. Never in the thirty years or so years that he had acted as Grissom's surrogate father had he ever known the younger man to openly exhibit such emotion, to react with such possessiveness and passion. He listened carefully and permitted himself a small smile as he realized Gil was praying.

Voce mea ad Dominum clamavi,

voce mea ad Dominum deprecatus sum.

Effundo in conspectu ejus orationem meam,

et tribulationem meam ante ipsum pronuntio:

in deficiendo ex me spiritum meum,

et tu cognovisti semitas meas.

In via hac qua ambulabam

absconderunt laqueum mihi.

Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam,

et non erat qui cognosceret me:

periit fuga a me,

et non est qui requirat animam meam.

Clamavi ad te, Domine;

dixi: Tu es spes mea,

portio mea in terra viventium.

Intende ad deprecationem meam,

quia humiliatus sum nimis.

Libera me a persequentibus me,

quia confortati sunt super me.

Educ de custodia animam meam

ad confitendum nomini tuo;

me exspectant justi donec retribuas mihi.1

Grissom efficiently treated Sara's breast and throat, pulling the blanket tightly about her one more. He carefully stroked a finger-full of ointment across the dark bruise on her cheek more of the ointment to the bruise on her cheek and slathered a heavy coat of the sharp-scented salve around her wrists before loosely wrapping her abraded flesh with long strips of bleached linen bandages. Father Ralph silently passed him a cup of tea, noting the trembling in Grissom's hand as he fumbled to grab the handle of the tin cup. The knight sniffed the heady contents of the steaming cup and nodded appreciatively at the soothing aroma of lemon balm and lavender before turning to offer the cup to Sara.

Grissom slowly pulled Sara into a sitting position before shifting her gently into his lap. Once she was settled comfortably on his uninjured thigh, Gil wrapped his arm about her and held her close, rocking her gently and mumbling soothing words to her as she took the cup from him slowly sipped the soothing tea. When Sara finished, he set her cup aside and lowered her back to the pallet and settling her down snuggly again before the fire. He remained next to her, cradling her head in his lap and running his hands through her hair until she drifted off into a troubled slumber.

"Gil?" Grissom turned to face the Abbot, his face lined and weary as he cocked his head and waited for Father Ralph to continue. "You were mumbling the 141st Psalm. "Other than the obvious reason," he questioned, motioning towards Sara, "what is troubling you?"

Wish I had a poet's open soul

Wish I had a poet's open soul

Find the songs to tell you,

Find the words to say

Grissom eased Sara's head from his lap and moved to perch on the rough edge of the slate hearth. For long moments he stared blankly into the flames; the oranges and blues casting a harsh, eerie glow about his face. Small droplets of rainwater leaked from his garments, hissing as they sought to puddle upon the warm stones.

Finally, seeming to draw wisdom from whatever he had seen deep within the flames, the knight stirred. Deliberately pushing the sleeves of his black undershirt high above his elbows, Grissom reached for his heavy belt and pulled the dagger from its sheath. As he held the knife over the fire, the Black Monk began to mumble, his words hushed but distinct.

"Dixitque ad eum: Qui fecisti? Vox sanguinis fratris tui clamat ad me de terra. Nunc igitur maledictus eris super terram, quae aperuit os suum, et suscepit snaguinem fratris tui de manu tua. Cum operatus fueris eam, non dabit tibi fructus suos: vagus et profugus eris super terram."2

Father Ralph watched in horrified fascination as Grissom pulled the blade from the fire, wet a finger against his tongue and idly touched the glowing blade, noting the light sizzle of his moist flesh against the hot steel with bleak satisfaction.. Hesitating only a moment, Gil twisted the knife and sliced the dagger's heated edge along the inside of his left forearm, opening a small cut roughly equal in length to his smallest finger. The Abbot gasped as a well of blood bubbled from the wound; bright red against the pale flesh. Grissom made no sound; his grim expression revealed no pain as he ran his thumb along the length of the gash.

Drawing a deep breath, Grissom raised his trembling hand and smeared a jagged line of blood across his forehead. "…Posuitque Dominus Cain signum, ut nom interficeret eum omnis qui invenisset eum. Egressusque Cain a facie Domini, habitavit profugus in terra ad orientalem plagem Eden."3

"Like Cain slew his brother, Abel, I have slain my brother, Tarek," he said, raising haunted eyes to regard Father Ralph. "And like Cain, I now bear a mark as proof of my sin."

"You had no choice."

"Oh, but I did," Grissom said softly. "I could have relieved him of his sword with very little effort, bound him hand and foot and returned him to King James to stand trial for treason where he would have paid the ultimate penalty for his crimes. James would have seen him nailed to the castle door and personally stripped the flesh from his back before placing his head upon the block to await the fall of the axe."

Father Ralph blanched at Grissom's graphic description.

"I...willingly chose to fight him. I...I..." Grissom stammered, not knowing how to explain. He wiped his bloody thumb down the front of his undershirt as he searched for a way to put his feelings into words. Never, in all his years as a warrior, had he felt such an explosion of hatred, never had he been so blinded by emotion, by the love he harbored for Sara, that he would gladly duel to the death to protect her. "For the first time in my life," Gil continued, the deeply-etched lines of sorrow marring his face shadowing the rich despair in his voice, "I wanted to harm someone for reasons having nothing to do with honorable and just battle."

The Abbott bowed his head, considering the gravity of Grissom's candid confession. He handed the knight a cup of tea and poured one for himself as he resumed his seat and continued to gather his thoughts. "Why did you make this choice? Was it vengeance for the way Tarek has treated you all these years?"

Grissom stared into the fire, stirring his tea absently with a thick finger. "I accepted long ago that Tarek hates me for reasons of his own, reasons I am not meant to understand."

Father Ralph nodded, clasping his hands together and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Do you return this hatred?"

"No," the knight blurted, horrified and stricken by the question. He paused a moment before continuing, his low voice heavy with pain. "He is my brother." Grissom watched his hands flex open and close, fisting as he struggled with his feelings. "I…love him," he finally muttered. "He is my brother."

"Then why, Gil?" Grissom turned towards the Abbot, his eyes raw and pleading.

"He was hurting my Sara."

"You love her," Father Ralph stated kindly, amused by Grissom's timid nod of agreement and the younger man's sudden refusal to meet his gaze. "And you fought to save her from Tarek. Gil, that in itself is a noble and honorable cause. If he had not taken her, would you have sought him out to do him harm?"

The Abbot continued without waiting for Grissom's response, knowing full well that Gil would never have willfully sought out Tarek. "And had you not done battle with your brother, what would have been Sara's fate?"

"He would have...taken her, in the most brutal way possible, and then..." Grissom swallowed heavily, forcing back the lump of emotion clogging his throat and threatening to overwhelm him with its intensity. "...Then, he would have killed her."

"So you were saving her."

Soon we will all be going home

Soon we will all be going home

"Did you murder Tarek out of revenge? Did your pride lead you to strike him down? Did you smite him for past wrongs?"

Grissom shook his head violently, a soundless no forming on his lips. He drew a heavy breath and spoke in a monotone so low that the Abbot had to strain to hear him. "I had to protect the Princess." Gil's mouth opened and closed several times, his expression bleak as he struggled to force the words into the open. "But that does not change anything, Father. Duty or no, I still murdered my only brother."

"Did you?" Father Ralph blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head. "Gil, think with your head and not your sorrowing heart. By your own account, which I have no reason to doubt, Tarek rushed you and you both fell down the stairs. Did you actually run him through?"

Giving Gil no time to respond, the Abbot raised his voice, his tone steely as he fought to help Grissom see the truth of the matter. "Did you willfully and with malice thrust your sword into Tarek's chest and murder him?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed in concentration as he replayed the fight in his mind. "I never struck him," he finally admitted with wide-eyed realization. "He impaled himself upon my blade when he rushed me. He was dead before we landed at the bottom of the stairs." He was silent for several moments before whispering, "But I wanted to."

Father Ralph cocked his head and scratched at his long beard as he considered Gil's final comment. "You wanted to…" His voice trailed off and he raised both hands in a questioning gesture, prompting Gil to continue.

"Run him through," Grissom grunted, the depth of his self-loathing evident in his guttural response.

"But you did not."

"No. But..."

Grissom's voice faltered as Father Ralph shook his head sharply and rose from his seat. He stalked over to the hearth and hunkered down on his haunches, his robe pooling about his feet as he leveled Grissom with a glare. "Listen to me, son," the Abbot commanded in a stern voice as he grasped Grissom's rough, bloodstained hands with his own. "No, listen to and heed the scriptures. Think upon the Epistles of St. John the Evangelist.4"

"Gil, you are not an evil man, for in your heart and in your deeds and in your words, you know love, not wickedness. I have heard tales from travelers and friars alike of the Knight's Tournament and your gentle treatment of your nephew. I know about Sandre and all you have done for him. You have a great, untapped capacity for love, Gil, for you love not only God and your brethren but also a brother who proved time and time again to be undeserving of that love and compassion."

"Hate did not compel you to fight, my son." Grissom tried to interrupt but the Abbot cut off any protests he might have voiced with a sharp wave of his hand. "Yes, you were angry. Yes, you wished to do him harm. But you felt these things because he threatened an innocent, not because you are sinful or immoral. The blackness of hatred did not compel you to go searching for your brother. You went to save a life, Gil, not necessarily take one. At the very least, and your love for Sara notwithstanding, you were performing your sworn duty to King James as the Black Monk and Knight Champion of the Realm."

Seating himself on the hearth beside Grissom, Father Ralph snatched a length of linen bandage from the neat pile and dipped it into the steaming cauldron. As he washed the blood from Grissom's forehead and dabbed at the wound on his forearm, he spoke in low soothing tones. "I think God will understand." Pausing to wet the bandage again the Abbot spoke while carefully winding the linen around Grissom's forearm and tucking the loose end between two of the folds to hold it in place. "You are a good man Gil, do not ever forget that."

Soon we will all be going home

Soon we will all be going home

The bandaging complete, the Abbot sought to lighten the mood and turned an impish face towards Grissom, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. "What about Sara?" Father Ralph questioned eagerly, a merry twinkle lighting his pale blue eyes. "Does she return your love?"

Grissom's face brightened, a small wistful smile touching his lips. "I think she does," he replied, his brow creasing as he continued. "But whether for the knight or for the man, I am not certain."

Father Ralph stood and stretched before reaching down to help the weary knight climb to his feet. "Have faith, Gil, in yourself and in Sara."

Straightening slowly in an effort to keep most of his weight off of his wounded thigh, Grissom winced and breathed a melancholy sigh. "Perhaps it would be best for both of us," he began, his mood growing pensive, voice full of sadness and longing, "if I did not. Nothing will ever come of it."

"Sometimes the impossible becomes possible." Father Ralph smiled gently, reaching out to clasp a warm hand behind Grissom's sturdy neck. "And sometimes things, even those as mysterious and confusing as love, have a way of working themselves out." He squeezed lightly to emphasize his words before huffing a regretful sigh of his own.

"I must go. Dawn will soon touch the horizon and the hour for Prime draws nigh. You are welcome to remain as long as necessary and join us for services if you so desire. You are still a full member of the Brotherhood despite your absence these many years."

He pulled Grissom close and kissed the younger man's forehead fondly before drawing the knight's head down to rest upon his shoulder. "A father has never been more proud of a son than I am of you," Father Ralph whispered into Gil's ear. "You always have a home here, you always have a family. Don't ever forget that." Grissom nodded, the coarse texture of Father Ralph's simple robe oddly comforting as it scratched along his cheek.

For long moments Grissom simply rested with his head on the Abbot's shoulder, drawing comfort from the Abbot's wisdom and compassion. Finally the knight straightened and attempted to step back but the older man griped his shoulders to keep him in place. Grissom tried to avert his gaze beneath Father Ralph's intense scrutiny, knowing the older man could plainly see the misery and guilt etched upon his face.

"I know I have given you much to consider this night," the Father said, stooping slightly to look Grissom in the eye and ensure that he was listening. "Make your contrition before God for I have faith that all will be forgiven. If you wish, I will return to hear your confession after you have rested." He sighed and shook his head, giving Gil's shoulders one last squeeze before heading for the door.

The Abbot stopped suddenly and turned to face Grissom one last time. "Gil?" He waited until the knight raised his head and then fixed the younger man with a stern gaze much like one a father would bestow upon an errant son. He waited, watching Grissom squirm uncomfortably beneath the weight of his perusal. Father Ralph allowed a slight grin to ghost across his face as he motioned towards Gil's leg and admonished, "Tend to your wounds before they fester."

There's a lonesome, homeward looking bird

Flying westward with the wind

It kind of makes me wonder

When these empty eyes will find you

Grissom was kneeling to check on Sara when a timid knock sounded against the whitewashed planks of the door. At his quiet command, a wide-eyed Oblate entered bearing the pack from Grissom's horse. Grissom fought the amused smirk twitching beneath his mustache and managed to gravely nod his thanks to the youngster. The Oblate continued to stare, his expression a blend of fear and awe, as he slowly backed towards the door. Gil watched the boy turn and run across the muddy garth, shaking his head in exasperation as he closed the door and set the pack down by the pallet where Sara was sleeping. After reassuring himself that she was resting comfortably, he opened the pack and began to see to his own wounds.

Easing out of his undershirt, Gil winced from the pain in his shoulder and tentatively fingered a long bruise along his ribs. He sat on the edge of the pallet to remove his boots, unwrap the mud-spattered winnegas from his lower legs and peel away the blood-caked strips he had cut from Tarek's tunic to bind his thigh. The knight stood again, wavering slightly as he removed his long pants and braies to stand nude before the fire.

Grissom frowned at the long gash running the length of his thigh, biting his lower lip as he pulled several threads from the wound. Seating himself on the hearth, he washed the oozing cut with the tincture of calendula and St. John's Wort that Father Ralph had left simmering for him and tossed several dried yarrow leaves in the pot to heat before applying them as a wet dressing to help staunch the flow of blood. He wrapped his entire upper leg tightly with strips of clean linen bandage to hold the leaves in place.

After applying salve from the cracked crock to the darkened flesh along his side, Gil uncorked one of the small brown bottles lined up on the hearth and cautiously sniffed the contents. A small smile touched his lips even as his nose wrinkled at the strong sappy odor. He made a mental note to thank Father Ralph as he massaged his aching knees and shoulders with a strong tonic made from birch leaves and willow bark.

With all of his noticeable injures treated, Grissom rummaged through the pack and fish out a pair of loose pants that reach to his ankles and a sleeveless undershirt. Once he clothed, he reached into the pack again searching for some bread or cheese and stopped as he encountered a light, gauze-like roll of fabric. Gil removed the small bundle and shook it out, a look of wonder crossing his face as he recognized a woman's kirtle Myria had thoughtfully added to the other supplies. He pulled the blanket away and swiftly dressed Sara, praying he would not awaken her. She moaned and turned towards him but otherwise did not stir.

Exhausted and in pain, Grissom stretched out on the pallet beside Sara and inched close to her to share the warmth of the woolen blanket. Feeling a wave of fierce protectiveness flow over him, he rolled onto his side and pulled her close, tucking her securely within the shelter of his body. Knowing he could do no more and that Sara was safe, the melancholy knight finally allowed himself to rest as the first hint of morning lightened the stormy sky.

Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend

Maybe some tomorrow, my old friend

Soon we will all be going home

Soon we will all be going home5

1 Psalm 141: 2-8 "(2) I cried to the Lord with my voice: with my voice I made supplication to the Lord. (3) In his sight I pour out my prayer, and before him I declare my trouble: (4) When my spirit failed me, then thou knewest my paths. In this way wherein I walked, they have hidden a snare for me. (5) I looked on my right hand, and beheld, and there was no one that would know me. Flight hath failed me: and there is no one that hath regard to my soul. (6) I cried to thee, O Lord: I said: Thou art my hope, my portion in the land of the living. (7) Attend to my supplication: for I am brought very low. Deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I. (8) Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the just wait for me, until thou reward me."

2 Genesis 4: 10-12 "(10) And he said to him: What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the earth. (11) Now therefore cursed shalt thou be upon the earth, which hath opened her mouth and received the blood of thy brother at thy hand. (12) When thou shalt till it, it shall not yield to thee its fruit: a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be upon the earth.

3 Genesis 4:15-16 "(15)…and the Lord set a mark upon Cain, that whosoever found him should not kill him. (16) And Cain went out from the face of the Lord, and dwelt as a fugitive on the earth at the east side of Eden."

4 1 John 3:11-18 (DR) (11) For this is the declaration which you have heard from the beginning, that you should love one another. (12) Not as Cain, who was of the wicked one and killed his brother. And wherefore did he kill him? Because his own works were wicked: and his brother's just. (13) Wonder not brethren, if the world hate you. (14) We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not abideth in death. (15) Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer. And you know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in himself. In this we have known the charity of God, because he hath laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. (17) He that hath the substance of this world and shall see his brother in need and shall shut up his bowels from him: how doth the charity of God abide in him? (18) My little children, let us not love in word not in tongue, but in deed and in truth.

5 "Homeward Looking Bird." Words and Music by John Stewart. The Secret Tapes '86 (Homecoming - 450, 1986).