Inn-By-The-Bye Stories - 2

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504924276

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.

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Contents

LI

LII

LIII

LIV

LV

LVI

LVII

LVIII

LIX

LX

LXI

LXII

LXIII

LXIV

LXV

LXVI

LXVII

LXVIII

LXIX

LXX

LXXI

LXXII

LXXIII

LXXIV

LXXV

LXXVI

LXXVII

LXXVIII

LXXIX

LXXX

LXXXI

LXXXII

LXXXIII

LXXXIV

LXXXV

LXXXVI

LXXXVII

LXXXVIII

LXXXIX

XC

XCI

XCII

XCIII

XCIV

XCV

XCVI

XCVII

XCVIII

XCIX

C

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

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

vol. 1

all published by AuthorHouse.com

FOREWORD

As these stories unfolded, beginning in the early 1980s (this volume covers late 1982 through July 1983), they appeared week by week. Each story served its primary purpose at the time, that of offering a sort of fairy tale reflection on the text from which I was going to preach the next Sunday – or those extra services that arise from time to time. As a result, they served my purposes and went into the file, offered to whatever readers may appear in the congregation – there were some readers from year to year. The memory of the collected and advancing awareness of Hyperbia and of the characters involved fed forward into the continuing collection of a useful series.

The result of this is that the stories were largely never consulted by the author after that initial usefulness. Now, in my retirement and nearly a decade after the stories stopped flowing for me, I am having the delight of revisiting them from the perspective of a much longer memory than these could ever have imagined at the time.

As I was working on this collection, I came to the story for 1 April 1983. I could tell by the sequence of dates that this was for a Good Friday Service and grew curious as I typed just what my text was behind the story. So, I paused and worked up the appendix to this volume somewhat earlier than I had expected to do. The result was I did learn that my text for that story was the Seven Last Words of Christ (Mark 15:34; Luke 23:34, 43, 46; John 19:27, 28, 30). I commented to myself: Aha! and proceeded with my typing. I encourage the use of the appendix in conjunction with the stories – if only because it helps expand the appreciation of what is being said.

I have been so enjoying this revisitation of these stories and the evolution of the view of Hyperbia and the acquaintance with these characters. I grow ever more appreciative of how much they helped me over the years.

I hope you enjoy this visitation as well.

William Flewelling

LI

Grey skies hung low over Hyperbia, softened only by the valiant efforts of the sun to lighten the day. The heavy clouds muted the sun’s efforts strongly, drawing a heavy greyness up tight around the Inn-by-the-Bye. Thyruid looked out the window across the Commons, snuggled gingerly under the dense cover of the low-hung sky. His eyes peered around and around the still, muffled landscape; and he sighed at the visions of winter which lay ahead. ‘At least it is not cold yet’ he mumbled to himself.

Turning back to the Inn-by-the-Bye’s dining room, he thought of the lamps. The grey-toned out of doors left a deeply shadowed dining room. His freshly polished brass ware needed some light upon it if it was to glow. A light began to flicker in one corner; then another joined along a second wall; then the center lamp, hanging from the ceiling, added its glow. Thyruid had moving about, lighting his lamps, yet leaving them low. Now, the prized brass work, Benito’s best, responded with its deep, rich glow to warm the entire room.

Seated at his customary seat, sipping his piping hot coffee, staring blankly into the yawning blackness of the fireplace sat Clyde, pondering the heavy grey which even those lamps had trouble shoving back, out of the dining room. From the corners of his eyes, Clyde could see the gentle bloom of the lamp and the responding spark of the brass. Wrapped all around that soft promise clung the over-hung grey-drab from the sky. Today, the clouds in their thick heaviness had established the mood of even the Inn. On such things as these, Clyde pondered aimlessly.

Upstairs, an inner clock had roused Geoffrey from his slumbers. When he wedged one eye open, the dull day was barely able to cut through the shrouds of resistant slumber to convince the gentleman’s gentleman to rise. And so he slumped back under his covers, closing his eyes against what seemed to be a premature awakening. That inner clock, however, persisted; the next time the clock insisted, two heavy eyes propped themselves semi-open – somehow. Against the force of his best guesses, he stirred his slumber-ridden body out of bed. He stretched out the wrinkles of the night and caught his balance to keep from crumpling back into bed. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Geoffrey labored to bring his eyes into focus; for all his efforts, the world he perceived remained grey. In spite of the testimony of his slowly sharpening eyes, Geoffrey began to get ready to face the day.

A short while later, Geoffrey was ready; he descended the stairs to join his friends in the dining room. There he came, as neat as ever, into the grey-mantled island of soft light. Looking out a window, Geoffrey asked: ‘Is it getting foggy out there?’

Thyruid looked up, and so did Clyde. Studying the universal pall beyond the window panes, they decided that some fog may be coming. But then again, it could be that the clouds were just coming down to wrap up all the world of Hyperbia.

Geoffrey sat down in his corner and awaited his breakfast. Clyde returned to his gazing into the yawning blackness of the fireplace. Unthinkingly, he yawned in return. Thyruid looked at his lamps and wondered if he should turn them up higher, to keep back the shades. Marthuida soon emerged from her kitchen with tea and biscuit and jelly. When Geoffrey broke open his biscuit, the steam and aroma rose into a welcoming grey tinge. Thyruid did turn up the lamps a bit, one by one; the grey retreated into the corners, hiding and waiting its turn.

Out of the deepening shadow-land came footsteps upon the porch. The door opened and in came Guerric, alone and carrying his tool box. He set the box under the empty coat rack, stretched his back into shape and shuffled to his table near the doorway. ‘May I have some coffee while I wait, Thyruid?’ ‘Just a minute, Guerric. Who are you waiting for?’ ‘Mahara: she said she would meet me here mid-morning. And here I am. That fog is getting worse instead of better. It is almost as if the sun gave up for today.’ ‘Here.’ ‘Thanks, Thyruid … ah! that tastes good.’

Thyruid shuddered a bit and went around again, turning up the lights one by one, keeping the greyness back in the corners, where it hovered, waiting.

Again, there came footsteps upon the porch, announcing that visitors were imminent, coming out of the shrouded world. The door opened to admit two guests, the expected Mahara and the flower seller, Mary. The men turned to watch their entrance as the light from the lamps brushed away the lingering paste of the fog from their faces. The grey did have drops condensed in their hair, drops which exploded the lamp light into miniature rainbows, casting a splendor around the women’s heads as they entered and sat down with Guerric. Thyruid brought Mary some tea and Mahara a cup of black coffee.

Again, the door opened, this time to admit Carymba. Closing the door behind herself, Carymba brushed away the clinging air and moved into the dining room. Smiling around, she walked over to Geoffrey and spoke softly. Geoffrey listened, drained his tea cup and reached for his ever-ready hat. Carymba straightened and hobbled over to Clyde, interrupting his return yawn in the direction of the fireplace. A couple whispered words and Clyde drained his coffee, stood up and adjusted himself. Mahara and Mary had finished their drinks and brought Guerric with them, joining Carymba, Geoffrey and Clyde.

Guerric paused: ‘Oh, Thyruid, may I leave my tools here for a bit? I’ll be back for them.’ ‘Sure. And they will be there when you return.’ ‘Thanks’ he called and closed the door behind him, leaving Thyruid in the dining room alone. The Innkeeper looked around and turned up the lamps once more, just for himself.

Silently, the train of wee folk moved across the Commons, Carymba setting a steady, relentless pace through the enfolding cloud. Carymba led. Then came Geoffrey, almost beside her. Mary and Mahara kept close behind, swishing their way through the fog. Clyde and the panting Guerric followed the sound of the swishing, for the fog swallowed the sound more slowly than any sight. Mostly, the wee folk traveled by memory, for they could not see.

After moving along paths and climbing into the Crossed Hills, the train reached a porch. They knew they were there when they stepped up and found the porch where memory said it should be. The door opened to them and they entered. Behind them, the door closed, cutting off the flow of omni-present grey. Carymba offered Old Mother Hougarry a bouquet of flowers: ‘I noticed them by the path. They will set nicely on your table.’ ‘Thank you, Carymba. You have learned your act well.’ Mary had not seen anything, nor had any of the others. ‘Shall we have dinner?’ asked the hostess as the warmth of her presence melted away once more the grey of the day, inside and out. ‘May I help?’ offered Geoffrey. ‘Just sit down; all is prepared.

29 August 1982

LII

Breakfast was past, except for Geoffrey, of course. Lunch was still off in the future a bit. The late Summer morning lay pleasantly all around the Inn-by-the-Bye. Marthuida slipped out by the back door, looking out on the area beaten down by the energy and size of Yves and Betsy. From the trees far, far overhead came the shade of leaves, broken up in flickering patches by speckled light. Marthuida pulled over a stool and sat down in the doorway to enjoy it all for a while – until Geoffrey should come down and make it time to get his breakfast ready to serve.

Watching the light dance, breathing deeply the warming morning air, Marthuida ran both hands back through her hair, pulling off the kerchief she had used to tie back her hair. Holding the cloth in her hand, she shook her hair free; it danced in the air, showing forth a thick luxury, the dark layers now well sprinkled with strands of pure white. She felt good, relaxing for a few moments.

As Marthuida leaned against the doorpost, laying her head back against that support, her eyes closed and her kerchief in her hand lay upon her apron-ed lap, she did not notice the movement up the path. Had Yves or Betsy been bouncing up the path from the Great Dome, where they live, she would have noticed the trembling earth and thundering crashes from the running feet upon the beaten path. But this visitor was Carymba, hobbling slowly up the hill. When Carymba saw Marthuida at rest, she paused and smiled slightly to herself, then continued her climb, coming finally across the depression left by Yves’ customary belly-flop in front of the big back door.

‘Good Morning, Marthuida.’ The words interrupted the dreaming ease of the mistress of the Inn-by-the-Bye. Marthuida sat up suddenly, nearly dropping her kerchief in the process. Flustered at being found not-at-work, she began to stumble for words and grasp for excuses. Carymba glanced down: ‘It really is a lovely day, Marthuida. It is good that we are able to grab a minute to enjoy it so well.’ Marthuida stood up, fingering her kerchief as if she had forgotten what it was to be used for. ‘Perhaps I ought to be getting to work now’ she mumbled, taking the kerchief to once more tie back her hair. ‘What is the pressure?’ ‘I imagine you would like something, at least a cup of tea.’ ‘Ah, Marthuida! Wait a minute. Doesn’t that air smell delightful?’ ‘Yes, of course it does. I have enjoyed it. Now I really need to get busy. It is nearly time for Geoffrey to come down.’ And with that Marthuida returned to her kitchen.

Carymba waited for a moment, then went over and sat on Marthuida’s stool, to enjoy the morning. A leaf floated down over the edge of the open space behind the Inn. The drift downward was lazy, the leaf rocking back and forth on the yielding air-ways as it slipped down to the ground. Carymba watched it fall and then lay against the tufts of tall grass, curled like a saddle, set on edge. The stem of the leaf pointed farther along the edge of the clearing, directly toward a tiny cache of golden blossoms, the sly bursts of precious color peeking from an arched recess in the unkempt grass. The morning was a dreamy one; and Carymba let herself dream.

Thyruid stuck his head into the kitchen from the dining room. He smiled at his wife as she busied herself over nothing much. She glanced at his smile: ‘there are always things that need to be done’ she said. ‘I know. I simply wanted to say ‘hi’. Business is kind of slow today. It’s a good day to relax a bit and enjoy what the day gives us. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw someone else in the kitchen. Half-way, he did; for Carymba was half in, half out of the kitchen, perched upon the stool, dreamily. ‘Good Morning, Carymba’ he added hastily, then slipped back into the dining room. He decided the counter could stand another round of polishing. Carymba had heard just enough to turn and wave as the Innkeeper was backing out of the swinging door.

Carymba continued to enjoy the day. A light breeze had come up, blowing softly into her face, gently pushing back her hair. The air was fresh and sweet to her. She noticed the leaf was fluttering lightly in its place just before she closed her eyes so as to do no more than feel and smell and hear the glories of the morning. Her thoughts went particularly to the arched niche in the grass which housed the drops of gold.

Having come from a place farther down the valley than the Great Dome, Guerric and Mahara climbed toward the Inn-by-the-Bye. They planned, as usual, to go around to the front door. Guerric carried his tool box and Mahara walked along side of him, on the other side, as they came up to the clearing and the remaining imprint of Yves’ excitement over supper. Mahara noticed Carymba in the doorway: ‘Good Morning, Carymba’ she called. Carymba opened her eyes, smiling in return: ‘Good Morning, Mahara. Isn’t this a marvelous day? It feels so pleasant!’ Guerric kept walking in silence. Mahara waved and trotted to catch up with him again. Carymba breathed in the Summer air, as if waiting for it to fill her to overflowing.

Inside, knowing Carymba was sitting in the doorway, seeing her enjoying the day, worked on Marthuida. The past few days kept tumbling over and over again through her mind. They had been turbulent days. The weather had been stormy the week before. And that left mud all over the place, almost as badly as in the wet Spring thaws. People had been on edge, too. The mud didn’t help them any, either. And the way everything seemed to be set on edge at the same time had taken its toll on many people. Clyde had been brooding. Geoffrey was dissatisfied with everything, even himself (although no one else could detect so much as one thread out of place!). She had burned the biscuits twice in one week, an event that never happens. Thyruid had run out of polish and the shipment had been delayed, most likely by mud. Guerric had had problems in his work.

Then Carymba had come in last night and been happy. Nobody appreciated that! She just sat there, trying to talk with Geoffrey and Clyde as ungrumpy! Tension inside is as strong as ever today. Marthuida could hear arguing; Mahara and Guerric and others were mumbling about something, she could not tell what it was. Then Marthuida looked at Carymba in the light of the doorway, and fixed two cups of tea. She carried them to the door, kicking another stool into place. ‘Here’ she said, offering the tea and sitting down. ‘That breeze is lovely’ continued Marthuida as she pulled the kerchief out of her hair again, and smiled.

Mary and Mahara came into the kitchen: ‘May we join you?’ ‘Sure,’ returned Carymba.

Then came Geoffrey, around the outside. After him came Clyde and Guerric and some more, simply curious as to what was happening. Others just left. They all came and stood in Yves’ imprint. Someone even laughed. Carymba sipped her tea and smiled, winking to Marthuida.

5 September 1982

LIII

‘Jerome! Wait for us! … Whew! What do you think of old Peder now?’

‘What do you mean, Jacques?’

‘I mean: that old goat finally gave us a day off. It is about time, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, I imagine we will find a way to spend the day. What do the rest of you say to seeing what Marthuida can throw together for lunch for us … as a party?’

Amid the rumble of the talk, all the men agreed that a Marthuida lunch would be a good idea. Cy offered for the bunch: ‘Marthuida’s lunch is a rare treat for the likes of us.’ ‘Yes indeed: We used to be there more often before Old Peder had us working on the other side of Hyperbia – over in the Fringe where there is hardly anything.’ Charles could not avoid giving room for his sharp tongue.

The laborers began their trek from around the back corner of the Fringe toward a place they could consider more hospitable. Finally, or so it seemed, the Hills rose up beyond the Fields and the men began to turn themselves along the path which led along the foothills. They walked past the crooked trail back to Mrs. Duns little sod house; but they did not know anything about her. They walked on, past the Way Down; but they hardly noticed a path into a place they had never been, nor from a place they had no interest in seeing. They talked together, and laughed together, pointing out for each other’s imaginations the sights and smells of Marthuida’s magic kitchen. The biscuits they saw broke open in steaming splendor, the butter melting into a golden sponge before their eyes. The coffee was rich and smooth, and served in mugs. The lights were low as they gathered about the tables; Thyruid served them quickly, as the old host always did. Long before they reached the ’Y’ to turn around to the Great Rock and to the Commons and then to the Inn-by-the-Bye, these seven men – Charles, Cy, Gregory, Guido, Jacques Jerome and Richard – had their eyes full of impossible dreams. It was a good day for a party.

About the time the traveling, holidaying laborers were passing the Way Down, leaving their laughter and joking together to bounce and dance off the Hills and across the Fields, the Spinners were closing up their shop, also taking a holiday. Chert, Gilbert, Martha and Effie turned quietly from their shop to go to the Inn-by-the-Bye in order to enjoy a quiet