Inn-By-The-Bye Stores - 3

By William Flewelling

In an endeavor to find a fresh way into the scriptural text upon which I would be preaching, I began to develop an imaginary world, populated primarily by wee folk. I found that the characters I developed and the way that they evolved in my mind and on the page served me well as a consideration of how I sensed things happening in the scriptural text at hand. I want to make these stories and the world they represent newly accessible, and so I bring them to book form fifty at a time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504957045

William Flewelling

I am a retired minister from the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) living in central Illinois. Led by a request from Mildred Corwin of Manua OH when I arrived there in 1976, I long developed and led a series of bible studies there and in LaPorte IN and New Martinsville WV. These studies proved to be very feeding to me in my pastoral work and won a certain degree of following in my congregations. My first study was on 1 Peter, chosen because I knew almost nothing about the book. I now live quietly in retirement with my wife of 54 years, a pair of dogs and several cats.

Book preview

© 2015 William Flewelling. 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  10/15/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5705-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5704-5 (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.

Contents

CI

CII

CIII

CIV

CV

CVI

CVII

CVIII

CIX

CX

CXI

CXII

CXIII

CXIV

CXV

CXVI

CXVII

CXVIII

CXIX

CXX

CXXI

CXXII

CXXIII

CXXIV

CXXV

CXXVI

CXXVII

CXXVIII

CXXIX

CXXX

CXXXI

CXXXII

CXXXIII

CXXXIV

CXXXV

CXXXVI

CXXXVII

CXXXVIII

CXXXIX

CXL

CXLI

CXLII

CCXLIII

CXLIV

CXLV

CXLVI

CXLVII

CXLVIII

CXLIX

CL

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

Also By This Author

Poetry

Time Grown Lively

From My Corner Seat

Enticing My Delight

The Arthur Poems

From Recurrent Yesterdays

In Silhouette

To Silent Disappearance

Teasing The Soul

Allowing The Heart To Contemplate

As Lace Along The Wood

To Trace Familiarity

The Matt Poems

Elaborating Life

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers

Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection

A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers

For Your Quiet Meditation

Directions Of A Pastoral Lifetime

Part I: Pastoral Notes, Letters To Anna, Occasional Pamphlets

Part II: Psalm Meditations, Regula Vitae

Part III: Elders’ Studies

Part IV: Studies

Part V: The Song Of Songs: An Attraction

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

This is essentially the third year of the Inn-by-the-Bye Stories. The first year of stories began in late August 1981 and quickly produced a valuable part of my entertaining the scripture on the way toward a sermon. In those years, I generally could afford two weeks of vacation, of the four offered me; that left me fifty Sundays a year and regularly added some extra services to run my annual total over 50, inching me back in the year so that this round of 50 stories ends in the middle of July.

The usefulness of these stories in the first place earned the continuing series. Also, there came to be a regular group of readers whose expressed pleasure over the stories added a secondary encouragement to their continuance.

I came to be quite fond of the Inn-by-the-Bye and Hyperbia in general. The characters came to hold a warm place in my imagination. And the geography came more and more to fill in the niches with a growing familiarity. One reader, becoming frustrated, could not figure out the geography. He had always known where things were; a home town boy almost all his life, he had never experienced learning a place by induction! I was learning the place by induction; my characters led me around and filled in places and created them in my imagination. I am so glad for that, and sorry this one reader could not manage to follow up on such a process of involvement.

I am hoping that you, my readers now, will find the tracing of these people and these places a bit of real enchantment for you. Perhaps, even the scriptures which are listed in the Appendix once more will share in the liveliness of the stories.

William Flewelling

CI

Thyruid looked over his morning work with satisfied approval. Everything did appear pretty decent; he was convinced of that, particularly after he rubbed one spot one more time. Backing away from the brass ware, he watched it glow in the soft dining room light, nodded appropriately, then turned toward the counter at the other end of the room. By luck, he just missed crashing into a chair by turning to his left, the very opposite of his normal habit: Thyruid did not even notice the chair after he missed hitting it. Reaching the counter, Thyruid placed his polish pot and his polishing rag in their hidden place, rubbed his hands cleanish on his apron, as he always did, and sat up onto the familiar stool: it was time for breakfast now.

On schedule, Marthuida emerged from her kitchen, bearing a tray with two mugs of coffee, two plates of biscuits, some butter and some jelly. Expertly, she laid out their breakfast in the usual manner. Finally, having set the tray aside, she herself climbed upon her stool, across the counter from her husband; they began their breakfast once again as they had for longer than they remembered. Each broke open the biscuit. As always, it steamed deliciously; each breathed deeply in the ritual enjoyment of one of life’s good things. A pat of butter was placed upon the crumbly top of each side of the broken biscuits; the gold melted into the textured ridge. A blob of clear purple jelly capped the scene, and each enjoyed the first bite in raptured silence.

Breakfast begun, Thyruid sighed happily and wondered about the unknown day ahead. Both knew the day had come reluctantly, that in place of a dawn there was more of a dismal yawn. With reluctance the black of night gave way to the steel-grey, leaden skies of day; inside the Inn-by-the-Bye, it had made hardly any difference at all. And outside, it was not certain which was less welcome – the faded black or the dismal grey. Ready agreement was found that no one could be certain about business on a day like this. Having reviewed the obvious, they chatted over their breakfast, concerning many things.

No sooner had Thyruid finished his breakfast, wiped his face, and seen Marthuida disappear behind the swinging door with the dishes than Clyde came down. He walked to the usual seat by the unlit fireplace, sat down in the usual way, silently awaiting the mug of coffee which would help him emerge from the remnants of the night before. Thyruid saw him come, nodded and followed Marthuida into the kitchen. A short minute later, he re-emerged with a steaming mug of black swirly liquid which he silently set before his regular guest. Talking time would come later, after the insides had had an opportunity to become aroused.

While Clyde was steeping, the door opened from the overcast Commons to admit Guerric and Mahara. It was breakfast time and they had come to eat, as they were accustomed to do. They sat where they always sat; Thyruid half looked up, smiled and took their customary order to Marthuida who had it started before he arrived. Guerric looked back to the coat rack where he had just set his tool box. The two talked softly over the expectations of the day. Neither had anything special planned. Should they hike over the Plain or should they hang around and be available for handyman chores? That was the content of their talk. And, had it been a lovely day, the hike might well have won the consideration. Given the heavy overcast of the day, they were both rather inclined to stay at home; perhaps a job will surprise them!

Mid-morning found Clyde emerging from his lethargy. Guerric and Mahara were laughing over another cup of coffee while Thyruid chatted along with them. And out of the slumber-land came Geoffrey. As always, Geoffrey was proper and straight; there was not one thread nor hair out of place as he strode in silent confidence toward his accustomed corner seat. (No one else ever sat there – unless it be a pure stranger.) As he was seated erectly, his tea was brought to him. Half a smile and a nod gave his usual expression of gratitude. He sipped slowly, awaiting the biscuit which always followed.

Everything had gone the way it usually happened. There had been no surprises all morning. No one missed them, for everything was comfortably ordinary. All the niches fit into life. At each step, habit and timing gave the possibility of anticipating what would happen next … because it did happen next. No one thought anything about the regular routine which unfolded so flawlessly for the umpteenth time. The only possible blur upon the day was the leaden sky, hung low overhead outside. But that just came to be with the day, and no one paid it much attention; after all, the inside of the Inn-by-the-Bye made an adequate haven from the unseemliness of the day.

Relaxed and at ease, the small crowd mingled and laughed and joked together. The inner warmth matched the polished glow of Thyruid’s prize brass ware. Toward lunch time, the group was swelled by recent additions. Gilbert, Martha, Chert and Effie came in for lunch, declaring a half-holiday and leaving the boiling grey overhead behind the door. Marthuida came in, smiling to her guests, telling Thyruid she had just sent lunch down to the Big Dome with Yves; the weather was getting threatening outside and the children would be safer in their home. John, the Foundry owner, held the door for Mary as they happened into the Inn together. The windows rattled a bit beyond the curtains and the drumming of great rain drops added a syncopated rhythm to the day. For the folk inside the Inn-by-the-Bye, however, everything was casual and pleasurable. In the storm, a fine host, good food and cheerful company secured the day for the friends. The very walls held them together in familiar cheer.

The lunch had come and gone. The dishes had been cleared and cleaned. The group talked lightly together as the rumbling wash flooded down from low hanging masses of grey. The Inn-by-the-Bye received each blow and shook it off. The able host, Thyruid, turned up the lights a bit; it was far too warm for a fire to light the room. The brass ware glowed more deeply yet, as if in humble appreciation for the ready lamps. Outdoors, the wind groaned overhead; the wooded Leaferites’ Hill moaned in response. But inside the Inn-by-the-Bye, all was well. Mary was not even concerned about her flowers as they watched the rain wash over the window in front of their planters. There was no problem; storms come and go. While the wind blows and the rain falls, fair hearts stay inside. That’s all.

Into the secluded comfort came a rain-soaked, wind-blown Carymba. She came as an intrusion at first. The line which had separated the comfortable party from the wild of the storm had not been violated before the limping waif dripped into the Inn, shoving the door back against the wind and rain. The light flickered upon her face, dripping and white, and upon her hair, stringy and drawn in its strawberry blonde, water-soaked forms. Her dress hung wet and clammy to her ankles. Her eyes darted fire; everyone squirmed and Geoffrey came to her, saying: ‘May I help you, Carymba? Some tea, perhaps?’ Her eyes said no. She blew a last drip off the tip of her nose: ‘In a storm, help is necessary, not here but in the Crossed Hills. Who will come with me?’

Geoffrey found his ready hat. Guerric gripped his tool box. Clyde ran for his slicker. Mahara tied her hair back. Mary stepped forward. The others came toward the door, leaving Thyruid and Marthuida to prepare for their late return.

21 August 1983

CII

Morning hung heavy and low over the land of Hyperbia. Its coming found Carymba moving already along the Beach. Darkness had covered her earlier movements from the Crossed Hills and the Hidden Cabin, down the crooked path to the Valley Road, down to the Sea Road and then off to cool her steps in the gentle running of the lapping waves. She carried her sandals as she left soft, tiny, unbalanced prints in the wet sand, prints which the next lap of water began to erase. Forward, and to her left, the sky had lightened to a heavy haze. Now, as step succeeded step, the great orange ball of fire roused itself lazily into the sky. As steps limped along, they were greeted by the regular rhythm of the waves and now by the seemingly pulsating energy of the sun.

Pace after pace, Carymba’s limping gait moved relentlessly onward. Were one to have watched her from the road, the impressions would be one of a solitary soul, walking mechanically along, preoccupied with things far away and oblivious to all the world around her. Her hands hung at her sides, holding her skirts a couple inches above the water. Her gaze was steady, aimed a short distance – about two steps – in front of her steady pace. Carymba, even when preoccupied as she was this heavy-hung morning, was rarely mechanical about anything. And so, as her steps moved her along toward the Great River, her toes also wiggled in the wet sand, and her eyes noticed with a twinkle the trailing bubbles at the edges of the waves before her toes. Though the air draped itself heavily about her, and everything else, the waves continued to dance and play in their gently swelling splashes.

Distances slipped behind her as her steps carried her onward. The sun rose as it always did; the weight of haze through which it had to climb this morning, however, made its rise Promethean in appearance. The horizon seemed to cling to the escaping ball of fury. The sand underneath greeted the wee toes in coolness, only to close behind in wash, eliminating any trace. There was no whisper of her having passed along until, near the Great River, she had to turn and cross the heating Beach. There, sandals returned to shield her feet from the haughty and persistent hotness of the unwashed Beach.

The growth near the Great River soon enclosed the lone traveler. The shade held off the direct assault of the now yellow blaze in the sky. The damp ground underfoot steamed the stilled air through which she had to pass along winding and uncommon pathways. This was no one’s land. The folk across the River did not use it much; for one thing, it was hard to get there from their enclosing homeland beyond the flowing stream. Carymba followed her path to the edge of the Great River. She looked across the way, under the shade of a large, overhanging, heart shaped leaf. The wide river flowed lazily past. Nearby, where she could easily see, the brown water lapped at the shore; she could see a twig and a leaf dance together as the edging current swirled them around then rushed them onward, only to spin them together once more. They caught upon a stone, then broke free and rushed onward again, beyond her view. Out farther, the River seemed to show strain-lines, barely visible, more sensed or guessed than seen until a large branch, broken free far upstream, swept past her, revealing the strong current which shoved all along before it. On the other side, barely in sight, stood another figure, under another long leaf, peering across toward Carymba, looking like the dot of an exclamation mark.

Carymba sighed and began to move along the stream, noting the scum which hung in little pools behind stones and old logs which have broken the River’s insistent surge and given backwash-refuge for debris. A ways along the River’s edge, she looked back to the other bank, where the lone tiny dot remained, watching the free, if limping, motion on this other side of the River. Standing still a moment, Carymba looked at the sky above and knew from the angle of the haze-piercing glare that her friend Geoffrey was about due for tea and biscuits and jelly from Marthuida’s kitchen. He would be sitting back in his usual corner seat, the ever ready hat set upon the table before him. She smiled at the thought of the Inn-by-the-Bye and her friends there. The tiny dot across the way, she thought, had never known that kind of sharing. ’tis a pity I cannot bridge this River to bring … her, I think … home to the Inn.

Turning upstream, Carymba wondered further about that lonesome figure back behind her. She thought of Ol’ Missus Carney in the Borders and Apopar, and the ways she had of moving her threatened folk across the way to a safety she was not seeking for herself. And the child of the Crossed Hills knit her brow in thought as she shuffled along. The free bubbles on the Beach, cast there by lazy wavelets, came up in her memory as she saw again the stagnant pool of another rotting log. Geoffrey’s tea flashed back to mind; it was as if she could smell its pungent odor once more herself. She looked back again; the lone figure was still there, in the sunshine now as the day’s heat came to burden the land more heavily. The current relentlessly shoved its way along, pressing seaward in silent, grim surety.

Around the bend, the lone figure had vanished from sight as Carymba met the fisherman’s hut and tiny sailing craft. Of course, she had seen this place before, a hundred times or more. But there had been no need to look too hard. She stepped more briskly to the door, tapping her syncopated gait upon the porch to pre-announce her arrival. The old, weathered man came and looked at his young and dainty guest. The blue eyes out of a pale and blonde setting met him unprepared with a twinkle and a haunting depth. He had not planned to sail. She toyed with the hint of adventure. He was tired. She was sorry, but it was a day for trial. The weathered face furrowed deeply, the ancient sun-baked wrinkles creasing ever deeper. No. He was not interested. He closed his door and stepped back into his room, alone, once more.

Another knock brought him back, more perturbed than anything else. As he was about to shoo her away, she interrupted: ‘Then may I try to sail it?’ The fisherman looked at her slight figure, the fineness of her bones, the limpy-way she stood even and laughed until fire darted back: ‘No. I will take you.

The tiny boat, wee-folk size, soon cast off to sail upstream, using the ocean breeze, as soft as it was on a heavy morning, to gain an advantage on the rumbling insistence of the Great River. Skimming the slow current quickly, the old man bent his way into the current. Half way across, the River stopped him and pushed him into the breeze … and the breeze in turn swept him across the stream till he cut his rudder and trimmed his sail to rush down the other side and come to be where the lone figure stood, afraid. ‘Come along!’ cried Carymba. ‘Step quickly, mate’ ordered the weathered fisherman.

Looking back, the frightened girl jumped into the boat; strong hands eased her into safety, then turned the boat out to the River’s flow. A touch of sail slowed their surge to the sea and edged them to the other side. By the shore of the Sea, the old man set them ashore. Two sets of steps traced back in the dancing ends of waves as the fisherman moved back up to his River-side home.

28 August 1983

CIII

Mary was having trouble sleeping that night. She had been tired enough at the end of the day, but somehow sleep had not come to ease her. The night was hot; the trickles of sweat tickled as they raced to the dampening bedding underneath. That did not help much. Her eyes were so heavy they ached; but they hung open in an unfocused stare. She lay on her back and stared into the dark ceiling. She flopped to her side and explored the blackness of the wall; then it was the other side, to grope ceaselessly into the emptiness of the room. Finally, she drug herself erect and tottered to the window, to see if any air were moving; it was not moving at all, but hung lazily upon her window sill, laughing (so she imagined) at her wet night gown and her weariness – the drawn cheeks.

The window