Chilled air splashed against George’s face as he pushed on through the night: funny how the dark made things worse than they really were; so it was good to walk. Time was he would have lied in bed fretting, but the walking help straighten the worrisome kinks that tangled his mind. It is true that he didn’t leave Lewis and Bess under the best circumstances, but he also knew they forgave him for the mess he had created. And the peace, he had never experienced peace as he had at their home.
George had just begun to clamber down from their soaring tree house, when that familiar great soled thick boot had planted itself a heels width from his nose. George winced involuntarily, almost expecting the menacing toe to punt him the rest of the way down. It is the kind of justice the boot had applied in the past to those who had crossed George. But the boot was on a different foot, Lewis’s foot; the boot had remained rooted in its place, obedient to its new master. Instead, Lewis had folded his sturdy frame over George, grabbed George’s shoulder and squeezed. George looked up to face the man, and Lewis smiled, and his eyes smiled.
He was making good time in his new high topped, hard soled, gripped boots. The flask from the ancient bounced a rhythmic tattoo against his pack and his big yellow companion, Fido, was content to amble alongside. The path led him alongside the immense emerald river. Its unchanging presence slowly seeped into his spirit and helped muffle the anxious voices with in.
The moon’s light had hinted at changes in the setting and the new morning revealed the full picture. The valley was slowly opening into an immense expanse of ground. George was startled, even a little afraid. He had listened to travellers describe a land called— prairie, but until now he had spent his life cocooned in the brown and green of woods and valleys, held in place by sloping hills which in turn were framed by distant greyish peaks. In George’s rare reflective moments he could picture a cosmic Gardner tending the countryside which was his home.
This, this was different. Like a vast dry lake the colour of his favourite string bean, bluish-green knee deep grass swelled and rippled in the now dry wind and reached as far as he could see. The sky spanned the expanse like a great blue bowl, fastening itself to the prairie somewhere beyond. The flat land was empty of trees except for occasional canopied clusters and George felt exposed, vulnerable, and insignificant—tiny.
The path thinned to a dry trickle as George pushed the walking stick ahead of him: uncertain and lonely.
The wind found a new voice in the grass, like a reedy whistle, reminding him of his neighbour Happy who could whistle through his teeth and smile at the same time. George chuckled: what he would give to hear Happy whistle.
Fido heard it first, a sharp sound that poked through the air. “What is it boy?” George called, hooding his eyes as he scanned the ground. The big yellow dog answered by bounding to his left—stopping like a sentry about one hundred paces away. This time George heard it, the whistle of a human, and he followed the sound to two distant figures moving towards him. They were men and they were closing rapidly.
They loped towards him and at a distance seemed as if they were skimming on top of the grass. Tall and trim, their hair the colour of corn and eyes blue like the sky, they slowed to a walk as they closed in. He had never seen men like this. George squeezed his staff and Fido, parked by his side was neither friendly, nor unfriendly. The one with the golden beard and wide chest spoke. The voice was deep and the sound like music, but George didn’t understand a word. The deep voiced one spoke again, noises that were more guttural, like he was trying to clear his throat. And again, George did not understand. A third time the deep voiced one spoke, “hello.” “Hello” George replied and he couldn’t help but smile.
The deep voiced one continued; I have not spoken this language in a very long time, do you come from the south, where men fence their land and farm the rich dark soil?” “Yes I do” George responded. And the man said, “I admire those who can grow life from dirt” My name is Malte and this is my brother Cathmore.
Cathmore cut in, “brother let me speak for myself. What is your name, where are you from, and where are you going?” almost challenging George. “I am George – and where are you from and where are you going? Malte laughed, “perhaps we have found someone who likes to argue as much as you Cathmore.”
George learned that they had come from a land far to the west and had been exploring for a long time. They too were heading north to the country of the Great Land owner. When George explained his quest they offered to travel with him and George happily agreed.
Though they looked the same, the brothers differed in every other way. Malte was mild mannered, calm and seemed genuinely interested in what George had to say. Cathmore argued with his brother on almost every point; and it wasn’t long before George and Cathmore were at it. It was Malte who put and end to one particularly long debate. “Enough already” he thundered, “I have never met two more self-righteous, narrow-minded people in my life.”
George was indignant, thinking to himself, ”who was this stranger to call him self-righteous, it wasn’t that he needed to be right, he knew he was right, and what right did that corn-haired character have to say different.”
George had been called self-righteous before. Emma in an uncommon burst had called him that very thing after a vicious argument. He recalled how she shook, her face blotchy with red and shiny with tears. “Why must life be black or white, right or wrong? Maybe George, just maybe, it isn’t so simple and you aren’t so right all the time” George remembered how he had rolled his eyes and laughed his mocking laugh, proud of his stubborn ways. Now, trekking on this plain with the self-righteous, narrow-minded corn-haired stranger, he felt like an arse.
The movement on the horizon was a welcome change to the endless grass. At first it was just brown shapes moving. The shapes gained form as the trio closed in and the welcome became alarm. George had his own cow and was familiar with the deer that raided his garden but these creatures were neither. Black/brown in colour with broad faces and deep chests the creatures blocked their path. Their piled, heavy muscles twitched and stretched at the almost hairless skin. Dropping their massive heads to chew, jets of dust sprang off the ground from the force of their breath. They were again as large as the largest cow and curled horns made them seem even bigger. One beast with a broken horn looked in their direction, raised its head, and snorted.
Cathmore hardly slowed his pace, “if we have to go around this herd it will add at least a day to our journey, George lend me your dog and we’ll see what these beasts are made of.” George opened his mouth, but it was Malte who responded, “Cathmore we need to slow down and think this through. Your bull-headed, fighting ways have gotten us into enough trouble in the past” “Malte, for all your muscles you have the nature of a lamb” was Cathmore’s quick response. “If I can’t take the dog then a brush fire will clear a path for us, the wind is in our favour.
George surprised himself with his response, “No, there must be another way, Malte do you have an idea?” Malte did have an idea. It would be risky but in the end he and Malte agreed, and Cathmore had no choice.
George held the three straws. Cathmore drew first, it was uncut. He was safe. Next Malte, as the straw pulled like a sliver out of his loose fist, George grasped that it was he who was holding the short straw.
George walked very slowly, the big yellow dog, sensing his nervousness, drew close to George’s thigh. Closer and close he moved, until he could smell them – it was the odour of sweat and dung and wet grass rising in a steam from the creature’s back. It raised its head, snorted and pawed. George’s legs went heavy and he fought his panic. He could see Emma, and their home, and their orchard, and he regretted many things. He wondered why he had felt so strongly to press for more. George stepped forward again and the massive head with its small black eyes returned to grazing. Rotating his head and shoulders stiffly, he caught the eye of the brothers, smiling he offered an unsure thumbs up.
George wasn’t sure how long they quietly pressed through the herd, but after a while his heart gave up its fight with his ribs. And the men continued among the massive creatures.
He felt good about himself that night as the three settled by the fire. For the briefest moment George considered pulling out the flask with its remaining wine—after all it was a time to celebrate, and he was in the company of new friends. “No, George” he counselled himself, “I don’t think so, I’d sooner take another chance with that herd”
George mused, he had for most of his life despised gentle, humble characteristics as feeble, something to be cut out, yet today he had been saved by them.

Gentleness

Gentleness is a humble Love

It is the opposite of argumentative, self righteous, stubborn, the need to win

It is counter intuitive to be gentle today

Think about how many films have revenge and win at any cost in the storyline and we applaud the character who has the last word hoping they will cut and skewer the antagonist with their sharp words.

It can be risky to be gentle,
Gentle people risk being misunderstood, overrun by aggressive actions, hurt by intolerance.

Yes there is time a time for tough love to fight for what you believe but more often than not there is a time for gentle love,

James had this to say Jas 1:19 My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,
20 for man’s anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires.

Gentle love is the rule not exception

Its qualities are mildness, tolerance and humility

And what did Jesus say John 13:14 Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.

Tags: Stories, The Quest of George

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