Lama dies, holy Buddhist monks go into the countryside to find the new, reincarnated Dalai Lama. They follow visions, intuition. Or maybe the newly reincarnated Dalai Lama, an infant, or a young child, draws them to him. As the Biblical Mary and Joseph had been surrogate parents, to bring Jesus into the world and to prepare him for his ministry.
The situations were not identical, but similar. In Daddy Love’s case, a child was born of surrogate parents but destined to be
his
son
. Already when he’d been in his early twenties as Chet Czechi he’d known this in the way that, if you add together two and two, you know the answer is four.
Invincible as math or geometry, such reasoning. The inner eye awakened, and
saw
.
What the asshole media called “abduction”—“kidnapping”—“child-snatching” was in fact a courageous act on the part of Daddy Love. The cowardly way would be to pretend he hadn’t
seen
.
He hadn’t intended for either to die. Not the snout-faced female and certainly not the little blond boy with the tawny eyes. Yet, this had happened.
The ways of God are not our ways. Who can comprehend the ways of God!
Since that sultry summer evening in a scrubby roadside reststop in Pennsylvania, thousands of miles. A continuous loop of miles interrupted by durations of
domestic life.
But the pilgrimagenever ceased for the boy, you could call him the
reincarnated son,
inevitably grew older—and less desirable.
Hundreds, thousands of hours. Out of Chet Czechi’s blundering hands had emerged the more steady, practiced hands of Daddy Love.
And the sedatives more reliable.
No harm will befall you now, my son. You are saved.
I am Daddy Love. I am your true daddy and you are my only begotten true son.
It was my mission ordained by God to save you from the fire.
There was a great cataclysm, a fireball fell to earth. What was “Ypsilanti” has now been destroyed. It was a preview of the Rapture. The old life has vanished, my son. There is a new life now
.
Such words Daddy Love uttered, that the child in the Wooden Maiden would hear and, in time, understand. In his tireless and kindly voice he so spoke. In his caressing tender voice. In his stern-Daddy voice. In his wise voice. In his somber voice. In his joyous voice. In his grave voice. He understood that the five-year-old terrified and helpless child was not yet receptive to Daddy Love’s words but Daddy Love’s words would have their effect gradually, in time.
So the most obdurate rock is eroded by a succession of singular, soft raindrops, in time.
He’d opened the Wooden Maiden mask, so that the child could see (if only the roof of the minivan close overhead) andhear. A gag in his mouth and duct-tape over the gag so that the child could not scream.
The child could not cry. The child could not beg for mercy.
The child could not
plead
.
Daddy Love liked pleading children, to a degree. But beyond that, Daddy Love did not like pleading children.
The Preacher was more tolerant. The Preacher was more forgiving of human weaknesses.
On the whole, Chet Cash, who was Daddy Love in his “ordinary-guy” guise, did not like craven individuals. Chet did admire the brasher boys who resisted, though their resistance brought them punishment.
The Wooden Maiden was an ingenious invention of Daddy Love. As Jesus was a carpenter, so too Daddy Love was good with his hands, and found such “handyman” work soothing. He would make of his sons apprentices in such work. A child was never too young to help his father.
The Wooden Maiden was a more evolved variant of a plainer, less attractive coffin-like box that Daddy Love had utilized years ago. It was still a kind of box, carefully constructed with hinges, locks and bolts for safekeeping, yet made of high-quality cherry-wood. In shape, the Wooden Maiden resembled a casket, child-sized, or rather more it resembled the tomb of a child-pharaoh of ancient Egypt, for its structure was elegant, dignified. In
The situations were not identical, but similar. In Daddy Love’s case, a child was born of surrogate parents but destined to be
his
son
. Already when he’d been in his early twenties as Chet Czechi he’d known this in the way that, if you add together two and two, you know the answer is four.
Invincible as math or geometry, such reasoning. The inner eye awakened, and
saw
.
What the asshole media called “abduction”—“kidnapping”—“child-snatching” was in fact a courageous act on the part of Daddy Love. The cowardly way would be to pretend he hadn’t
seen
.
He hadn’t intended for either to die. Not the snout-faced female and certainly not the little blond boy with the tawny eyes. Yet, this had happened.
The ways of God are not our ways. Who can comprehend the ways of God!
Since that sultry summer evening in a scrubby roadside reststop in Pennsylvania, thousands of miles. A continuous loop of miles interrupted by durations of
domestic life.
But the pilgrimagenever ceased for the boy, you could call him the
reincarnated son,
inevitably grew older—and less desirable.
Hundreds, thousands of hours. Out of Chet Czechi’s blundering hands had emerged the more steady, practiced hands of Daddy Love.
And the sedatives more reliable.
No harm will befall you now, my son. You are saved.
I am Daddy Love. I am your true daddy and you are my only begotten true son.
It was my mission ordained by God to save you from the fire.
There was a great cataclysm, a fireball fell to earth. What was “Ypsilanti” has now been destroyed. It was a preview of the Rapture. The old life has vanished, my son. There is a new life now
.
Such words Daddy Love uttered, that the child in the Wooden Maiden would hear and, in time, understand. In his tireless and kindly voice he so spoke. In his caressing tender voice. In his stern-Daddy voice. In his wise voice. In his somber voice. In his joyous voice. In his grave voice. He understood that the five-year-old terrified and helpless child was not yet receptive to Daddy Love’s words but Daddy Love’s words would have their effect gradually, in time.
So the most obdurate rock is eroded by a succession of singular, soft raindrops, in time.
He’d opened the Wooden Maiden mask, so that the child could see (if only the roof of the minivan close overhead) andhear. A gag in his mouth and duct-tape over the gag so that the child could not scream.
The child could not cry. The child could not beg for mercy.
The child could not
plead
.
Daddy Love liked pleading children, to a degree. But beyond that, Daddy Love did not like pleading children.
The Preacher was more tolerant. The Preacher was more forgiving of human weaknesses.
On the whole, Chet Cash, who was Daddy Love in his “ordinary-guy” guise, did not like craven individuals. Chet did admire the brasher boys who resisted, though their resistance brought them punishment.
The Wooden Maiden was an ingenious invention of Daddy Love. As Jesus was a carpenter, so too Daddy Love was good with his hands, and found such “handyman” work soothing. He would make of his sons apprentices in such work. A child was never too young to help his father.
The Wooden Maiden was a more evolved variant of a plainer, less attractive coffin-like box that Daddy Love had utilized years ago. It was still a kind of box, carefully constructed with hinges, locks and bolts for safekeeping, yet made of high-quality cherry-wood. In shape, the Wooden Maiden resembled a casket, child-sized, or rather more it resembled the tomb of a child-pharaoh of ancient Egypt, for its structure was elegant, dignified. In
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