Hadassah

 

         “No, Leah!”  I hissed at my little sister, who was pulling my hand.  She whined something that I couldn’t hear.  She was probably just upset at me for dragging her away from her dolls to come to the marketplace.  I stood on my toes and tried to see the famous traveling Rabbi in the throng of people.  Around me I heard many people discussing whether this Rabbi could be a prophet, or possessed, or maybe even the Messiah.  So many different stories and opinions had reached my ears about this man that I knew I had to see him for myself.  I had to know who and what he really was.  So here I was in the marketplace, trying to see past the turbaned heads of the men in front of me.  

Horse hoofs sent up small dust clouds as a Roman centurion rode by.  I shrank back against a wall to avoid another centurion marching past.  Looking down to make sure Leah was still with me, I gasped.  She wasn’t there.  “Leah!”  I called as I pushed past a woman in an orange headcovering.  “Excuse me, have you seen my sister?”  I asked a man standing nearby.  “She’s about this tall,” I gestured with my hand, “blue dress?”  He shook his head.  My heart was beating hard now.  I’d lost my little sister!  I ran up the side steps of a house and looked out over the crowd.

            A flash of blue gave me a temporary moment of hope, but it was only the shawl of a tiny old woman selling fruit.  I couldn’t see a little girl in a blue dress anywhere.  Maybe she went home to her dolls!  That must be it!  Still panicky, I flew down the steps and shoved through the mass of people until I could get out in the open.  I stopped for a moment to figure out the best way home. 

A short distance away, under a shade tree in a corner, a group of children clustered around a man who was laughing, his head thrown back in merriment.  Among the children was a little girl in a blue dress.  “Leah!” I ran over and grabbed her, pulling her into my arms.  Kneeling in the dust, I hugged her tightly as the relief in my heart expressed itself in tears.  “I’m so sorry I lost you!”

            I stood up as I heard a voice behind me saying “What are all these children doing here?  Go away, leave the Rabbi alone!”  The Rabbi stood up, holding a little boy in his arms.   So this is the famous Rabbi, surrounded by small children with dirty faces?   “Let the children come to me,” the Rabbi was saying, “The kingdom of Heaven belongs to them.”  The kingdom of Heaven belongs to children?  The other man looked puzzled too, and walked away talking quietly to one of his companions.   

Leah tugged on my hand again, and started towards the Rabbi.  “Leah, that’s the famous Rabbi I told you about.  You can’t just go talk to him.”  I whispered.  I glanced up towards the man and to my surprise, found that he was looking at me.  He beckoned and Leah released my hand and skipped over to him with the exuberance that small children possess.  He picked her up and set her in his lap.  “Leah.  That’s a beautiful name.  It matches your beautiful eyes.”  Leah giggled, and he smiled at her then looked up to smile at me.  A small smile spread across my face too.  “And you’re Hadassah,” the Rabbi said to me.  I couldn’t decide whether it was a question or a statement.  But how could he know my name? 

Something in his eyes drew me towards him, and I approached.  “Yes, my child?”  “Rabbi?” my words started tumbling out, “I have heard many people say that you are the Messiah.  Is it true?”  He answered my question with a question of his own.  “What do you think, Hadassah?”  “I think…that many people think the Messiah would not have time to sit and talk to children.”  I was surprised by my boldness and felt my cheeks flush.  But he just laughed.  “You are right, Hadassah.  Many are surprised that I take time to talk to children.  But I tell you the truth, the Father has a special place in his heart for the children.”  I thought about this for a moment.  “But are you the Messiah, Rabbi?”  He did not speak, but his eyes twinkled. 

Leah patted his cheek and he turned his attention to her.  “I don’t know if you’re the Messiah, but I know you’re my friend.  Aren’t you?”  “Yes, Leah.  I am your friend,” he said quietly, “but I have to go now.  There are many other people who need me today.”  Leah looked sad as she wrapped her little arms around his neck.  He hugged her and set her gently on the ground.  To my shock, he embraced me as well.  “Good-bye, Hadassah.  And don’t worry.  We’ll meet again.”  One more time, he smiled that wonderful smile that somehow seemed to make the sky shine brighter.  As he walked away, his words played back in my head, “The Father has a special place in his heart for the children.”  Could the Messiah be someone who plays with children, after all?



The Way of the Buffalo

I found this story the other day, but I wrote it about a year ago (I think). 

The Way of the Buffalo

 

“Please, Elktail!” I ran after my older brother, a renowned hunter of our tribe.  “No. You should stay here.” “Why?” He hesitated as he searched for an answer and I pounced on his silence.  “See,” I mocked, “you can’t think of a good reason!  I’m coming.” Sighing, he nodded and reached down from atop his horse.  Ignoring his offer of assistance, I swung myself up behind him and held on as the three of us galloped away across the plain. 

                As we caught up to the main body of warriors, one called playfully to my brother, “An extra rider? Your horse can barely carry you!”  “Windfeather is stubborn,” was the only explanation Elktail offered, scowling.  He seemed angry, but we all knew better.  Since our mother died in our childhood, we had shared a special friendship.  He would often return from a hunt with something just for me.  A hawk’s tail feather or the soft skin of a hare.  The bond between us was rare in our culture and tribe.  Most men wouldn’t give their sisters a second glance as they went about their “squaw work.”  And they certainly wouldn’t take them along on a buffalo hunt! 

                The sun had moved forward in its rotation when we approached the place where a scout had reported a buffalo herd the day before. We grew quiet, listening.  There was no sound aside from the wind-rustled prairie grass and the breathing of men and horses.  Then through the silence came the gloating cry of a vulture.  All of the hunters turned their faces upwards to look towards the sound.  Fifteen vultures or more dotted the brilliant sky.  I drew in my breath softly.  What would we find when we rode over the next hill?  A deer carcass, perhaps?  An unfortunate coyote?  Undoubtedly, it was a large beast for so many sky-scavengers to be circling, their ominous forms black against the sun.

                We rode over the crest of the hill and I felt my brother stiffen.  One of the older warriors muttered a white-man’s curse under his breath.  I swung myself down to see what had caused the sudden chill on the men’s faces.  Knee-deep in dry prairie grass, I stared in horror, my mouth opened in a silent gasp.  Hundreds of buffalo littered the plain.  But these were not the living, snorting buffalo we had come to hunt.  They were all dead.  Stripped of their skins, they lay red in the grass.  The whole scene was still except for the swooping vultures and the ever-waving grass.

                “This is the white men’s work!” My brother’s voice burst angry in the gaping silence.  His shout kindled the anger in my own heart.  The wasteful carnage in the valley sickened and infuriated me.  When our people took the life of a buffalo, we honored it, using every part of its body.  Our food, clothing and tools all came from the buffalo.  Did the white men not see the treasures they left to rot in the prairie sun? No. The skin was all that they wanted, all that was worth their paper money.  Around me the hunters murmured angry words, but my eyes were fixed on a lone buffalo, now no more than a perch for greedy bald-headed birds.  If this horrible deed had been done in one day, how long would it be before the buffalo disappeared from the plain entirely, murdered by the white man and his extravagances?  How long would it be until our people could no longer follow the way of the buffalo?



Welcome to Created With Words

Created With Words is my attempt at inspiring myself to write.  I enjoy writing, but I never make time to do it.  Perhaps a writing blog will be what I need to get started with creating stories again.  Perhaps it will drive me to finish all the story fragments that are crying out for completion from different notebooks in my closet. 

I plan on posting some of my past writings first, hopefully to be joined by new works from time to time.  Many different topics will likely be explored, spiritual allegories, silly nonsense works (I have a story about a llama going to the moon) and sketches of people and places.  Constructive criticism will be welcomed, but if you're just posting a comment for the sake of being nasty, please refrain for everyone's sake. 

I hope you enjoy entering my world of words. 

Niki