By the River's Edge

By Emily Mathews

When Revd Benjamin Westcott accepted the offer to pastor the community church in Millers Run Pennsylvania, he was greeted with many surprises and various people that spoke of simplicity and mystery. From the annual gathering of the town folk to dark secrets of years past, the small town offered many wonders that were hidden in the village for many seasons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468579765

Emily Mathews

Someone will like this simplicity of the text, Author is common in this approach and in person. I’d; like to add to this growing number of authors.

Book preview

By The

River’s

Edge

Emily Mathews

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Emily Mathews. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 4/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7977-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7976-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

32514.jpg

The wind blew against the west side of the building causing a branch from an old oak tree to scrape its side. A tall man went to the back and looked out of the open door. Clouds, dark and thick, danced across the heavens at a high speed. The air felt warm, extremely so for April. The tops of the trees swayed as a steady wind blew from the hills beyond.

He looked around the churchyard. A squirrel ran from one tree, then another. A piece of newspaper raced across the yard before getting caught momentary in a fence, then freeing itself continued its journey to the woods beyond. The man smiled to himself and slowly closed the door. It was time for the service to begin.

*     *     *

The building had a musty smell, the way some old houses get after a long winter of closed windows and doors. Now a half opened window let the cleansing air from outside into the sanctuary ruffling slightly the feathers on Nora Smith’s blue hat.

Revd. Benjamin Westcott sat looking over the small group of people. For the past four weekends he had taken the hour long train ride from Brockton, his hometown, to Miller1 Run to fill the pulpit at the church. He would arrive at 6:30 greeted by the Abrams, John and Emily, and taken to their farm about three miles west of town.

The church building was wooden with white walls and varnished floors. The ceilings were high. High enough for a balcony to be erected nearly twenty years beforehand that stretched across the back, darkening the doorway.

The only stained glass window was in the middle of the back wall, above the balcony, high near the ceiling. Small and oval it allowed in adequate sunlight causing the scene to come to life, lending some measure of comfort to those who bother’1 to notice. A young woman held a baby to her breast. In the background a shadowy figure, its eyes closed, stood nearby. The window had been there for nearly thirty years.

The young man breathed deeply. He still became nervous before he spoke even though he had given many lectures in collage.

The wind began to pick up outside. Deep in the woods a tree snapped as the gale whipped the tops of ancient things that had seen children playing and robed men and women gathered together to offer honor to the moon.

Revd. Westcott sat quietly as the church darkened. The face-seemed to change even though he knew they didn’t, He looked about at the place that would become more than familiar to him as time passed. But for now the newness was fine to him. He glanced at his watch. Another five minutes. he told himself. The time would pass quickly.

In one corner of the podium sat a piano, well used from former pastor’s children pounding away madly to the occasionally gifted but mostly common pianist who led the way on Sunday mornings. It was donated to the church nearly twenty years before by John Simons after his wife passed away.

I have no use for it now. John said. I never learned to play. Helen was quite good though. At least I always thought so. he told Revd. Walkins when he visited his home.

A piano tuner, driving from Salensbury some fifteen miles away, once commented to Revd. Walkins; You should be proud that the church had such a fine piano. Someone was very generous. I have seen less than a handful of this quality.

Although Mr. Simons wasn’t a churchgoer Revd. Walkins told him what the man had said. John merely shrugged his shoulders and gave him a smile.

Late when he was alone, John recalled the sounds he heard from the parlor on lonely winter nights, when the wind raced and the moon was less shy. Now that Helen was gone, her gentle sonata were lost, replaced by quiet and ghostly shadows on the walls.

Outside the church windows, to the left from the pulpits view, the cemetery stretched to the woods beyond.

In 1849 Samuel Myers trudged through the mud the rains of days before causing the open field to become soggy and gloomy. Even so, it seemed to welcome him as he stepped out of the dense mix of oak and pine trees that seemed to stretch forever toward the sky. He carried a shovel, one that his father used to bury his wife and now, as evening neared, he too would use to bury his beloved Catherine. The rains would return and return and continue for hours. His task would take him till dark, the October skies not giving to his cause.

The lantern, the candle still strong, the glass cover still in placed glowed nearby sitting on a small mound that seemed placed there by design. When he finished he walked to the ladder and carried it back to his work. He instinctively lowered it closer to the hole as if that would bring him some sort of pleasure. It didn’t. He turned and started to walk back to the woods he came from, stopping only once to glance at his work. He then continued his journey through the woods and back home.

He and Catherine had been married for nearly thirty three years, their children gone to the west, their time given to the land.

When Catherine died that morning after nearly a month of illness, Samuel laid his head on her breast as they lay in the large brass bed his parents had given them a few years before. He held her for over an hour, the rains returning outside.

He would carry her to the grave site. The cemetery had begun.

*     *     *

It was the fourth week in a row he filled the pulpit. The past week he was asked to step outside when the church hour ended. He walked down the short flight of steps that led into the churchyard that held several large oak trees that were there long before the church was even thought of. He sat under one, his mind drifting to far away places. He still lived with his parents when he received the call from the church secretary inviting him to speak at the church. It had been nearly a year since he had graduated from a small Bible college in Vermont.

As he sat under the tree a train rolled east bypassing the small train station just north of town. A squirrel raced up one side of a nearby tree, then with the same sense of urgency hurried down the other side to the ground that held acorns and cracked corn that had been placed there by someone young.

He listened to the train whistle in the distance, the train rattling along on the same common tracks that he had ridden on for his journey from Brocton to Miller’s Run. He was always greeted by the Abrams, Jim and Helen, and taken to their farm. There he was given ham and chicken dinners and a place to stay in the guest room.

But now on that early April afternoon, the air now calm and gentle, he knew his fate was being decided in the little white church. He tried not to think about it.

The squirrels seemed to become even more active as if sensing that the long winter was past, replaced by children laughing along river banks and the sound of farmers laboring in corn fields. He, like countless others, longed to free himself from the haunting quiet of winter evenings.

He sat for nearly twenty minutes only occasionally glancing at the church. Then the door slowly swung open, the inside of the church looking almost dark from where he sat.

Deacon Mitchell stepped from the gloom onto the small platform, He smiled as Revd. Westcott looked his way. Without saying a word he merely nodded his head, the meeting now over. When the young man stood before the small gathering Deacon Mitchell walked to his side and extended his hand.

You are our new minister young man. he said as the congregation applauded.

*     *     *

A woman began to play the piano. He noticed that the singing left something to be desired during his time of filling the pulpit but that was often the case in small congregations. He looked out the window to his left. The church graveyard looked cold and abandoned, the only sigh of life, a giant maple tree starting to bud. He thought of the changing seasons, from springs new birth to colors and growth. He imagined himself growing, if not old, then maybe more mature with the lone tree outside the shaded window. Elizabeth Stuart smiled when she caught his glance.

He looks so young. she thought.

Usually before services he would sit quietly or go over his sermon notes but today his mind went back to the day before. It was the fourth time he had made the train ride from Brocton to Miller’s Run. Each time he would spend the hour reading or looking at the scenery as train 58 lumbered through the country side. Trees lined the railways running basically level until they reached the Miller’s Run area when it started its climb to the top of a hill and the river that weaved through most of it. The incline gave a roller coaster effect to the otherwise calming ride. On each trip he would brace himself for the slow climb and quicker decent culminating in pulling into the Miller’s Run train station.

The trees were showing signs of life more so each week as they climbed up the windy path. Revd. Westcott sat forward slight and looked about. The river was becoming more visible as it ran for miles past houses and farms, past the church and on through the val1ey.

He noticed that most of the passengers were familiar from the previous weeks, probable frequent travelers from Brocton if not before that. There was one however who sat directly in front of him, that he hadn’t seen before. He was an older man who spent most of the trip writing in a notebook, only occasionally glancing out of a nearby window. Then he would return to his work

The carriage felt somewhat stuffy, Revd. Westcott thought as they continued their descent. When they reached to bottom of the hill the old man jerked his head in the direction of the window, his eyes narrowing as if straining to see something specific in the sea of pine and oaks that stretch over the land. Revd. Westcott looked in the same direction but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

As the train returned to more level ground, the old man again lowered his eyes to his notebook and began writing rapidly.

The piano-player stopped playing and his eyes left the church yard returned to the sanctuary, graced with sunlight. Golden strands of light with swirling figures stretched out just beyond the windows then disappeared as they went into the room. The people sat contentedly as he 1ookedoverthe gathering of families and, in some cases, singly elderly men and women. He stood and walked slowly to the pulpit. He breathed deeply and smiled slightly.

It’s my pleasure to be here once again. he began as a breeze blew through the open windows.

That was a thoughtful message. You gave me something to think about. Janet Myers said as she shook his hand.

‘‘Well thank you. I hope I can help in some way while I am here."

She smiled and made her way out of the door and into the 1arge churchyard.

The congregation filed out, shaking his hand and offering encouragement and, in some cases, quiet recognition that the process was over and the young man would be their pastor, at least for awhile.

They all stepped onto the small porch and into the cool but pleasant yard that was bathed with shadows and shade. It wouldn’t be long till the church common would be bathed in sun light and the warmth of summer.

When he thought the church was empty, and watching the faithful gather in small groups outside the church building, he turned and walked into the empty vestibule and then into the now barren sanctuary. When he thought he was alone he saw the solitary figure near the front. She began to walk from row to row picking up stray bulletins and whatever else that may be laying on the f1oor.

I can’t stand clutter. she said simply when she noticed that she was being watched.

I can do that later. I’ll have plenty of time I have a feeling. Revd. Westcott offered.

I always go around the church after services. I have for as long as I can remember. she said.

She gave him a stern look, like a mother gives her child when disciplining them.

By all means Revd. Westcott said with a smile. Lizzy isn’t it?

Yes, Lizzy James. We haven’t been formally introduced. It seems you always take off soon after the service.

I’ve been going to the Abrams farm after church. Since I don’t have a car right now I leave when they do. They decided to stay for awhile today. he said gesturing slightly toward the door and the churchyard beyond.

Lizzy gave him a wry smile. She instinctively reached up and patted her hair that was pulled neatly into a bun, a style she had assumed years before and hadn’t changed.

So you will be moving in soon? she said as she began to walk toward him.

Yes, in fact Mr. Myers is going to show me the parsonage tomorrow. You would have thought that I would have walked to it by now but I haven’t. But I leave with the Abrams, like I said before.

Well you’ll have plenty of room. Lizzy said. The church was lucky to get the old place. There is quite a story behind all of that.

You’ll have to tell me about it some time. I’m sure we will be seeing each other alot.

Oh I imagine we will. I always become close to our minister I have more time than most.

Mr. Myers walked slowly up the small flight of steps turning to wave good-by to Harriet Mills. He then walked into the church. I will see you at about 9 o’clock in the morning. I know you have a train to catch." he said when he saw Lizzy and Revd. Westcott.

"9:00 will be fine although my train doesn’t leave till late in the afternoon.

Very well then. Herbert said. That will give us plenty of time to look at the old place.

Lizzy and I were just talking about the parsonage. I understand that it is quite a place.

Oh yes. We were fortunate to get the house. It has held up well over the years. Very little maintenance really.

Good. Revd. Westcott said, laughing. I really am not that handy.

I’m not either Herbert said. But we have Jim Myers who’s pretty good. If something goes wrong he is the guy we call first. Fortunately not too much goes wrong."

That’s good news. Revd. Westcott said simply. Herbert smiled. ‘‘Alright I really should be going. I think the Mrs. has some plans for this afternoon. I’ll see you in the morning.

That sounds good. I’ll be ready.

With that, offering a nod he turned and walked out of the church into the warm of the April sun.

I must be going as well Lizzy said. I was If thinking, would you like to come over for dinner this evening. I have been told that I am a pretty good cook.

Well thank you Lizzy but the Sanstroms invited me to their farm this evening for supper. I am sure that we will see plenty of each other as time goes on.

Then I will be on my way. You have a pleasant afternoon preacher.

With that she left not choosing to use the handrails on the steps and, like the others, made her way into the sunlight, stopping once to talk to Milly Thompson, then continued to the parking lot. Then she stopped. Quickly she turned and walked back to the church. Revd. Westcott stood in the doorway.

You know preacher she said not bothering to climb the stairs. Perhaps you would like to see the village. It shouldn’t take more than an hour at the parsonage. We have a nice little diner in town. We could have lunch there. That is if you don’t mind being seen with an old lady."

The sun made her hair sparkle in a mixture of dark and grey. You are persistent Lizzy. He paused. But I would be glad to. It will make for a full day.

Fine then. You just turn down the lane and head for town. I live in the first house as you enter the village. White with dark shutters.

With that she turned and walked again to the parking lot.

I woke up early. Revd. Westcott said. I guess I must be a little anxious this morning.

Nothing wrong with that young man. It’s a big step in any one’s life. He chuckled slightly.

Try getting married for the first time when your fifty years old

He laughed a hearty laugh which seemed to come from deep inside.

I think you are going to like the house, he continued. It really has a bit of history and even a little mystery as well.

With that he turned quickly and started to walk. Revd. Westcott followed.

They walked in silence for the most part, Herbert walking quickly as if to show the young man that he could more than keep up.

They walked past the front of the church and down the west side of the church into the graveyard. Herbert paused for a moment when he came to a large headstone that stood out in the front section of the yard.

This is my grandmother and grandfathers graves. he said turning toward the young man. I remember them well even though it has been years since their passing.

He gazed at the tombstones as if it was the first time he had seen them. Then he began to walk again, continuing his steady gate past the epitaphs and markers that carried names unfamiliar to the young minister. When they came to the end of the churchyard they walked into the woods on a small but well worn and cared for path. In a matter of moments it seemed they were in the backyard of the parsonage. The land stretched for nearly ten acres with more land to the right of the house than to the left. Each side was bordered by tall trees. A small shed sat along the tree line to their right. Otherwise the large house stood alone, the lawn uncluttered.

It’s quite a large house isn’t it? Revd. Westcott offered.

It is that. A lot of people are surprised when they see it for the first time. I guess it doesn’t fit well into the idea of a parsonage for a small parish.

He walked forward slightly then slowly started to move to his right before stopping again. They both looked at the house at the same time. It stood with its small clinging outdated shutter and a slate roof that seemed to defy time. The wooden panels that surrounded the eaves were ageing and needed painting soon.

The gables that reached heavenward were beginning to fade from their original dark gray. The back of the house looked plain with several windows lined in a row with a door in the center of the building from their vantage point, a corner of the large front porch could be seen.

It looks rather old but in good condition. Revd. Westcott said.

Oh yes, it’s a good strong building alright. Of course it’ been here for some time. Has quite a history as well as I’m sure all buildings do at that age.

Slowly he began to walk to the utility shed. The young man followed glancing at the house that soon would be his home.

Just before they got to the shed Herbert walked into the wood again.

"I see there is more than one way to get to the parsonage from the church.

I just wanted you to see this. The young people of the church have maintained this path for quite some time. They take it upon themselves to keep it cleared and as you can see have lined the edges with rock.

Small rocks, all similar in size, bordered the sides of the path that was wide enough for two people to walk side by side.

Sometimes, Herbert continued, when the weather is good they will go down by the picnic area and the river but for some reason f i e 1 d appeals to most of them. Mrs. Fryer, God bless her, takes her Sunday school class there.

He paused looking at the path that was graced with dark shadows and glimmers of sunlight.

They keep the path in good shape, don’t you think? he said as they looked at the path that was straight before, turning sharply to the right and out of sight.

They do a fine job indeed. Revd. Westcott said as a squirrel raced not far from them across the path and ran up a tree.

Later Revd. Westcott would learn that the path would go back straight veering just once sharply to its right before entering the large field that was lined with towering trees. The winter before had left the field barren. Even in the misty mornings of summer the field