We’re still on our way to Matthew’s and Beatrice’s village. We rise early in the morning, Matthew and Beatrice read together, then we eat breakfast as the sun rises over the mountains. We walk most of the morning and stop around noon for several hours. We set off again in the evening and stop when it’s too dark to walk any farther safely. We sleep, then we do it again. I am exhausted. Matthew and Beatrice chase each other up hills and laugh as they roll down them, sans weapons.
These two seem to know every rock and anthill between Anworth and the village. They are familiar with every farm we pass. No plant is a stranger. Matthew even decided to teach me what plants are safe to eat. Eat that leaf, don’t eat that flower. Eat that berry, don’t eat that root. Eat that root, but not the flower. These suggestions (commands?) were delivered so quickly that I soon decided I might be better off never eating anything again.
Last evening, shortly before we stopped for the night, we abruptly left the road we have been following. Matthew walked out to a clump of trees that grew in a nearby field and stood silent for a long moment as Beatrice and I watched. Then, just as suddenly, we returned to the road, no one speaking a word.
It has been cold and wet and I am cold, wet, hungry, and tired. A delicate mist hangs over the land in the morning. When we stopped for our break around noon I sat under a tree, took out some paper, and tried sketching the mountains in the distance. I was dimly aware of Matthew and Beatrice sitting together under a nearby tree, talking. After several minutes Beatrice came over and plopped herself down between me and the mountains.
“Draw me,” she said. I started to explain that I’m far short of
da Vinci, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. “I don’t mind,” she said, “just draw me.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder and stared at me. I knew from her tone that I wasn’t getting out of this one, so I took out a new piece of paper and began to sketch her. Matthew looked on with an oh-so-slight grin on his face and recited another poem.
How fair the red-robed lady sits
Upon a weathered rock.
Her straight brown hair flows down her back
Her hands held on her knees.
Straight her eyes gaze as if she were
A goddess in a frieze.
She is not, I need not tell you.
Mortals’ blood flows in her.
She gives forth more warmth than Juno,
Queen of Olympus peak.
Yet this red-robed lady humble
Brave she is, strong, yet meek.
How I love this red-robed lady!
Fallen and yet redeemed.
Lives she a life, hard and rugged,
Lives she a joyous life.
I know how blessed I am to have
My friend, my heart, my wife.
I don’t know how long our break was, but I finished the picture. When we stopped this evening I did another, this of Matthew, and
finished it in the last of the daylight. We camped near a stream into which Matthew waded, stooped down low, and remained totally still for several minutes. Finally, much to my surprise, he flipped a fish onto the bank. Beatrice set about making a fire. As she cooked the fish Matthew waved to us and said, “I’ll be back soon.” He wandered off into the woods.
Beatrice watched him go. “I don’t know where my dearly beloved’s going. He’ll stay out of danger.” She looked at me and grinned. “I hope.”
Matthew came back just as the fish was done. He crept in behind Beatrice’s back, holding a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. He went over to where her blanket lay on the ground and put something on it. He then joined us for dinner, refusing to tell us where he’d been.
That night, as we went to bed, Beatrice discovered a wild-flower bouquet on her blanket.
Tags: Art, Culture, Drawing, Fiction, Island, Life, Love, Travel, Writing
July 5, 2009 at 11:59 am |
Good morning. These last two chapters are a fascinating read. I fear that, in our societys neverending quest to become ever more sophisitacted, something far more precious has died. One can understand the choices made by Beatrice and matthew.
Several years ago, while sharing the gospel in the streets of New Orleans, I came across a man who literally lived by faith. He had no home address, no ties to any community or church; he just went from town to town as the Lord led, sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ. The other brethren who were with me began to explain to him that this wasn’t a good method. As for me, I was astonished. In later years, I’ve often thought of this man whose name I don’t remember. What a fascinating life. To be unshackled by the trappings of this world and completely alive unto Christ. To awaken in the morning; not knowing what it will bring forth, but dedicating it unto the Lord and walking forth in the Spirit.
My thoughts are probably more romantic than practical, but these kinds of ponderings come up often. This may be part of the reason as to why I’m so intrigued by this story. Blessings always in Jesus name.
timbob