Inn-By-The-Bye Stories - 8

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 author's daughter.

The drawing is the artist's conception of Mary's Flower Shop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524647063

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.

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 10/25/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4698-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4706-3 (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

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CCCLII

CCCLIII

CCCLIV

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CCCLVI

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CD

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

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, 7

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

This eighth collection of Inn-by-the-Bye stories, roughly the eighth year of their being written brings a few adjustments to the flow. At the very end of book seven, Missus Carney takes up an assistant, Nova. With this year, as Missus Carney grows older and loses her stamina entirely, she leaves Apopar to take up her frail residence at the Inn-by-the-Bye; her work in Apopar is assumed in her absence by Nova.

We also find Jasper coming by invitation from the Fringe to work with John as his assistant at the Foundry, set upon the Fields. Effectively, Jasper’s use to the stories on the Fringe grew thin, and John offered a way for him to develop in other, new ways.

John and Nova are just two more obvious adjustments in the network we find in Hyperbia as the hints and guesses and nuances of the characters continue to develop and grow. They become ever more fully friends, especially to the author! And they do reveal themselves more and more to the reader, hopefully making the land and the network and the interactions and the personalities more and more at home with the reading.

I’ve often wondered how people see Hyperbia. I know that I have my own sketches in the back of my mind. My daughter, Anne, who does the cover drawings for me, has asked about the arrangement – I sketched out a sort of a hint of a map, a difficulty as I know well the main routes and the principal houses and cabins and huts, but the rest is really, really fuzzy in my head. It is like moving to a new town: you learn where you are and where you intend to go, the routes involved. Off that main network, other places are much more vague in mind, becoming part of awareness bit by bit as occasion demands you travel in the off handed areas. Even the places I have lived in my life have parts of the world nearby that are effectively ‘unexplored territory’. So it is with Hyperbia.

I hope you, my readers, are finding the characters ever more alive in your imaginations. And the run of the mill areas clear enough to let them be explored in your curious minds.

William Flewelling

CCCLI

No air stirred inside the Fringe. Jasper looked up to the leaden skies; as best he could tell they were simply hanging there, heavily upon a stagnant air. Sometimes, as Jasper mused and frowned, it seemed as if it all were balanced on the Fringe, and even more on his own head. Every day the Fringe stunk. The stubborn marsh smelled rotten in the Summer Sun. But those who stay on the Fringe cease to smell the stench; it becomes a part of them and any freshness is merely sharper to them. Jasper, however, emerged from the Fringe just often enough to remind himself of the thick dank humidity in the stale Fringe air, where he wandered. When the days were heavier than usual, everything simply worsened inside the reedy marsh-grass grip of the Fringe.

So Jasper slinked away, splashing in the water because of his careless rush. He lost the single minded concentration of the Wanderers, normally held on ridge and clump and the sole rise in the middle of the Fringe. He lost that concentration and felt the murky, stagnant water splash upon his legs, and the silt ooze about his feet, reminding him of the everyday necessities among the Wanderers, of whom he is one. He dredged himself up from the slime and stomped along the ridge as the ooze slithered mostly off his feet. Afterwards, he kept enough attention to details of footing and emerged from the reedy marsh-grass onto the Fields.

Just as he emerged, Jasper breathed deeply. The marsh stench held inside the Fringe pretty well. But even so the air everywhere was heavy and stagnant this morning. He breathed deeply, gulped and coughed, as if the air’s moisture would have drowned him on the spot. Sputtering, Jasper climbed a few steps up the slope, then, just before the edge where the Fields properly open palm-like to the sky, he flopped down and lay on his back, sprawled widely. The grey sky hung massively over him as his eyes stared greyly back into the stagnant, overhung presence. Only the marsh-required attention to the ridges held his mind from utter blankness before he emerged. Now, even that was gone and the blank, stagnant grey mass mirrored blankly through his eyes. He breathed the soupy air, and nothing more.

Time hung unobserved as Jasper lay sprawled upon the softer grasses at the edge of the Fields. Everything was held off for him. He was between the ordinary routine of the Fringe, where he lived in silence, and the Fields where he once roamed in angry freedom. In between the place to which he must return and the place to which he cannot freely return, Jasper lay in half-seclusion. His head did not show over the fold in the land at the top of the rise. And he half-faced the marshy Fringe, half-faced the indolent clouds overhead. Jasper would have thought of himself as cheating on necessity, had he been thinking at all, that is. He simply knew of this retreat, and was not afraid to come aside and escape the Fringe for a while.

Jasper had no idea how long he had lain there, sinking into the soft grass, prone as no one on the Fringe has the luxury to be. However long or short the time, all had been blissful to him. And all came to an end when a foot landed in his ribs. With a groan, Jasper responded. He gathered himself, rolled over and glared up at his antagonistic visitor. Walter glared back, anger racing through his eyes. Jasper, now on hands and knees, ready to rock back onto his toes, stared in steel-grey hardness at Walter. Old memories churned inside, and old angers opened their seething. Both of them had known their times of rage. Only now, Walter took a step past complaint with a kick in the ribs. Jasper felt his muscles warm. His thighs were flexed, ready to drive him into Walter’s smirking stance. All the oldest urges pressed against him, leaving him now coiled and ready to explode. He had been this way rarely since he left for the Fringe. But today, on the free rim of the Fields, that rage flared again.

Then, as Walter sneered, Jasper sprung up and faced him uprightly. His hands were in fists to match the clenched emotion Walter showed. Jasper peered deeply into Walter’s face. And Walter stepped back. He did not like that closeness, nor the penetrating look he felt he saw in Jasper’s eyes. Face to face, Walter felt intimidated. He wanted to strike, but – somehow – he did not dare. He had felt the coiled energy of Jasper on his haunches and stepped back. He felt now even more the eyes cut straight through him, his flesh and his soul. Walter shivered uncontrollably, betraying a confused and fear-tinged anger. Jasper let his hands fall loosely at his side. There was no need to counter Walter. He knew that fact all too well. So he spoke in slowly measured, even tones: ‘Why the kick in the ribs?’

Walter, summoning his favorite sneer, jutted his jaw and assumed as cold a look in his frigid eyes as he could manage. ‘I kicked you because you don’t belong out here’. With a flush, Walter felt like he had justified himself. He held up his jaw defenselessly, and stuffed it nearer to Jasper’s face, as if inviting or daring a violent response. For Walter lived with the hint of violence, and all the dregs of unfulfilled revenge on imagined wrongs. Jasper knew Walter too well. He wanted to laugh at this pretense. But he restrained himself, giving out only a slight wry grin. Walter had done all he could; Jasper realized that plight and played with him. ‘Who am I bothering, here on the slope?’ ‘You bother me!’ Walter’s voice nearly crackled in the staccato pronunciation he applied in response to Jasper’s smooth and steadied phrase. ‘But everything bothers you’. Walter flushed, and took a sequence of harsh shallow breaths, trying to be ferocious. He thought he was successful even though Jasper merely stood there, relaxed through all his watching of Walter’s shifting, nervous eyes.

Walter drew in his chin, exaggeratedly. He stood back, bearing a puzzled and ever more uncertain expression on his face. Jasper spoke again. ‘Really, you had no reason for the kick, did you?’ Walter had no answer. Walter knew full well that he could find no second on the Fields if Jasper should get mean. Walter felt frail and vulnerable. His eyes bounced back and forth, side to side, as if he feared attack from some unknown deceiver. But no one was around but Jasper, who was standing easily before him, watching him with those eyes which ought to snap in anger now. Walter remembered: Jasper was always like that before, ready to leap into rage. Or has the Fringe so thoroughly tamed him that he forgot his anger? Impossible! So Walter thought, and gulped dryly, trying to hold himself aloof from danger, never trusting Jasper, not now, not since he found a new awakening in Walter’s toe.

Jasper halfway smiled at Walter’s cringing. He waited while Walter sweat and almost turned to apologize. Walter choked on the words, and nothing came out. Walter stepped back in slow slithering steps. He was almost ready to break and run for his life when Jasper spoke. ‘Walter, take it easy. I’m not going to chase you. I’m not going to hit you. I see you so afraid and so angry, like I was once. But now, I have better things to do, like lie down and watch those grey clouds hang, and maybe drip refreshment on us. Lie down, Walter. I won’t even kick you when you’re down. Go ahead, the sky ought to rain soon’.

Walter fumbled a bit, then sat down, watching Jasper. Jasper sat, too. Then Jasper flopped down as before, and sighed. Walter, trembling and afraid, lay down too; he was afraid not to do as Jasper said.

24 July 1988

CCCLII

Mary glanced longingly out her front window. The Fields were taking on the stiffness of late Summer, but doing it prematurely. The green was in the grass, but also a brown tinge inside the carpet. The light breeze no long brought waves to the Fields, but a hoarser rustling, dry and nearly brittle sounding. Although Summer’s heat continued on, a long dull process, she really missed the soft freshness, the fragrance named Spring. But all that was long past for this year. Mary sighed and turned herself away, back to her Flower Shop.

Inside, the day smelled stuffy. She watered her plants and imagined their warm gratitude in return. She sprayed them and the leaves glistened. They even seemed to freshen and take on a firmer, bolder appearance. Mary smiled at the response she saw in them. There is, she decided, a way to freshen things. She can’t do it on the Fields; they are far too large and she had no control. But here, she can pinch away the dry and dead leaves, moisten the fresh green ones, and coddle her plants into a never-ending Springtime. Mary smiled broadly at the thought. Here, in the safety of her home and shop, by her own skills and patience and application, she can modify the seemingly irresistible tramping onward of the seasons and keep a sort of Spring, in spite of the dryness of Winter and the hot mugginess of today.

Mary had almost forgotten the close heat while enjoying her plants. But now it all came back to her, with interest. A drip was falling off her nose, and she suddenly recognized that it tickled. She twitched her nose, then rubbed it to erase the tickling. As she swept her hand across her nose, she found that drip was not alone. All over her cheeks clung moisture, which gathered into little streams trickling down to her chin in sudden bursts. Her arms were moist, too. She looked at fading Spring on the moistened leaves, and felt the lonely weight of Summer’s heat, made stronger by the humidity which she applied and the stuffy staleness of the air she kept for her plants. Sadly, she was laboring for continued Spring inside and was still caught by illusion. Summer steamed here, too.

With a sadder glance around, she knew too well that she was fighting to keep even with the dreams for her Flower Shop. Spring was gone. Now is the time for illusion, as best she can manage it. And for today, she has done what she can. Mary sighed and set aside her tools for magic. The thought of a cup of tea rumbled across her mind. With a private nod, she went upstairs, stealing but a quick look at the heat-layered Summer on the stiffening Fields. Upstairs, she saw a mirror. Her hair was straggled in a random way. A smudge of dirt, turning to mud, streaked across her cheek and dotted the tip of her nose. She looked as she felt: wilted.

So Mary poured a basin of fresh water and washed herself: her face and neck, her arms and hands. The cool water she chose freshened her, like the misted leaves in her shop below. And like the misted leaves, she found the muggy heat returned to weigh on her too soon. And Mary pouted, just a bit. She did not want to heat water for tea, but she did want some tea. She did not want to exert herself, but she did need to do something besides sweat. She decided to freshen up more. So she fixed her hair into the usual form: neat and collected. She couldn’t stop the heat, but she decided she could stay out of the dirt for a little while. She couldn’t make or keep Spring in her Flower Shop – not really, anyway – but she could make herself a little fresh for a little while. And then she could go to the Inn-by-the-Bye. ‘They’ll have tea! And I won’t have to heat my stove in order to get a cup’. Mary spoke in a defiant tone of voice.

Quickly, Mary finished her re-preparations for the day. She gave a quick self-inspection in order to verify for herself that she was indeed ready. With a smirk and a shrug, she decided she was readied enough. With a jaunty toss of her head, Mary went down the stairs. She went out the door. Then she looked down: she had forgotten her shoes. Disgusted with herself for this delay on her resolve, Mary spun around and stomped upstairs. Shoes found, she came back down with the familiar clomp of shoe leather in her ears. Satisfied, she closed her door and headed by the path toward the ‘Y’, the Big Rock and the way to the Commons and the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Although it was late morning now, and lunchtime approached, no one else was on the path. No one else was in sight. Mary continued on her way. At first, her pace was brisk, the aftermath of the last aggravation. But soon, the haughty Sun, gazing down from its hazy heights, slowed her pace. Mary frowned and stole a quick glance upward. There, the big Sun, hanging low in the sky (so it seemed to her) pulsed in a nasty glare from overhead. The air itself seemed to quiver and move like shaken jelly under the stirring of that Sun. She thought of a hat, but was not inclined to go back, not now. She was on her way and nothing this small was going to stop her. For three paces she sped up nearly to the speed she took at first. Then she slowed in declining effort clear down to a drawl-like stroll. The idea that no one was out now because of that Sun slipped through her mind, but she chuckled at it, and nothing more.

At the door of the Inn-by-the-Bye, Mary’s steps moved very slowly. She licked at her dry lips, but her tongue was dry, too. Her arms were glistening. Her cheeks tasted salty as her tongue reached out past the dry corners of her mouth. Her eyes felt glazed and her focus seemed strange to her mind. She blinked and her eyes burned. Then she reached and opened the door; it creaked slightly as she pushed it fully open.

Inside, the Inn seemed dark and fairly cool. Low lights in the dining room looked like distant flickers in the gloom. She stumbled as she entered and placed her hands against the jambs of the door, stabilizing herself while her eyes saw black, then a flickering deep red. Her knees wobbled and, in spite of her, gave way.

A little later – although Mary did not know how long it had been – she found herself half-reclining in a chair, cool water on her face and dripping down her neck. She blinked, and went to move – but her hands felt like lead and her head like a lump of iron. Her eyes could see quite well now, in the dim light and the cool of the Inn-by-the-Bye. Clyde’s bearded, burly face looked to her. ‘Why did you come out today?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Yes. That Sun is terrible this noon’. ‘I was hot and I wanted a cup of tea’. ‘You wanted a cup of tea?’ ‘Yes. And what’s more, I still would like a cup of tea.…But tell me, first, what happened? What hit me after I came through the door?’ ‘You folded up like an accordion and crumpled onto the floor. Worst of all, you left the door open!’ ‘So sorry. Who all is here?’ ‘Just Thyruid, Marthuida, Geoffrey and me’. ‘Well, at least Geoffrey will want some tea, too! How can I get going without