Inn-By-The-Bye Stories—11

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 principally by wee folk. I found theythe characters I developed and the way that they evolved in my mind and on the pageserved 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 Eve Sullivan, the authors granddaughter.

The drawing is the artists conception of the Yellow Mud Huts in Apopar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546213147

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

© 2017 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 10/19/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1315-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1314-7 (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

Foreword

DI

DII

DIII

DIV

DV

DVI

DVII

DVIII

DIX

DX

DXI

DXII

DXIII

DXIV

DXV

DXVI

DXVII

DXVIII

DXIX

DXX

DXXI

DXXII

DXXIII

DXXIV

DXXV

DXXVI

DXXVII

DXXVIII

DXXIX

DXXX

DXXXI

DXXXII

DXXXIII

DXXXIV

DXXXV

DXXXVI

DXXXVII

DXXXVIII

DXXXIX

DXL

DXLI

DXLII

DXLIII

DXLIV

DXLV

DXLVI

DXLVII

DXLVIII

DXLIX

DL

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

The Christmas Poems

Life Is Employed

Adrift In Seas Of Strangeness

Composure in Constraint

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

Cantica Sacra

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, 7, 8,

9, 10

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

Letters Pauline And Pastoral: Bible Studies

all published by AuthorHouse.com

FOREWORD

In a sense, Wilbur is the gatekeeper between the troubled life in Apopar and the steadier life on the Plains, in the Commons, the Fields, the Hills, Uiston, the Crossed Hills and all around … even the Fringe, in its way. the Great River is a formidable divide and Wilbur is the boatsman who runs the single and sole ferry service from one side to the other.

That is not to say that Apopar, and the Borders beyond, are without subtle graces. Nor is it to claim that there are never difficulties on the north side of the Great River. But the atmosphere in the one as against the other is significantly different. There are those north of the Great River who came from Apopar, even from the Borders, wee folk who have had to learn a new way of life even as they see the old showing its scowl around the corners of experience.

Wilbur is the conscientious gatekeeper who provides the transit for the gentle and occasional commerce across the Great River. To the south, only the kindly Nova and her little friend Sophy are named. To the north, almost everyone has a name, certainly a relation with the others.

These years since these stories were written – they began in the late Summer of 1981, and the batch in this volume runs from August 1991 through early September 1992 – and now more than eleven years since the last of the stories were written in the Spring of 2006 – these stories continue to come alive for me in the retyping of them from hard copy into necessary electronic copy, editing in the process. As the characters populate Hyperbia, they also seem to teem on my own inscape, reflecting the dissonance and possibilities that are my own. Indeed, I believe, they are also your own.

I am sure there is a Wilbur in anyone’s life, keeping the transit to freedom and to hope, and of hope, even freedom across into the sterile lands of our own anxieties and dreads. In doing their thing, these folk and the tales they live into being arise in a sort of resonance with scripture, the lessons that will lie behind sermons to come. I call them now, as then, my fairy tale exegesis and rejoice that they have been so much a part of my life.

I hope you enjoy your reading.

William Flewelling

DI

Refreshingly clean, the morning came upon Hyperbia. Malak was quickly moving on across the Plain. He had come to the Inn-by-the-Bye late the evening before. There, he had been in long conversation with Missus Carney, who had sent for him. She had talked of feeling old, of finding her legs increasingly infirm. Without Clyde’s help, she didn’t make it around much anymore. Certainly, retirement from her lifelong activity had settled on her. She needed to see Nova and could not go herself. Malak carried the message to Nova: ‘Come and see Missus Carney at the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Malak had listed to Missus Carney late into the evening. Darkness had long since fallen over Hyperbia. Thyruid had grown groggy as he shuffled about the Dining Room. And Marthuida had closed down the kitchen and slipped into the room behind the paneled wall, under the staircase. Even Geoffrey and Clyde had slipped away for the night, yawning irresistibly. But Missus Carney was feeling the imperative of her age. And she was asking a message of Malak. He could not easily pull away. After the others had gone, except Thyruid, he suspected she might need him to help her up the stairs for the night.

At last, Missus Carney had sighed and said: ‘You must go now’. Malak had nodded, and paused. He wondered just how he should broach the question of the stairs to her. As her agenda had ended, Missus Carney glanced around the room, suddenly aware of just how intensely she had been occupied with Malak and her tale. Only a yawning, weary Thyruid was in the room, and he was half slouched upon a stool at the counter! ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘Now, how am I going to get upstairs!’ With a worried scowl, she scolded herself: ‘I’ve talked too long tonight!’ Malak interrupted her complaints: ‘I will give you an arm for getting to your room. Don’t worry’. The relief on Missus Carney’s face was visible. She sighed inaudibly and took Malak’s arm to glide up the stairs as easily as by Clyde’s more familiar supporting grasp.

All that night’s story lay behind Malak’s trek across the Plain. The night had been thick on him as he moved silently across the familiar passages. He went around the City on the Plain, lying silent and dark beneath the Cliff, under the nodding eye of Osburn. He came near the River as light emerged in a night that was refreshingly cool. The dew left his legs wet, cooling him pace by pace. The clear sky was full of stars, cloudless and moonless. Malak moved by instinct and by rich familiarity with all of Hyperbia. Even the shadows in the dark were meaningful to him. So, morning’s grey hints revealed him to be very near where he expected to be. Malak indulged himself with a satisfied smirk, almost a smile.

Now, his gliding, silent steps came more easily. The briar-laden route along the Great River, up to Wilbur’s house became a simple maneuver. Malak could see everything. Quickly then, he came up to Wilbur’s door; he needed the boatman in order to get across the River. Rapping hastily, Malak waited impatiently. The hour was early, but he was hurried. Wilbur may not be up yet. Certainly, he had no fire going, as Malak’s nose told him plainly; therefore, there was some distance between Wilbur and his favored mug of coffee. Today, Wilbur will simply need to delay that first mug until he can come back. Malak had business needing his attention and a message to be delivered. Malak rapped again briskly, and stoutly.

A sleepy grumbling came from inside the house. Malak rapped again, with sharp authority. The grumbling became more acute, with undertones of real invective. Malak fidgeted until the door pulled open and Wilbur stood there, half dressed and with a perturbed look upon his face. The boatman was about to explode in anger when Malak spoke more quickly, with agitation. ‘At last, you are here! I need to get across the Great River now. Come along!!’ ‘My coffee!’ scowled Wilbur. ‘You can wait on the coffee. Come along. I need you now. I cannot wait. I have an urgent message for Nova, from Missus Carney’.

Wilbur stood in his doorway as if he were going to balk on this one. With abrupt motion, Malak grabbed Wilbur – a man half asleep, half angered – by the wrist and wrested him toward the boat, leaving the door wide open in his haste. The boatman lurched after the messenger clumsily. He forgot the door in his sudden anxiety over falling on his face! As his legs flailed the air and his bare feet slapped at the earthen path with the irregular, stretching lopes of his legs, Wilbur half panicked over this job of the morning. He did not notice the crisp clarity of the sky, nor the cool freshness of the air on his shirtless torso. He managed to be aware of the steps ahead – and nothing more – until he landed in his boat, dumbfounded.

Here, Wilbur’s habit took over. With a yawn and blinking eyes, he pushed off and poled up River just far enough before spinning out into the current, gathering speed and leaning on his rudder to bring them clearly to the landing patches in the brambles along the Apopar shore. Malak waved thanks as he leaped to the shore and smoothly disappeared into the bramble. A slight poke, and another consuming yawn, and Wilbur was back into the Great River, speeding away while some late-viewing Guard muttered and shook a fist at him.

Malak swiftly covered the paths of Apopar. He knew his way, and the need to watch for the Guards. He fell into the typical patter of feet in the jostling pace he has usually taken. The paces were shorter than he liked. But the patter was basically unnoticeable. Only the jarring constancy bothered him, reminding him of why he preferred not to carry messages to Apopar.

Nova and Sophie were just beginning to muster breakfast when Malak came to their door, and simply entered, disappearing into the still-dim yellow mud hut rather than making himself obvious. Nova looked over sharply, recognized him and heard his whispered message. With a nod, she brought Sophie with her and followed Malak out the door. The trio gained the patterned, jostling walk and took the paths nearest the bramble cover. Adeptly, they ducked away, came to the edge and waved for Wilbur … just as he was nearly home from taking Malak across the Great River one way.

Seeing them, Wilbur grumbled some more, and repeated his trek, gathering them just as the Guard began to come after them. Across the Great River, Malak breathed deeply, commenting: ‘I think the air is getting fresher’.

‘What is this all about?’ asked Wilbur as they flowed along and across the current. ‘Oh, Missus Carney needed to talk with Nova. And I was sent to fetch her. And here we are!’ ‘I still have not had my breakfast – or my coffee!’ ‘Why doesn’t he have a shirt on?’ asked Sophie. Nova answered: ‘Because he was in such a hurry to help Missus Carney. Nice of him, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, it is’ replied Sophie, seriously, as Wilbur brought them to shore.

1 September 1991

DII

Jasper restlessly meandered across the Fields in the early morning. Overhead, the sky was high, a pale blue, and bright; Jasper did not notice. The grass, a freshened green for so late in the year, bent over with the weight of the dew. Jasper absorbed half the drops as he trudged through the thick grass, the rest spraying aside from the shock of his passage, or cascading down to the roots. Jasper, accustomed to the dew, paid no attention. He simply trudged onward, and about. For Jasper, this restless walking, trudging had no goal, no aim; his only purpose was to spend his ill-defined, unfocused, restless energy.

John stood, hands on his hips, in the open doorway of the Foundry, watching Jasper meander. His helper’s head peered down at the grass. The hands were stuffed into pockets forcing his shoulders upward and giving him a near-hunchback appearance. John wondered over Jasper’s course, just where he might be going. Yet, the direction was ill defined. He meandered so much that John thought he might be going toward Mary’s Flower Shop, or again to the Spinner’s Shop, where his sister Effie lived, to the gravel laden run down to the ravine, near where Guerric and Mahara live, or even off into the far corner where the Fields and the Fringe fade into the Empty Area. Any of those places could have been his destination, until he curled back aimlessly toward the ‘Y’ or the Big Rock … and John began to suspect that Jasper had no destination in mind, after all.

Tiring of watching Jasper meander, John sat down in the doorway of the Foundry, leaned back lazily, yawned mightily, and fell into a lazy, unfocused, daydreamy kind of relation with Hyperbia. He even slid toward napping, after a long night’s work in his Foundry.

Meanwhile, Jasper walked. There was thrashing action in his jerky leg movements. His restlessness ate at him. He took to breathing heavily in the exertion of his increasingly exaggerated antics. The heaving action in his stride caused him to sway from side to side with startling vigor. His concentration was gathered within himself, somewhere. Certainly, he was oblivious to his route thought the grass, and to the dew which now soaked him entirely. Still, this restless urge drove him onward and onward. At long last, Jasper had swung up by the Rock at the end of the Way Down. There, with barely a pause in his pace, while his breathing was rough and heavy, his eyelids weighted from the night’s work, he took a deep breath and headed straight across the dew-laden Fields, headed toward a familiar slip into the Fringe.

Watching this last phase of Jasper’s antics, while perched upon the top of the Rock at the end of the Way Down, Carymba mused over the directness of his lately chosen route. For now, there was no wavering; his step was direct, no longer subject to any sideways lunging; his arms pumped and more and more favored a near-run toward that familiar slip. As she had seen him some before, meandering brashly, with a thrashing pace, his new directness caught her eye, and puzzled her.

Jasper shortly reached the edge of the Fields and went down the sodded incline to the Fringe. His pace was hard as he came to the incline. Slowing was nearly impossible as he rushed down to the slip. So, with a burst and a violence, he entered the Fringe – entirely unusual, for wandering in the Fringe was a stealthy act, done with discrete silence.

Made curious by Jasper’s actions, Carymba pondered them briefly before deciding she would take a look for herself. While getting up from her sitting position, brushing off her skirts and beginning the trek down and around the Rock, to the Fields at the end of the Way Down, Carymba decided she would go by and see John first, before going on the Fringe. Nodding to herself on the wisdom of this choice, she ambled along to a path in which she would get herself wet as little as possible.

John had fallen asleep in the doorway of the Foundry. His legs had flopped open and his arms had sprawled to the sides while his chin rested on his chest and his back balanced against the door jamb. Carymba saw him sitting there as she approached from behind him. From her angle, she could not tell that John was just asleep. So, being preoccupied with Jasper’s strange behavior, she approached in an unaccustomedly abrupt way. She failed to notice the details of this situation. Indeed, she barely noticed that he was sprawled, and not at all that the sprawl was limp. She imagined him enjoying this fresh morning, about as she had been doing before curiosity over Jasper’s unusual behavior distracted her. Thus, it was that Carymba burst up to John and began speaking in a rapid-fire way, asking all sorts of questions about Jasper and the work of the night before and would John have any idea why Jasper would act so oddly.

John woke up. He was not so deeply asleep that he could survive even the initial rush of Carymba’s words. Hearing and waking at the sound is one thing; comprehending enough to figure out what was being said was something else entirely. John awoke, and found himself immediately surrounded by her questions, all of which he was quite incapable of following. His whole world was swimming as he scrambled to his feet, adrenalin rushing into his system so that his eyes flew open, though unseeing, and his body tensed, though inactive.

Carymba, becoming aware of John’s problem, slowed down. She took his tight forearms in her hands, holding on firmly. ‘Wait a minute, John’ she said in a now slowly measured cadence. ‘I was asking about Jasper. What was Jasper doing this morning? He rushed into the Fringe … very unusual’. She struggled to keep a steady, slow face for John, but her own eagerness caught up with her, leaving him to shudder in incomprehension.

Later, after John had had time to settle himself into shape and wake up sufficiently, he joined Carymba in curiosity. ‘Jasper seemed restless as we ended our night’s work’ he offered. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know anything’.

The Sun was high now, glittering upon the Fields and causing the sparkling dew to vanish as Carymba and John left the Foundry. They went directly toward Jasper’s familiar slip into the Fringe. Upon entering the Fringe, Carymba led the way, for John had never been in the Fringe before. – it was never a choice place to visit! Following the ridges and trails, Carymba led John to the largish rise. There stood Jasper, alone and confused. Carymba came up to him,