The Last Green Valley - Mark Sullivan (black female authors .txt) 📗

“Not always,” Emil said.

“Always,” Corporal Gheorghe insisted. “The problem is, most people get frustrated when they do not find what they are looking for or don’t do what they are trying to do easily and in a short period of time. They give up after a couple of failures or a couple of years of struggle. The dream that once lit up their heart now begins to darken it, and their thinking changes. They lose faith far too early. They believe far too early that their dream can never exist. The problem is they haven’t stayed true to their heart long enough for the Almighty One to move the moon and stars so the dream they seek can come into being. Once disbelief takes hold in their heart and thoughts, the Almighty hears it and gives up trying to help them. That’s why dreams don’t come true. It’s why you have not become more in your life, Martel. It’s why you haven’t lived up to your name. And it is why I will become a beekeeper.”

The corporal was smiling, which made Emil angry. He stopped pouring concrete into the molds. “What do you mean I haven’t lived up to my name?”

“You keep trying to be a farmer, but the surname you use—Martel—is telling the Universal Intelligence a different story.”

Emil stared at him in total confusion. “What story?”

“Martel means ‘hammer’ in old French. Even if you were good at it, you were not meant to be a farmer. You are meant to be a builder. You are meant to be the hammer, not the plow.”

For a moment or two, Emil struggled with the Romanian’s thinking, but then felt like that was also true. He’d always loved building things, even as a child. When it came right down to it, he even liked the process of mixing cement and making blocks.

He studied Gheorghe again. “Where did you say you learned all this stuff?”

The corporal stopped stirring and leaned over the handle of his paddle. “You remember me telling you and your family about Private Kumar? The Indian who was with me in the trenches at Stalingrad?”

It had been nearly two years since that night when the Romanian soldier had appeared out of the creek bottom, bearing stolen honey wine, but Emil recalled much of the story.

“Didn’t he die? Blown up in the first attack?”

The corporal nodded sadly. “Because he believed he was going to die. He told me before it happened, and so it was. Private Kumar knew all this wisdom from his grandfather in India, and yet he died because he could not believe in a dream of a life beyond the battle. He died because in his heart he believed in the dream of his death. I know it is strange and disturbing to think this way. But I know it is true. I dreamed of a life as a beekeeper and believed that in my heart even before the mortar bomb hit me. It was why I was able to walk through the battle. It is why I will survive Poltava, return home, and become a beekeeper.”

“Because you still hold that dream in your heart where it can’t be taken from you?”

He smiled and started stirring again, saying, “Now Martel begins to understand.”

The other man building concrete blocks returned, and they fell into a silence. Corporal Gheorghe seemed perfectly content as he worked. But Emil struggled with the Romanian’s way of thinking the rest of the day. A small part of him wanted to believe it. The bigger part of him was deeply skeptical.

Later, as they were gathering scrap lumber for the cooks at the mess hall, he said, “So explain to me how this works. Did Private Kumar believe God was behind all this?”

“Not God in the way we were taught,” he said, waving a piece of wood around at the falling snow. “This is the Divine. Everything is the Divine, the Almighty One, the Universal Intelligence. You, me, everything.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Corporal Gheorghe frowned but then put his hand on his chest, shut his eyes, and rocked his head back so the snowflakes hit his face. A moment later, he opened his eyes, lowered his chin, and gazed in a warm and calming way that made Emil feel strangely connected to him.

Gheorghe said, “Private Kumar believed that everything in life was, when it came right down to it, one thing, a supremely intelligent, universal force he called the Divine or the Universal Intelligence, or the Almighty One. I am part of the Divine. You are part of it, too. Everything is part of this life force you can call God, if it is easier to think that way. You are part of God, and God is a part of you. It’s why the Divine understands your thoughts, dreams, and emotions, Martel. The Almighty is in you, and you are in it.”

Emil chewed on that as they carried armloads of scrap lumber to the mess hall. After they’d given the wood to the cooks, gotten their pay, and sat down with their meal, Emil said, “You didn’t say ‘prayers.’”

The Romanian paused his soup spoon in midair, looked at Emil, puzzled. “Prayers?”

“You said God hears our thoughts, dreams, and emotions, but you didn’t say prayers.”

“Oh,” he said, and put a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “According to Private Kumar, the Divine hears and understands prayers and thoughts, but they are not God’s primary languages.”

“Okay,” Emil said. “What are the primary languages of God?”

Corporal Gheorghe smiled, put his hand on his chest, and said, “Whatever emotions you carry in your heart, Martel, especially love. God listens loud and clear if you feel love. The Almighty also knows if you are feeling good. The Universal Intelligence responds when you are happy or courageous or even if you are just calm. It understands when you are grateful for the miracle of your existence and rushes to help you when you have a dream