An Apology for Autumn by David Turrill

In Saginaw, they knew Herkimer by name in the emergency room of Holy Cross Hospital. At one time or another, over the next five years, he was a visitor there at least once annually. He dropped a pair of pruning shears on the foot that had been spared the rake and the anchor. He drove an awl through his hand while attempting to punch a hole through an old, leather belt. A cooking fork, camouflaged in dirty dishwater, found its way into his wrist. The neighbor's dog, a German Shepherd with the innocuous name of Heidi, bit his forearm to the bone when he tried to release it from the rope-leash in which it had become ensnarled. Then, of course, there was the arrow through his head. These were only a few. Even though the piercings occurred gradually over several decades and were often not (unlike the arrow) sensational, they were no less authentically and lethally relevant to the fulfillment of Herkimer's calling than the sufferings of any other martyr. It just takes some men of God a little longer to get nailed, that's all.

The remarkable thing about them, other than their frequency, is that they were all 'piercings'. I can't remember my brother ever suffering, as most of us do, from a burn, a sprain, or any cut or scratch that didn't drill a hole. I don't think that he was ever sick with the flu or ptomaine or even a cold. As Ginny and I sat with him in the emergency room during one of his innumerable visits, a young nurse who was new to Holy Cross went through a long questionnaire with him regarding his health history.
"High blood pressure?" she asked.
"No," he responded as the blood from his latest wound dripped onto the tile floor.
"Ulcers?"
"No."
"Scarlet Fever? Mumps? Chicken Pox?"
"No."
"Measles? Pneumonia?"
"No."
"Mr. Gudsen." She addressed him that way even though he was still under eighteen. "Have you ever had any illnesses?"
Herk smiled at her in that way of his, that innocent way that made you want to strangle him and love him at the same time. "I guess I've been pretty lucky," was all he said. At the time, the physician on duty was extracting a ballpoint pen from his left hand proving, in a most unique way, the inferiority of the sword.

When God spoke to him, Herk never doubted that it was the penetrating, incisive voice of authenticity. The piercings, he believed, were both preparation and fulfillment, episodes in a continual suffering that would, if you'll excuse the pun, guide Herkimer Gudsen's uniquely holy life.