THE BEAST

Tense and motionless, he stared up into the gray sky that overshadowed the river. Submerged in a covering of mud, only his eyes and nose remained above the surface. The sounds of thunderous footfalls and splintering branches jiggled the sloppy mess around his head. Still, he waited.

When he could no longer feel the vibrations, he forced himself into a sitting position. Golden leaves which had fallen onto his hiding spot now covered his body like feathers. He wiped the tarry goop from his face the best he could and flicked it from his fingers into a swirling pool at the edge of the water. The movement made his legs sink further into the muck, so thick around him that it felt like he was sinking into a sodden grave. He turned onto his side to free one leg, then, getting onto a knee, pulled the other leg free as he crawled out of the mud and into the flowing river.

With barely a sound, he swam around a half-submerged log and entered the dark pool next to it. He paused to study the fiery trees and red-painted vines near the bank. Nothing. The creature was gone.

He sucked in a deep breath and ducked into the frigid pool. Keeping himself underwater, he scrubbed the mud from his scalp, then came up for air. Again he went under, and then a third time. Satisfied that his hair was as clean as possible, he turned his attention to his clothing, vigorously rubbing every part he could reach. He then moved toward a rock-speckled sandbar so he could avoid the mud where he had hidden, and crawled out onto the dry finger of land. He stood, wary.

A raven called out, its voice a stark intrusion into the general quiet around him. Nothing moved along the riverbank. He relaxed. His hair dripped, rivulets of water coursing down his severely stained waistcoat. He brushed at it with wet hands, but it made no difference. The soiled cloth would need a real washing. He peered down at his boots. Only a little of the black mud remained.

Eager to reach the bank, he took a few steps. He felt water squish between his toes. Surveying the tree line once more, he saw no signs of the creature. He moved over to a large boulder which had been exposed by the low-running river, sat, removed his boots, and drained them. He looked at the distant bank and realized he had never seen the mighty waterway so low. After wringing his stockings, he put them back on and slipped into his boots.

His gaze caught prints at the river’s edge―wider than the torso of a man, five huge toes on each foot, and deep gashes made by sharp claws. These, if they truly were bear tracks, had to be the largest he had ever seen. The tracks disappeared in the direction of the quarry.

He followed.

Stuffy and oppressive, the air was hot for this time of year. It made his already damp shirt stick to his back. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he climbed up the slope that led from the river bottom. When the tracks broke to the left, a line heading straight for the recently drained quarry, he chose to leave the trail and avoid the massive hole in the limestone bed of rock. He trudged upward, ignoring the slight limp of his left leg, uncomfortable in his soggy boots.

Then he heard it―a rumbling, echoing growl.

The beast is in the pit.

He crested the hill. Thick underbrush pushed him closer to the edge of the old quarry. He set his feet on a new trail and ran to where the quarry ended, the pit at its deepest point. But he was still not close enough to the edge that he could peer over and see the awful creature he could hear scrabbling in the rocks below.

At his feet, he found a large chunk of stone. The shape and cut of the pale, gray fragment clearly announced what its intended purpose had been before it was discarded. It was a foundation stone, intended to hold up a massive structure.

A stone cut with hands, he mused.

He picked it up, his arms bulging with effort, and went to the precipice. There, he hoisted the stone above his head and got his first good look at the entire creature―hind and front quarters like a bear, a scarlet-and-black-spotted body like a leopard, wings like an eagle, seven necks like serpents, each ending with the face of a lion, and all heads but one bearing a single horn. The central head had four horns of obsidian and teeth of iron; spikes used to chew on a boulder, crushing it to dust. The other heads looked back to the entrance of the pit.

He aimed. He let the stone fall.

The foul creature screamed in pain as the central head took the direct blow. Three of the horns sheared away with the hit, and a deep indentation appeared where the stone had crushed the skull. The beast’s neck slammed to the ground, flailing.

He watched for only a moment as the injured creature roared and scratched at the ground. Desperate for a new projectile, he searched the ground and took up another rock he could barely heft, then went again to the edge and prepared to attack. But the beast was now looking up. Six frightening faces stared back, razor teeth bared. Each of the six heads roared in protest.

And the injured head began to move.

It lifted from the ground, bleeding and wounded. But the depression in the skull was nearly gone. New horns sprouted from the back of its skull. The neck trembled, then stilled. It roared again, this time sending a shock through the ground upon which he stood.

He hurled the stone and ran.

Branches of drying leaves slapped him in the face as he ran between trees, racing for the river. When he gained the bank, he headed south with as much speed as he could muster. Strong and fit, his limp barely affected him. When the water came too close to the bank and left little room to run on dry ground, he left the bank and headed inland. It did not take him long to find the familiar streets of the old city, and he passed many of them before he had to slow, his breath now ragged from effort. As he went, he occasionally cast a wary eye behind, but caught no sight of the monster as he passed streets called White, Hotchkiss, Munson, and Kimball. The names called up memories of friends who had lived there so many years ago, but the images surfaced only briefly. These streets were completely deserted, just like all the others. Not a single soul stirred. He pressed on.

When the road he now traveled connected with Water Street, he turned right and saw the familiar red brick structure. He rushed to the front door and gripped the knob as if shaking the hand of a dear friend. Turning it gently, he pushed the door open, and entered.

Stout as it may be, the wood won’t hold that creature. Yet I doubt it will come here.

He didn’t bother to close the door, but sprinted up the stairs to the second floor. When he entered the meeting hall, he paused. Memories of the significance of what had happened there struck him deeply. His feelings were joyful and nostalgic―almost sad―at the same time. But something was not quite right. He surveyed the room and realized it was not the same place he remembered. The construction was much newer. And although made to look like it once had, he could see that the edifice had been rebuilt with much better materials than the first time.

He spotted the object he came for, and smiled.

He crossed the hardwood floor to a corner, where a large golden key lay on a writing desk. Next to the key was a basin filled to the brim with clean water, a square of cotton cloth for washing and a towel, and next to those, a bundle of dry clothing. A pair of polished boots rested under the desk.

He stripped off his damp, stained clothing, then used the cloth and towel until he was clean. When he had finished, he donned the linen shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, tied the cravat, and put on clean stockings before stepping into the dry boots. All the items fit perfectly. After tidying up the corner and placing his soiled items in a neatly folded pile on the floor, he retrieved the key and stuffed it into a pocket. Then he left the Red Brick Store in search of the terror that hunted him.

Refreshed and clean, he strode forward with purpose, fingering the golden key in his waistcoat pocket as he went. He crossed Sidney, Parley, and Kimball before he heard the creature again―its roar a challenge to him. But he held the course, sure and steady. There was no hurry now. He had the key. And he could hear that the beast was on the hill, right where he had expected it to go. It could wait for him a little longer.

When he crossed Hotchkiss, he could finally see the white spire on the hill, stark against gray skies. The sight of it made his skin tingle with excitement. Walking faster, he made his way to Mulholland and turned toward the temple. As he climbed the hill and saw the scarlet-colored beast sitting on its haunches, there on the lawn before the magnificent building, he paused. The creature noticed him and bellowed louder, challenging him.

“I am here,” he answered.

The beast silenced, all eyes glued to his person. It dug claws into the soil as it whipped its spotted tail back and forth. The central head which had healed itself bared its iron teeth.

He did not flinch. “You are not welcome here,” he said. His voice was soft, yet firm and commanding.

It did not retreat.

“You are not welcome here.”

It took a step forward, flicking its tail.

“You must leave.” He fingered the gold key in his pocket.

The beast growled and tensed as if to spring, but hesitated.

Brilliant sunshine flooded the temple grounds as the clouds instantly parted. The creature crouched lower, but did not advance. And still the light above got brighter.

Like the ripping of paper, the heavens opened to his view. He looked upon the ten thousand angels that stood above him, each with a flaming sword in their hand, and then gazed upon the one who led them―a man on a white horse, clothed and crowned with the glory of a hundred suns, hair like the driven snow, eyes as a flame of fire. The Ancient of Days rode as if down an unseen slope, then took a position between him and the monster on the lawn.

“The key!” Adam begged, a hand open.

He pulled the key from his waistcoat and laid it in Adam’s palm.

The key instantly changed. Adam drew back his arm, a javelin now aimed. The beast reared and clawed at the air. Deafening roars escaped seven gaping mouths. Adam hurled the weapon, his aim true. The javelin struck the creature in the chest, sinking deep into its heart. The monster shuddered. All seven sets of eyes glazed.

The beast fell.

He watched as Adam rode forward and yanked the javelin loose. It became a golden key in Adam’s hand once again. As if all eternity trembled, the earth beneath his feet shook, then stilled.

“Hurrah!” came the shout from the angels. They descended, one of them leading a horse without a rider. Exclamations from the grand company turned to singing.

Adam retrieved the animal, bringing it to him. “Ride with me, my son. The Bridegroom cometh! Let us go and meet him!”

* * *

Daron D. Fraley

Questions for the reader:

1. What city is this?
2. Who is the unnamed protagonist?
3. What is the key? (What does it represent?)
4. Why is the location (building) where the protagonist finds the key important?
5. What prophecy/book is this story based on?
6. How long did it take you to figure out who the protagonist is?
7. What were the clues to his identity?
8. What did you think of the story?
(This story is not meant to offend or confuse my non-LDS readers in any way; it was merely a writing exercise for me. I wanted to use a high degree of symbolism for those who would pick up on it, and wanted to provide an interesting descriptive action scene for those who would not care. I hope you liked it!)

http://authorsincognito.blogspot.com/2010/11/november-challenge-daron-fraley.html

I tried really hard to show something about the character without telling. Let me know what you think.

Have a wonderful, safe Thanksgiving holiday!

PETITIONS: A short story about a homeless man (contemporary fiction).
ANGEL’S SONG: A companion short story to the novel “The Thorn”, book one of “The Chronicles of Gan” (speculative fiction).
WATER: Based on the account found in the Gospel of John, chapter 5, verses 1-16, and the painting by Carl Bloch, “Healing at the Pool of Bethesda” (historical fiction).

These are the same stories which are present on my website under the menu heading “READ”, but I know that some people prefer to be able to take the book with them rather than sit on a website and read. So, if you are one of those people, you can find several different ebook formats available here. It’s FREE!

Have a great holiday weekend!

If you come to the book launch party today (Barnes & Noble at The Gateway, SLC, UT, 6:00 – 8:30 pm), please don’t be afraid to come meet me. I don’t bite. I will have chocolate…

I plan to post pictures of the book launch over the next couple of days so those who can’t make it can still see what all the fuss was about.

For those of you who dream of being a published author: DON’T GIVE UP. Keep writing. Share your writing. Submit your writing to publishers and/or agents. If you don’t succeed the first time, or even the fiftieth, keep trying. It is worth it!

I was recently asked in an interview what my favorite part of being a writer is. At first, I said it was the creative process. But then I had to admit it was something else. I write because I want my readers feel the things I feel when I write. This life is tough. Life is filled with times of loneliness, set-backs, grief, and despair. But that is not all! There are times when a person feels ALIVE. Times when we are touched by a piece of exquisite music, or thrilled by a stunning vista, or strengthened by the calm declaration of love.

I write because I want to give readers a sense of the wonder and awe which I feel in knowing that there is good in the world. Evil will not stand. Evil may have its day of perceived glory, but it will not last.

Good will WIN. People need to know that. They need hope.

That is why I write.

So, if you are having a bad day, or just need to escape from the dreary world, even if for a moment, read a good book. There are plenty out there. And if you are curious to see what I write about, I have samples of my writing linked at the very top of the blog under “READ”. Go read my short stories. I promise you they will help you to have hope!

http://ldspublisher.blogspot.com

The deadline to enter has been extended to Sunday night, and all stories should be posted by Monday morning when the judging will begin. If you have some time for some reading, please participate! After the rules for voting are posted on Monday, vote for your favorites.

According to the contest description, winners will be included in a published anthology. I would love to be included, so make sure you vote!

And for those of you who have never read my other short stories, you can find them on the menu bar above, by clicking on READ.

I don’t think it will ruin anything for readers of the novel if the short story is read first (but I leave it to you to make your own decision). I would be curious to hear from anyone who cares to comment if they felt it was better to have read the story before the book, or after. Of course, no matter what choice you make, the very fact that you made the choice will prevent you from being truly open minded about the other choice which you did not make, and therefore your commentary will be entirely meaningless (I am terribly cruel, aren’t I). But, please, tell me what you think. Really.

Ah… this reminds me of the choice which Indiana Jones had to make in a room full of cups–each one possibly the real Holy Grail–knowing that if he didn’t pick the right one, certain death awaited him.

May the guardian knight say to you: “You have chosen wisely”.

Sorry for the side-trip there. Back to business:

This story was first written and submitted to the LDS Publisher Blog for the Christmas Story contest in November of 2008. It has changed a little and been properly edited since then, so I think the story is much stronger than the original version. I want to thank a few members of my writers critique group who read it and commented (Wendy, Paulette, Lydia, Janice, Jeff), and also my esteemed editor, Tristi Pinkston, for helping me to clean it up.

I hope you like it!

To read the story, click on READ (or above, on the menu bar of the website) and look for “Angel’s Song”.

And don’t forget to come back here to comment!

“Get a job!”

Although he had heard the judgmental charge before, Mark winced as the shiny sports-car grumbled around the corner and sped down the street. The muggy afternoon pressed heavily on the hand-written cardboard sign—his strength waned, and he let his arm fall to his side, fingers still clutching the tattered brown square. Passing vehicles caused the flimsy sign to flap against his knee.

“I had a job,” he whispered.

The traffic light above him glowed yellow, then red. A wave of air pushed up by braking cars and trucks ruffled the hairs of Mark’s scruffy chin. Heat rising off the hood of the nearest car drifted over him, threatening to choke every ounce of energy from his body. The driver avoided making eye contact, pretending to look at something in the rear-view mirror.

Mark let his gaze drift across the sea of idling vehicles and found disinterested expressions behind every steering wheel. The familiarity of the sight made no impression on him. Stepping back to get some relief from the hot asphalt at the edge of the curb, he stood on a worn patch of grass bordering the sidewalk, his heels thanking him for softer ground.

When the light turned green and the cars went their various ways, exhaust fumes cleared from his sinuses only to be replaced by the scent of his own body. It had been several days since he had been able to use a truck stop shower. Hopefully tonight, he thought.

Mark’s stomach rumbled. Food first, shower second. He shoved his free hand into a pocket and fingered the two bills. A five and a one, he recalled. Sighing, he lifted his cardboard message higher.

A fresh batch of vehicles had filled the temporary parking lot—models, makes, sizes, and colors all different than before, but the general scene more of the same. Three cars back and next to the sidewalk, a middle-aged man with a bulging belly squeezed out of his seat, stepped onto the concrete, and glared over his shoulder at the woman riding with him. Bent down to peer out the windshield, she impatiently waved him forward. Approaching Mark, he snarled, “Best not buy any booze wit’ it.”

Without even looking at the money, Mark managed to say, “Thank you,” then stuffed the bills into his pocket. It felt like a couple of ones. The man lumbered back to his car and slammed the door just as the light turned.

Job? Booze? It’s because of booze that I don’t have a job! Angry, Mark barely turned his head as the sedan left. He closed his eyes, refusing to remember. But the memories wouldn’t leave. In his mind’s eye he could see his office and the massive cherry-wood desk where he would always sit. He remembered the stacks of folders, the brass lamp, and the expensive fountain pen he had gotten as a gift in celebration of his MBA.

He remembered sobbing at that desk. That is where he had gotten the news: The driver fled from the scene, and the car he was driving—stolen. Alcohol was found on the floorboard. Julie and his precious little Madison—gone. The responding firefighters did all they could.

Holding a picture of his family, Mark cried many times at that desk in following days. Prescribed medication didn’t help. Although he took time off, whenever he returned to the office he sat in a stupor for hours at a time. At first the company was sympathetic, but days dragged into weeks. They finally let him go. Five months later, he lost everything.

Anger burned hot in Mark’s chest as he thought about the alcohol which ruined his life. He had been a casual drinker himself before the accident. Never. Never again, he thought.

Fighting off images of his wife, he returned to his self-imposed task and tried to endure. Honking. Noxious fumes mixing in the humid September air. Uncounted vehicles carrying indifferent people. Although he didn’t have a watch, Mark guessed it must be nearing the end of rush hour. If he wanted to get dinner and make it down to the shelter before dark, he would have to leave soon. Uncharacteristically hot for the time of year, the day had been miserable. But clouds were gathering, and he could feel a front moving in which would cool things off. That would mean cold, wet nights. Sleeping on the ground would not be pleasant.

Debating if he should leave right then, he looked up to see another car door open. It was a small green compact, fairly new, but an inexpensive model. A woman in the passenger seat looked on with interest as the driver stepped out of the vehicle. He walked towards Mark, a kind expression on his face. The man made eye contact every step of the way. With only a smile, the man pressed a bill into Mark’s hand, squeezing it firmly. Then he turned away.

Startled by the compassionate gesture, Mark blurted out a phrase he had heard other homeless people say, “God bless you!” The words fell from his lips awkwardly, but as he heard them, he believed the message. Yes, God has blessed that man, Mark thought. As the car pulled away, Mark waved.

He looked down at the money. It was a ten. He looked up again, but the car was gone. Reflecting on the brief meeting, he marveled at the contrast between the last three encounters he had experienced. Then he realized—the money didn’t matter. The kindness of one person had made his day. But I am still grateful for the gift! he thought. Now he would get dinner and a shower.

Almost giddy at the prospect of it, he folded up his worn-out sign, shoved it into his dusty back pocket, and crossed the street. As he walked, thunder sounded in the distance. A breeze kicked up, and tiny droplets started to speckle the sidewalk. But Mark didn’t care. His goal now in sight, he hastened into the fast food restaurant, breathing in the inviting smells of a hot meal.

Thankfully, the restaurant had only one other patron ordering. And most of the seats were empty. He pulled all of his cash from his pocket, making sure the cashier saw he had the money to pay. To avoid offending the other patron, Mark kept his distance. When he ordered, he stood back against the rail. Once his tray had been filled, he found a table near the back and faced the window.

Every bite of his sandwich was heaven. Having a front-row seat to see the weather developing made it all the more enjoyable. Mark loved the rain. By the time his tray held nothing but wrappers, huge drops pelted the ground outside. He sipped on his drink, content to watch the storm. After a fifteen-minute downpour, the rain changed from a fierce deluge to a gentle soaking. It appeared by the looks of the sky that the rain would continue for a while. Knowing he would have to walk without an umbrella, Mark lingered at the table.

A young mother nearly stumbled through the entrance as she shepherded her boy out of the rain. She tapped her hair with an open hand to dislodge the droplets clinging to the top of her corn-rows, while keeping her other hand on the boy’s shoulder. Before they could even approach the counter, a cashier called to her. Mark watched them, grateful he had missed the drenching.

“May I help you?”

“Mommy, can I get fries?” the boy said, his voice plaintive.

The woman ignored the boy and started to fumble through her purse. Mark took another sip of his drink. The boy wandered over to the counter, just shorter than he, and gripped the edge with both hands, his chin resting on the surface.

“Mommy, can I get fries?” he said, eyes still glued to the colorful placards above him.

The straw in Mark’s cup rattled with a slurping noise. He stood and stepped across the aisle over to the soda machine, filling his cup partway with ice. Positioned on a service island, the machine allowed him to easily observe the boy and his mother without bringing attention to himself.

“Aiden,” the woman said firmly. “Come back here an’ let go of that counter.”

Reluctantly, Aiden shuffled back to his mother.

For the first time, Mark noticed what the woman was wearing. She had a silky mauve blouse, a black leather purse, and a wide copper bracelet. Earrings and makeup testified that she had either just come from work, or she had dressed up for this occasion. Her son now tugged at a corner of her blouse, just below a small stain. Mark could hear the coins jingling in her purse as she dug with one hand and transferred her findings to the other.

Single mom. May not even have a job. Mark caught himself. Suddenly embarrassed that he had passed the instant judgment, he looked down. His thumb was dirty. So were his fingers. Pressing the dispenser, he filled his cup to the top. The jangle of money still reached his ears. He popped the lid back into place on his drink, and stepped back to his seat.

Mark didn’t mean to stare. But he couldn’t help it. The woman was now counting coins which easily fit into her small hand. Her lips pressed together, she breathed in. She smiled down at the boy.
  
“Just a hamburger this time,” she said, her back straight and head high.

“Mommy,” Aiden said softly. “It’s my birt’day.”

A gut wrenching spasm went through Mark. He thought of Madison. There would be no more birthdays. His eyes misted.

Without a second thought, Mark stood, leaving his tray and garbage on the table. He shoved his hand into his pocket and found coins. There were bills too. Folding it all together, he tromped over to the woman.

Startled, she took a step back, a hand on her boy.

Mark held her eyes for only a moment, then looked down at his dirty hand. He held the money forward. “For some fries.”

She looked at the money, then at him. A tear trickled down her cheek.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

He gave a nod. The boy’s eyes were wide, fearful.

Mark stepped around them and hurried for the door, not looking back. Once outside, he lifted his eyes towards heaven, rain spilling down his face.

“Thank you for the shower.”

Ms. Bowzer (awesome teacher) did the same for me in my writing class–novel, essay, metered poem, haiku, free-form, and many more. We spent a lot of time learning about short stories. I suppose it’s because short stories are just the right format and length for grading. I also think it’s because short stories are fun.

But what makes a short story? How is it the same as a novel? How is it different? I am far from an expert, but let me share a few tips I have learned.

1. LENGTH: Like poetry, a short story needs to get to the point without a bunch of fluff. Words should be chosen carefully. Make every word count. Keep it… short. If you want to practice this skill, try to write a haiku. English haiku contains 17 syllables, metered as 5-7-5, in three lines, with the first and third line typically rhyming. This will get the creative juices flowing!

2. CHARACTERS and SETTING: As a short story writer, you don’t have much time or space to elaborate. Backstory should be as minimal as possible. Don’t tell everything! You need just enough description and personality for both the setting and character to interest the reader. Make the reader care. Illicit an emotional response, but don’t sell it all. Think of this as more of an advertisement for a character who could be in a novel someday. That will help you to use only the most important words about them and the setting in which you paint them.

3. THEME: A short story typically has a point to it, or a theme. Sometimes the theme is stated or obvious. Sometimes it is very subtle. Stated or not, you need to give the reader a reason to remember the story. If the reader comes away from the experience and says, “What was that all about?”, then the writer hasn’t done their job.

4. PLOT and ENDING: Just like a novel, there needs to be some kind of conflict, or the reader will be bored. And this is just my personal opinion, but the ending is critical. If you want the reader to remember the story, grab their attention at the very end. Make them fall out of their chair with surprise. One of the best examples I have ever seen of this is Arthur C. Clarke’s short story “The Star“. If you decide to read it, NO CHEATING! Read it slow. Treat the ending with respect without jumping ahead.

If you have a short story you would like to share, give us a link in your comments. One rule: Keep it clean. No “R” rated material or profanity please.

Here is one of mine:  “WATER” by Daron D. Fraley

Have fun!

I turned to the woman next to me and said, “Would you like to read a story?”

“Oh, yes, especially if it is a happy story.”

When this dear sister got done reading it, she said: “Thank you! That is just what I needed.”

She proceeded to tell me they had just gotten news of a tragedy in the family and were flying home to be with their loved ones. I then had a wonderful visit with these two very special people. I do believe that their strength and the spirit they carried with them helped me far more than I helped them. I will be eternally grateful for being put in their path that day.

I am so grateful for the talents God has blessed me with. I know that I am not the best writer in the world, and never will be, but for that moment when I got off the plane and wished them well I had the most wonderful feeling about the short story that I wrote. I must say that out of anything I have ever written, that story is the most inspired work I have ever produced. And I was able to use it to share my testimony in something I know to be true: Christ is The Healer. He can heal ALL THINGS. He healed the paralytic at the side of the pool. He can heal the hearts of all who suffer because of a tragedy in life.

No amount of praise from friends or family (although it is very appreciated when it does come) can compare to the sweet, tender feeling I experienced Friday evening knowing that my story had made somebody feel better. This couple didn’t need me to teach them. They knew. But our conversation did lift their spirits.

As I walked away to go find my own family and go home, I said to myself: “THIS is why I am a writer.”

I never plan to stop writing.

WATER

Moshe grunted as he rolled the rest of the way onto his already aching side. His breathing labored, he let his head collapse onto a wad of rags which he had brought for a pillow. A sudden sharp pain between his shoulder blades caused him to turn a little further so that his chest almost touched the splintering reed mat beneath him. With his chin propped upon a bony arm, Moshe peered from under the low hanging frayed edge of a filthy square of cloth. Hung from a frame of lashed sticks, the cloth served as a makeshift tent – a shady covering for which he was grateful. The heat of a late afternoon sun bore down upon the porch beside the pool where he lay.

He licked his cracking lips, reminded of his terrible thirst by gentle ripples upon the surface of the water. No longer hearing splashing, he hoped whoever had been in the pool had left. Perhaps he was even alone. On another day, long ago, such a thought would have caused a flash of wild hope to race through his soul and tickle his heart. Musing about the possibility made his pulse quicken. No, he thought. Not this time. He knew better.

When his breathing calmed, he listened more intently. A scrape. A distant moan. A low cough, not far away. All signs that it would do him no good to scoot out to the water’s edge.

He swallowed. Glancing sideways at the gourd lying empty, just out of his reach, he muttered a curse beneath his breath. If only he hadn’t slipped off his elbow that morning. He had knocked over his water before, but never that early in the day. Squeezing his eyelids tightly closed in an effort to shut out the vision of water, he sighed. It would be several hours before his son would return for him – Shimon never made it back to the pool until after sundown on the Sabbath. And if his son still felt upset, it might be longer than that.

Their argument had been quite heated. Shimon had insisted that Moshe come to synagogue. He resisted – he had to be near the pool. He begged his son to stay with him. Shimon stated quite rudely that he would still continue to bring Moshe to the pool, but he would never again participate in what he called “a foolish superstition”.

One year previous, after they moved to Jerusalem from their home in Joppa, Shimon had brought Moshe to the pool every morning. Two weeks passed without any success. Then on a day when there were not many people on the porches, the water bubbled. With Shimon’s quick assistance, Moshe made it into the pool first. But nothing happened. Realizing that the bubbling stopped right before his toes broke the surface, he knew he had barely missed the proper moment. His legs remained lifeless. Moshe left the pool in the same manner in which he entered it – on crutches, his son steadying him. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Since that day, Moshe had come to the Pool of The House of Mercy as often as he could. But Shimon never participated – he would wander off to the markets or to the Synagogue, or back to his small shop where he sold candles. Moshe didn’t understand why his son would not try again. Just once more, Moshe had often begged. The answer was always “No”.

Tired of the anger he had felt towards his inattentive son all morning long, Moshe tried to relax on his back. With his eyes shut and his mouth dry, his mind wandered to thoughts of other waters. He could picture himself standing on the edge of short cliffs overhanging the sea – the wind in his hair and briny air in his nostrils. Below, he could see indigo swirled with evening sky, sometimes clear and yet sometimes impenetrable, and waves sparkling like crystals, tiny flecks of light shimmering like the stars of a cool, fall night. On that cliff, he was a young man. And he was standing. No crutch. No leaning upon a son’s arm for support.

Thirty-eight years. The price for greed had been steep. Oh, how he wished he could go back to that time and place. He would choose better. A different choice would mean everything. Sailing in a boat – his boat – would be possible again.

The noise of an approaching crowd lifted him out of his wishful daydream. He arched backwards trying to see who had come, but on account of the shady covering blocking his view, he could only see the sandaled feet of those closest to his resting spot. He listened. Most of the people talked in low voices, and some even whispered. Unable to pick out more than a stray word or two, he could not discern what the conversation was about, but was intrigued by the tone of the whispers which reached him. Although he could not tell for sure, they sounded disdainful.

Moshe’s shoulders cramped. He rolled to his side once again and pushed his body into a better position to observe the chatting arrivals. Now he could see their legs. He tentatively reached forward. Unwilling to let them see into the safety of his makeshift tent, he pulled his hand back from the cloth without lifting it. Still, curiosity drove him downward until his cheek pressed against the reed mat beneath him. The lower vantage point offered a partial view of a man at the edge of the group – sandals, well-worn and dusty from travel, and a course woolen robe, clean yet humble. The man’s feet shifted, toes pointing in Moshe’s direction.

Catching his breath, Moshe twisted onto his back when footsteps approached. The stranger’s feet now very near, Moshe watched as the covering lifted. He immediately raised his arm high to protect his eyes from the sunlight which streamed into the tent. Squinting in the bright rays, Moshe could not clearly see the man’s face. He wondered who it could be. Murmuring rose into the air from behind the intrusive man, adding to the concern Moshe had felt about previous whisperings. Half expecting some kind verbal censure, a voice of perfect calmness took him by surprise.

“Wilt thou be made whole?” the man asked.

Has this man come to help me into the water? Did Shimon send him? Yes. Shimon must have sent him. But why the question? Shimon would have told him.

“Sir,” Moshe began. “I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.”

He strained to lift himself higher, still not able to see the stranger’s face. As if sensing Moshe’s thoughts and desires, the man stepped to the left, effectively blocking the direct light. When Moshe’s eyes adjusted he gaped.

Eyes like the depths of the blue sea, alive and almost sparkling bright, captivating and powerful, mild yet full of majesty – the man’s eyes reminded Moshe of pure water and clear sky. He gulped. Was this the Rabbi others had called Master? Moshe did not know the man’s name, and yet in his gaze, Moshe felt nothing but tenderness.

“Wilt thou be made whole?” the man asked again.

Moshe trembled. “Yes, Master.”

“Moshe: Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.”

********

copyright July 2009. All rights reserved by Daron D. Fraley

Story inspired by Carl Bloch’s painting “Healing at Bethesda” and John 5:1-16