There once was a woman who lived on a rugged hillside near to a freshwater spring. She drank from it often, and savoured every drop of the life-giving water.
She made many journeys to the top of the mountain where the Holy of Holies dwelled, but always felt compelled to return to her home on the hillside.
She could not help noticing the many travellers who, ragged and footsore, bloodied and exhausted, passed by her door on their search for the Holy of Holies. They clambered over the rocks and stones, tripped over the sink-holes and pot holes and staggered from foothold to foothold.
The woman was filled with a deep compassion.
She began to bandage wounds and encourage the pilgrims, offering them bowls of water from the well, and showing them the simpler paths. She even walked some of the way with them.
More and more pilgrims came, and more and more of them seemed to need spring water and the woman’s tenderness.
She grew very weary as she too clambered over the rocks and stones to meet and tend to them. She became so busy day after day, that she drank form the spring less and less – after all, the precious water must be taken to others.
She was too busy to notice that day by day she was shrinking. Gradually the journeys became tougher and it was harder and harder to carry the bowls of water and the bandages. As she shrank, the pilgrims seemed to grow bigger and bigger, and their needs harder and harder to meet. Her voice was fading too. Before long her tiny body could only drag small offerings small distances.
Then, one day she fell.
There was a pot-hole too deep and wide, and she toppled, rather like Alice in Wonderland, to a place of unknown depths. It was dark and cold – a bleak underground cavern. She called out, but her voice was faint and no-one came.
She did not know how long she lay there – hours, days, weeks or months. She just knew that she was alone and afraid. She thought she would die.
Then she heard a familiar sound. It was the trickle of water. “Oh no!” she thought. “I will drown! This hillside is a catacomb of waterways and caves. I shall have to hold on!”
So she held on, and the trickle became a thunderous stream. Eventually she could hold on no longer and she was carried away in the whitewater. She gulped mouthful after mouthful and, as she did, she grew strangely stronger. When the gushing stopped, she found herself being lifted gently, gently on a stilling tide – up, up towards the light.
Before long, she was deposited on the hillside – laid flat to dry off in the sun.
© Sharonne Price
The Ride to Cannon Falls
The Ride to Cannon Falls
“Ian,” they said, “You need to go to the bank when you’re in the States. It’s in Cannon Falls, just near Minneapolis St Paul. You’ll be there in May. How about it?”
Of course he said, “Yes!” The phone calls were made and the business transacted. We needed new cheque books issued. “They will be ready!” they said.
And so, on Monday morning, to the amazement of the counter staff at the Holiday Inn, he asked them to organise a taxi to Cannon Falls. “It’s a long way, Sir – 35 miles.” Eyebrows were raised. “Be cheaper to hire a car.” But he was resolute. “No this is how we will do it!”
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi arrived. Well, actually it was a black limo – a large SUV with tinted windows – just like the President’s security escorts. Out climbed the driver. He was of Middle-Eastern origin – with his earpiece for his i-phone in place – one strand in, the other dangling from the handheld device.
We climbed in the back. It took about an hour – open country, past the airport, past the farmers on their tractors – far, far away.
We turned into the metropolis of Cannon Falls – a dozen or so shops … and … the First Farmers and Merchants Bank.
The doors opened before us. “Oh, you’re Ian!” said Linda Collins. “Welcome to Cannon Falls. We’ve been expecting you!”
The business was transacted in ten minutes after introductions all round, and we emerged from the bank with two thick wads of cheque books, wrapped neatly in brown paper. They could have been … well, anything!
The limo was waiting. We climbed back in to the stares of passers-by. The chauffeur talked all the way back to the city on his phone to numerous callers, setting up business for the rest of the day. We went past the tractors, past the airport, and back to 11th Street.
Two hundred and thirty seven dollars, it cost us … but for a day we might have been …the mafia!
© Sharonne Price 2011