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| Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth |
The Fisher Kings: A
Winter’s Tale
©2011
Susan Noyes Anderson, All Rights Reserved
Three fishermen set out one dawn
in the land of the midnight sun,
to check their pots for king crabs and
return when day was done.
At Christmastime, their custom was
to celebrate their King
by dining on the very best
the ocean had to bring.
Theirs never was a safe pursuit,
but these were hardened men.
Many a wintry sea they’d sailed,
and so they sailed again.
A red-sky morning…sailor’s
warning…trouble in the air.
But good or ill, ‘twas Christmas still;
they set out on a prayer.
danger as no stranger cruel…
but rather a worthy foe, the ocean’s
mate, and no one’s fool.
Nor were these men, who knew respect
for weather, wind, and wave.
Here was no mystery…The sea
made many a sailor’s grave.
Deep water was the resting place
more than a few had earned.
Better the bottom of the sea
than cold ground, freshly turned.
Yet drowning did not haunt their dreams,
for they believed in fate.
Death knew your days, and that old pirate
seized you, soon or late.
Then why, as they pulled anchor, did
they feel a creeping chill…
And why, as they left home and hearth,
did their wives’ hearts go still?
(But let us not belabor signs
and omens: paltry stuff.
Our fishermen set out to sea
on choppy waves, not rough.)
The day was middling fair as well,
though cold as smoking ice,
and each man’s head was filled with thoughts
of crab and yuletide spice.
they traveled with the wind.
When they arrived, the mast was dropped
at once, the mizzen trimmed.
The men worked hard as waves grew rough;
a storm was on the way.
They needed to move quickly now
before the end of day.
a storm was on the way.
They needed to move quickly now
before the end of day.
The pots retrieved were nearly full;
there was enough for all.
And if the weather held off,
they’d be home before the squall.
A feast they’d have, a family feast,
with loved ones gathered round.
The memories and crab meat
promised sweetness, pound for pound.
they set their sights on home.
Their little ketch was dancing…
flying fast across the foam.
Love was the gift that gave them wings
and made their spirits light.
In their stout hearts, they sang Noel
that silent, starry night.
Until, at once, the silence broke…
eclipsed by claps of thunder…
a squall so violent that it cast
their Christmas dreams asunder.
The gale was fierce, and driving rain
assailed them, fore and aft.
Their boat rose…fell like flotsam…
took on water like a raft.
They lowered sail, turned leeward, bound
themselves to lurching mast…
and pleaded for God’s mercy to
preserve their souls at last.
They did not beg for life or death;
they prayed for strength and grace.
They’d live to see their children, or
they’d die to see God’s face.
(Acceptance is the sailor’s creed;
man cannot thwart the sea.
But those who would submit to it
may yet find victory.)
And so they did; the tempest stilled.
Their lives were spared again.
The fog was thick and threatening,
but these were stalwart men.
The route they knew; and from the shore,
a lighthouse shined their way.
But somehow, in its signal,
they beheld another
day:
A day of hope and wonder,
of life forever new…
A night one star rose up to light
the world with heaven’s view.
“The beacon! ‘Tis a star…the wise men’s
star.” They whispered, low.
The lighthouse beckoned onward,
urging safety with its glow.
It had to be illusion, but
that bright beam made them feel
like wise men, seeking Jesus.
Such a thing could not be real.
(And yet, it’s true that Christmas Eve
holds wonder all its own.
Who better than seafaring men
to seek the Christ Child’s throne?)
And in a twinkling, they
were there…
three kings…yet still afloat…
their spirits in the ancient past…
their bodies in the boat.
“What mann’r of magic
is this?” said one.
See ye the things I
see?”
The others nodded, all amazed.
“Yet, how can this
thing be?”
“Here shines the Star
of Bethlehem!
And there, the lighthouse
beams.
Perhaps we lie
unconscious,
dreaming one another’s
dreams.”
But reason was suspended when
they heard an angel say,
“Fear not, for unto
you is born
a Savior. Come away.”
Their hearts were filled with gladness
that transcended time and space.
Three fisher kings released their world
to take a sacred place.
The star led them o’er hill and vale,
past groves of olive trees,
and finally, to a stable, where
they fell upon their knees.
A Child was born, the Son of God!
His promise was fulfilled.
And angels sang out praises until
every doubt was stilled.
The shepherds came to honor Him
and bowed in reverence sweet,
while fishermen-turned-kings laid gold
and spices at His feet.
They worshipped Him and prayed for Him
and marveled at His glory.
They touched Him and beheld Him, and
became part of His story.
Yet, all the while they felt beneath
their feet the rolling seas.
They saw the star but sensed the lighthouse
and their families.
A blinding flash!...the stable dimmed,
back through the years they flew.
The songs of angels vanished
into shouts of their own crew.
Turn
starboard…Starboard, mate! Look sharp!
We’re headed for the ice.
Now, hold the jib.
Tack. Tack! Heave to,
else we’re the
sacrifice.
Alas, the looming obstacles
were coming up so fast
that all three sailors knew the air
they breathed would be their last.
And yet their spirits whispered peace;
the Christ Child they had seen,
and lingering traces of the Magi
held their souls serene.
Grateful for the comfort, they looked
up and thanked its Source.
His answer was a miracle…
a gift that changed their course.
It seemed to them impossible
when angels filled the sky…
and turned the boat and sang them home…
Three Wandering Magi.
All were preserved, and even more,
their hearts were made brand new.
Years later, people said the lighthouse
saved them. Partly true.
But more than lives were saved. Those men
were never again the same.
They carried Christmas in their hearts.
They glorified Christ’s name.
And they were wiser than most men
had any right to be.
Some nights, they gazed into the stars,
eyes filled with mystery.
“Wise men still seek
Him,” they would say.
“What manner of men
are ye?”
•••
•••
•••
As a little bit of background, one of the first
incarnations of a Fisher King occurred in 12th century France. He was cast as
the brother-in-law of Joseph of Arimathea, who was said to have used the Grail
to catch Christ's blood before laying him in the tomb. Joseph eventually
entrusts the Grail to his brother, Bron, who becomes first in a line of Grail keepers.
Later, in Le Didot-Perceval, the keeper of the Grail is
called the "Fisher King," and he is wounded. His story begins when
Percival returns to his castle and asks the “healing question.”
We are all wounded, and there IS indeed a healing question.
“What manner of
men ought ye to be?” Christ asks in the scriptures. “Even as I am,” He answers.
A happy Thanksgiving to all of you.
for more mags, click below
