Saint Cloth is a traveler born into another time. He has the face of a hawk and the eyes of a Jack. A jack is a knave, you know. Or a knight. Or a prince. Motion is the quality of a prince, and a knight on the chessboard moves crookedly.
Crooked paths and lordly bearing; of such is Saint Cloth.
His eyes seem maroon sometimes, and flash sparks in low lights. His skin is the pale of night creatures, the pages of secret leather-bound books in candlelight.
One might say he looks a bit like Hannibal Lecter, as described in the Thomas Harris novels. Maroon eyes, pale flesh, hair slicked back like the pelt of some sleek animal. Knife-slim, upright bearing, easy uncanny grace.
Lady killer.
When I first saw Saint Cloth I was dying, and his message stirred my stone heart. But it also churned its sharp fingers in my freezing lungs… it hurt so much. His message wasn’t for the dying but for the living. The struggle between the two almost tore me apart.
But eventually I triumphed — in extremis, extollor. At the point of death, I am exalted. In the most dire of situations I display my true worth. I came back from the cusp of death and in doing so have had the pleasure of seeing Saint Cloth in more times, in more seasons.
I saw him once in Savannah, where the lowland ocean music is played. He walked into a house of lepers and made them all jump up and dance. Later I was able to meditate under a tree and in his presence, surrounded by the smell of warm linen, warm tweed — all things simple and good. He extended to me the kiss of kinship.
I saw him once in Memphis, tossed on a rolling sea. On that night the blind could see, the lame could walk, the deaf could hear, and a thing I swore I’d never do again I committed quite willingly. We shared a cup of fellowship, after it was all done.
I saw him once in Charleston, where the streets are hard and the trees weep. He wore a mask then, and instead of followers of a saint we were maenaids to the muse. We were wild animals in a house of art, and we were free. I clasped his hand, palm to palm. Later that night he broke bread with the losers and the dreamers, and with me.
I’ve seen him often here in my own City, always when I least expect him. Once even on my birthday. Once on my wedding day. He reaches down his hand and blesses me; he draws me up into the shadow of his wings and I find peace. I seek him, I search for him, I follow after him. Of all that I aspire, I look to be a good handmaiden, and one fit to serve.
Sometimes he waltzes.
What can I say? I have a very peculiar saint indeed.
