Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Lavishly. Only Here In This Forsaken Corner

Of The World He Seemed To Have Nothing To Give That Was Of Any Value.

 

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 31

He Was,  At The Same Time,  Discovering In Himself Personal Needs To Which

He Had Never Given A Thought,  Sordid Everyday Necessities The

Satisfaction Of Which Had Always Been At Hand,  Unquestioned,  Taken For

Granted Much As One Takes The Sun And The Air For Granted. His Meals Had

Been Provided. His Bed Had Been Provided. The Funds Which Had Clothed

And Educated Him And Trained Him For The Ministry Had Been Provided,  And

Likewise His Transportation To The Scene Of His Endeavors. How,  He Had

Not Known Except In The Vaguest Way,  He Had Not Particularly Inquired,

Any More Than The Child Inquires The Whence And The Why Of Luscious

Berries He Finds Growing Upon A Bush In The Garden.

 

Not Until He Was Torn By The Roots Out Of The Old,  Ordered Environment

And Flung Headlong Into An Environment Where Cause And Effect Are Linked

Close Did He Consider These Things. Materially He Was Getting A

First-Hand Lesson In Economics--And Domestic Science Of A Sort!

Spiritually He Was A Little Bit Aghast,  Amazed That The Almighty Did Not

Personally Intervene To Save A Man From His Own Inefficiency. He Began

To Grasp The Hitherto Unnoted Fact That Meals And A Bed And Fires And

Clothes And All The Other Stark Necessities Involved Labor Of The Hands,

Skilful Exercise Of The Thought-Function.

 

If This Was So,  He,  Wesley Thompson,  Twenty-Five Years Of Age And A

Minister Of The Gospel,  Was Deeply In Debt--Unless He Denied The Justice

Of Giving Value For Value Received. He Had Received Much; He Had

Returned Nothing Except Perfunctory Thanks. And What Had He To Give?

Even To Him,  Transcendent As Was His Faith That The Glory Of Man Was But

The Reflected Glory Of God,  That Faith Was Not A Commodity To Be

Bartered.

 

He Did Not Think These Things In These Terms. He Found Himself Becoming

Involved In A Maze Of Speculation,  In Which He Could Only Grope Feebly

For Words To Define The Unrest That Was In Him.

 

While He Sat At His Small Table Of Rough-Hewn Boards With His Scorched,

Unappetizing Biscuits,  Ill-Cooked Potatoes And Bacon,  And A Pot Of Tea

That He Could Never Brew To His Liking (And Mr. Thompson,  From A

Considerable Amount Of Juggling Afternoon Teacups,  Had Acquired A Nice

Taste In That Beverage) He Saw Tommy Ashe And Sophie Carr Pass Along One

Edge Of His Clearing,  A Cluster Of Bright-Winged Ducks Slung Over

Tommy's Shoulder,  Their Voices Floating Across To Him As If They Came

Down A Long Corridor. They Disappeared Toward Lone Moose Through The

Timber,  And Mr. Thompson Sat Brooding Over His Lonely Meal Until He

Realized With A Start That His Mind Was Concentrating Upon Sophie Carr

With A Disturbing Insistence.

 

The Plague Of Mosquitoes Had Somewhat Abated. In The Early Morning And

For A Time In The Evening,  And Also When Rain Dampened The Atmosphere,

These Pests Still Kept A Man's Hands Busy Warding Them Off. But Through

The Dry Heat Of The Day He Could Go Abroad In Reasonable Comfort.

 

So Now Mr. Thompson Washed Up His Dishes In A Fashion To Make The Lips

Of A Careful Housekeeper Pucker In Disdain,  Clapped On His Broken-Rimmed

Straw Hat And Sallied Forth.

 

He Was Full Of An Earnest Desire To Do Good,  As He Defined Doing Good.

He Had Come Here For That Purpose,  Backed By An Organization For Just

Such Good Work. This Evangelical Fire Burned Strong In Him Despite The

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 32

Crude Shifts He Was Put To,  The Loneliness,  The Perplexities And Trials

Of The Spirit. Just As An Educated Humanitarian Coming Upon An

Illiterate People Would Gladly Banish Their Illiteracy,  So Thompson Was

Resolved To Banish What He Deemed The Spiritual Darkness Of These

Primitive Folk. Holding As He Did To The Orthodoxy Of Sin And Salvation,

Of A Literal Heaven And A Nebulous Sort Of Hell,  He Deemed It His

Business To Show Them With Certainty The Paths That Led To Each.

 

But He Could Not Reach Them Unless He Could Speak Their Tongue,  He Could

Not Gather Them About Him In The Open Meadow As The Man Of Galilee

Gathered His Disciples About Him. The Climate Was Against That Simple

Procedure. Therefore He Postulated Two Things As Necessary To Make A

Beginning--To Learn The Tribal Language And To Build A Church.

 

He Was Making An Attempt At Both,  And Making Little More Progress Than

He Made In The Culinary Art. Only A Naturally Vigorous Stomach Enabled

Him To Assimilate The Messes He Cooked Without Suffering Acute

Indigestion. Likewise Only A Naive Turn Of Mind Enabled Him To Ward Off

Mental Indigestion In His Struggles With The Language. Whatever The

Defects Of His Training For What He Considered His Life Work,  He Had

Considerable Power Of Application. He Might Get Discouraged,  But He Was

Not A Quitter. He Kept Trying. This Took The Form Of Studying The

Athabascan Gutturals With The Aid Of Lachlan's Second Son,  A Boy Of

Eighteen. For An Hour In The Forenoon And The Same In The Evening He

Struggled With Pronunciations And Meanings Like A Child Learning The

Alphabet,  Forgetting,  Like The Child,  A Good Deal Of It Between Lessons.

And He Had Begun Work On A Log Building Twenty By Thirty Feet,  That Was

To Be A Meeting-House.

 

He Did Not Get On With This Very Fast. He Laid His Foundation In The

Edge Of The Timber To Lessen The Distance His Material Must Be Moved.

He Had To Fell Trees,  To Lop Off The Branches,  And Cut The Trunks To

Proper Length,  Then Roll Them With Infinite Effort To Their Proper Place

In The Structure. He Could Only Gather How A Log Building Could Be

Erected By Asking Lachlan,  And By Taking The Lone Moose Cabins For His

Model. And He Was A Fearful And Wonderful Axeman. His Log Ends Looked As

If Chewed By A Beaver,  Except That They Lacked The Beaver's Neatness Of

Finish. His Feet Suffered Manifold Hairbreadth Escapes From The Sharp

Blade. He Could Never Guess Which Way A Tree Would Fall. For A Week's

Work He Had Got Two Courses Of Logs Laid In Position.

 

He Did Not Allow His Mind To Dwell On The Ultimate Outcome Of This Task,

Because He Was Uneasily Aware That Lone Moose Was Smiling Slyly Behind

Its Brown Hand At Him And His Works. In His Mind There Was Nothing For

It But A Church. He Had Tried One Sunday Service At Lachlan's House,

With Lachlan Senior To Interpret His Words. The Indians Had Come.

Indeed,  They Had Come En Masse. They Packed The Room He Spoke In,  Big

And Little,  Short,  Chunky Natives,  And Tall,  Thin-Faced Ones,  And The

Overflow Spilled Into The Kitchen Beyond. The Day Was Very Hot,  The Roof

Low,  The Windows Closed. There Was A Vitiation Of The Atmosphere That

Was Not Helped By A Strong Bodily Odor,  A Stout And Sturdy Smell That

Came Near To Sickening Mr. Thompson. He Was Extraordinarily Glad When He

Got Outside. That Closeness--To Speak Mildly--Coupled With The Heavy,

Copper-Red Faces,  Impassive As Masks,  Impersonally Listening With

Scarcely A Flicker Of The Eye-Lids,  Made Thompson Forswear Another

Attempt To Preach Until He Could Speak To Them In Their Own Tongue And

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 33

Speak To Them In A Goodly Place Of Worship Where A Man's Thoughts Would

Not Be Imperiously Distracted By A Pressing Need Of Ventilation.

 

Coming Now To The Site He Had Chosen,  He Stood For A Moment Casting An

Eye Over The Scene Of His Undertaking. The Longer He Looked At It The

More Of An Undertaking It Seemed. He Had Heard Lachlan Speak Of Two Men

Felling Trees And Putting Up A Sixteen-Foot Cabin Complete From

Foundation To Ridgelog In Three Days. He Did Not See How It Could Be

Done. He Was Thoroughly Incredulous Of That Statement. But He Did Expect

To Roof In That Church Before The Snow Fell. Its Walls Would Be

Consecrated With Sweat And Straining Muscles. It Would Be A Concrete

Accomplishment. The Instinct To Create,  The Will To Fashion And Mold,  To

See Something Take Form Under His Hands,  Had Begun To Stir In Him.

 

Axe In Hand,  He Set To Work. He Had Learned The First Lesson Of Manual

Labor--That A Man Cannot Swing His Arms And Breathe Deeply If His Body

Is Swaddled In Clothes. His Coat Came Off And His Vest And His Hat,  All

Slung Across A Fallen Tree. Presently,  As He Warmed Up,  His Outer Shirt

Joined The Discarded Garments.

 

Stripped For Action In A Literal Sense He Did Not In The Least Conform

To The Clerical Figure. He Was The Antithesis Of Asceticism,  Of

Gentleness,  Of Spiritual And Scholarly Repose. He Was Simply A Big Man

Lustily Chopping,  Red In The Face From His Exertions,  Beads Of Sweat

Standing Out On Brow And Cheek,  His Sturdy Neck All A-Glisten With

Moisture. Under His Thin,  Short-Sleeved Undershirt His Biceps Rippled

And Played. The Flat Muscle-Bands Across His Broad Chest Slackened And

Tightened As His Arms Swung. For Mr. Thompson Had Been Fashioned By

Nature In A Generous Mood. He Was Not A Heroic Figure,  But He Was Big

And Built As A Man Should Be,  Deep In The Chest,  Flat-Backed,  Very

Straight When He Stood Erect. He Had Escaped The Scholarly Stoop. If His

Muscles Were Soft They Were In A Fair Way To Become Hardened.

 

He Was More Or Less Unconscious Of All This. He Had Never Thought Of His

Body As Being Strong Or Well-Shaped,  Because He Had Never Used It,  Never

Pitted His Strength Against The Strength Of Other Men,  Never Worked,

Never Striven. It Had Never Been Necessary For Him To Do So. He Had Been

Taught That Pride Of That Sort Was Sinful,  And He Had Accepted The

Teaching Rather Too Literally.

 

Already A Curious Sort Of Change Was Manifesting In Him. His Blue Eyes

Had A Different Expression Than One Would Have Observed In Them

During--Well,  During The Period Of His Theological Studies,  Shall We

Say,  When The State Of His Soul And The State Of Other People's Souls

Was The Only Consideration. One Would Have Been Troubled To Make Out Any

Pronounced Personality Then. He Was Simply A Studious Young Man With A

Sanctimonious