This story takes place in the land of the Man and the Bridge. You can read that story here if you need to catch up.

The Quest of Goerge

Ouch! Pulling the thorn from his hand, he slowly and deliberately squashed the offending weed under the thick padded sole of his boot. He enjoyed the act of defeating the prickly little enemy, knowing full well this quick growing weed would be back to torment him all too soon; thistles, why so many thistles. Why didn’t his berries and bushes and fruit trees have the same persistence? Instead, they reacted resentfully to his efforts. Drooping sullenly, and offering him thin, wooden fruit with scarce juice that arrived late, if at all.

Sometimes George could swear that they were conspiring against him. In the first moments of wakening while he still had one boot in his dreams he could hear their whispering in the early morning breeze challenging him to invest more of his money and time. More— more—- more. More of him; more time, more money, more effort:

George was not one to wait. Had never been one to wait. He wanted results now!
It was this insistence on having his needs met now, that had splintered his bond with Emma. A delicate flower of a woman, it was that lingering, subtle fragrance of her life that had first drawn him to her. But now she was no better than the prickly little enemy in his field: responding to his demands with a feeble, self-protective bristly resistance—so unlike the Emma he once knew. And he slowly squashed her long-suffering nature under his edgy, thick soul.

What really bugged George is that his mediocre farm was surrounded by thick, gleeful land; land that seemed to bear fruit as if all by itself. Trees that stretched happily upward, offering their golden produce to the sky: perky shrubs, pregnant with berries that grabbed playfully at his trousers marking them, with their copious juice. Each stream seemed to gush unselfishly to feed the land. The soggy ground with its rich colour patiently gripped the thick souls of his boots, daring them to squash the spongy irresistible life beneath.

Georges’s neighbours assured him that their land was no different than his.
When George asked them for their secrets, they proudly offered up their remedies for a fruitful return. He would stamp his great thick boot “No, there must be more, I already know these things. They take too much time, too much effort. There must be more you are not telling me.”

“George, George” ——–

His neighbours reminded him of the ancient story of the bridge that had reconnected them to the great land owner and how before the bridge, all land was like his land and his land was the norm, not the exception. “George” they said, “take more time, and invest in what you have been given. Sometimes it does take longer than planned.”

George needed a return now. Not later. George wanted the benefit of the fruit now not later. This is what he would do. He would insist on his rights, better land, that’s what he needed. He would appeal to the land owner.

George paced and panicked and dreamed up a dozen conspiracy theories for why he had heard nothing. In due time, in good time, word came back. The land owner’s personal messenger brought the news. In a thorough explanation so as not to miss a thing, he spoke for the land owner, explaining the journey and the conditions under which George could appeal. As if with a mind of its own, his great padded boot tapped an irritated song in sync with George’s mumblings of “get on with it man – get to the point.”

He did, and finally George was give a map along with the appointed time he was to meet the land owner. George thought to himself, I’ll make the journey in half the time, surprise the landowner with the importance of my need for new land, and be breaking new ground in time for the next harvest.

Before first light, before his land awoke to whisper its unhappiness, before Emma could be rushed and crushed, George was half-way through the township.

Emma slept in that day, and her bent spirit began to straighten, along with a pale hint of her subtle graceful fragrance.
It was new, this land beyond his county. George had never taken time to travel. What surprised him most was the abundance of the land. Great thick trees supported by trunks wider than his hoe stood tall: generous trees bending over the path to offer him the best of their fruit. At first George had little time for this nonsense; committed to keeping a brisk pace he brashly swept the giving branches aside.

But George who was never much for exercise was soft in the belly and softer in his feet. And his great soled boots were out of their element. Where they excelled in the soft soil they suffered on a hardened path. Enough already! Fat, squishy blisters screamed their disapproval and pressed against his right heel; rebelling against the foreign activity.

And George was forced to rest.

He picked a spot where his feet could reach the stream and the soft moss welcomed his behind—gently. The aged apple tree received his rigid back—tenderly. And the leaves of the forest whispered a gracious greeting to the hurried stranger.
A weird, pungent, earthy aroma was the first thing George was aware of as he opened his eyes. “Just great,” he cursed, as he angrily realized he’d been asleep. George was concerned, the sun had traveled a long ways and he stood stiffly, dizzy with the quick movement.

The pungent earthy aroma moved! Surprised and a little afraid George realized an ancient man was resting against the backside of the same welcoming trunk.

The pungent earthy aroma spoke. The ancient voice resonated with a deep unhurried cadence; this intrigued George and for the first time in a long, long while he chose to sit and talk, and even his great soled boots offered no complaint. The ancient’s conversation meandered covering farming, politics, and religion and distant lands he had visited, and even about a long ago meeting with the land owner.

And for the first time in a long, long while, George subdued his compulsion to press for answers—for wrapping up, content to let the old man ramble on. It was comforting.

But the sun was being pushed down by the moon and they both realized it was time to find shelter for the night.
“Here, Take my flask” the ancient offered, “It holds a very special wine from my own orchards. It is a wine that must be savoured and sipped slowly in good company, and not before its time. It will refresh you when you need it most.”
Savouring and sipping in good company was not George’s style. “How soon can I drink it” was all he could think to ask. “When it is time” was the ancients reply and with that he offered his earthy, soiled hand in goodbye, and slowly trundled away from George.

Needing to make up for lost time George forced his body into a quick stride. Soon, too soon, he was tired. Refreshing, that’s what he needed if he was to make the next village by dark. Removing the flask from its strap, he quickly pulled out the stop and jabbed the opening to his mouth, drinking deeply, he was overwhelmed by the harsh cutting liquid!

A sharp thistle poked deep into the soft flesh between his thumb and finger while he swayed crazily on knees and palms, and retched, and retched. Folding to the ground like a knot George realized he could go no further.
And for the first time in a long, long while he asked himself must I always be in hurry and he cursed his impatience.

Tags: Stories, The Quest of George

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007 at 5:16 pm and is filed under Sermons. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.