Short Stories

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The Preacher and the Boy


Storyteller sat by the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes a lively dance of red and yellow and orange. His clay pipe had a slow smolder of smoke snaking up from its rounded bowl, and he listened to the snap and pop of the campfire. The horses were unhitched, watered, fed and groomed, and all the travelers had finished their stew and made preparations for bed. There remained a short time, however, before it was quite time for sleep, and there was an expectant hush around this small circle.

This newcomer who had joined the travelers along the road, barely spoke during the day, only what was necessary when he helped with the horses, gathering or chopping wood, or hauling water from wherever it may be found. In all no more than a nod or a grunt would be heard from him all day, except this time of night, if the people gathered, and the children were quiet, and there was no more work to be done before the next sunrise, Storyteller would speak.

He drew in the smoke from his clay pipe and stared up at the jeweled night sky, slowly let his breath out in a long sigh, and began.

“Near a village I once knew, it’s a fair distance from here, a Preacher-man was traveling along the road. He had a bold face with piercing eyes and clear and sharp voice that could rumble like low thunder or pierce the heavens like an eagle’s cry. When he stood at the top of the hill that overlooked the town, he claimed the town and its people for God and quickly strode into the town to set about his work.

“As he neared the village square he spied a young boy in tattered clothes and a ratty mop of sandy hair who stumbled as he walked down a side street. The Preacher seized the boy by the arm.

“'Where is your home, boy?' he demanded. The boy put up very little struggle and nearly slumped in the Preacher’s grip.

“'Please, sir,' he replied, 'I have no home but what I find each night, and no food but that which comes from the charity of others.'

“'More likely from what you steal. No matter, boy,' said the preacher, staring with his piercing eyes. 'While I’m here in this town, you are going to do The Lord’s work and you will witness things no regular folk behold, and the Glory of The Lord will shine so bright you will hide in shame your dirty face. Come.'

“And he swept the boy up and walked to the outskirts of town, where he found a home where a widow lived with her mother.

“'For three days, The Master will have need of this house, and while I am under its roof, blessings visit upon all who live here,' he announced. The boy was put into an empty horse stable and given a crust of bread.

“'More than ye gained in your honest accounting, I am sure,' The Preacher told the boy. 'Be happy and rejoice for it, for such is Grace that ye have received for that which you did no toil. We start early on the morrow.'

“The boy knew not what he was to do on the morrow, but he wolfed down his bread and covered himself with the hay on the ground and slept with a roof over his head."

Storyteller paused for a moment, knocked the bowl on the heel of his shoe and shook the remaining ash loose, then refilled his bowl with leaf. The audience of travelers sat still, blinking every now and then, and watched Storyteller, as if it were part of the story, pull a thin stick from the fire and light his pipe with its red glowing tip.

"The next morning The Preacher roused the boy up from the stable and took him by the hand as he headed back into the town. On the way, The Preacher stopped and considered a weeping willow tree and its drooping branches. 'He was a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief,' he muttered, prayer-like. Then, he selected a thin branch, broke it off, and carried it with him in one hand, the boy in the other, and the town grew nearer and nearer."

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