A Christmas Bonus Story for You - "Five Golden Rings"

Hello there, all you nice people out there!

Hope you're enjoying a wonderful Christmas season. Today is the Third Day of Christmas, but I'm going to jump the gun and publish to you a little something I knocked out this week instead of posting my next novel installment.

One of the guys at my church was supposed to deliver the sermon this Sunday after Christmas, but he's a man with a wife and 4 kids with no time to work on it, so my pastor asked if I could fill in. I said "Sure." You can do almost anything on this Sunday, because hardly anybody shows up to church. So I decided to kick out a first draft of part of another novel that's on my drawing board--a life of Christ told from the point of view of slave boy who comes to be the property of Jesus. I probably won't start working on that in earnest for another couple of years, but this is a trial run of what it MIGHT look like.

This episode has been brewing in my mind for a long time, so it flowed out rather easily. Since I'll be reading it on Sunday, the Fifth Day of Christmas, I've wrenched the story a bit to match the theme of the day. Hope you find it amusing. You may find disconcerting that this takes place in Holy Week, the opposite bookend holiday of Christmas. But don't worry, they wrap over each other.

Happy New Year,
Pops

Five Golden Rings: A Tale of Christmas Reminiscence

As told to the members of the Wilshire Presbyterian Church

on December 29, 2013, the Fifth Day of Christmas, by Vincent Way

© Copyright 2013 by Vincent Way, all rights reserved.

            “Father?” A 16-year-old lad came running into the stable where his father was haggling with a man who was trying to sell him a horse.

            “What is it?” said the man.

            “Someone is trying to take away one of the colts.”

            “Who?”

            “Sunset Wind.”

            “I don’t mean the horse. Who is trying to take the animal?”

            “Some boy. A boy with red hair. Eleven maybe? He has a binding on him.”

            “A slave boy then. Does he have his master’s money?”

            “No. Says he’s only going to borrow it for a time.”

            “Hold him. I’ll see him,” said the stable owner. He turned back to the customer. “Your nag’s only got one year of useful life to her. Doubtful whether she’d even pull her feed’s worth for that year. Not interested.”

            “Oh come on!” said the would-be seller zeroing on the word “colts” the son had just said. “She’s marvelous. Look at those lines. You’re a breeder. You’d get some excellent progeny from her yet.”

            “Move on. If you run out of luck and can’t find a patsy, the tanner is outside of Bethpage. Easy to find. Follow your nose. His name is Zeb. Tell him I sent you and he’ll give you market rate. That’s all I can do for you.”

            The man went out to the pens facing the street where his son was waiting for him. Sure enough there was boy with curly red hair, covered in freckles, standing there next to Sunset Wind, a beautiful dark brown male three-year-old with white “socks” and mane. He was flashy. A Roman officer had shown interest in that colt, but for casual racing purposes more than anything else because he had seen its proclivity to run with unrestrained abandon about the pens and when tethered to a primary. No one had ridden Sunset Wind yet. He was an unknown quantity and in inept hands, someone could get hurt since he was known to be high-spirited. Training would have to start soon thought the stable owner—an idiot test rider with reckless abandon and no fear of death would be ideal.  The stable owner looked the boy up and down, down mostly. A slave. And a thief. He had all the worldly-wise mannerisms of a boy who’d lived, or rather survived, a hard life—he had seen many in his 50+ years. Few had made it to his age.

            “I need this colt,” said the boy. “My master has need of him.”

            “Who are you?” asked the stabler.

            “Name’s Milk.”

            “Milk. I see. Galatian are you?”

            “Never been to Galatia.”

            “You should go. They got hair like yours there. Large swaggering men with tattoos and fearsomely braided red hair and beards too, that you’ll grow yerself someday I reckon. Where you from then?”

            “Don’t know. Just know that they said it’s cold there wherever I’m from.”

            “Then you might could be from Galatia.”

            “Who’s to say?” murmured the boy.

            “Who’s your master what needs a colt from me?”

            “A traveling teacher. Joshua Bar Joseph of Nazareth.”

            “Never heard of him. Where’s his money?”

            “Ain’t got none. He’s poor. He got nothing. And he’s got a troop of good-for-nothing loafers with him.”

            “A teacher you say? What does he teach you?”

            “He teaches me nothing. It’s the loafers that order me about. Bunch of selfish, greedy, bossy old men.”

            “FATHER!” interrupted the son, “Why are you wasting your time on this trash?”

            “In case you couldn’t tell, son, we’re in a negotiation.”

“A negotiation? With this child?”

“Idiot. Apparently all males under the age of 20 are impervious to learning. Check the water.” He watched as his son sullenly waddled off to his duties. “So why does a boy like you not go renegade, seeing as how you are unsupervised, and there is a refuge colony not too far from here so I hear.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Red hair? Milk-white skin? In a world where everything is black and brown?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Your master does not have ‘nothing.’ He has you. You are a valuable asset.”

“Do I get the horse or not?” sighed Milk impatiently.

            “How large is your master?”

            “Average height, like you. But much heavier. He’s a man that likes his food and wine.”

            “And you say this teacher-master of yours is poor? How’d he get to be fat?”

            “I’ve never seen a man who gleans a field of free food as well as him. Better’n me. And I been on the road all my life. Sometimes he makes food outta nothin’.”

“A magician is he? I have children who make food disappear."

"Ha. Ha."

"Does he know how to ride horse?”

“I think he used to be a carpenter. Had to drive cart to move lumber, so yeah.”

“Well then, he should have a sturdier stallion, well trained, with all his gaits in easy command, in Greek, Aramaic, and Arabic. Let me show you something better.”

            “I think this is the one he wants. He gave instructions. A colt that has never been ridden. We’ll bring it right back.”

            “You will bring HIM right back. It’s a male. His name is Sunset Wind. And your master gave you nothing to offer in return?”

            “He said you’d just do it.”

            “Did he? And that would be right generous of me. And you know, he’s right.”

            “REALLY? Lord, but he can tell the future all the time!”

            “You sound surprised, that I’d do it.”

“Master said it would work and I didn’t believe him.”

“I have my reasons. Where are you riding to?”
            “Just into Jerusalem.”

            “Let go of his lead outside of the city, when you’re done, and he will return here on his own. He knows where to get fed.”

            “Won’t someone steal him?”

            “Look at this mark on his left flank. That is my family mark. But tell me, have you seen any horse that looks like Sunset Wind?”

            “I don’t pay mind to horses, but no I haven’t.”

            “He is exactly like you my young friend. He sticks out. By his looks and his carriage everyone knows who his master is. Come in the pen.” The stabler put the lead into the boy’s hand and had him bring Sunset Wind to the provision shed, where the stabler hung a day’s feed on the horse’s back. “You can lead him back here yourself if you wish, but if you do, I will keep you for a day’s labor as the worth of my hire. Tell your master that and I leave it up to his good pleasure.” And so Milk found himself wandering the village with a beautiful colt with a lustrous brown coat in tow.

            Milk kicked at Bartholomew’s feet. The pudgy fellow was where Milk had left him, napping in the shade of tree, in the high heat of midday.

            “Hey! Master Bart! Wake up!” Bartholomew startled and then shuddered in fear as the colt loomed large over him. “I got one!” He had ordered Milk to scout about in the village for likely prospects while he waited in the shade.

            “Good heavens!” said the disciple scrambling to his feet. “He’s magnificent. Excellent work, boy. In fact I think I should ride him back, just to make sure that he’s safe for the Teacher.” Bartholomew put his hand on Sunset Wind’s back to hoist himself up, but the colt snapped his teeth at the man’s fingers. “Perhaps, some other time. Let’s get going.”

* * *

            Some four days later, on the Thursday, Bartholomew found himself roaming about again with Milk in tow on another procurement mission, this time in the streets of capital Jerusalem. Master Bart, thought Milk, is just like some old woman. He was grumbling as they walked about. “Why is it always me they send out on these troublesome little errands? These shoes don’t fit well and I get blisters so easily. I wish we could afford socks. And it’s hot out again. And I’m thirsty again. I haven’t seen anyone carrying a water jar.”

“Actually,” said Milk, “I seen several. You haven’t been paying attention.”

“It’s hard to concentrate when your feet hurt. Boy, let’s circle back to that well.” Master Bart seemed to have forgotten Master Joshua’s instructions, or was ignoring them, thought Milk. Well, the Master did give the instructions to Master Bart, he just sent me to stop Master Bart from getting lost as he was prone to do.

            Bartholomew planted himself at the head of the line and began imploring the people who were drawing water in their turn to give him a drink, but he was such a whining pest, that all just pretended not to see him. And then a young man came to the head of the line, filled his jar, took pity on Bartholomew and give him a drink from his jar before sealing it. Milk looked at the jar and recognized a familiar mark on its side.

            “Hey. Mir!”

            “Who is it?” The young man looked over past the jar. “Milk?” It was the stabler’s son whom Milk now knew. Milk had personally returned Sunset Wind to its owner with instructions from the Teacher to be helpful in any way possible in return for the owner’s generosity. Mir had assigned to Milk the task of cleaning out the stables of the horses’ excrement for the day, which the red-haired lad performed with diligence and cheerfulness, such that Mir gave up his initial dislike for the boy whom he had called “trash.”

            Remembering the Teacher’s instructions to follow a man who was carrying a jar of water, he said to Mir, “Hey Mir, where are you going?”

            “My father has a business here in the city.”

            “I’d like to see him and ask him something. I’ll bet he has the answer to what I’m looking for.”

            “Another freebie? We do like to get paid, you know. At least tell me something you learned from this teacher guy.”

            “Hmmm. Oh, I know. The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “I don’t know. I forget.”

            “What else?”

            “Uh …, you better have figs on you when you’re not supposed to have figs. Or something like that.”

            “That sounds wrong. You’re probably leaving something out. What kind of teacher is he again? Did he at least teach to write your name?”

            “How about I just carry your water jug for you?” said Milk.

            “Sounds good to me,” said Mir putting the jar into Milk’s arms.

            “C’mon Master Bart.”

            “What is it this time?” complained Bartholomew. “I hope it’s not too far.”

            In very short order, the stabler found the young red-haired boy and Bartholomew waiting to meet him as he finished up giving orders to workers in his capital city enterprise, a traveler’s inn.

            “Milk?” said the stabler-innkeeper, “I never thought I would see you again, but here we are again.”

            “Hello. This is one of the loaf . . . one of the students of my master. I call him Master Bart.”

            “Bartholomew at your service.”

            “A pleasure. My name translates to ‘Basket’ in your language, so please call me Bass. Milk, I never got a chance to ask. How did your master like riding Sunset Wind?”

            “He thought he was the greatest,” said Milk.

            “I heard that later in the day,” continued Bass, “that he took Sunset out onto the open road to Bethany and ran him at top speed.”

            “About that,” said Bartholomew embarrassedly.

            Milk interrupted. “Yeah. That was amazing to watch. He really lived up to his name! Master knows how to put a horse to gallop.”

            “You are experienced in caring for horses,” said Bass. “When you returned him, I’m told he was calmed, fed, brushed, and dry.”

“Yeah, I was groom slave to a Parthian for a while,” said Milk.

“You needn’t look worried Bartholomew,” said Bass. “There were several witnesses as to how obedient Sunset Wind could be in the hands of a confident rider. In fact, I’ve garnered several offers for him. Your master did me a service, which quite frankly, I was hoping would happen. But enough of that. What can I do for you today?”

            “Yes. What are we here for?” said Bartholomew. Their mission had slipped his mind. “Boy? Ah, we were out shopping for a water jar . . .”

            “We need a room for a Passover meal tonight,” said Milk as Bartholomew struggled to recall. “Thirteen men.”

            “Passover. Ah! Why don’t they join the meal that will be held this evening in my main hall. There is a prominent family who hosts that religious meal for pilgrims and travelers without family in the city. It’s quite lovely. We are not of your religion, but our kitchen is trained to follow all of your dietary specifications. It is our specialty.”

            “We’ll have to get back to you, but it sounds perfectly fine,” said Bartholomew.

            “My master said he needed something private,” said Milk.

            “Just checking . . ., you don’t have any money do you? Didn’t collect any tuition or donations in the last few days eh?” Milk shook his head. “Thirteen, eh? An odd number, but I may have just the thing. I am getting so soft. My wife is going to kill me. It’s on the second storey so you’ll have to walk up stairs. Let me show you.”

* * *

            Early in the evening, to Bass’s great relief, one of the Teacher’s students who was quite skilled in the particular preparations for the Passover meal—a man named Peter—showed up early to thoughtfully and respectfully instruct his staff on exactly how to cook, prepare, and serve the meal according to his teacher’s requirements. That Teacher evidently could muster men whose talents included administration, organization, and propriety.

            Since nearly all of his staff was busy with the large event in the main hall, Bass found it necessary to play the attendant to event in the upper room. The Passover meal was an easy menu to prep. Milk was assigned to be his assistant and together they brought out the courses of roasted lamb, boiled bitter greens, flat bread, and of course, wine. The two of them stood on the periphery ready to be instructed if necessary, but the meal itself was complete and the Teacher had begun to conduct his lessons, or so thought Bass.

The mood early in the evening had been remarkably joyous, but as the time wore on, the atmosphere became tense. And then something broke. As far as Bass could follow, accusations were thrown about and heated arguments with yelling were raised. A man stormed out in a huff. The Teacher threw further accusations of betrayal at another. And then, abruptly, they all rose from their couches and filed out in silence.

The last man out was a man who introduced himself as Matthew. “Mr. Basket, thank you for your hospitality. The service was excellent. However, I can only offer the service of our boy, Milk, in your clean up, as our payment.” Bass acknowledged the offer and advised he would feed and lodge the boy for the night as well. After Matthew left, Bass’s wife came up and berated him for the second time that evening for giving way their children’s bread to such charity cases.

            Thereafter, the somberness and discord of the event carried over as Bass and Milk worked in silence, clearing the tables, sweeping the floor, and washing the dishes. Bass stopped as he rinsed the ceremonial cup he had set at the Teacher’s place. He held it up in the firelight; it was a very subtly and obliquely rounded pentagon. He had it made to echo the number of sacred books of the law revered by his many Jewish clients. Few had ever caught that detail—perhaps adding some further embellishment—like gold—would bring out the religious allusion, he thought as he set it down. “Milk…”

“Sir?”

“I do not normally eavesdrop on my clients as they conduct their affairs. It is the task of professional hosts to simply be present. But I’m sorry that I did not have a chance to speak with your master. He seemed quite wise beyond his years. I would have liked to get his opinion on a couple of situations. In my own life.”

            “This would not have been a good night to talk to him,” said Milk. “I’ve never seen him so angry or upset.”

            “He did look extremely worried. He was sweating actually. That was quite a heated exchange in there,” said Bass. “What is happening among them? Do you know?”

            “Like I told you. They’re all loafers. They’re bad students. They don’t listen to him. He gets upset all the time.”

            Bass was startled when a hand gripped his shoulder. He turned around and was confronted by the head officer from the local religious authorities with a couple of temple guards. They were armed. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?” He tried to act as nonchalantly as possible.

            The officer spoke. “Pardon the intrusion, Master Innkeeper. Your wife said I would find you here. I understand you were hosting a Passover dinner for a certain Joshua bar Joseph of Nazareth this evening?”

            “I was, yes.”

            “Where are they now?”

            Bass had to decide how to answer. He went with usual motto: ‘Try to seem like an ally to the person in front of you.’ “I don’t know. They skipped without paying me. Have they done something?”

            “Maybe. We want to question them.”

            “When you find them, let me know. I would like to bear witness against them.”

            “Thank you, sir. We will do that. Did you happen to overhear anything at all where they might be going?”

            “I thought I heard something about the North Gate. You might try there.” And with that, the officer left.

            “They didn’t say anything about the North Gate,” said Milk.

            “Go to the kitchen and have the cook put several hot coals into a portable burner. I need to get something from my quarters and we are going out,” said Bass.

* * *

            “Teacher Joshua?” said Bass. It was a voice uttered in a garden near Bass’s inn. It was totally dark out—neither could recognize the other.

            “It is time them?” said Joshua. Bass’s middle-aged eyes could not distinguish anything in the dark, and he did not want to light anything to call attention to them. But the Teacher’s voice sounded weak and tired. Bass assumed the Teacher had been crying for a while from the sound of his voice.

            “I don’t know about that. It’s always time for something. My name is Bass. I own the inn where you had supper earlier.”

            “Ah, Bass. Thank you.”

            “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            “I don’t think so. No.”

            “Do you mind if I sit with you here on the ground for a bit then?”

            “If it suits you.”

            “Your boy said you sounded desperate.”

            “My boy?”

            “Milk.”

            “Ah, yes. My boy.”

“He’s here, right beside me.” said Bass. “So are you?”

            “Am I what?”

            “Desperate.”

            “Desolate perhaps. My mother told me I was born at night. Into a dark world she said. A dark place ruled by evil, debauched kings, who do as they please harming all they touch. And they keep prevailing. And it so dark tonight. And is this how it will end? All alone, in the dark.”

            “I don’t have an answer to that. But I do have something else. Milk, pour it now please.” There came the sound of liquid being poured into cups. “Give me your hand.” Bass put a cup in the Teacher’s hand.

            “It’s hot.”

            “It’s a drink from the Far East. Hot tea. Common there, but a delicacy here. It fortifies the constitution.” The two of them just sat there together in the dark, slurping hot tea that Milk kept pouring for them. After a time, the Teacher spoke.

            “It’s a very fragrant. Both bitter and sweet,” said the Teacher.

            “Like so many things in life, eh?”

            “My dear innkeeper,” there was a slight smile in the Teacher’s voice. Speaking in analogies and riddles is my job. And trust me when I tell you, you don’t want my job.”

            “Fair enough. Easing a little pressure in the lives of people when I can, is my job. But it wasn’t always so.”

            “Oh?”

            “When I was 16, my mother’s brother, a great merchant trader, invited me to put what little money I had made as hired field worker into his caravan venture and to travel with him and he would teach me everything he knew, as I was his favorite. He had no son and I looked like him. I so wanted to do that, and become rich and wise and well traveled like him. When the time came though, my older brother died and I was obliged to take up my father’s business of managing a stable, maintaining and breeding horses and donkeys. Work that I loathed. I still do. I don’t like horses. They’re jumpy and temperamental. And donkeys! So recalcitrant. And they’re both dangerous when agitated. And yet, here I am. Consigned to merely watch others live out the destiny of travel that I had hoped for myself.”

            “So your uncle, did he make another fortune on that trip?”

            “He did, and he took my younger brother in my stead.”

            “And your brother became a rich trader then?”

            “He died at the hands of brigands not two days’ away from Bethany. His throat was slit. He was 15.”

            “That was unfortunate.”

            “I wondered if he cursed me at his end for bequeathing to him my fate of owning a short life? Who knows? And so it has been. At every turn that came where I might pick up the trading life, something always conspired to hold me in my place. A death. A marriage. A birth. An inheritance. A debt to pay off.  A promise to keep. A grudged remembered. Injured knees. Illness. And now, old age. It’s always something.”

            “And the inn?”

            “It was my father-in-law’s. I was asked to take it over too. Yet another trade I despise. And yet here I am.”

            “My father despised innkeepers too. All his life.”

            “I don’t blame him. We’re a sorry lot. Keeping and staying at an inn brings out the worst in man on both sides of the accounts register.”

            The Teacher laughed at that. “My Abba would say, ‘We live in a time and place where hospitality is supposed to be a social virtue. Hospitality wants to be free! Cursed are those moneygrubbers who prey like vultures on those who are without family and friends in a strange place. Even the Greeks at least give their own kind the courtesy of a good bed to sleep in. He had a bad experience with innkeepers, though he never talked about it with me.”

            “Just so you know from our side, we innkeepers are in bad mood all the time because people always skip on us. Or they pay you in counterfeit foreign currency. Or they accuse you of stealing their belongings or damaging their pack animals in your stable. Or of afflicting them with fleas and lice and rat bites. And they trash the place. And their children are noisy brats. And the men pinch my wife and daughters’ behinds and breasts, especially the married men. It makes you a very cynical, distrustful person. As I said, a despicable business.”

            “And yet you can afford to pour me this expensive tea. I heard your wife berating you earlier for not charging enough.”

            “I may not be able to be a caravan trader, but I do get to invest in them now and then. I got this coal-heated tea service from a recent caravan. It’s beautiful. Shame it’s too dark to see.”

            “I just realized. I haven’t paid you for your services, have I?”

            “Twice, but who’s counting? We businesspeople build bill skippers into our expectations. Consider it your father’s revenge and shall we call it even?”

            “And so the remedies of the fathers are visited on the sons then? Who said no one has had such wisdom since King Solomon? But I am sorry my friend who turns scripture on its head, I will never be able to patronize you again.”

“So my service was THAT BAD? A thousand pardons. The lamb. It was tough? In my defense I say that your man Peter did get one of the last cuts available at the Temple Butchery, BECAUSE of your late reservation . . . but let me tell you there is a priest there who has been known to slip mutton in . . . it’s not just the moneychangers there who play it loose.”

“Oh, Bass! Stop. Where were you when I really needed you earlier this week?”

“You want names? I’ll give you names. And just between you and me, it makes my wife very happy to complain about my lack of business sense. If she knew we make our real living from investments, she would lose her own sense of pride. A man can lose his tunic in the hospitality business. She loves to compare me poorly to her late father, whom she adored. I can’t take that away from her.”

            “I can see that I would have made a terrible husband.”  The Teacher laughed again. “Bass, thank you very much.”

            “For what?”

            “For making me smile, but most of all for making me remember my father tonight of all nights. The father whose demands on me were so much more easy to meet. I loved him very much and he died too early.”

            “Fathers always leave before you can appreciate them.”

            “Bass, I am going to give you something. I only own my clothes and these.” The Teacher tore the hem of his garment and produced five small golden rings. “These are for you. I have no further use for them.”

            Bass fingered them carefully in the dark, being careful not to drop them. “They are like toys. What are they?”

            “According to the story I was told, when I was about one year old, my parents received some gold on my behalf from some traveling astrologers.”

             “Astrologers?”

            “I’ll just say their divination seemed to indicate to them that I was a king foretold.”

“A king you say? Forgive your Majesty.”

“Yes, and it caused problems for my parents because they went public with that reading and, we were forced to leave the country.”

“Because of fortune tellers’ tall tales?”

“Think more along the lines of insecure local rulers who are unable to think symbolically or figuratively.”

“Teacher. Your learning is more cunning that I can apprehend.”

“Sorry. Too long a story. In any event, that gold turned out to be very useful to them in relocating quickly. When they eventually returned, my father had one gold coin left. He decided to hold it to give to me. But he was a carpenter, and as such, all his friends were tradesmen. And tradesmen, they trade services to each other and a metalsmith owed him a favor and he asked to make it into five little rings that he could put on the toes of the right foot of my 5-year-old self. He said it was a joke to show to my mother, for who else but a king would have gold rings on his toes!”

            “Who indeed,” said Bass. “Sounds like your father, for all his sourness to ilk like me, had a sense of humor.”

“He did that.”

“But I can’t take such an heirloom from you. This must go to your son.”

            “I have no son. Nor will I ever. Take them Bass. I don’t want to leave you with the reputation that I am someone who skips out on his bills.”

            “Very well, but this more than covers what you owe me. Come by here anytime, or send your friends who need a place for the night. I shall do what I can to redeem the reputations of innkeepers.” Bass changed his tone to seriousness. “By the way, someone is looking for you. Someone with power to cause great mischief.”

            “I know.”

            “I have a fast horse.”

            “That too I know. I love him. But he is not for me. I have something to do here tonight.”

            “Peace be with you then, my friend. That is all I can offer. And tea.”

            “And also with you. It is enough. And thank you for being in your place when you were needed. You could have gone anytime, truly, but I am glad that it was you who was there for me, Bass.”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

            “Someday, you will. But I must ready myself. Your tea service has done it’s work. Boy come on. We must rouse the … the eleven. I’ve tried twice and failed twice.”

            “The loafers? Master! You just have to know now to kick them … right between the …”

            Bass gathered up his tea set as the Teacher and his boy were arguing about the students when he heard the Teacher call out his name as he made his way back to the inn.

            “Bass. You still out there? One last thing! Just want to let you know, the lamb was sooo succulent, even if it was mutton, and the wine superb! The greens needed salt though. Thank you again!”

 -end of selection