Banking by Relative Mathematics

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching the Mosquito

Here's another little thing that got published on the no-longer-accessible Facebook Notes.    My notes say that I originally wrote it in 2001;  I seem to remember it was prompted by a conversation with a friend who believed he could make his own truth, but that's just a shadowy thing and may not be right.  I do have an idea to turn it into a stage skit with a narrator, but that's not likely to happen.

Some things are just...true or not true...and all the sincere believing that can be mustered up will not change a truth into a preference, or a lie into reality....

Once upon a time, there was a bank.  It was a normal bank and carried on its banking business in the normal way.  Into this bank one day a young man walked…we’ll call him Joe.  Joe opened an account with the bank and deposited two hundred dollars into the bank.  The bank was happy, Joe was happy.  It was good.

            The next week, Joe walked into the bank and deposited another two hundred dollars into his account.  The bank was very happy to receive his money, Joe was happy that his money was well taken care of.  It was still good.

            The problem started about three days later, when Joe found a TV he wished to purchase for five hundred dollars.  Being somewhat distrustful of checks and credit cards, Joe decided to pay cash for his TV and went to the bank and attempted to withdraw five hundred dollars from his account.  The bank teller was as polite as she could be, but she still had to inform Joe that he could not withdraw five hundred dollars …he had only deposited four hundred dollars.

            Joe began to be just a bit testy.  “I put two hundred dollars into this account last week…and I put two hundred dollars into this account three days ago, right?”

            Looking at his transaction file, the teller agreed that that was correct.

            “Well, according to my personal perception of mathematical truth, that adds up to five hundred dollars.  I’ll take it now, please.”

            The teller was dumbfounded.  “But, sir, everyone knows that two hundred and two hundred is only four hundred!”

            Now Joe was beginning to be irate.  “I’m sorry, I do not agree with the axioms upon which mathematics is based.  No one can prove them to be true.  I think it is exceedingly intolerant of you to insist that the popular application of mathematics is the only true one.  You are imposing your belief system on me, and I do not appreciate it.  All my life people have refused to consider that my viewpoint is a valid viewpoint; from kindergarten on I have been ridiculed and persecuted for my beliefs.  As I see it, two plus two equals five, and you are denying the validity of my person by stubbornly denying the validity of my belief!”

            The teller was beginning to be a bit nervous, now, and wondered if she should signal the security guard.  However, just at that moment, a rather good-looking man in impeccable business attire stepped up and spoke to Joe.

            “Do forgive me for intruding, but I couldn’t help but overhear.  I must say, I entirely sympathize with your viewpoint.”

            Both surprised, Joe and the teller said at the same time, “You do?”  The fact that Joe spoke with hopeful delight and the teller spoke with profound incredulity seemed to mean nothing to the gentleman as he continued.

            “Yes, yes.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Murphy Stoffies,” the gentleman said, handing Joe a business card as he continued, “My business associates and I have felt for years that the current intolerant treatment of mathematical truth must be shown to be completely unworkable for today’s society.  We have opened a banking establishment especially for those who, like yourself, have been disenfranchised from society due to their mathematical views.  If you would care to withdraw your funds from this traditional, narrow-minded organization and deposit them with our firm, you will find that you will be allowed complete freedom to interpret mathematical function as it best suits your pursuit of the truth.  You will only have to agree with them as to your balance today, then hereafter you will be free to define your terms yourself.”

            Well, Joe thought that was just the best thing he’d heard in years, so he rather dismally agreed with the clerk that he could only withdraw four hundred dollars, closed his account, and accompanied Mr. Stoffies across town to the unorthodox banking establishment he’d recommended.  Sure enough, one of the forms Joe signed as part of the account-opening process included the statement, “We hereby agree that the mathematical principles applied to the computation of any monies deposited in this institution, as well as any interest accrued thereon, will be solely determined by the signatory individual(s), pursuant to the declarations of such individual(s) and deferring any differences between such determinations and the popular application of mathematics to Higher Accounting, whose calculations shall not be applicable to said individual(s) so long as this institution is in valid business relationship with said individual(s).”  There followed some more confusing language in small print, which Joe understood to mean that whatever differences this had with the way the popular mathematical principles would compute his bank balance would be referred to an advocate who would protect him from such differences.  Joe happily signed the papers, deposited his money, then promptly withdrew five hundred dollars and purchased his TV in time to watch the Super Bowl.  Once again, Joe was happy.  The bank seemed happy enough.

            This went on for some time…Joe made his deposits regularly and regularly withdrew whatever he required to purchase whatever he wanted.  His lifestyle increased gradually, until one day he was in to make his weekly deposit and ran into a gentleman who was withdrawing a large sum of money.  The gentleman turned to Joe and asked him what mathematical principles he was using to regulate his account.  Joe, proud of his theories, explained that he believed that two plus two equals five and operated his account accordingly.  To his consternation, the gentleman laughed at him.

            “My, what a simple, low-returning formula!”  Then he looked at him.  “Listen, son, you need to really get your teeth into this.  Let me tell you what I do.  You do know that in conventional, uninformed mathematics division by zero is undefined?”

            Joe agreed that he had heard that but didn’t really understand it.  The gentleman smiled.  “Well, all you have to do is define it yourself…say, anything divided by zero automatically doubles…or triples…or whatever, then come in and divide your holdings by zero on a regular basis.  You’ll soon have more money than you’ll know what to do with!”

            Joe considered this and decided it was superior to his way of manipulating his money…so he filled out the proper paperwork and began regularly dividing his account balance by zero.  Suddenly, Joe was wealthy.  He purchased an executive home and a sports car.  He vacationed on the Riviera.  Life was good.

            Until the day Joe went to the bank to divide his balance again and was directed to yet another gentleman in impeccable business attire.  Joe thought nothing of the uniformed policemen standing about, until he noticed that the man who had recommended the practice of dividing by zero was in handcuffs, giving a statement to one of the policemen.  Now, Joe began to be apprehensive.

            “What’s going on?” He inquired of the businessman as he gave him his account number.

            “Oh, it’s nothing to be alarmed at.” The gentleman stated in a soothing manner. “It’s just time to settle the accounts.”

            Joe was puzzled. “Settle the accounts?  What accounts?”

            Again, the man was unruffled, “Why, the accounts that represent the sums you have spent in excess of your deposits and earnings at this institution.”  The gentleman typed a few numbers into his laptop computer.  “Ah, yes, you have a sizeable outstanding balance.”

            Joe stuttered, “Outstanding balance?  I should have millions in my account.”

            The gentleman smiled ruefully and shook his head.  “Yes, that’s what everyone has said.  I’m afraid you have been misinformed.”

            Joe was beginning to be angry. “Misinformed?  What do you mean, I’ve been misinformed?  It’s all nice and legal that I could determine the mathematical formulas myself.”

            Again, the gentleman shook his head.  “I see you still don’t understand.  I am the State Bank Examiner, and I’m afraid I must tell you that this establishment had no authority under the laws of our state to operate as a financial institution.  In fact, the papers you signed merely authorized the officials of this establishment to take out loans in your name for the monies that you computed to be in your account beyond your deposits and legitimate earnings.  Furthermore, according to the papers you signed, those loans are due in full upon demand.  I’m afraid if you cannot pay the debt, you are guilty of fraud and liable to arrest and imprisonment.”

            Joe leaned over the examiner's shoulder and read the balance he saw on the screen.  All the color drained from his face and he made a little mewling sound as his knees buckled and he fell into the arms of the policeman nearest him.  His jaw worked before he managed to get the words out of his mouth.  "How...how can you do this?  I was told...everyone said...there are signed documents...this bank doesn't follow the commonly accepted mathematical principles!'

             The Bank examiner sighed.  "Do you really believe those principles exist because some people have taken a fancy to them? Even the people who started this institution know better than that.  Mr. Stoffies is wanted in seven states for fraud and theft by deceptions.  It is a scam -- they persuade people to invest with them under the most preposterous conditions, then run up huge debts in the names of their clients and abscond with the money that had accrued in the accounts, leaving the 'bank depositors' liable for all the debts.  However, the irony is that signed paperwork contains a paragraph that states you acknowledge that you will be simply borrowing money, which you will repay when the institution is no longer in business.  This so-called 'bank' declared bankruptcy this morning; Mr. Stoffies and his cohorts are long gone and you," here he nodded at the other gentleman in handcuffs as he continued, "and your fellow bank customers are left, legally, with all the debts."

            Joe had progressed beyond shock to anger.  “But…but…that’s not fair!  He said I would be allowed to apply mathematics as I understood them!  What right have you to say I am not correct?”

            Now the bank examiner began to lose his patience.  “I am sorry that I am the one to tell you this, if you have lived all your life without anyone ever telling you before.  It would have saved you much trouble had you understood this before the accounts were due.”  He stood up and looked Joe squarely in the eye.  “The principles and axioms of common mathematics are not the result of popular preference.  Mathematics is founded upon those principles and axioms because they are true.  They were true before people figured them out.  They will be true long after you and I have left the earth.  They are true whether anyone believes them or not.  One plus one will always be two.  A plus B will always be the same as B plus A.  It is absolutely impossible to divide anything by nothing.  You chose not to accept that, to believe the lies of someone whose sole motivation was your deception, either directly or through others he had likewise deceived.  He could not have deceived any of you if you had decided to believe the truth originally told to you.  Now you owe a debt you cannot pay.”  He nodded to the policeman, who put handcuffs on Joe, reciting as he did, “You have the right to remain silent…..”

            The bank examiner watched as Joe, shocked again into complicity, was led away.  Then he sighed sadly as he sat back down and wearily repeated, "Next case."

Job's Wife

 posted by Lisa Laree to Catching the Mosquito

Whilst I'm thinking of 'misunderstood women'...I happened to remember a bit I wrote about Job's Wife.  His bitter, complaining, nagging wife.  Or so everyone seems to think.  She did say some pretty harsh things, no doubt about that, but the one thing that everyone seems to forget is that, barring the attack of boils, all of Job's losses were also hers.  They were her kids, too...

I wrote this back in 2000, and actually performed it in costume as a monologue  once for a Sunday night service back in the denominational church we were in.  I thought I posted it on one of the blogs, but apparently it was one of the now inaccessible Facebook notes because blog searches come up empty.  And, yeah, it starts off in italics, lol...

Dear CJ,

            We found the following diary or journal on the third week of the dig.  Bronswell and I both believe it to be significant, if not authentic.  It was inscribed on clay tablets, with bits of decomposed papyri lying about that it seems to have been copied from, or perhaps was being copied to.  The translation was done by Tim Norbert—he said he made an idiomatic translation rather than word-for-word, to try and catch the flavor of the manuscript; I hope you find it as interesting as I did.  Read it over and let me know what you think. 

                                                Yours, Bettina

 

2 Ziv -- J. conducting business with Bildad.  Last of the sacrificial sheep slaughtered; J. to go day after tomorrow to select next batch.  Bebai very excited to have permission to join his siblings in Adin’s feast tomorrow.  Have been invited, but J. needs to finish business and I have beginnings of a head cold and need to see to the bread baking.  Think we’ll stay home.  Weather hot for this time of year.

 3 Ziv -- O horrible day! Such a day should not be!  Must make the effort to tell this; no one will believe the catastrophes that have befallen us today...Saw Bebai safely off with Uthai to Adin’s and began baking bread.  After noon meal, Bildad and J. completed business and B. left, then the news began.  First, it was Shimei, terrified and bleeding, who burst into the house and announced that the Sabeans had attacked while they were doing the plowing and had stolen all the oxen and the donkeys grazing in the next field.  His coworkers were slaughtered.  He was wounded but managed to come home to tell the news.  Just as he was saying, “I alone have escaped” -- unbelievably, we would hear those same words three more times -- Ahimaz came in crying “Master!  Master!”  He was near hysterics and it was all we could do to calm him enough to hear his tale.  He said that fire of God (I have never heard of such a thing) fell from heaven on the pasture where the sheep were grazing, and the sheep and the rest of the shepherds perished.  “I alone have escaped” he said with a sob, but before the words were out of his mouth, Jalam staggered into the room bleeding even worse than Shimei and fell on the ground.  At length he managed to tell us that three bands of Chaldeans had attacked the camel caravans and slaughtered all the servants and stolen the camels and the goods they were carrying.  As he was gasping “I alone have escaped,” Elizear came in with his garments torn and ashes on his head, grieving, with the worst news of all.  “Oh, my Master and Mistress!  Great distress has fallen upon your house!  As your children were all feasting with Adin, an incredible wind blew hard and,” he gulped here and began to weep anew, “ The house fell with all the children inside.  I was in the yard, and I saw it all.  Everyone died.  I alone have escaped.”  Then he wailed, “Oh, my Master and Mistress!  It is an evil day!”  J. and I sat still for a time as he wailed, then J. stood up, tore his robe and fell face down on the ground.  He was weeping as he said “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked will I go out of the world.  The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away -- blessed be the name of the Lord!”  I have wept and wailed all day, but it will not bring my children back to me.  I don’t understand why God should decide to destroy all we have or hold dear.  J. is no help.  He shakes his head when I ask him “Why?” and says we should be grateful for what we have had and enjoyed.  He has gone with half of the household servants to excavate Adin’s house to collect the bodies -- Ah, God, my children! -- so that we may have a proper burial for them.  Ahimaz has taken the rest of the servants to bury what bodies of the servants they can find; I have been tending Shimei and Jalam; S. will probably mend well enough, I’m not so sure about Jalam.  Not one of our neighbors has come to sit and grieve with us.

 4 Ziv--The men worked by torchlight last night and managed to recover all of the bodies of the children.   I worked today to wrap them with the burial spices.  A more horrible thing I have never had to do.  They were all so mangled and broken.  The maids helped, or I could not have done it.  None of the neighbors have come by.  Zilpha says that the gossip at the well is that we are under a curse and they are all afraid of angering God by showing mercy to a house he has condemned.  Angering God!  If anything we have done has angered God, then all of humanity should have been wiped from the face of the earth long ago.  I know my husband and my children -- there is nothing that should have resulted in this kind of judgment.  I would like to know why.  Just one question -- WHY???  We lay the children in the burial tomb tomorrow.  May God give us strength to do it, especially as he has left us with little else.  Shimei some better today, Jalam feverish.

 5 Ziv--J. and I and the servants laid the children in the tomb; the professional mourners would not even come to our aid.  Even two of the house servants begged to be released today for fear the curse will extend to them.  J. says that we are nearly penniless now and may have to sell some of the ground to get ourselves back on our feet and pay the creditors for the goods the camels were carrying, along with the wages for the hired servants.  I do not feel we need so many servants with so little to care for, but perhaps he is right.  He says there is still more to life ahead of us and that God is faithful and we will be restored.  I do not know why God would strike such a blow if he intended to restore it all to us.  I cannot conceive of going on with life as it is.  What is there to live for?  Our friends have abandoned us, the servants are nervous and the God we have served so faithfully has proven himself either unfaithful or uninterested.  The children are all gone...why bother?  I fear Jalam dying as well.

 (here a piece of the tablet was broken and some of the words are missing)

 ...at noon today.  We wrapped him in the cloths and gave him to his people, who hissed at us.  I wept after they left, but J. scolded me and said we should be willing to let God have that which he had only lent to us.  What glory does his God get if we are bereft of everything and our name is only a hissing in the street?  J. went to the city gate to sell a piece of ground, but no one would buy it, calling it cursed.  We have had to dismiss as many of the servants as could find a place to go, which was nearly all of them.  Only old Ammihud and his wife Keturah are left to us.  J. has no animals from which to choose a sacrifice, but he had the weekly worship today anyway, calling on God and thanking him for his blessings to us.  I left.  If we have had God’s blessing, I think I would rather be cursed.

 9 Ziv--Oh, God, what has your servant done that you inflict him so?  J. began to break out in boils today and the townspeople drove him out, saying he would bring calamity on them as well.  He has gone out to the garbage pile to sit and mourn, scraping the boils when they pain him too much.  I went to the well for water today and was nearly driven off.  I have decided to go at an odd hour from now on.  I sit and weep for hours at a time.  Only Keturah speaks to me with any sympathy.  It’s as if we were suddenly a household of lepers.  I see no future for us.

What shall I do if he dies?  Oh, that I could die myself and be done with it!  Life is evil, evil!

 10 Ziv--This is a living nightmare.  I took some pottage to J. at the garbage pile; he is boils from head to toe and looks absolutely miserable.  His face is swollen and he is scarcely recognizable.  It broke my heart to see him so, and I couldn’t believe his God is allowing such a faithful servant to suffer so.  “Why?”  I said, “Why?  Why?  Why?”  J. said God must have his reasons, which made me absolutely furious.  There just can be no reason for this.

“How can you say that?” I demanded, “Where has it gotten you?  Sitting in a dung heap covered with boils!  Curse God and die!  Give it up!  Then I can lie down and die, too, and be done with this whole mess.” I don’t remember what else I said, but J. got really angry with me.  “Watch your tongue, woman!”  he scolded,  “You’re talking like an idiotic pagan woman.  Listen to me...we will not accept just good from God, but also whatever adversity he sends our way.  Do you understand me?”  I think his illness must have addled his brain.  I wish I understood why all of this is happening...

 11 Ziv--J. even worse than yesterday; blisters in his mouth making it difficult to eat.  What is the use of anything?

 12 Ziv--Weather turning very hot and humid.   J. still miserable.

 13 Ziv--Hot.  Bildad, Eliphaz and Zophar came from their cities, having just heard of our misfortune.  They brought Elihu with them and have all joined J. at the garbage heap, weeping and wailing and throwing dust on themselves.  At least someone cares enough about us to come and mourn.  

 14 Ziv--Still hot.  Bildad and friends still with J., nobody is speaking...or eating much, either.  I’ve made two trips to the well today; I think they will need plenty of water, sitting out in the sun like that.  It’s such a difference from the hospitality we offered them the last time any of them were here.

 15 Ziv--Heat merciless.  No change in anything.

 16 Ziv--No relief in (it looks like water has been dripping on the tablet; the rest of the words on this tablet are obliterated)

 19 Ziv--There must be some break in the weather soon.  Thunderheads have sprung up around us again today, but there has been no rain.  The men at the garbage pile are nearly ill from the heat.  Still, no one is speaking.  I wonder how much longer this is going to last...

 20 Ziv--Well, the silence is broken.  When I took the men their water at noon, they were engaged in a heated discussion.  Seems they are trying to convince J. to confess the secret sin he must have hidden from everyone but God.  So they, too, think that all this has been some sort of deserved punishment.  Even now, I can hear them all yelling at each other out there.  Thunder still in the distance; heat still oppressive.

 21 Ziv--Incredible things happened today.  Began with continued heat.  Elihu was speaking when I took the water at midmorning; shortly after noon, a tremendous storm broke.  Neither I nor the servants have ever seen anything like it.  It went on forever with thunder that seemed about to shake the house apart.  We cowered in a corner and wondered how the men at the garbage heap were withstanding the storm.  To our surprise, after the storm they all came in smiling and amazed.  They said God had spoken out of a whirlwind of the storm and said that Job had done what was right, and had commanded the others to bring him seven bulls and seven rams so that J. could make sacrifices and pray for them.  Job washed himself -- the boils are much better -- while the others went to the town to buy animals for sacrifice.  Just before evening Job called us all out for the sacrifices and we had quite a worship service.  People from the town came out and sat with us: at least the testimony of Job’s friends seems to have put us back in favor with the townsfolk.  While the sacrifices were being made, all of J.’s brothers and sisters arrived, bringing bread and other food.  We had a feast of sorts with all the guests, and everyone mourned with us and consoled us for the evil things that had happened.  Then, when everyone left, each household left us a gold ring and a piece of silver.  Job retired this evening making plans of how to invest the small fortune we now have.  I do not claim to understand God, but it looks like things are turning around.  I don’t think I will ever again take my blessings for granted.

 

(Here the clay tablets end…the remaining fragments were too fine to reassemble..  However, according to Job 42:12, we must suppose that Job did quite well investing his ‘small fortune.’)

 

Walk to the Well

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching The Mosquito

I originally wrote this back in...2005, according to the notes I have.  We were doing an Easter production at church, and the lady who was portraying the Woman at the Well endured a lot of good-natured chaff because of her 'floozie' character.  She took it well, but it kinda grated on me.  We look at this lady through our modern eyes and believe that she was the one who brought on all her trouble.  A woman of the first century really didn't have that kind of power.  So this  found its way onto a page; kind of my way of saying, 'you don't know what someone else is going through...'

I did publish it on the sewing blog early on; I believe I have made some small edits since then. Interesting that the Chosen, while keeping to the 'she's at fault' narrative, still has an element or two that are very similar to this story...

 

She stepped out into the midday heat as she looped the long rope over her shoulder before hoisting the empty water jug to her shoulder as well.  At least it was a legitimate excuse to get out of the house.  She didn’t want to be there when Zophah returned…the bruise on her cheek wasn’t quite faded from the last time he wandered in at noon after drinking all night and didn’t find some odd thing to his liking.  She thought a moment and realized she couldn’t even remember what had upset him that time.  Not that it really mattered – when he was drunk there was no telling what would set him off.  But if she wasn’t there, he would stagger off to his sleeping mat and snore away the rest of the day, returning to his normal sullen apathy when he awoke.  If she’d timed things right, there’d be no bruises today.

 

As her feet turned onto the rocky path to Jacob’s Well, she felt despair wash over her.  Nothing about her life satisfied the least of the dreams she’d had when she was young.  Dreams any young girl would recognize – a husband who cared for her, provided for her in a home that heard children laughing and welcomed friends and family.  --Where did I ever get the notion life would be like that, she thought bitterly.  The plainest and most awkward fifth daughter in a poor family, she was fortunate that her father even found her a husband, although when she raised her barely fifteen year old eyes to gaze upon her groom at the wedding feast and saw a fat, toothless man only four years younger than her own father, ‘fortunate’ was not the word that came to her mind. She was Gera’s third wife, his hope for offspring after his first two wives had died childless.  Not that he treated her badly, so long as she was available to him for the almost nightly attempt to sire a child.  She sighed, thinking how she used to welcome her monthly courses, as that was the only time she could count on a night to herself.  However, for whatever reason, despite all his efforts, those courses continued to flow and there was no child.

 

Then Gera had died suddenly after only eighteen months of marriage, simply collapsing in the vineyard he tended.  As he had no near kinsmen she’d returned to her father’s house, much to his disgust.  He had assumed she’d been too proud to allow the older man to share her bed, and her failure to produce a son for her husband became her shame.  Daily her father reminded her that she was a reproach to the family, a burden that they could not get free of.  For who would marry a cold widow woman who would not give her husband the child he wanted?  And what would become of her if she didn’t marry?

 

But there was an offer of marriage. After the mourning period had passed, Bered the butcher arrived on her father’s doorstep, proposing marriage.  He had two children already, his wife had died birthing a third, stillborn child.  Bered needed a young, strong woman to help him keep house and tend the children.  Her father was enormously relieved…not only would she have a good husband, but she would have all the fresh meat she desired!  What a match! 

 

-- Yes, she thought, passing the last house of the village and through the south gate – that was a good match.  Bered was a good man.  He told her he’d chosen her for his second wife because she knew what it was like to be bereaved.  An intelligent, thoughtful man, Bered was well able to carry on conversation with any who came into the shop for meat.  She had listened to the conversations, learning many things herself.  It was probably as close to happy as she’d ever been.  But it was such a brief time.  The fever that swept through the village two years after they married took not only her newborn son, her mother, three of her sisters and their families, but Bered and his daughter as well.  Bered’s brother took her stepson into his house but, as his brother had left a son, refused to take her, even as household laborer.  It may have been due to his wife’s insecurities, but it didn’t matter now.  --Nothing matters now, she thought with a sigh as she sat on a large rock, more to postpone the inevitable return to the house in which she dwelt than because she needed to rest.  Only a few insects droned about in the merciless sunshine and she smiled to herself, admitting that it was worth venturing out in the blistering heat to avoid meeting anyone who had an opinion about her.  No one knew what had really happened in her life…or seemed to care.

 

After Bered’s death, she had returned once more to her father’s house, grieving, lonely, and weak, having barely survived the illness herself.  She expected to spend the rest of her days caring for her family in her mother’s stead.  However, her father soon remarried and his new wife, Serah, scarcely older than she was, was determined to be the woman in charge of the day to day running of the home and began at once to demand that her husband find a suitable match for his now twice-widowed daughter. A good match wasn’t the goal…any match was acceptable.  After the fever had decimated the town’s population, there were several widowed men who would’ve certainly been at least as kind to her as Bered had been, but the first one to ask was the one to whom she was given, and he would not have been her choice. 

 

Ashvath was a big man, strong and, to her father’s eyes, well able to protect and care for his daughter.  But Ashvath was violent and prone to jealousy.  He frequently reminded her that she ought to be more grateful that he took her out of her father’s house, as homely and unlovely as she was.  She often wondered why he even bothered with her…and wished he hadn’t.  His wife had also died in the epidemic, and Ashvath held her up as the standard of perfection that the weary and worn young woman could not begin to equal.  At first, his temper tantrums were only verbal, but little by little they began to include physical violence.  He began frequenting the brothel in the village, telling her simply that she was too ugly to satisfy him.  He did spend the occasional night in her bed, however, and eventually a child was conceived.  The worst beating she had was when she informed him she was pregnant…cursing her, he declared that she had defiled his bed with another man while he was away.  He’d slapped her against the wall, then pushed her backward over a low bench and stomped off into the night, leaving her unconscious on the floor from the violent crack of her skull against the beaten earth.  How long she lay there she had no idea, but when she once more became aware of herself she was bleeding profusely.  The infection that followed the miscarriage nearly killed her again and apparently rendered her infertile as well, for she never conceived again.  She endured seven years of hell with Ashvath before he lost his temper with the wrong person and died in the brothel with a knife in his belly.

 

Since Ashvath died with no offspring, she found herself bound over in marriage to his brother, Aniam, as was the custom, in order to provide an heir for the family.  Unfortunately, Aniam was no less cruel than his brother.  He had sent his first wife away with a divorce decree, stating that she had repeatedly burned his meals.  His second wife had died giving birth to a son, who had only outlived his mother by two weeks before he died of milk fever.  Three more years of misery as Anaim’s wife passed before it became apparent to them both that she was barren.  Declaring her an unfit wife, incapable of producing an heir for either him or his brother, he’d given her a divorce decree and pushed her out of his house with only the clothes on her body.

 

She sighed, realizing she couldn’t spend all day on the trip to the well and stood, hoisting the jar once again and turning down the hill toward the well, which was in a small grove of trees ahead of her.  As she slowly descended in the shimmering heat, she remembered the humiliation of standing in the street, holding the small scroll that damned her as useless.  In almost unbearable shame, she forced herself to return to her father’s house.  There was simply nowhere else for her to go.  Her stepmother had stood in the doorway, refusing to let her in.  “You’re thirty years old!” Serah had hissed.  “Go and make your own way!”  Her father had unexpectedly taken her part, stepping into the door and pulling his wife back.  “There is no other way for her,” he’d bitterly commented.  “Would you have her go to the brothel?”  Serah had looked at her with distaste. “Let her go to her sister’s house.  She can care for her!”  She’d watched as her father looked from her to Serah and back.  “You could help Gomer care for her children.  Perhaps that would be best.”  --Yes, she thought, imagining what life would’ve been like living with Serah in her father’s house, --Perhaps that was the best.

 

Not that life in her sister’s house had been anything to rejoice over.  Gomer had eight children, one of whom had been born with deformed feet and had to be carried about.  She’d worked hard for her keep, never forgetting that it was her sister and her brother-in-law’s charity that gave her any semblance of respectability.  But it was at least somewhat peaceful…until her brother-in-law began to take notice of her in uncomfortable ways.  Dropping hints that she could certainly show him a little more kindness, since he’d shown her such kindness.  Furtively touching her when he walked by.  She began to be frightened that her sister would accuse her of attempting to seduce him and turn her out, but her attempts to avoid him seemed only to make him more insistent.  In desperation, she went once more to her father to ask him to find her a husband, saying only that she wished for a home of her own.  Surprised, he told her he had actually had someone ask about her that very week.  “Who is it?” She inquired, hopeful.  Her father had hesitated a moment before answering, “Jalam.”

 

Jalam was the town fool, the carcass collector.  The butt of all the jokes and the lowest man on the village social ladder.  She’d found out later that he had been lamenting to a group of men sitting in the town’s dung gate that he’d not been able to find a wife, and one of them – he wouldn’t say which one – had suggested that she might have him.  Although Jalam didn’t tell her they’d all laughed when the suggestion was made, her step-mother made sure she found out. But keeping house for Jalam, as foul as it could be at times, was still better than avoiding her brother-in-law’s attention.  Jalam was child-like, and she felt more like his mother than his wife.  She smiled slightly as she remembered some of the more foolish things he’d done…things that had made her furious at the time, but now, after he’d disappeared, seemed comical.

 

The smile quickly faded as she suddenly saw that she was not alone on the path.  About a dozen men were emerging from the grove around the well and heading up the path toward the village.  She took in their manner of dress as she realized they had not yet seen her.  Looking around in a panic, she saw a large rock between two large thorn bushes about ten feet from the path.  She quickly ducked around behind it before the men had gone twenty feet, and peeked out at them through the branches of the thorn bush to verify her first impression.  Jews!  What were Jews doing in that part of Samaria?  Jews never walked through Samaria!  They considered the Samaritans so corrupt that they would have no dealings with them whatever, lest their lives be somehow tainted with the Samaritan bad seed.  She had absolutely no desire to encounter any Jews.  She peeked through the spines of the thorn bush again to see that the men had stopped, looking back toward the grove as one hurried back as if he’d forgotten something.  She moved away from her vantage spot to make herself less likely to be noticed from the path and nearly held her breath until the man returned to the group and they continued up the path, past her hiding place and on up the hill.  She waited a full five minutes after the world fell silent again before she drew a deep breath, picked up the water jug and crept back out to the path.

 

Thinking of Jalam, she wondered again what had happened to him.  Eighteen months ago, after talking mysteriously about some plan he had to become wealthy, he’d walked away from the house at his usual time and never returned.  No one knew what had happened to him.  She hadn’t worried at first; he’d gone off before for days with expectations of finding treasure, or pursuing some wild plan that he expected to make him wealthy and the envy of everyone in the town, but he’d always returned, rather sheepishly admitting that things hadn’t gone as he’d expected.  But as the weeks passed she began to suspect that some horrible thing must’ve happened to him.  After a cursory search in the area, the townspeople gave up looking for him…or even caring what had happened to him.  The general opinion was that he’d decided to leave the village and the carcasses and pursue his crazy schemes in some far off place.

 

That meant she was alone, in Jalam’s house.  She knew she could glean in the fields and perhaps hire herself out as a laundress in order to survive, but it was more difficult than she thought.  Zophah began coming by the house, insinuating that he’d take care of her, if she’d let him move in.  She resisted him for about five weeks, then the tax collector came and told her he would turn the house over to Jalam’s relatives in the next village if she couldn’t pay the taxes.  She found herself in a desperate position again.  Without proof of Jalam’s death, she couldn’t marry again…and she couldn’t return to either her father’s or her sister’s house...and she was hungry.  The next time Zophah asked her if he could move in and take care of her, she swallowed hard and said yes.

 

She honestly didn’t think her place in society could drop much lower than it was as Jalam’s wife, but she quickly found out that there was a much lower place to be.  Living with Zophah made her the village slut.  The women nearly stoned her the first evening she came to the well for water after he moved in, so she began coming at odd times…like noon, when no one else ventured out.  Once again despair washed over her.  If only there was some way she could go back and start over…be happy….

 

Suddenly she stopped as she rounded the first tree in the grove which shaded Jacob’s Well and saw the well itself.  To her horror, there was a man sitting on the ground next to it with his back to her.  From the look of him, he was Jewish, like the others who had just passed her.  She felt tears rising as she realized this could mean the others were returning…but it could be as much as an hour before they did so.  Would the man sit by the well that long?    There was nothing to do but get her water and hope he left her alone.  She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, focused on the side of the well opposite him and walked as quietly as she could toward that spot.

 

When she was no more than two feet from the well, he suddenly turned around and fixed amazingly kind eyes on hers.

 

“Will you give me a drink?”

 

 

The Parable of the Apple Tree

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching the Mosquito

I originally wrote this piece in 2000; I have tweaked it a bit since then, but I did post it in its original form when I first started the sewing blog back in 2005.  Thought I would put the updated version here.

ONCE UPON A TIME there was a young apple tree.  This apple tree grew in a very large orchard owned by a wise and kind Farmer.  When the Farmer came by, he always congratulated the little tree on growing into a very good tree and said that the tree would, after growing enough, bear much good fruit.  The apple tree loved the Farmer very much and wanted nothing more than to make the Farmer happy.  The tree could hardly wait to be able to produce fruit for the Farmer.

However, it was such a very large orchard that the Farmer had many hired hands to help him tend the trees.  The hired hands told the little tree that it took very hard work to become a good fruit-bearing tree.  “The Farmer isn’t happy with trees that don’t bear fruit,” they said.  “If you don’t bear fruit, you’ll be cut down and thrown into the fire.”  This frightened the little tree terribly, so much that the tree tried and tried to bear fruit to make the Farmer happy.  But the apple tree was still too young and nothing happened.

The next time the Farmer came by, the little tree thought, “What if he says I must be cut down?” Instead of joy at the sight of the Farmer, the tree felt anxious and afraid.

          But the Farmer saw the tree’s distress.  “What has frightened you?” he asked gently.

          The little tree began weeping.  “Oh, master, I have tried ever so hard to bear fruit, but nothing has happened.  I’m afraid I’m not a very good apple tree and you will have me cut down.”

          The Farmer smiled and gently patted the little tree.  “I have planted you where you will get good sunlight, refreshing rain and good nutrients from the soil.  Lift your leaves to the sunlight and put your roots deep into the soil.  When you do these things, you will grow strong and then you will bear much good fruit.”  Then the Farmer dug around the tree and put fertilizer into the soil.  Just before he left, he smiled again at the little tree.  “I will give you everything you need to be a good apple tree.  Just trust me and all will be well.”

          The little tree sighed happily, thinking.  “The Farmer really loves me…I will do just as he says.”  So the apple tree put great effort into growing, lifting all the leaves high to the sun and pushing roots deep into the good soil. Season after season, the tree grew bigger and stronger and the Farmer was pleased.

          Then, one spring, the sun was so warm and the apple tree was getting such good nourishment from the soil that the tree was not only growing but making flowers also.  Amazed, the tree discovered that it wasn’t at all hard to make flowers, as the hired hands had hinted.  The apple tree was getting more food from the sun and the soil than growing required, and all the extra was producing many, many beautiful blossoms.

The Farmer was very pleased.  But the hired hands shook their heads when they went by.  “Oh, you’re covered with blossoms, right enough,” they said. “But blossoms aren’t the same as fruit.  You’d better make sure all those blossoms turn into fruit.”

          Their words made the apple tree anxious at first, but the tree remembered that the Farmer had promised to provide everything needed to make fruit.  Trust the Farmer, the tree thought, and lifted  leaves higher and pushed roots deeper.

          Spring turned into summer.  All the petals fell off the blossoms on the apple tree, and where the flowers had been little green balls now appeared.   The little green balls grew and grew into green apples.  When summer turned to fall, the apples began to turn red.  They were very heavy and hard to hold; some fell to the ground.  Even so, the Farmer came by and said to the tree, “You are doing exactly what you are supposed to do.  I am very pleased.”  The apple tree was very happy. 

But, when the hired hands came by to pick the apples, they shook their heads.  “Oh, sure, this is fruit,” they said, “But it’s not the kind of fruit the Farmer expects.”  Then they took the apples and went away.

          Puzzled, the apple tree wondered -- How could the Farmer be expecting any fruit other than apples?  But the Farmer did not come by again before the apple tree went to sleep for the winter, and the question was not answered.

          The next spring was much like the one before.  Again, the sun was warm and the soil was rich and the apple tree was covered with blossoms.  The hired hands came by and noticed that, around the apple tree where the apples had fallen in the autumn, tiny apple seedlings were growing.  “Ah!” they exclaimed, “This is more like it!  The Farmer will be very pleased with you...you have produced five more apple trees!” Then they dug up the seedlings to transplant them to where they could grow better.

          Now the apple tree understood what the hired hands had said in the fall.  It wasn’t the apples that the Farmer wanted...it was the trees that grew from the apples!  The tree resolved to let any apples that got at all heavy drop to the ground so they would produce more trees.  He so wanted to please the Farmer!

          So, when the fall came and the apples began to grow heavy, the apple tree did not even try to hold them.  Many fell to the ground.  Surely, when the spring came there would be a multitude of apple seedlings around the tree and the Farmer would be greatly pleased. 

But, with so many apples on the ground, there was a strong smell of rotting apples.  The smell attracted many small animals who came and carried away the apples… and all the seeds.

When spring came, there were no seedlings under the tree.  The hired hands all shook their heads.  “If you really loved the Farmer,” they said, “You would produce the kind of fruit he really likes.”  This made the apple tree very sad, for the tree truly loved the Farmer and wanted to please him.  The tree was determined to be as good a tree as possible and set about pushing new roots deeper into the soil and opening every leaf to the sun. Once again the tree was covered with many, many blossoms and felt sure the Farmer would be pleased.

The Farmer and the hired hands soon came around again. “Well,” the Farmer said, “You have many blossoms again this year, but you need to hold on to the fruit.  We will prune you a bit...that should help you hold it.”  Then they trimmed some of the branches on the apple tree.  It was very painful, but, after the wounds healed, the tree was surprised to feel quite a bit stronger.  The apples didn’t seem nearly so heavy.

However, now the tree was really confused.  If the Farmer wanted more apple trees, the apples would have to fall.  Otherwise, there would be no seeds on the ground from which new seedlings could grow.  But the Farmer seemed to want the tree to hold on to the apples.  Finally, the tree decided to drop all the fruit that was not growing properly or that insects had damaged and hang on tightly to the rest.  Hopefully, that would please the Farmer.

          That fall, there were many good apples that the tree hung on to tightly, and several not-so-good apples that were allowed to drop to the ground according to the plan.  The Farmer came by with the hired hands when the apples were harvested and nodded approvingly to the apple tree.  “You’re doing well.”  The tree was very happy.

          The next spring was very different from the previous springs.  There was not much rain, and the soil was very dry.  Because the tree had grown so well in the earlier years, all the roots were deep enough to find water down in the soil.  But there was not enough water to cause the apple seeds that had fallen the previous season to grow.  The hired hands came by and shook their heads.  “Obviously, this tree does not love the Farmer.  There are no seedlings here.  It’s too bad...after all the farmer has done, too.”  Then they went away.

          The tree was heartbroken.  Making apples wasn’t difficult, but it was impossible to control whether or not those apples turned into seedlings.  The apple tree could not see any way to please the Farmer and grew very discouraged.  The sun was hot, and the ground was dry and hard, and the apple tree just didn’t have the heart to think about lifting leaves higher or pushing roots deeper.  Only a few blossoms appeared.

When the Farmer came by and saw the tree, he exclaimed sadly, “You have given up!  I know it is very dry, but there is enough water deep, deep down for you to produce more blossoms than that!  Why haven’t you reached down for it?”

          Once again, the apple tree began to weep.  Despite feeling weak and discouraged, the tree still loved the Farmer dearly and was pained that the Farmer was disappointed. “Oh, master,” the tree sobbed, “I did want so badly to please you, but the hired hands said I wasn’t producing the right kind of fruit.  I tried and I tried, but I can’t make the apples turn into apple trees.  First the animals came and took them, then the weather was too hot and dry for the seeds to grow.  Now you will cut me down because I didn’t produce enough fruit.”  And the tree was overcome with grief.

          To the apple tree’s surprise, the farmer wrapped his arms around the tree’s trunk and tears slipped down his cheeks as well.  “Oh, my dear tree, that’s not it at all! Apple trees are not fruit!  They are the products that come from the fruit.  You cannot cause the seeds to turn into trees...only I can do that.” He explained. “I have promised to give you all you need.  If you do as I have told you, you will produce many apples.  Then, I can take the seeds from those apples and plant them in good soil, keep the animals away from them and see that they have what they need to grow.  There were five seedlings that sprouted here two years ago, but I have over fifty trees growing from the seeds that we took from apples we picked from your branches.  You must trust me and grow strong.”

          Then the apple tree understood that all the Farmer wanted to see was a growing apple tree… then the fruit would grow as well.  So the tree took heart and pushed more roots down deep into the soil to where the cool water was and drank deeply.  Lifting leaves up to the sun, the tree grew stronger and encouraged.  Since the time for setting blossoms was past, the tree only produced a few apples that season.  But they were the largest and sweetest apples produced by any tree on the entire orchard, for the apple tree put all the love for the farmer into those apples.  When the harvest came, not a single one of those big, beautiful apples had fallen to the ground. 

Now, when the hired hands shook their heads as they always did, the apple tree did not get discouraged.  The tree had learned to listen to what the Farmer said, and the Farmer himself often came by to say, “You are doing well.  I am very pleased.”

Fan Fiction - Coming of Age

 This is a bit of non-canon fanfiction I wrote and posted, via Goggle docs, on the Discord server for a podcast my two younger kids are doing with friends/ spouses.  It's a Disney-Inspired campaign-style game that's been going since 2020, and you can find it on Spotify under 'The Keys to the Kingdom'.  I need to delete the Google docs file...storage issues, LOL  So, as this is the very reason I started this blog, I'm posting it here and will replace the link on the Discord.  For those interested, you should listen all the way through what has become a rather infamous Episode 7 to avoid spoilers..  And, yes, my Discord nickname is 'The Momliest'....

COMING OF AGE

By The Momliest

It was a warm, dusty fall afternoon.  A few lazy bees buzzed about in the woods on the northern edge of the Forgotten Swamp, as a small pack of woozles ambled along the road, heading west.  In the shadows under a holly bush, a pair of  brown eyes warily watched until the woozles had disappeared.  Once the troop was well out of sight, there was a nearly imperceptible rustle as a small she-mouse stepped out onto the verge.  She was dressed in green and gray and blended into the vegetation so well that only one who knew where she stood would note her against the background.  Dusty and travel stained, she had a stout pack on her back and a large needle in a sheath like a dagger.  She stood for a moment, frowning at the western road. “Woozles!”  she muttered to herself.  “What are they doing this far east?  They should be hovering around the Hundred Acre Wood…”  She shook her head.  Whatever brought them so far from their home territory, it couldn’t be good for anyone.  She looked up the road to the east, which she had planned to travel.  However, if there were hostile bands roving the roads so openly, perhaps it would be better to stay off of them.  She squinted at the sun and looked around to get her bearings.  She could probably shorten her journey by a good bit if she headed northeast cross country instead of going around the road anyway.  She sighed, hitched up her backpack, and struck out under the trees.

It was a good day for hiking, and she reminded herself she might as well enjoy the walk.  Not like it wasn’t the umpteenth day of walking.   She was adjusted to it, but it had been a struggle the first few days.  She didn’t have to mind herself quite so much now; unlikely that anyone would recognize her this far from Cinderellasburg.  In the beginning she had to make sure no one questioned why one of the royal family retainers would be seemingly abandoning her post with the princess.  But the she-mouse was on a quest, and the fewer who knew, the better.  The day wore on as she trudged through the underbrush that would have seriously slowed down a larger traveler, but she simply slid under and between brambles and tangles with scarcely a break in her stride, climbing a bit of a hill that she believed should be due east of her destination.

The woods were alive with the sounds of birds chirping and other small creatures snagging the nuts and seeds that would hold them over the coming winter.  She heard a pair of squirrels arguing over a nut stash; apparently, they’d both been stashing walnuts in the same knothole.  She chuckled to herself, then stopped at the sound of children’s voices.  This was too deep in the woods for kids; especially kids who sounded as stressed as those kids.  She turned and made her way towards the voices.

“….and I’m telling you, Skippy, we have already waited longer than we were supposed to!  Something’s happened and we need to go home!  That’s orders!”

“Yes!  Of COURSE something happened or they’d be here by now!  Or have had someone fetch us!  They need our help!”

The she-mouse approached a small clearing near the top of the hill.  Three young rabbits and a young tortoise were hunched near the remains of a very small fire, under a sketchy shelter made of twigs and leaves but well-hidden on the near side of the clearing.  She stopped just short of stepping into the open, quietly set her pack on the ground and listened, trying to piece together what was going on.

“I think….” The tortoise began, but was cut off by the young male rabbit, who had a green peaked cap and looked to just a bit younger than the oldest rabbit, a female.

“We need to DO something!”  he insisted.  At this point, the mouse noted that all the kids were armed…bows, arrows, short swords.  And not toys…they were real weapons.  The mouse raised her eyebrows and looked at the kids again, taking measure.

The oldest rabbit crossed her arms.  “Skippy, you KNOW what we’re supposed to do!  Wait two days at the rendezvous point and, if we hear nothing, go home!  It’s been three days, so we are already in trouble!”

“I think….” The tortoise started again, but this time the youngest rabbit interrupted. 

“I’m scared!  Robin has never been this late before, not without some kind of word!  Sis, what if something happened to him?”

The girl rabbit turned and picked up the little one. “Robin always finds a way out of trouble!  You know that!”  She looked at the other two.  “Clearly, something happened that he had to take care of and there hasn’t been a way to let us know.  So we need to go home so he will know where to find us once he takes care of whatever it is that has him so busy.”

The one she called Skippy sighed and looked at the ground. “I don’t want to leave without knowing what happened.”

‘I think….’ The tortoise began again, and this time the others looked at him. 

‘What do you think, Toby?” Sis asked.

“I think maybe we should find out if she has a message for us.” Toby said, pointing at the she-mouse.   The others looked at the place the tortoise indicated.

By this time, the she-mouse had concluded that the kids were not a danger to her, so she took a deep breath and stepped into view.  “You are an observant one, aren’t you, Toby?”  She commented, looking at the tortoise with a smile.  Toby grinned and pulled his head slightly into his shell.  The rabbits looked at her agape, not sure what to make of her.  Skippy pulled his short sword and jumped in front of the other two.

“Who are you and what do you want?  Do you have a message from Robin?”  He demanded.

The she-mouse laughed gently and raised her paw hands.  “Oh, I’m no enemy to you,” she said in a soothing tone.  “I ‘m just a traveler, wondering why children would be left so far in the woods, and if I could help.  But I’m afraid I don’t know any Robin, and I don’t have any messages for you.  But,” and here she grew concerned, “there are woozles in the area, so you need to be extra cautious.  They’re sly ones…and who knows what would happen if they found you.”

The kids reacted as she expected, “Woozles!  What are woozles doing here?”  “I’m not afraid of woozles!”  “Really?  Where?”

She waved her paw hands for quiet.  “I saw them earlier today, just north of the Forgotten Swamp.  They were headed west, away from us, but there were quite a few and if those were here there could be others…up to no good, all of them, I’ll warrant.”

The kids looked at each other.  “That’s the way we need to go to go home.”  Toby observed.  Sis nodded solemnly.

“Where’s home?”  The she-mouse queried.  Then, their green garb and weapons suddenly clicked and she followed her own question with “Sherwood Forest, I’ll guess?”

The kids nodded, so she asked one more question.  “And Robin is…Robin Hood?”  The pieces were falling into place.  Robin Hood was known to mentor kids; these were no doubt some of his current trainees.  And something had gone amiss somehow.

Once more, the kids nodded.  “We were supposed to rendezvous here.  But he and Little John have not come… and we’ve waited a whole extra day.”  Sis explained.

"Ah, that’s a tough spot.” The she-mouse commiserated. “Do you know where he was coming from?”

“Oh, yeah.”  Skippy piped up.  “We were all together just outside of King George Town…well, sort of together.  Robin and Little John were ahead of us.  Robin whistled the danger signal, which means go to the rendezvous point so we hightailed it out of there and came here, which is where he’d said to meet up.  But we haven’t heard anything since then.”

 The she-mouse pondered a bit.  “Well, you really only have one choice.  Sis is right.  You need to back to Sherwood Forest.  Robin told you to wait two days…after that, he’s not going to come here at all.  Or even send someone here because…you are not supposed to be here.  Staying here will only cause problems.  He might even be on his way back to Sherwood Forest from another route.”

Skippy sighed and looked at his feet.  Then his brow furrowed and he pursed his lips.   “You’re right.  Staying an extra day has messed us up.”  He looked at Sis.  “I’m sorry;   I should have listened to you when you said we should leave yesterday.”

But the she-mouse was thinking about the woozles again.  “How far have you kids hiked on your own?  It’s a long way to Sherwood Forest.  At least a week, even if you push hard.”

The kids looked at each other, and Toby spoke up. “Um, we’ve gone a couple of days on our own, that’s all”. 

“But we could do it!”  Skippy piped up.  ‘It’s not different…just longer.”

The she mouse smiled.  “I don’t doubt you could do it.  But I am worried about the woozles.  There’s more of them than there are of you.  You might not meet up with them…but you might.”

Sis sighed.  ‘We know they’re out there.  We can keep to the woods; we’ve lots of hidden camps set up.  So long as we keep a keen watch, we’ll be fine.  It’ll just take longer.”

The she-mouse smiled at Sis’s confidence.  She honestly did not doubt that the kids could handle it on their own; they had a scrappy determination about them that she could identify with.  She had considered accompanying them back to Sherwood herself, even though it would severely impact her own mission to King George Town…which was so close.  But they didn’t need her.  She looked at Toby.  “Put Toby on watch.  He won’t miss anything.”

Toby smiled at her shyly. “I won’t.”  He stated.  It was a promise.

“Good.”  She looked at them all.  “I’m actually going to King George Town.  I will keep an eye out for Robin and if I get a chance, I’ll tell him I saw you and you were bound for Sherwood.”

The kids were already gathering their gear in preparation to move out, but Sis stopped.  “Oh, thanks so much.  Can I ask your name?”

“I’m Cleo,”  the she-mouse replied, picking up her own gear.  “I do hope we meet again sometime.”

“Us, too!”  The kids all spoke for each other.  Cleo laughed as they filed out of the clearing into the woods.

Remarkable kids.  She hoped she would get to hear the story of their journey someday.