Vanity of Vanities

A Corrida with Comments from Ecclesiastes

To every thing there is a season,

And a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

A time for war, and a time for peace.

The time had come for his grand entrance. The small square of sunlight at the far end of the long, dark corridor invited him into the bright sun-drenched arena. The comfort and security of the cool, shady waiting year lay behind him as he was thrust into the world of life–and death.

As he burst into the ring with swift, powerful strides, a distant, lonely trumpet sounded twice, first short, then long.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Defiantly and with confidence born of strength and courage, he bolted across the warm sand, stopped, and tossed his head in challenge. He glanced about and surveyed the circle of yellow that was to enclose his battlefield, remotely aware of the myriad eyes focused on him. All the eyes watched him, and would continue to watch him during the next few moments as he fulfilled his raison d’etre; as he accomplished his sole purpose in life; as he died.

That which has been is that which shall be,

And that which hath been done

Is that which shall be done;

And there is nothing new under the sun.

The hot Castillian sun made him keenly aware of his great strength. He could feel its warmth loosening the large, well-defined muscles of back and

legs. At the same time it sharpened the senses that controlled the awesome force of those muscles. The fresh, clean air made his entire body feel alive and vibrant. Strength and courage radiated from his being.

He wanted to move, to fight, to feel the exhilaration of contact and combat. He wanted to show his strength and courage, his might and power.

Then he had his opportunity. From behind the wooden railing which encircled the arena, stepped a brightly arrayed figure which cautiously approached and beckoned a challenge to him. The figure goaded and coaxed him to charge. His muscles tensed and he bolted toward the figure, confident that he would meet and destroy it.

As he charged, he expected the dynamic feeling of his body being jarred by contact. He anticipated feeling the resistance of the object as he smashed into it, demonstrating his power. Instead he felt nothing but a gentle flow of air on his body.

He was startled, angry. Then other figures, similar to the first, appeared and repeated the challenge. He attacked again and again, each time expecting the joy of contact, but each time there was nothing. He became aware that the many eyes had developed into a grand encircling voice, mocking his every charge.

All was vanity and striving after the wind,

And there was no profit under the sun.

            Bewildered, he found himself running in circles and panting heavily. Next time he would make his mark. Next time they would know his might. Next time, however, the frustration and anger mounted and began to replace courage and inner strength.

He stopped, then tried to catch his breath in order to strive again. As he stood confused and wondering what to do next, it was decided for him. He heard another trumpet call and watched a large, padded figure enter the arena to challenge him once more. Standing and watching for just a moment, he singled out the large figure and attacked.

At last he felt the wonder of his massive, powerful body meeting the resistance and driving into the side of the large figure. Now they would know

his might and would have to reckon with his strength. For an instant he felt exhilarated. Then, without realizing when it began, he felt pain, a deep, numbing pain in the back of his neck. His adversary had somehow wounded him. He knew not how he had been hurt, and knew of only one solution:  attack, attack, attack.

The fury of his attack increased. His legs forced against the ground harder and desperately. The harder he pushed, the more the wound pained, but still he drove on. Under his skin something was twisting and separating sinews. His head seemed to get heavier while the wound screamed for relief. Then he eased the attack, retreated, and stood back, along, bewildered, and hurt. He had been defeated by pain, and, for the first time, knew the pain of defeat.

The warm blood flowed down his back and along his sides. Now that there was no longer contact, the pain cried even louder. He could not straighten his neck. No more was he as strong, as powerful, as sure. Courage had begun to leave him. He was ready to quit, but that was not in the plan. It would not be that simple.

There is one that is alone,

And he hath not a second;

Yes, he hath neither son nor brother;

Yet is there no end of all his labor?

Now a new figure darted toward him, approaching quickly and at the last instant it dodged to avoid him. At once there was more pain. Something new was sticking in his flesh. Now he was furious; now he would fight with a strength and power too awesome for belief. As he searched for something to attack, another figure ran toward him and there was more pain. More objects were embedded in his back. Then a third repeated the insult.

With each attack his massive head and sharp horns counter-attacked, but each time he missed. He felt the weight and sting of the barbs hanging from his back and neck. Every move jarred them and tore at his flesh. For a moment he forgot the deep wound in his neck , but when he tried to raise his head, he was painfully reminded. He wanted to shake the objects from his back, but the movement only aggravated the pain. If only they would stand and fight, but instead they attack and run; attack and run.

He then noticed that he was alone in the arena. His enemies had disappeared. Wanting revenge, he looked for something to attack, but there was nothing. Turning slowly, he kicked the sand as a challenge. Were they afraid to answer his challenge?  Now he stood and snorted. Then the noise faded and an expectant quiet filled the arena. Proudly and gracefully the answer to his challenge emerged from behind the wooden barricade.

When thou vowest unto God, defer not to pay it.

The wounds were forgotten; the pain somehow pushed back and overcome; the anguish meant nothing. The only matter now was to meet, to fight, and to destroy the tormentor who faced him. The smaller figure approached the great hulk haughtily, and with slow, easy, deliberate movements, issued its own challenge. This he answered eagerly.

The mighty giant followed every movement. His heart pounded faster. His muscles tensed, as before. Again he felt the power and pride he had once known. Once–twice–three times he pawed the ground. Then he charged.

Remember then thy Creator in the days of thy youth,

Before the evil days come,

And years draw nigh, when thou shalt say:

“I have no pleasure in them.”

The huge body formed an irresistible force. All his strength, weight, and speed he directed toward pounding fiercely into the other. He lunged, expecting to feel the slight body give way under his neck and shoulders–expecting it to crumble under his sharp hooves. But there was only the feel of cloth flowing across his body as he sped past the elusive target.

Curse not the king, no, not in thy thought.

His hooves dug deep into the sand in order to stop the charge. Again the jeering noise surrounded him. He turned and charged again, moving more quickly and viciously than before. Again he failed.  Again!  Again! And yet again. Each time the longing for victory, more intense; each time victory eluded him; each time the mocking roar mixed in his ears with the steadily rising sound of his own pulse. Each time he was certain he would conquer and destroy; each time there was nothing but the gentle brushing and more frustration.

For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope;

For a living dog is better than a dead lion.

For the living know that they shall die;

But the dead know not anything,

Neither have they any more a reward:

For the memory of them is forgotten.

He was tiring rapidly, the open wounds aching. His muscles were softening and begging for rest. His breathing was deep, painful, and convulsed. His mind bore thoughts of resting on grass in the shade, of drinking cool water, of being away from this place of pain, anguish, and humiliation. He could not, however, stop. There was to be no rest. His role was to strive until he won–or died.

Panting, he paused for a moment, then charged again, although the charge was slower, weaker, and less certain. This time he was not surprised or angry when he failed. He hardly even noticed the explosion of noise. Mechanically he charged twice more. Each had less vigor than the one before. Then he simply stood, breathing heavily, staring at his tormentor bewildered, confused, and afraid.

And one shall start up at the voice of a bird,

And the daughters of music shall be brought low;

Also, when they shall be afraid of that which is high,

And terrors shall be in the way . . .

The opponent who controlled his destiny turned his back to him and walked proudly to the side of the arena. He was now alone, tired, hurting, and defeated. The other was gone but a moment. When he nodded to the crowd and returned, the giant sensed the inevitability of the situation and the futility of the struggle. Ages ago the outcome had been decided, but he would not make it simple. Courage, bravery, and honor had shaped his life; now they would shape his end.

A good name is better than precious oil;

And the day of death than the day of one’s birth,

. . . For that is end of all men.

His strength had been drained; his might had waned; but the courage remained. Although the pain surged through his body, he held his head as high as possible and attacked once more. His lungs and frame aching, he charged

again, but with his head ever so slightly lower. Each charge was less powerful. Each time his head drooped lower. He paused again, and then, by reflex, charged for the final time.

And the dust returneth to the earth as it was,

And the spirit returneth unto God who gave it.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,

And striving after the wind.

On his final charge a sharp, searing pain entered deep into his body. He stood still, silent, trying to breath, trying to summon enough energy for one more charge. Time hung suspended. The pain lessened. His vision blurred.

Then there was nothing.