Excerpts

The Gospel Of Josaphat

Little Birds

           

            Joshua was seven years old when he changed. He and his brother were playing down by the muddy river pretending that the real river was the ocean and creating an imaginary inland river to an imaginary inland lake. They had cut a channel and dug a shallow basin into the gritty riverbank. Little ships and boats were floating in the basin they had made. The kids made the boats from driftwood and fast food litter. The harbor city rested on the flattest part of the shore built from cardboard boxes, torched picnic table boards and other scraps they found lying around.

           

            “What are you boys doing?” their mom shouted from above.

           

            “Nothing mom. We made a harbor and a city,” said the first.

           

            “Yeah mom. It’s really cool. You should come see it,” Tom said.

           

            “Okay guys. I’m coming.”

           

            She walked over to where her sons were playing.  The mess on the ground didn’t look like much to her just some small scratches made in the sand and a bit of sand scooped out to make a shallow bowl with the slightest amount of clean water filling it. Scraps of driftwood, soft drink cups, cans, and food wrappers floated in the water. It wasn’t much at all. It was just some typical beach flotsam in a small clear pool.

           

            “Wow guys, it’s pretty cool. I like the boats. They're a nice touch. Which one is our yacht?” she said.

           

            “It’s the big one mom,” said the older brother.

           

            “No it’s the little one mom. You’re always saying how we can’t afford stuff,” said Tom.

           

            “Okay guys. I’d be happy with either boat. They’re both nice. I was just dreaming and playing along. It looks like you two are doing okay without me. Stay out of trouble and have fun. I’m watching you two,” she said while arching her eyebrows.

           

            “Okay mom!” they said.

           

            The boys went back to their awesome boats and humongous lake. The older yet smaller boy piloted the biggest yacht as the younger yet bigger boy piloted the smallest boat.

           

            “How come you always dis’ mom like that Tom? We could to afford a big yacht.”

           

            “No we can’t,” said Tom.

           

            “Yes we can,” said the older one.

           

            “Nuhuh.”

           

            “Uh huh.”

           

            “Nuhuh.”

           

            “Whatever Tom! I’m bored with the boats and the harbor and most of all you. I’m gonna go do something more fun than play with you.”

           

            “Suit yourself,” said Tom.

           

            The older brother walked away from the younger and sat down by himself on the ground facing the muddy river. At first he sat there just staring at the flowing water. After a while he started fiddling with bits of muck from the bank. The boy grabbed a handful of clay from the riverbank. He pressed and rolled the mud and passed it from one hand to another. The elder then spun the lump of muck at an angle creating a pear-shaped mass. Grabbing another handful of clay he did the same thing to it. He fashioned a few more clay pears and took the fruits one at a time and immersed them in the sparkling water. He continued to carefully shape each pear and smoothed the clay upward from the bulbous bases to create creepy heads on the pears. He bent the neck of each fruit at an angle and shaped the clay of the heads into an oval shape and then created points on the end of the ovals. Tom finally realized that his older brother wasn’t making pears. He was sculpting birds. There were several little birds, maybe a dozen or so.

           

            The little boy dipped his fingers into the pellucid water. Taking his moistened hand he touched the first little bird on the head and touched the second bird on its beak. Re-dipping his hand in the water he touched the third bird on its chest, the fourth on its back. He dipped his hand again and touched the fifth little bird on its feet and continued this process until he had anointed ten plus three little birds. He looked at his thirteen bird golems and thoughtfully smiled.

           

            “What are you doing bro?” said Tom.

           

            He didn’t answer. Did he hear at all?

           

            At last he did speak, “Be off and fly away! I will remember you. Will you remember me? You are alive! Fly away now!”

           

            “What the heck bro? What did you do man?”

           

            The two brothers, one with tears in his eyes, watched in amazement as the little birds flew away. They alit on a giant weeping willow upstream and twittered around in her yellow branches. Two clay pigeons lay motionless where the sculptor had laid them. Tom stomped the duds back into the ground where they came from as his still mesmerized brother watched the little birds flying farther away.

           

            “What did you do that for Tom?” he yelled, as he rubbed his eyes.

           

            “I don’t know. They weren’t any good.”

           

            “You killed them, I hate you Tom! Some day you’ll be sorry you did that.”

           

            “What are you boys doing?” their mom called.

           

            “Nothing mom!” shouted Tom.

           

            “It’s just some birds!” the other yelled.

           

            “Okay guys!” she hollered back to them then muttered to herself, “Boys will be boys.”