Inn-By-The-Bye Stories-7

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 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 available; and so I bring them to book form fifty at a time.
The cover drawing was done by Anne Sullivan, the authors daughter.
The drawing is the artists conception of Carymba sitting upon the Rock at the end of the Way Down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524618957

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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© 2016 William Flewelling. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 07/19/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1896-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1895-7 (e)

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Contents

Foreword

CCCI

CCCII

CCCIII

CCCIV

CCCV

CCCVI

CCCVII

CCCVIII

CCCIX

CCCX

CCCXI

CCCXII

CCCXIII

CCCXIV

CCCXV

CCCXVI

CCCXVII

CCCXVIII

CCCXIX

CCCXX

CCCXXI

CCCXXII

CCCXXIII

CCCXXIV

CCCXXV

CCCXXVI

CCCXXVII

CCCXXVIII

CCCXXIX

CCCXXX

CCCXXXI

CCCXXXII

CCCXXXIII

CCCXXXIV

CCCXXXV

CCCXXXVI

CCCXXXVII

CCCXXXVIII

CCCXXXIX

CCCXL

CCCXLI

CCCXLII

CCCXLIII

CCCXLIV

CCCXLV

CCCXLVI

CCCXLVII

CCCXLVIII

CCCXLIX

CCCL

Appendix  Texts For The Stories

About the Author

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

The Buoyancy Of Unsuspected Joy

To Haunt The Clever Sheer Of Grace

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers

Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection

A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers

For Your Quiet Meditation

A Fourth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

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, 3, 4, 5, 6

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

This rough equivalent of a seventh year of writing the stories refreshes me. I find it is ever a re-revealing process of discovering the characters and finding the qualities that make up the varied life of Hyperbia – from the Borders and Apopar to the South of the Great River, to the Plain, The Commons, Uiston, the Fields, the Fringe going North with the Hills and Crossed Hills to the East, along with the Beach along the Sea. I find again and again that my geography of Hyperbia is linked to the passages that often take place, with a certain degree of hand-waving ambiguity about the rest, named and left as open ended.

I wrote this set of stories the year I was 42. I re-type these stories this Spring and early Summer as a man of 70. I had known my grandfather into his 80s – he died at 85 in 1973, just as I was entering ministry – and recall his comments the last few years that he was tired. I can appreciate that better now. I had watched with people growing old and dying as a part of my ministry; from 1981 through 1998 I averaged 16 funerals a year and had my share of nursing home patients for whom I was entrusted with their pastoral care. So I was aware of the age issue – and find it again in a different way as the age comes back to me as more and more my own.

I recall falling in love with my characters as they spun out their lives bit by bit for me … and for my readers as the stories came out at the rate of about 50 per year. I find my affection remains, and the way the ideal still rises to the surface against the grating of the aggravating story by story. There remains in the land of Hyperbia the sense that Missus Carney and Carymba, of the better lights of Thyruid and Marthuida, of Clyde and Geoffrey, of Mary at the Flower Shop and the rest are most real. In the light of the course of human history, that reality seems to me to be affirmed in the gospel and in the resonance of the gospel in the hearts of people. Most of us seem to find some trace of our best at the most surprising of times.

I remember a woman calling me sweetheart not long after being an active part in a difficulty-wreaking core of people. It felt strange at the time, and has always been there as an odd barb. Hyperbia reminds me that it may be more real than the rest. And so I find myself oddly content.

I hope you find these stories, a seventh set out of a projected twenty three, tantalizing to your imagination, as they remain to mine.

William Flewelling

CCCI

The long hot mugginess was relieved, giving the wee folk a brief respite from the unusual Summer. Everybody had become a little grumpy. No one had slept well for some time. Every movement seemed to press against the world. And the land, dripping wet, squished back. And so this sudden change felt particularly inviting. The level of busyness, or apparent busyness increased dramatically. The wee folk were rousing themselves, for their activity no longer (at least for now) half-drowned them in humidity and heat. Of course, they did not completely respond; the burden of the past lingered in their tiredness. They wanted to rest, now that rest could be more than wallowing in listlessness. But they felt, almost every one of them, that now they could do something, and they should. Thus there was a grumbling bustle in Hyperbia, swarming with painted smiles and a forced eagerness, all pulling against the real desire simply to sleep.

Within the jostling of the day of relief, there came impressively the sturdy, erect stature of Geoffrey. His coat was pressed. His pants were creased. His ascot posed perfectly in place. And his spats shone, spotless. He walked and glanced about as if there were nothing to bother him at all; and that really should be true for everyone else as well. He would admit, if asked, that the cooler, fresher smell in the air was more than pleasant – a true relief from what this Summer had imposed thus far. He would be very glad to do all of that. But now, as even in the worst of the worst of the hot spell, the muggiest weather, he insisted that a man be properly attired, be alert and active, erect and energetic. He was trained to that formality, and even the ease of the Inn-by-the-Bye could not wilt him in that earnest eagerness. The shadowy image of Sir James of Cumberland always seemed to haunt the proud corners of Geoffrey’s mind. Now, Geoffrey was always kind and generous of opinion toward those who would not survive in his formal attire. He was never less than wholly gracious; but people always wondered about that hat and the incessant formal grace he bore.

Today was no exception. As Geoffrey walked, he smiled; his eyes glistened; he nodded politely to everyone he met. He was about some business, everyone was sure. For everyone else was on a chore today. They would be sleeping otherwise. But Geoffrey had no chore yet today. He was out looking for a likely spot to do something helpful. Not very much was suggesting itself, so he simply walked onward, looking fresh and lively, exchanging greetings face by face, and ignoring the low grumbles which came behind his back from all the wee folk who were not wanting to be really happy today. Geoffrey was just more than they wished! He acted as if he were happy! But Geoffrey was not going to let the back-door grousing bother him; he knew it was a good release for all those folk. It made them feel better about doing chores on a day like today.

Geoffrey’s meanderings brought him down the path along the Fields. Just as he came by Mary’s flower shop, moving sprightly, with a bouncing step and smiling face, he met Guerric and Mahara. Guerric was droopier than usual. Mahara was tired and unusually irritable. Geoffrey thought quickly that Mahara was not usually bothered by the heat; she had always responded well, a factor he attributed to her Gypsy blood. Geoffrey smiled softly, slightly. ‘Good Morning’ he offered in a balanced, not overly gleeful tone. Guerric muttered something about his tool box being awfully heavy, so heavy that his arm felt like it would fall off. To that complaint, Geoffrey gave a sympathetic glance, but did not lose the soft smile which insisted on being on his face. For her part, Mahara was simply angry. She didn’t know why, and it didn’t matter why. She was angry and that was enough for her. She scowled at Geoffrey, her hands upon her hips. Her eyes seemed to blaze. Even Geoffrey stepped back half a pace. But he did not waver; such would be unthinkable in his trade.

For Mahara, Geoffrey was just as unthinkable. It was nothing he did, of course. But the times had added up on her. She was busy. She was tired. She was so recently hot; and the relief merely accentuated her weariness. And Geoffrey had the audacity to stand there and be pleasant. He could stand there and be collected, even though he too had been hot. He could stand there and look as fresh as anything while the whole world was tired. She was angry at him, now, angry and spiteful. She clenched her fists at her sides. Her olive tones emitted the rouge of rage. Her dark eyes were sparkling with ice. She began to release her anger in her words. Guerric looked at her with tired eyes, surprised by the whole thing. He was far too weary to undergo such a strain. And Geoffrey somehow understood as foul and fatigued words flew around him; he stood there, erect and creased, polished and tender, letting all that rage fall about his feet, a clutter he treated as being quite ignorable.

Mary came out on her stoop, amazed at the whole affair. She too was recently hot and now tired. Her feet were bare, as they had been for days. Her hair was ill-kept, somewhat of a mess. Her mouth hung open while Mahara continued to rant and rave. But Geoffrey noticed her just enough to wave lightly, acknowledging that she was there and protesting that all was going well enough. For now, he was just listening. Mary, for her part, sat down on the stoop and watched. Guerric sat his tool box on the ground and sat down on it himself. Mahara continued complaining bitterly that the world was going badly, that she was tired, that there really ought to be some sense in all of this.

Mary was beginning to stir, finding sitting on the porch uncomfortable. But she couldn’t decide who was aggravating her the most. Was it the insistent Mahara, with the clenched fists, the white knuckles, the ruddy face, the new sweat making her long hair stringy, the hoarsening voice of complaint and the dagger eyes? Or was it Geoffrey, who stood there smiling softly, a gentleman’s gentleman still? Or could it be the yawning, waiting Guerric, who did nothing to interpose, nor to defend either one? Or was it herself? Mary stopped there and sat very still for a while. For was it her place to do something? What could she do? There was no stopping Mahara, as far as she could see. Guerric wasn’t about to try. Geoffrey stood there with too much of a polite strain (it seemed to her). And Mahara was looking far from real collapse. At last Geoffrey waved at Mahara and looked to Mary; Mahara was so surprised she stopped speaking, released her fists and panted for breath. Geoffrey spoke: ‘Could you get me a lovely flower?’ He spoke to Mary.

Nodding, Mary got up and went inside. She soon returned with a lovely flower. Geoffrey took it and said ‘thank you’. Then he gave to Mahara. ‘Here: you need this. Hold it gently, for it is fragile. But if you are careful, it will sustain itself for a while, and be beautiful’. Mahara took it. Her long fingers were sweating and trembling, but she held it with all the gentleness she could summon.

Looking at the three of them, Geoffrey said: ‘I think we all need some tea’. Before he could mention the Inn-by-the-Bye, Mary said: ‘I have some almost ready. Why don’t you all join me?’ Geoffrey nodded again: ‘Thank you, Mary’, and escorted them all into the Flower Shop.

19 July 1987

CCCII

The night had not been very good for sleeping. Only an insistent weariness dragged the eyelids closed for a while. But then, time after time, the eyelids creaked open again as the weight of the close, hot, muggy night pressed the comforts of sleep aside. After such a sweat-logged false-sleep, Eliza gave up as the sky first began to fade toward a still distant dawn. She gave up trying to lie down in comfort. She gave up sprawling in moist malaise. She gave up the fantasy of sleep. And she dragged her way out of bed, peeling the sheet from her back. Thus, out of discontent, Eliza prepared for the day to come meet her.

Little cooling had come overnight, and what had come merely served to make everything moister than before. Nothing was comfortable. Nevertheless, she dressed and did the necessary preparations of self. The whole affair remained, however, basically unsatisfying. Nothing really settled for her, it seemed. She ate a bit, although she wasn’t hungry; time for rising was to be a time for breakfast. It always had been thus for her. But breakfast today seemed so terribly bland. And it came too early; she should have been sleeping, by rights. But facts distort in unseemly steamy Summer nights. And sleep was now impossible. Her breakfast set was slight, and soon past. Her house became too small for her. ‘I’ll go and take a walk. It must be better outside than in here!’ she declared with more confidence than she had shown elsewhere that day.

Leaving her home in the Hills, Eliza decided she ought to feel pretty, or at least act like she was a pert young lady. So she took up the air and sauntered down to the Way Down, and then toward the Fields down below. Not only did each step make her hotter, however, but it also felt as if each step was taking her into the even hotter air lower in the Hills. ‘What must it be like on the Fields?’ she asked in gasping puffs of breaths. The still air merely swallowed her words and gave no answer. Although the idea of returning up into the Hills, even to her house, even to her own moist bed crept over her; she did not succumb; she remembered instead the wet heat there. She began to find herself lest pert, feeling less pretty, feeling downright glum. At the end of the Way Down, beside the towering rock, she stopped. At first she leaned against the rock, then slid down, so as to sit and wait.

Morose, as it turned out, and sleepily sad, she gazed out and watched the land, the sky. There seemed to be so little reason to think or do most anything. She simply sat and watched the greys soften into tinted blues; a haze gave fuzzy hues to all she saw. And with the brightening quickly came unnatural warming. Eliza sat and sweat, her hopes of fresh finding failing fast.

Against this seductive thought in hand, there came Carymba, hobbling down the path along the Hills. Her silent syncopated pace was unnoticed by Eliza. For Eliza was engulfed in the tiredness of a sleepless night, ended too early for comfort. And Eliza was feeling so very oppressed by her weariness and her warmth, so that nothing was registering in mind at all, least of all after her pretending had fallen aside and she had come to be merely hot and self-unsatisfied. Thus Carymba came before her, standing there gently, cocking her head to the side and studying Eliza’s pitiable frame.

‘Good morning’ said Carymba. Eliza was not quite interrupted yet. Carymba stood upright, her hands upon her hips; she spoke more firmly, with a mixed twinge of rare cheerfulness and stern forcefulness: ‘Good Morning’. The measured syllables came to pound their way into Eliza’s mind, beyond the reluctance of her ears to cooperate. Eliza blinked, and blinked again. She wondered at this figure before her as her eyes came slowly, even reluctantly into focus. At last she answered: ‘Carymba?’ ‘Yes. I am here, and you guessed right on who I am’. ‘Why are you here?’ The words came in a hushed tone, serious and yet confused. Carymba looked at her strangely, ‘reading’ her words. At last she answered: ‘I’m here to see you on a hot and muggy morning. I’m here so we can together discover what it is we ought to do’. ‘Oh’. ‘May I sit with you now?’ ‘Yes. Please do’.

Carymba plopped herself down next to Eliza, looking out from the shade at the bottom of the Way Down, to gaze at the haze which looked as if it streamed upward from the arching blades of drooping green. The Fields seemed to melt upward into the sky, as if drawn that way by the lure of the weather, and of the heat. ‘It looks as if the Fields are rising to the sky as a mist, a haze’ commented Carymba. ‘Why is it that way? You would think that gravity would go the other way’. ‘True: but it looks like a rising’. ‘I think so, too. It’s confusing, I think’. ‘True’. And they fell into another round of silence.

Sometime later, still before the Sun shone on the Fields at all, Eliza began to talk. ‘Could that rising be by the heat? like off a stove or something?’ ‘Or off John’s Foundry’. ‘Yes: I would have to think that working in a foundry would be hot work today’. ‘Personally, I doubt John will be in there today, if he doesn’t have to be’. ‘That is an advantage’. ‘An advantage?’ ‘Yes – to living like we do’. ‘That goes both ways’. ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes. The Foundry works one way. We work another. Sometimes, what we have to do is even less convenient’. Eliza puzzled over that comment – nothing more – and returned to her silent watch of the haze which seemed to rise like steam from the Fields.

The Sun itself was beginning to shine on the far corner of the Fields when Eliza said ‘Morning comes slowly here. That bright Sun will heat these Fields soon. Back in Apopar, there were no Hills, nor Crossed Hills to shade any place. The Sun come and all our huts turned to ovens on days like this. You might as well go out and do something!’ "And so we do here, too. For you and I are both out this morning’. ‘Sure: we are sitting on the ground watching the haze rise and the Sun shine’. ‘You don’t sound too impressed’. ‘No. I can only think that it is better than sticking to damp sheets in bed any longer’.

A shorter silence came and went as Eliza more readily spoke. ‘You said you came to help me discover what we ought to do’. ‘That’s right’. ‘Well, what are you doing to help me?’ ‘I’m letting you help me;. ‘Oh. … Now, what does that mean, anyway?’ ‘It means that we are doing things together’. ‘Now?’ ‘Now’. ‘How?’ ‘Well aren’t we doing something?’ ‘I don’t think so’. ‘What would be doing something?’ ‘I don’t know. We could get up and move and sweat’. ‘Or we could sit here’. ‘We could go to the