Inn-By-The-Bye Stories—14

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 the long-stationary wagon home of Maharas aunt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546229520

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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© 2018 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 02/13/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2953-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2952-0 (e)

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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

An Elegance That Dawdles

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

A Fifth 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, 7, 8,

9, 10, 11, 12, 13

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

Contents

Foreword

DCLI

DCLII

DCLIII

DVLIV

DCLV

DCLVI

DCLVII

DCLVIII

DCLIX

DCLX

DCLXI

DCLXII

DCLXIII

DCLXIV

DCLXV

DCLXVI

DCLXVII

DCLXVIII

DCLXIX

DCLXX

DCLXXI

DCLXXII

DCLXXIII

DCLXXIV

DCLXXV

DCLXXVI

DCLXXVII

DCLXXVIII

DCLXXIX

DCLXXX

DCLXXXI

DCLXXXII

DCLXXXIII

DCLXXXIV

DCLXXXV

DCLXXXVI

DCLXXXVII

DCLXXXVIII

DCLXXXIX

DCXC

DCXCI

DCXCII

DCXCIII

DCXCIV

DCXCV

DCXCVI

DCXCVII

DCXCVIII

DCXCIX

DCC

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

About the Author

Foreword

1994-95: My youngest daughters started College that Fall and my middle daughter was a Senior at the same College. The nest was empty, and we were adjusting to such things. We probably did no better than most at this adjustment. The oldest two daughters were on their own – but, to be honest, the other three were pretty much that way, too. By the time this series of stories ended, only the twins were left in College. The others were on their own for good – two of the three in grad school.

As for me, I would complete my fifth year in Ottumwa that Spring of ’95, a landmark in my own thinking as I had thought it would take five years to emerge from what had been a difficult interim for lots of naïve reasons. I felt like it had happened that way; and I was pleased, pleased with the unfolding of the next phase of my ministry there, a phase which would run until October of 1998, some three years after this sequence came to an end.

By the time this year began, I had finished my project of translating the Psalter from Hebrew. I was heavily involved in the life of the community as well as the congregation. It was a teeming time, and the writing seemed to flow from my pencil on the way to the secretary’s transcription. The next winter, I would take the first of what proved to be four retreats at Mount St. Benedict, a woman’s monastery in Crookston, MN. That would be another step, another influence in my ministry and life.

This in-between time filled the surroundings for these stories to emerge in response to the flow of texts on the way to sermons to be preached, part of what I felt at the time, and now as well, was a growing investment in the life of faith and the material awareness of the scriptures.

I hope you enjoy your reading of these little episodes of illumination, expressions of my own involvement with the text and the faith and the life of faith among my people.

-William Flewelling

DCLI

On turning to the day, Carymba found it chilled. Dew lay thick on the grass, bouncing on long, bending blades as balanced crystal drops. The leaves on the great branches overhead hung damp with dew. And the moisture it the air clung as a clammy film to her skin; she tried to rub it away, but to no effect. The chill gnawed into her, making her huddle to herself … and wish she had thought to retrieve a shawl to shelter against the early cool. Muttering to herself, she offered the view that Summer lingers longer in her mind that in the air. ‘Maybe later, it will warm.

Now, the Fields lay quiet. John stood, sweaty, at the Foundry door, and grinned her way. His face appeared to appreciate the cool, as it was a refreshment to him. She thought of going over to the Foundry, but there was no ready path … and the thick, glistening dew promised to drench her clear up above the waist. So, she smiled slightly, and waved, continuing her syncopated saunter she knew not where. John watched her go along, noting that Carymba seemed to know no time for being out or being in, but went or stayed as however she may wish or will, or just plain do! He smiled at her as she huddled to herself and rubbed her hands over bare forearms. For his part, he took another stride from his door, into the damp of the morning; although it made him feel sticky, he also felt cooler than near the tapering down of the Foundry furnace after his night’s work. Taking one last long stretch and submitting to the force of the yawn that swept over him, John shook himself and turned back to the Foundry’s closing chores as Carymba neared the Big Rock. He imagined she would simply go on to the Commons, most likely.

With her steady pace, Carymba did cut around the Big Rock. She had in mind finding a warm spot in which she could recoup some of her stability; she did not like feeling cold like this. She had other things in mind to do … like find a little warmth before the day warmed and she would not have this damp clammy chilled feeling any more. The Inn-by-the-Bye made an immediate impact on her eye once she rounded the Big Rock, much as she had anticipated it would. Carymba set out directly for the door, through the low, scruffy grass on this par to the Commons. It was wet, too: yes. But the wet was low and did not drench her so high. Only her hem and then a wicking maybe to the knee, or so. That is all.

Half way to the desired door, on which she had set her sights, Carymba stopped. She let her arms drop to her side. She stood, puzzled and mute, gazing at the door which had taken on such a magnetic attraction for her as she had imagined the warmth behind it. Now, for some reason which she could not figure, she was not moving. For a strange feeling had suddenly swept over her, that this was not what she was to be doing just now. This was not right. But, what she was to do, which way to turn her feet now … that was escaping her observation as she stood, stock still, in the middle of the Commons, waiting. Shivering because the clammy damp chilled her, she remained uncomfortable.

Finding her mind circling all around in its attempt to single out the next step, Carymba mused over the possibilities. One: she could amble to the Inn, go in and get warm, have some tea and biscuits and then sort all this out. In many ways this seemed like a most logical choice while she stood, rubbing her arms and shivering. Or, less logically, she could stand here and shiver. Or, she could turn and begin to meander one way and another until her feet seemed to lock into some path or another and answer this uncertainty for her. The fact that the shivering was getting more obnoxious made her lean toward the Inn-by-the-Bye. The fact that she usually let her feet wander until it became simply obvious to her where she should go restrained her. The fact that she felt uncharacteristically confused kept her stationary.

Carymba began to feel foolish. This was not like her. She could not recall doing anything like this ever before in her entire life, this standing in a shivering fit, cold and doing nothing, least of all anything to relieve the predicament in which she felt herself to be.

Suddenly, Carymba was joined in the middle of the Commons: John had decided to go to the Inn for some breakfast after his night’s work. Being rather warm as yet, John had thought nothing of striding through the long, wet grass, with the result that he was drenched to his shoulders.

‘See’, he said, ‘you would have been wetter than this had you come over to visit at the Foundry’. ‘You are all wet’ she observed, dryly. John laughed heartily. ‘I wanted some breakfast, and figured Marthuida would have some. Come along, and join me’.

‘I … I … I am not sure what I am doing just now. I was headed there … to the Inn … but then, I … well, I become confused about what to do … and I ended up … well, standing here!’

‘May I suggest it may all be clearer when you warm up, and dry off! and we both have some breakfast in our stomachs?’ ‘I don’t know why I should say no … so, I suppose, I can’.

With a fresh shiver Carymba began afresh her pace toward the Inn-by-the-Bye. The hour was still early. The sky was still bright, clear and blue overhead, but the Sun had not risen enough yet even to put Guerric and Mahar’s cabin into the path of the Sun’s beams when Carymba and John entered the Inn-by-the-Bye together.

Thyruid, still busy polishing his cherished brassware into its ever-richer glow, looked up in surprise when the door opened, and the pair entered. ‘I had not expected anyone to arrive so early! But welcome! … Welcome!’ he said in a late-rising swell of enthusiasm. The round Innkeeper toddled off toward the kitchen, waving them to a seat with hands still occupied with polish pot and rag. With a silly smile apiece, the two watched him go …, then picked a table and sat down.

‘Without a fire on the hearth, it is cool even in here … and damp’ offered Carymba. ‘When I am this wet, I don’t notice!’ replied John with robust good humor. Carymba discreetly rubbed her arms, briskly for warmth, allowing her face a trace of a demure grin. John did not bother to notice as he leaned back in his chair, in a sort of modified sprawl. Thyruid brought out a pot of tea, and a cup for a Carymba, a big mug of deep black coffee for John. ‘As you like it, I believe’. Each nodded with a smile. "I will have some biscuits shortly. … Sorry for the lack of a fire: it is that in-between time, you know. But I can get a little wrap for you, Carymba; that should help … until the biscuits come, and the tea does its job!’

Carymba blushed a bit, and thanked him, quietly.

25 September 1994

DCLII

Eliza sat at her table, set toward the middle of her room. She was quiet and distant, alone in the sagging light of the day. Overcast, the day lingered lonely, with a tenor like a sigh. Eliza sighed, and pulled her light wrap a little more snugly about her shoulders, allowing a scowl of discomfort to curl over her face as she sat there, musing blankly. She had not really considered much of anything, and nothing was on her mind while she was so acutely attentive to the open blank. Indeed, only the mildly chilled discomfort nudged upon the edge of her null consideration and, at that, merely enough to induce the scowl she did not notice on her face, and then to retreat within the instinctively snuggled wrap.

Shadows thickened gradually. Only as they neared the dull blank darkness of the impending night did Eliza realize that the darkness had brought her eyes to an ease and, simultaneously, to a careful attention in order to catch the remaining hints of objects in the faint trace of day’s escaping light. Quickly, she moved to match memory and familiarity with the softest hints of daylight remaining, to find and light a lamp, turning the flame low so as to just hold back the blanketing night. No moon shone yet. And the overcast was thick enough to keep any lunar benefit small at any time. Eliza sat again, the lamp in the middle of her table, to gaze at the steadiness of the flame, slight in the glowing lamp.

The steady glow of the lamp … soft and meticulous in its detailed presence, wholly undisturbed … gradually drew her attention into itself, into the nearly motionless fuzz of yellow that dominated, and even to the tiny tinge of blue right at the base of the flame, where the wick fed and controlled the light. That whisper of bright blue drew her studied gaze, as if it were in some way enchanting to her. But then, again, her eyes passed through that blue and her contemplating gaze escaped the visual and her mind itself opened to embrace an empty night, tantalizing in its beauty.

In such a suspended moment, a rapping came at her door. In truth, the rap was gentle enough, far more gentle than Eliza heard, once the sound penetrated her unformulated reverie. Eliza started harshly. She felt her face blanch and was slightly dizzy from the feeling of blood rushing giddily from her head. Following quickly came a rush of red, a flush that turned her throat and her cheeks, her ears a ruddy red, and hot, as her mind flitted all about, erratically, and in wild imprecision over impossible imaginings.

Scrambling, as she was, to bring herself into check, Eliza fumbled for time, keeping silence for the time being. She swallowed hard and tried to force herself to take a series of long, deep, slow breaths, controlling her breathing so as to calm her body and approach this unknown intrusion at the beginning of the night, a time of uncertainty, a time left unexamined! Licking her lips to moisten them, Eliza noticed that her tongue was dry also, and therefore clung to her lips; moisture was failing her. She dropped her hands to her sides, dangling them there, letting them shake loose clear from the shoulder; except for the tight twinges in her shoulders and around the shoulder joint, she thought the exercises successful. The touch of success helped; a little moisture came to her mouth as she, still in silence, still sitting, continued to take the long, slow, deep controlled breaths.

Convinced, after a second rapping at the door arrived, that she was in control of herself, Eliza slipped from her chair, standing calmly, her fingers twitching slightly in spite of her composure. But, she was not ready to acknowledge the rapping just jet. Her once delightfully distracted mind was now riveted, in a strait, onto the question of the door, the rap, the unknown in the silent shadow of the night. The tingling in her fingers matched the dryness in her mouth, and the thickness in her throat. Eliza was feeling very much at the edge of being out of control. She was uncomfortable with her own discomfort.

From beyond the door came a muffled sound. She thought it was her name being called: ‘Eliza!’ She listened more carefully, her entire body bated. ‘Eliza!’ Yes: it is her name. And the voice: it sounded familiar. A tumbling rumble of odd associations jumbled her thinking. All at once, she was over full and absolutely nothing hung together in her thought. The familiar voice eluded naming. Frustration crept over her mind; Eliza tried to push it away, for this frustration would only serve to make her actions more difficult, less rational. The same techniques were reused: breathing, dangling, swallowing, relaxing. She repeated the cues in her mind, as by a mantra.

‘Eliza?’ The sound came as a question now, pushing the inquiry into her rooms. Eliza could feel it, and squirmed. She did not know if her flesh should be creepy-crawly or merely anticipatory. She shuffled her feet nervously. She was not thinking about this, and kicked into the table; the table screeched and she was betrayed. ‘Eliza!’ The call came again. And Eliza was wary now. She had betrayed herself. That low lamp light fluttered; Eliza felt a shudder rattle up and down her spine. ‘This is Carymba’.

But Eliza was not hearing well. She was fighting a panicked sense, one that seemed to writhe in her, to wad her stomach and wring it out as if it were but an old washrag. She felt herself retreating inside herself, closing up the barriers, putting up rough barricades, as if she were into some sort of street guerilla struggles in some city she never knew. Most of all, she was hearing her own irrational anxieties yelling in her ears, and her fears screaming at her to beware. All the measured silence: it was gone. All the contemplative openness: it was battened for the storm she did not know how to anticipate.

‘Eliza! … This is Carymba! … Are you alright?’

Standing by her table, Eliza felt her throat: it was dry and tight and rigid. When she tried to swallow, nothing happened. Her mouth … it