Foccacia - First Attempt

The Loch of Legalism

In which Daftie is nearly drowned in dos and don’ts, and rescued by a man who speaks only in poetry

Trying to put his rather frigid reception behind him Daftie ventured further into the hills. He was rather disheartened, and slightly bruised – one of those elders had a wicked underarm throw with a communion token. But he still had the pamphlet, he had hope, and one oat bar left, so on he pressed. It was mid-afternoon before the landscape began to level out. He found himself approaching a long, narrow loch. Its water was mirror flat, as grey as Presbyterian guilt. Although the water was glistening, it was not with welcome but more a cold suspicion. On either side stood two sentries, rigid stone signs. Approaching the first sign it read

Welcome tae the Loch of Legalism
'All must pass this way – but only in accordance with the 547 Regulations of Acceptable Pilgrim Conduct.'

The second sign simply said

'No Laughing.'

Daftie spotted a narrow wooden bridge that stretched across the loch. It appeared to be built upon a latticework of theological arguments and laminated scripture quotes all nailed together at severe right angles. There was a large banner above which read

'The Narrow WayTM – Now with Even Narrower Rules!’

He stepped cautiously onto the bridge which creaked ominously beneath him. Until now he hadn’t noticed the checkpoint ahead of him, which was occupied by a rather stern faced individual wearing a sash which read ‘Head Corrector’ and a tie tied so tight it appeared to be holding in fifty years of resentment. The man barked out
‘Halt! Have ye filled oot the Form of Righteousness-9C?’
‘Eh… no’ Daftie blinked.
‘Then ye cannae cross! Return when ye’ve memorised Leviticus, declared yer hobbies, passed the moral audit, and removed all sense of humour!’
‘But I’m only trying tae get to the Holy Loch…’
‘Aye, and so were the others – before they were banished for excessive shrugging!’
He gestured toward the edge of the loch. He looked, and spotted half-submerged a woman in a wetsuit reading Dante. There was also a man in a canoe with a large banners reading ‘Repent of Sneakers!’

Daftie, now exasperated, looked to the pamphlet hoping to find some guidance. It was then that he noticed a tiny footnote at the bottom of the page.

‘Caution! The bridge of Legalism looks sturdy but collapses under actual use.’

Suddenly, he heard a creak, flowed by a groan beneath him. Next there was a splintering crack. Then, with the soggy inevitability of a Highland picnic, the bridge collapsed. With a strangled cry he plunged into the loch, burden and all. The water gripped him like an overdue apology. The water was cold, and strangely bureaucratic, it was also judgmental, Daftie could feel the judgment wrapping around his ankles like ivy clinging to a wall. He made an attempt to swim, but the burden was determined to pull him down, Descending through the murk he could see forms swirling around him – ‘Certificate of Sainthood – Pending’ ‘Application for Grace – Denied for Formatting Errors’. He was slipping further and further under when a hand suddenly grabbed him. Strong. Warm. Stained with ink.

Daftie, spluttering and coughing up water, was pulled onto a raft, actually a floating door, by an old man in monkish robes and a battered hat. He smelled distinctly of heather, honey, and late night regrets. The man gently said
‘Easy pilgrim, that loch’s killed more joy than a Monday morning.”
Daftie spluttered
‘Who… who are you?’
‘They call me Brother Jock Grace. I go where the burdened fall, pulling folk from man-made depths.’
‘Thank you’ Daftie wheezed ‘ I was nearly drowned in… in expectations!’
Brother Jock reached into his robes, pulled out a flask and handed it to Daftie with the comment
‘Aye, rules are guid servants, but cruel masters. Here, warm yer soul.’
Daftie took a small sip, expecting whisky. He was surprised to discover that it was warm cider, with a faint hint of cinnamon and absolution. Then asked
‘But how did you find me?’
‘I listen for the splash, and the scream that follows.’
Brother Jock said as they drifted towards the shore. Then he recited
‘The way is narrow, true enough,
But not so thin as to be rough.
Some build a bridge of sticks and pride –
But grace, my lad, flows deep and wide.’
Daftie blinked
‘Do you always speak in rhyme?’
‘Only when it annoys the rigid.’ Brother Jock said with a wink.

When they reached the other side of the loch Daftie stood there, shivering, but grateful.
‘I dinnae know how to thank ye.’ he said.
Brother Jock replied
‘Live free. Walk honest. And never confuse the map for the road. Oh, and avoid anyone who says ”just one more requirement”’
With that the old monk started drifting off down the shore humming a psalm, which Daftie could swear was set to a ceilidh beat. He dried his boots, adjusted his now dripping burden, looked ahead to see the path curling upward into the hills. Toward the next unknown. He took a step. Then another. Behind him the Loch of Legalism burbled ‘Ye’ve forgotten to file Form 17b –‘ Daftie gave it a rather rude gesture involving his middle finger and marched on.