Inn-By-The-Bye Stories—17

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 they—the characters I developed and the way 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 is done by Eve Sullivan, the author’s granddaughter.

The drawing is the artist’s conception of Sophie enjoying the sunshine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546279297

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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© 2019 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 02/04/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-7930-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-7929-7 (e)

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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.

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

The Ash Wind Sigh

Unplanned Obsolescence

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,

9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16

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

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

The Gospel According To Luke 1:1 Through 9:50: A Bible Study

The Gospel According to Luke 9:51 Through 19:27: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Contents

Foreword

DCCCI

DCCCII

DCCCIII

DCCCIV

DCCCV

DCCCVI

DCCCVII

DCCCVIII

DCCCIX

DCCCX

DCCCXI

DCCCXII

DCCCXIII

DCCCXIV

DCCCXV

DCCCXVI

DCCCXVII

DCCCXVIII

DCCCXIX

DCCCXX

DCCCXXI

DCCCXXII

DCCCXXIII

DCCCXXIV

DCCCXXV

DCCCXXVI

DCCCXXVII

DCCCXXVIII

DCCCXXIX

DCCCXXX

DCCCXXXI

DCCCXXXII

DCCCXXXIII

DCCCXXXIV

DCCCXXXV

DCCCXXXVI

DCCCXXXVII

DCCCXXXVIII

DCCCXXXIX

DCCCXL

DCCCXLI

DCCCXLII

DCCCXLIII

DCCCXLIV

DCCCXLV

DCCCXLVI

DCCCXLVII

DCCCXLVIII

DCCCXLIX

DCCCL

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

About The Author

FOREWORD

For the second time in the evolution of these stories, I moved. Through October 4th, I remained at Ottumwa Davis Street Christian Church. That next week I moved to New Martinsville, West Virginia. What might be considered a new series of stories took up on the 18th of October. As I revisit those stories, I recognize an effort to bring my readers up to date as their first introduction came with my story DCCCXXIX … or number 829.

That shift is intriguing in that the personalities and the places and the habits of the places were all ingrained in me as a writer long before relocating from Ottumwa, Iowa to New Martinsville, West Virginia. But the readers shared none of that familiarity. Perhaps to a new series of readers, ones who have found their way through the series of these collections, all in order, the revisitation of some extra nuance will not be overly encumbering to their enjoyment.

As I go through the retyping and editing and proofreading of these stories, I once again find my indulgence refreshed. I find myself looking for some aspect that meets recall in anticipation, realizing that I still have stories past MC (#1100) to go! I put off my anticipation and figure it must have come later! So, I am prone now to keeping myself on my way and re-enjoying the lot of these.

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

DCCCI

The day slid away. The Sun must have set out behind the Empty Area, like it always did. But all anyone in Hyperbia could tell was the day grew dim: grey to greyer to charcoal, shade by shade until it was night and starless. Earlier some glimpses of blue appeared; then, as it warmed to the sloppy range, the cloud cover nestled in over the entire land.

With all the windows draped as always, the dining room of the Inn-by-the-Bye served as an isolated bubble, warmed by the hearth, lit by the low lamps on the walls, made into a welcoming ambiance for all those who might enter. Inside, Clyde and Missus Carney sat the table by hearth, the crackling fire dancing yellow with flickers of blue casting warmth, radiant to them and beyond. Thyruid moseyed through his serving, a ready laugh his aid in hosting the customers. Geoffrey sat in his corner; Carymba was anticipated for a latish supper, as she had said. Around, talking and laughing, were others from the area … Guerric and Mahara, Eliza, Mary, Gilbert and Chert, Martha and Effie … John and Jasper too, although they were already stirring to go back to start up the Forge at the Foundry for the night’s run.

The door opened; Geoffrey glanced to see Vlad and Yev lead in their six companions from Uiston’s distant wall. They entered from the dark and quiet night into the warm and noisy room. The change in atmosphere came as direct and bold; they welcomed the change as they left the looming gloom outside for the soft light inside. Wraps peeled away, to be hung in the foyer before the eight meandered in, down the steps and about to seats at tables. The residual noise level rose as influx swelled the crowd in the dining room. Thyruid quickly moved to include them within the ring of hospitality in the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Although he had been planning an early departure in favor of making the necessary preparations for the night’s work at the Foundry, John found himself engaged in a deepening, private conversation with Eliza. Everyone else was busy laughing and talking, table to table, not really paying attention to the soft-spoken talk at their side table. Oh, Geoffrey noticed them as he waited, but soon enough decided he was too much of a gentleman to eavesdrop, especially since doing so would require particular extra-attentiveness, bordering on an obvious boorishness. And Jasper knew of their dawdling over coffee and soft chatter. Since their conversation meant he could sit around and relax a bit longer, he was quite pleased at their pleasure. In fact, Jasper kept track of the playful and light hearted mood between them.

Vlad, fully enjoying the scene, rose and walked over to visit with Clyde and Missus Carney about the way this Winter weather had been … not too cold, really, but much grey, and a damp chill that penetrates everything and will not let up for more than a few hours in a stretch. Talk meandered over a variety of light topics, those concerning the wee folk, the state of Uiston and their root framed house in comparison to the Inn-by-the-Bye where Clyde and Missus Carney had their regular rooms. Touching on one opinion and then another, the conversation wove a cover for the type of living they shared by living in Hyperbia.

Shortly later, Cons and Dum broke free to go and see if they could learn a few things they needed to know about some minor repairs in the root framed house from Guerric, the acknowledged expert handy man round about. They felt they ought to be able to handle this project, even though they lacked some information. So, they approached; Guerric and Mahara were not really in a deep conversation. The four greeted each other and exchanged the usual pleasantries before the encounter settled into a lengthening lapse, one of those embarrassing silences that occur when the small talk fails and one party (or both) is left with a direction neither of them know how to broach. At last, Dum was unable to fight off the embarrassment; he blurted out: ‘Guerric, we have a project at the root framed house that has us baffled. We wondered if you could give us some advice’.

Guerric, being proud of his skills, pressed Dum and Cons for some information; perhaps he could give some advice, but perhaps the problem would necessitate his coming himself to investigate and demonstrate for them. The three huddled in intense conversation, a scrap of paper emerging to become crowded with sketches of solutions, one pressing on another as the orientation of the paper and crowded sketches varied widely. Mahara, in this whole process, became extraneous. Feeling out of the conversation, wedged out on the fourth side of the table, Mahara slowly backed away. A certain frustration hardened on her face, her mouth taking on a kind of rigidity, hardness that indicates a distance, a separation is taking place.

At last, and really before too long, Mahara picked up her tea cup … full … and left the table to Guerric, Dum and Cons and their labyrinthine discussion of some complex idiosyncrasies of the root framed house at the far end of Uiston. Had anyone asked, she knew a thing or two about what is needed. But no one asked. And, for her part, Mahara had no passion for intruding where the others were so very confident they knew what they were about. So, she meandered, strolled with musky confidence about the dinging room, taking care to sip enough tea to render her cup less dangerous on the prowl.

Beside the counter, across from the momentarily resting Thyruid, Mahara leaned on the solid mass, setting her cup atop the piece. Throwing her hair back over her shoulders, Mahara let its dark gleam nearly glow in the lamplight. That same lamplight played on her open throat, her cheek, the free folds of her sheen-brightened shirt and the light rose within her olive toned complexion. Mahara was intending to be noticed, and she was. Conversation lagged; she was a sullen beauty and the nervous Innkeeper was caught in a stammering uncertainty. He did offer to get her some more tea; she smiled softly, nodding: Yes, she would like that, very much.

Geoffrey was slowly watching the mingling of the crowd, the exchange of places, the meandering about in displacement of these many while he was also settling into a sadness at Carymba’s extended delay. In his corner, where he nearly always sat while in the dining room, he maintained his separation: no one meandered his way for whatever reason, probably innocent happenstance. He had kept his place and held the seat next to him for his expected visit from the now-tardy Carymba; perhaps that had kept his distance too well. Maybe he should meander himself, he thought … but then, when Carymba did arrive, he would be awkward. He saw John, still chatting with Eliza, exchanging glances and a light blush or two. He noticed Jasper, enjoying their delay of his night’s work. Geoffrey was just rising to go see Jasper when the door opened. With a shrug, he continued his way, tea cup and pot in hand, to join Jasper. After all, there was a third seat there, and a fourth; anyone could join them, after all.

25 January 1998

DCCCII

Bright blue nearly redefined the sky, morning having come unimpeded today. All in all, the morning was surprising, a delightful shift from the overcast of recent times. Almost as if surprised by the early brightness, Hyperbia seemed to come teeming early, whereas they had been slow to respond to daylight at all. Carymba had herself risen early, before the dawning light, and slipped to the door of Mother Hougarry’s Hidden Cabin, sensing that the world was clearer now. Mother Hougarry was still asleep when the waif slipped out the door and let the latch click gently shut behind her.

Wrapping the cloak about her, Carymba made her way off the edge of the porch. In the pre-dawn, the Crossed Hills and all Hyperbia with them lay dark. The clear night sky was scrambled with pin pricks of light … all cool and distant, casting no effective light on porch or tree or path. Carymba took her strides, slow and syncopated, by the sight of memory alone. Such sight was ample for her, however. She moved with care and confidence along the unlit path leading down from Hidden Cabin toward the root steps at the Narrows on the Valley Road.

Early on, the night chill nipped close; Carymba pulled her cloak more closely about herself, her hood farther forward over her head against the nip. With her arms clustered snugly beneath the cloak, Carymba slowed her pace, for the arms were not readily available for assuring balance, should there be a slip in Winter’s rime. Even so, the strides go onward, stealthily along their practical way, as certain as at noon, mid-Summer, all the way to the root steps and to the floor of the Valley Road, at the Narrows, with nary a mishap along the way.

The result of the early rise allowed Carymba to catch the Sun rising clearly into the open skies over the Sea. A low, light fog hung over the water as the ground swells brought lapping wavelets to the strand in regular rhythmic patterning. She had arrived at the Sea Road, moved along the Beach a bit and taken a seat on one of the many rocks of various sizes that litter the upper reaches of the Beach, beyond he Sea Road itself. There, arms about her knees and still beneath the enfolding cloak, she sat and awaited the dawn.

As is sometimes the case, Carymba was tentative this morning. Her native sense of what, exactly, ought to come next had not taken on clarity as yet. As a result, she waited; and, while she waited, she casually enjoyed the emergence of day by the regular stages, until the Sun separated its orange self from the horizon of the Sea. She had long since learned that waiting, though requiring time and attention, need not be merely lost time. This is, in fact, latent time, highly useful and mysteriously productive. Out of this pause would emerge the sense of going and doing.

Strangely, this morning, with the Sun still low in the sky of sheer blue, a second figure appeared on the Sea Road. Carymba was paying absent minded attention to the Sea and, for some time, did not notice her early-appearing companion down near the opening of the Valley Road. At last, as the intruder began to climb laboredly over the rocks, approaching her, Carymba noticed the movement: a dark cloaked figure lurching awkwardly toward her. She started, gaped at the puffing figure … she could hear the breath, heaving along towards her … and caught her own breath. Bright eyes flashed the startled reaction inside the steely blue darts.

‘Carymba’ panted the voice as the visitor stopped a bit away … too close for real comfort, but not entirely too close. The voice registered in her ears, familiar but not overly so. Letting her mind whirr through the possibilities, she soon settled on Terzi as the likely name. ‘Terzi?’ she asked, tentative enough to convey her lack of absolute certainty. ‘Yes’ he replied. She sighed slightly, a ripple of relief that Terzi was recognized … although the most dangerous character she could imagine would be Walter, and Walter had never frightened her; only, she was startled!

As Terzi set himself upon a convenient, modestly comfortable rock, he looked up to her again. Her face was still secluded within the hood on her cloak as that hood was fully forward on her head. With her arms beneath and her legs drawn up under the tent-like sweep of the warm garment, there was little to learn of her. ‘I had thought I might find you here on such a morning’ he began, ‘though you are most certainly difficult to recognize with your cloak like that’.

Only then did Carymba realize how deeply her head was tucked into her hood and how completely her body was secluded from view this way. ‘I had not thought of that; when I started from Hidden Cabin before dawn, the chill nipped close and I took shelter in my cloak!’ One hand emerged, and another, together to ease back her hood somewhat, to allow her face to show near the front edge. ‘So, you were looking for me?’

‘Yes. My comfort level has been receding’. ‘Has Walter anything to do with this?’ ‘Not really: I have not heard much of Walter for some time. It is more to do with me than anything, I suppose’. ‘Oh?’ Terzi sat, rounded in his posture, studying the stones, a random collage of sizes and shapes. Carymba watched the etchings in his face with care, tenderly. ‘Has it been unusual … of late … with the Leaferites?’ she asked. Terzi paused, gazing long in a very continuing manner into hat sprawl of stones; after a long pause, he slowly shook his head, no.

Shifting her own gaze over his shoulder and out over the peacefully rolling Sea, under the crystal blue of the sky and the lifting brilliance of the morning Sun, Carymba pondered a long time, too. The weight upon Terzi was clearly the most obvious sign.

‘Mother Hougarry, by now, is wanting me to share in her fresh baked scones, her freshly steeped tea. The table is readied, a crisp cloth on it and the basket of towel-wrapped scones will be in place. She will sit and eat, breaking scones to add butter and jelly, to celebrate the breakfast we used to share, when I was but a child and staying with her in Hidden Cabin. I go and do as I must. … She does not understand. She could see me visit at the Inn-by-the-Bye; she would, too, if she were still agile enough for the trek. That, in season, I would go to Apopar, or any season to the Fringe, out to the City on the Plain, the Sea Road, Uiston, the Gypsie area … such a thing is too much for her’.

‘Yes. Larger views threaten the Leaferites, too. They grow surly. Mean spirited. They weigh on me.

‘Yes. They, beloved as they are, get angry. All you can do is … continue’.

1 February 1998

DCCCIII

Dark chill gripped the foreshortened evening. Night came quickly, abruptly to Hyperbia. Mary had not had, or taken, the opportunity to light her lamps. She had worked over a bit too long, fussing with some plants in need (she thought) of some special attention just then. As a result, the afternoon had