The three trekked hard, Malte and Cathmore with their long reaching legs hardened and practiced, moved in a fluid tempo. George discovered that the rhythm of life extended beyond planting seasons; coaxing his arms and legs into a harmonized motion to keep alongside. Once again he whispered a prayer of gratefulness for Charis’s gift of the high topped, hard soled, firmed gripped boots. He placed his hand gently on the broad yellow head that padded at his side. He was less grateful for the silver capped flask clicking a repetitive reminder on the brass ring of his pack.

The plain seemed to extend beyond the horizon and though none of the men complained, they were tired of the monotony of featureless swishing grass. Cathmore’s sporadic shouts of, “I see something” each ended with a curse at the trickery of cruel mirages.

It ended so quickly the three almost tumbled and even gentle Malte shouted in surprise, his bass voice booming. The plain was in fact a plateau and its end was marked by a deliberate drop off. The land before them and below them was spread with farms like rectangular earthen throw rugs of yellows, browns, greens, and black, each fringed with a fieldstone fence. A thread of thick blue water was woven down the middle.

The rugs of earth matted the entrance to an enormous city. City was Malte’s word for it, for George had no word to describe what he saw. He saw masses of ornate structures, like a rich man’s, man made garden, complete with rows upon rows of varied, colourful buildings. The thick blue thread of water flowed down its middle and bridges clasped the two sides together. George studied the silver and copper roofs intently. Each roof grabbed a fistful of sun to throw his way.

“It is so bright!” was all he could say. The city was fashioned like rings of circles flowing out from the middle, with each ring a road that both connected and defined the circles. There were six rings and in the middle was a large square and in the large square was a building that drew all attention to itself, it pulled at George’s eyes. The entire city seemed to bow to the center.

“This must be it; this must be where the Great Land Owner lives” declared George, “What do you think Malte, Cathmore?” “No,” they responded together, in rare agreement. Cathmore continued, “Malte and I have heard rumours of a city which is before the place of the Great Land Owner, this must be it, if we are correct it is named Briet, because it shines so brightly.” He continued, “We have also heard stories that it is not all that it appears.” “What do you mean?” George responded. “Only that for all its beauty all may not be as it seems.” Malte offered. Cathmore followed up quickly, “Malte, we will not pass through this place”, and again Malte agreed, “You are right Cathmore, we will continue on.”

George was just as clear.” I am going to the city of Briet. Perhaps I’ll meet another like Charis. Malte, Cathmore, I have come to appreciate you as travelling companions and friends. And Cathmore, you remind me of myself and that can’t be all bad.” Malte pulled George to his broad chest and whispered, “Be careful friend. Hopefully we will meet again.” Malte and Cathmore smiled in goodbye, and their eyes smiled then their tall strides separated them from George.

George chuckled to himself, thinking of his plain farm and earthen village. The only evidence of dirt in Briet was the clusters of hanging plants. He wished Emma was with him to enjoy this. George had once witnessed the birth of a two headed calf, but even that was topped by the wonders of the city of Briet.

Complete was one word that kept coming to George’s mind. Everything was complete in Briet. No trim was without paint, leather shone with fresh oil, and the cobbled streets were ornately patterned. Carriages rushed by; the inlaid precious metal trim shouted look at me, and paired horses in expensive harness stepped with fine breeding. George didn’t have to worry about standing out. The wealthy citizens of Briet were much too focussed to notice George, except once, when Fido used a newly painted lamppost to do his business.

New was another word to describe Briet. Fresh concrete sent its wet odour past the large screened fences that camouflaged construction. George recognised the muffled working sound of hammers and saws. Even the people looked new in their shiny shoes with razor soles; like the town of Benignsus, but finer, much finer. And when the people smiled, which seemed to be a regrettable exception, their eyes didn’t smile. Still, the first impression was that life was very good in Briet, but was it?

George looked up, way up. A giant, face, taller than his largest orchard apple tree was painted across the brick and was staring right at him. It was a very handsome face and it was grinning and it said Mayor Arman invites you to dinner. The backdrop for the giant face was the building in the center of Briet. The dinner was for that very evening and was an open invitation for all new comers.

His best shirt was far from the best shirt being worn yet he wasn’t out of place. The square in the center of Briet which could have swallowed his home village had drawn all manner of men and women both elegant couples and plain folk. There were many races. George knew why he was here, but he wondered about the others.

The voice came from his left. Loud and clear but not offensive, it was rich, and cultured and it compelled him to listen; stopping just short of commanding him to listen. George could make out the form of Mayor Arman high above the crowd speaking from a platform which itself was in the shadow of the most beautiful building he could imagine.

“Welcome to my home and welcome to Briet the best place on earth.” George found himself cheering along with the rest: every eye attentive, chins slightly raised and forward. Arman continued, “like so many before you, you are on your way to the home of the Great Land Owner, it is a worthy goal, and the Great Land Owner has much to offer, but perhaps what you want is not to be found there and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your desires, all the good you can hope to gain and achieve here. Let me explain.” Arman did explain, and by the time he finished it was dark, but no one seemed to complain or notice. The crowd cheered wildly and made their way to the tables of food and drink.

It sounded so good and so right and if not for his journey experiences and the cautious words of Malte, George might have been tempted to stop short of his quest for the Great Land Owner and invest his life in Briet, which according to Arman, would give him 100 times the yield of the best land. There was one other thing, his faithful companion the big yellow dog was agitated and George had learned to heed Fido.

He ate quickly and formed a plan for the evening. He must tour the magnificent house of Arman.

Beyond, beyond his experiences, beyond his imagination, beyond anything he could dream. The house of Arman was beyond, overwhelming. And again he gave thought to how his life would be different if he followed Arman. He moved from the entrance way. Noticing a large frowning man posted further in the vestibule, George slipped to the right and followed the corridor, Fido’s clicking nails surprised George and he realized he would need to find a less open space, but there were no doors only alcoves.

The movement startled him; it was a flash of cloth and a door clicking to close. George reached but the door seemed to disappear into the wall. Without a latch or door knob, George leaned against the wall and kicked in frustration. The wall gave way and he landed hard. The corridor was dark, small and it smelled not of opulence but evil. A slight, skinny woman recoiled, pressing against the wall. She was about Emma’s age thought George, but she seemed older, weathered and grey like a fence post.

“You cannot be here. You cannot be here!” She was nearly incoherent, bunching the sack-like dress in a knobby fist. “Leave this house; leave this city while you can.” She continued, “I was once like you but look at me now. He asks for you to invest your money, then your time and then he takes your soul. There are many like me. Once he took my very soul, he owned me. How can I return home, I am in debt and I am disgraced? I serve in this house; but most work the mine behind the hill half a day to the south.” She paused, “There is more. Leave this evil place” As she pivoted to scurry down the gloomy corridor something dropped. At first it appeared to be a bark chip, but looking closer George could see it was a scale.
The great landowner had been specific about when George was to meet him. If he left Briet now he should have no trouble making the date but he was troubled. Were the rumours true? George made a decision. He would remain longer and risk his appointment. George had to see for himself, he had to know if what she said was true. He had to find an answer for the anger that gripped his throat at the thought of someone who would enslave another. For what? For more?

It stung him hard, piercing his heart until it ached and bled with the realization that his quest had one purpose; to have more. He had abandoned his wife, and left his farm, sad as it was, in a quest for more. Was he any different than Arman? He would be tonight.

Grey clay neutered the landscape of all potential for life. The farmer in George was appalled but that was minor. In the bluish black sky of early dawn he could see heads emerging from the ground. It was a deep pit large enough to swallow a good sized lake and the pit was infested with moving bodies. Humans with picks, shovels and sacks strapped to backs; too many to count. They too were grey and devoid of hope.

You what! The voice from beyond the weathered shed startled him. It was the voice of Arman. A very angry, very evil, Arman.The big yellow dog growled. It came from deep within and both startled and assured George. The two ran to the shed and slowly made their way to the voice of Arman. He poked his head around to follow the voice, what he saw caused his leg to shake and he sank to the ground. The voice came from an evil that momentarily froze him, pushing him to run away. Arman had taken the form of the evil that he was. George looked again; the dragon-like beast had forced two women against the shear edge of the pit. George could make out bits of terrified words, “my child…sick…need time” The women gripped one another, swayed and then fell as Arman slashed at them with the serrated edge of his clawed wing.

George was running, “No, No, leave them alone” Arman turned. The yellow eyes and foul odour terrified George, still he ran towards the beast. Arman pounced, pinning George against to the earth. The wing with its edge was sweeping downward just as the big dog in frightening yellow fury leapt and clamped missing the beast’s throat but catching the joint where the shoulder intersected the wing. Arman screamed and pitched with the dog flaying like a rag. George rolled away from the fighting forms scrambling to his knees just as the beast planted its good wing for stability, pinching George’s fingers to the ground. He cried out, pulling away only to discover his baby and ring fingers were missing. His wedding ring gleamed in the clay. Arman attempted to rise into the air but the dog’s grip had made the wing powerless.

The beast clawed and ripped at Fido, still, the big dog hung on in unwavering persistence. George had to do something, had to help. A discarded shovel with its broken handle lay against the shed. George sprinted to it. Turning he saw that the beast and the dog were balancing on the edge of the pit. With his good hand George hurled the spade. End over end, it arced and then planted, with the spade imbedding itself in the Arman’s neck. Yellow puss-like blood exploded outwards and the combatants toppled, disappearing into the gloom.

George was on his chest and he inched to the edge, peering into the gloom for his companion. It was deep and still to dark. Angry voices were coming closer. He picked up his ring and stumbled into the gloom, running until he felt safe.

George wept.

Goodness Correcting Love

Good is aiming for God’s standard
It is in opposition to all forms of evil – in others and ours
It is a measure of God’ correcting love
Sometimes we do need to be harder on ourselves
Goodness begins with correcting things in our own life
Ro 15:13 May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
14 I myself am convinced, my brothers, that you yourselves are full of goodness, complete in knowledge and competent to instruct one another.
Then perhaps we are in a position to tackle other injustices
Mr 11:15 On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves,
16 and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts.
17 And as he taught them, he said, “Is it not written: “‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’”

Have you ever met evil and known it?
Have you ever had to take a stand?

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 8th, 2007 at 7:46 pm and is filed under Creative Writing, The Quest of George. 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.