Inn-By-The-Bye Stories—12

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 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 Carymba wading in the wash on the beach by the sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546215202

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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© 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 10/27/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1521-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1520-2 (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

DLI

DLII

DLIII

DLIV

DLV

DLVI

DLVII

DLVIII

DLIX

DLX

DLXI

DLXII

DLXIII

DLXIV

DLXV

DLXVI

DLXVII

DLXVIII

DLXIX

DLXX

DLXXI

DLXXII

DLXXIII

DLXXIV

DLXXV

DLXXVI

DLXXVII

DLXXVIII

DLXXIX

DLXXX

DLXXXI

DLXXXII

DLXXXIII

DLXXXIV

DLXXXV

DLXXXVI

DLXXXVII

DLXXXVIII

DLXXXIX

DXC

DXCI

DXCII

DXCIII

DXCIV

DXCV

DXCVI

DXCVII

DXCVIII

DXCIX

DC

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, 11

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

The First Letter Of Paul To The Corinthians: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

FOREWORD

Worming my way into another year’s worth of these stories, these coming over the seasons of 1992-93, finds me enjoying the process once again, even more. I recall that Winter, and even more the following Spring. It was a wet Winter and wetter Spring in the Upper Midwest – and I lived in Iowa at the time. I remember farmers in May complaining that they had yet to be able to get into their fields. People prayed for the rain to stop … even as five years before they had prayed for rain to come in a very hot, very dry Summer of 1988. I lived in Ottumwa, Iowa then, a city about half way from Des Moines to the Mississippi River along the course of the Des Moines River. By July, the whole area was in flood conditions; Ottumwa’s levees held and the city itself stayed dry.

I had long before noted that these stories tended to pick up the weather conditions on the Mondays that I wrote them – on Monday before the following Sunday, based on the text for that Sunday’s sermon. And so, I am reliving in memory the wet of that year, recalling my neighbor calling on July 4th – he was out of town – and wondering about how things were. Our neighborhood was about 75 feet above the river – and I told him we were still dry. He did not get the joke.

I realize these memories are mine and not yours; they are only incidentally caught up in the stories, with mention of rain and fog and mud along the way. Maybe the stories can stand on their own now, even as they were intended to do then, and can be a source of your own pleasurable trip into the imaginary world of Hyperbia and the varied people who inhabit it.

I hope you enjoy your reading.

William Flewelling

DLI

A palling rank of clouds swept off the Sea, swirled over the Hills and the Crossed Hills, simmered as a lid over Uiston and hastened onward with ominous display. The day was nearly over. Late in the day, all had become sticky and still as hot humid air stagnated everywhere in Hyperbia. The wee people had found easy ways to manage their chores, but only to the absolute minimum necessary. Yves and Betsy, the children, had played in the brook which runs beneath their Great Dome; barefoot; they had let the lightly flowing stream cool them. That oppressive air retreated now before these quickly advancing clouds, and the much cooler front that shoved them along.

Mahara shook out a small rug, one that set in the middle of the common area of her cabin. Dust flew, and much clung around her, then was caught by the new, brisk breeze and slapped by her face, and onward. Some scurried back inside, where she did not want it to be. Most, however, was whisked onward and around towards the Empty Area. She blinked away the offending dirt and felt the sharp wind on her face. Her clothes pressed against her body, her skirts flapping behind her. She had to lean into the wind, and still staggered to hold her place.

Watching the sky rush in on her, Mahara grabbed snippets of breath, for the wind seemed to catch it from her. The tang of rain was in the air. The wind rushed the rain to her, making her retreat to the door too late, and far too slow to avoid the opening of the clouds to dump a fury of water against her, her cabin and her land. Drenched, Mahara shoved the door closed until the latch held and the rain battered the door rather than spraying across the inside of the cabin she and Guerric called home.

Having flopped the rug over the back of a chair, Mahara used both hands to straighten her wet, snarled hair, lay it behind her ears and, stringy, down her back. The wet beaded yet on her face, lending a fresh appeal to her olive toned skin. Wet black hair shimmered in the low lamp light. The window at the door brought in no light. Rather, it rattled as the rain drove against it in dark, rapid waves.

Recollecting herself, Mahara sorted out what she had been doing when the rain swept over her. She had shaken the rug as one step in her straightening-up process. She remembered now how the muggy heat had found her irritable. And her irritable nature had itched at her, making her less than satisfied with just about everything. One part of that everything was the dust and muss in her house. Normally, she would have barely noticed, perhaps pausing to sift things around a bit, and do some basic cleaning. But, in the oppressive heat, everything was too much. Mahara had begun to clean, to give one of those deep cleanings that come only when someone feels extremely drawn out to be complete. Frustration will do that to a body.

The rug hung askew on the back of the chair, precisely where she had left it as she came in, drenched. Even after she had remembered what her overall effort had been meant to accomplish, Mahara still needed to do something with her clothes. She was drenched. The water dripped from the skirts now; but before it had simply run out of the fabric and onto the floor. She dripped into a puddle on the floor she had swept clean. Looking down on the clinging cloth that layered on her body, Mahara wiggled her toes in the wet puddle, smirked smartly and muttered that it was good she had swept, lest there be mud on her floor now!

Deciding that she would rather be dry, Mahara lifted her skirts and tip toed out of the puddle she had left in the middle of the floor. Other places were damp from the first burst of rain, before she had shoved the door shut; and, near the doorway, some water had seeped in under the pressure of the wind and the mass of the falling rain. But only here was there a legitimate puddle to be found in her house. Once having changed and toweled herself dry in a corner, Mahara looked back at her puddle and noted it was impressive in size, particularly when she considered how short a time she had been out in this deluge!

While mopping up the excess water she had dripped, Mahara checked over her cleaning job, to see whether she had been merely compulsive and helter-skelter in her efforts, or had been ordered enough to be worthwhile in the results. Taking a pause to survey it all, once the mopping was complete, she leaned on the upright handle of her mop and gazed, a look of self-satisfaction wrapped about her countenance. And, just then, at the moment of her peak pleasure in her own accomplishment, the thought came across her mind that Guerric had been out when the storm swept through. And she had no idea where he was. Her smug pleasure twisted into a portrait of worry. For the storm had been fierce … and still was squalling beyond the door, though not as harshly as before. Furthermore, he was out in a degree of aggravation with her irritability, both under the influence of that muggy heat that had oppressed them so. Looking at the clothes she had hung to dry near the stove, she wondered how wet he would be if she got that wet that fast!

In fact, Guerric had taken off in a spiff of aggravation. He had swept out the door, unable to handle the irritability of Mahara – prior to her cleaning attack. He had no real place to go. He had not even grabbed his tool box on the way out the door … the box which he never leaves behind! He had rambled down the path, up onto the Commons and on for a bit. The weight of the muggy air kept him from rushing too far too fast. By the time he had gone half way across the Commons, Guerric was down to a panting amble, a pace that carried him clear to the Inn-by-the-Bye before he was worn down for a restful stop. Over his third mug of coffee, while discussing the weather and his aggravated state with a nodding Geoffrey, the storm had swept over the Inn. Windows rattled. The rage of water beat upon the Inn. Everybody paused in wonder at it all. Nobody went to a window, nor the door, to look. Guerric asked for yet another mug of coffee.

The rain had settled down to a heavy drizzle when Mahara’s worry had gone too far. She rousted herself and left the cabin. She walked carefully up to the Commons. The grass was all beaten flat. The paths were slippery. She nearly fell in the puddled grass, several times; she lost count. She was watching to find Guerric, wondering where he might be. Perhaps at the Inn, she reasoned, someone could help her find him. Creeping guilt ate at her, leaving her face furrowed and tense. The storm had been so surprising!

In the door, once she had entered the Inn-by-the-Bye, she heard Guerric’s voice. She smiled and slid quickly into the dining room. Looking up, he saw her, her face fresh and her hair dripping wet, hanging in strands, her dress wet and clinging, again. ‘Ah!’ he cried in relief. ‘Come in and join me. We will have something to eat, together. … Thyruid! Some coffee for Mahara. And a towel!’

13 September 1992

DLII

Sticky and close, the day clung form the earliest hours. Eliza woke up uncomfortably. Peeling her body from her bed, Eliza gazed blankly into the room, an expression of deep disdain for the feeling of this day wrapped across her face. Her own sweat refused to run away, refused to dry, but clung to her skin. Absentmindedly, she peeled the shirt loose; it was pasty-wet in her hand, and she looked at it with a disgusted grimace. This was certainly not her kind of day!

Engulfed thus in her own brand of morning misery, Eliza sighed as deeply as she dared. And that was not very deep. The day hung clouded on her. She was not ready for this. Were it a bright, clear day, she would be fine … and fine already. But when it is already this damp and dense and warm, so early in the morning, then she knew that the sky would be hazy with humidity and the afternoon would be sultry and thick and she would be melting in the whole miserable collage. The thought of it all was not encouraging to her, not at all. So, Eliza sat, slumped, on the edge of her bed. Her wet feet looked puffy at the end of puffy ankles. She sank over herself, feeling the dampened skin of her stomach lay over onto dampened skin, and cling. Her scowl darkened and her mood blackened. And, once more, with ultimate disdain, she sighed.

A rattling at her door drew her up from her slinking despair. A flicker of interest skimmed over her temporary depression. She wondered who would be there, at her door, this early, on this muggy and close a day. This could be nothing but a terrible or tragic or crucial event. For, to be out and rapping at a door like this would assume that the body were up and dressed and active! To get to the door, this visitor – whoever it might be – had to climb half way up the Way Down, exerting flesh while the humidity mockingly wrung out the body’s very vitality. Perhaps, this visitor, whoever it might be, is in need of something – water, perchance. Yes. Water. Most likely. Her mind was only beginning to function with any clarity, spurred by this rattle on her door by some unknown visitant. ‘Who might it be?’ she finally asked herself.

With some effort, Eliza peeled herself the rest of the way off her sheets. Standing on the puff-balls she usually called feet was painful. A numbing shock ran up and down her legs. Her knees wobbled. She felt herself loose and frail, as if the fluid she held was bobbling back and forth uncontrollably, seeking some tense equilibrium between steps. A fresh worry flushed her mind. She felt warmer in the neck and on her face. Sweat beaded … and hung there, still and stodgy. The pangs eased at lasts, no longer like little knives stabbing up through her legs. She looked down, and peeled her nightshirt from her thighs, and sighed. The door rattled again.

‘I’m … coming’ she coughed out, surprising herself at how thick her voice sounded, and hoarse. This was not normal for her. She did not talk this way. The voice today bubbled out, reluctantly, giving its witness to the wet irritability of the morning, as she herself was right now experiencing it. ‘Even my voice betrays me now’ she grumbled to herself. Thus, full of despiteful murmurings, Eliza forced herself to the door, grieving each step. For when she raised each foot, it felt as if the skin were being wrenched, as if in a vise. And when she placed that foot again on the floor, sharp stabbing pains raced up her legs, as if long knives were jabbing her from the soles of her feet, clear to her knees, and sometimes even to her loins.

Having hobbled to the door, and leaned herself against the jamb to ease the problems in her feet and legs, Eliza sighed, bit her lip for courage, and pulled open the door. The air outside was as bad as that inside, or worse. The Sun was hot and the haze was hanging low – not a fog, but a thick haze of hot, humid air that clung to everything. The Sun made it hotter outside than in, so that the opened door caused her to be struck full force with the oppression of that air. Eliza coughed and staggered slightly, regaining her self-composure in order to focus her bleary eyes on the two figures in front of her: Geoffrey and Carymba.

With one hand hanging on the door handle, the other propped against the jamb, her hair stringy with sweat, plastered to her head, her cheeks, her neck, with her nightshirt half-clinging, half-curled in odd folds that stuck on themselves by the glue of her sweat, Eliza leaned and looked. Geoffrey was without a wrinkle. He wore his spats over his shoes. His grey flannel trousers were creased impeccably. His cut away coat looked fresh and sharp. His waistcoat and the ascot were both crisp, unbothered by this miserable day. His hat sat neatly, unperturbed, on his head. Eliza wanted to say something nasty, but bit her tongue instead and glanced down at her throbbing, red feet. She was beyond concerning herself with her appearance, believing her guests lucky that she was able to get herself thus far.

After gathering her attention for a moment, Eliza looked up again, blinking repeatedly to clear her vision. Carymba stood there, too. Her dress hung neatly, not seeming to cling in sweat to her frame. But that thin, strawberry blonde hair did hint at beginning to string together in close, dampened strands, and to cling to her cheeks. Her face was a bit ruddy, as if a little warmer than pleasurable, and with her life a little out of control. Eliza was more comfortable with this face on Carymba. She felt a little smile begin to creep about the corners of her mouth. Even her eyes felt as if they were becoming more lively. She fit, or felt she fit, with Carymba … even though the waif looked so unruffled and pert. There were yet chinks in the armor she presented!

At last, under the sign of a sigh, Eliza shoved off from the jamb, hobbled back a few stuttering steps, a wince rattling over her face with the movement. Nodding with as much graciousness as she could muster, and waving with her free hand, Eliza spoke: ‘Won’t you come in? That Sun seems beastly out there. In here, at least, we can be in