The Story of Sottie

 The young boy had not adjusted at all since the night of the storm 3 years ago.

Has it really been 3 years already, Rector Schenwar thought to himself, since I took the boy as my ward?

The priest looked into the next room where the boy sat in front of the fire as if mesmerized by some unseen festival show.  Young Harrod MacElvoy, all of 8 years, slowly rocked back and forth as he had every night for the last year. He had sat in front of the hearthfire every winter night since he had lost his family in the tragic fire that destroyed their home during the night of storms.  When there was no fire in the hearth he sat and stared out the open window. The priest slowly rubbed his hand over his face and exhaled softly.

Give me the wisdom, Creator, please, the priest silently prayed. Help me help him. I can sense you within him. You have blessed the boy, I know, with something greater than I. Help me to show him your grace.

Whether Urnan Schenwar claimed it was the gift of the Creator or not, a thought took hold of the Rector’s mind. He rose from his rocking chair and went to the closet. He grabbed his and the boy’s cloaks and then crossed over to where the young boy sat.

“Come with me, Harrod,” he told the boy and pulled the tiny cloak across Harrod’s shoulders.

They strode in silence out the door toward the woodshed. The full moon illuminated the thick grasses and bathed the Rector’s lands with a silvery glow. “Wait here,” Urnan said to Harrod. The priest then went into the small shop and returned shortly. He carried two poles and a small box in his left hand. He reached down and took Harrod’s small hand in his right then led them both down the moonlit path towards the creek that ran along the back of the property. The air was crisp yet bearable, and Urnan found a comfortable spot and sat upon the thick carpet of moss that grew along the bank of the creek. Wordlessly he motioned for Harrod to sit as well, and the priest opened the tackle box to begin the task of preparing the poles for fishing.

“M..m.master Schenwar?” Young Harrod began. “ Why are we here? Fish don’t eat at night.”

“Hush boy, “ the priest said softly. “I want to tell you a story. There was a time when the waters ran dry, Harrod. It is said that many a year ago the rains ceased and the sun beat down upon the lands like a smith’s hammer to the anvil. Some said the old gods looked away from the world. Most men did not yet understand the peace that comes from knowing the Creator, as he was just beginning to make his presence felt in the lands. Sottagaelen Wolder was once such man. Sottie, as his friends called him, was a simple farmer. And like most farmers back then was struggling to keep his crops alive. He struggled for a couple of years with the lack of rains, then the streams dried up, and he couldn’t irrigate either. He prayed to the old gods for rain. He burnt his offerings. Wore the charms. Nothing. Things sure looked pretty bleak for ole Sottie. He cursed and spat, blaming it, like so many others, on the rise of a new religion. People said it was the fault of those that turned their backs on the way of the old gods and followed a one god. People said the old gods were angry and turned their backs on them.”

Rector Schenwar handed the smaller of the two baited poles to Harrod then cast his own into the water. The priest nodded to the creek and waited for Harrod to cast his pole into the water before he continued with the story.

“So Sottie packed some stuff, grabbed his fishing pole, and went walking. Many miles did he walk until the darkness fell, and he realized he was too far to walk home for the night. Sottie didn’t know what to do. He was tired and hungry.  He was angry with himself. With the old gods. With this new god that didn’t even have a name. The Creator he was called by his followers.

"‘What a stupid name for a god,’ Sottie said aloud. Sottie’s stomach was rumbling and croaking by this time. ‘If you really are so powerful,’ Sottie shouted into the air. ‘If you really are the Creator, then why don’t you create some rain. Or at least something to eat!’"

"It was then that Sottie heard something he hadn’t in years. It was soft and subtle but familiar. He heard the very faint sound of water cascading over some rocks. Sottie stood up and began to walk to the sound. He finally found a very, very  small stream on the side of a hill. He followed the stream till he found that it was being fed from under the ground further up the slope. Stumbling in the darkness, Sottie came, at last, upon a cave that opened up. He heard the drips and ripples of water on rock and took out a lantern, which he then lit, so that he could see the inside of the cave.”

“Crystals sparkled and reflected the lamplight which now danced upon the surface of the lake in the cave.  ‘Blessed be the Creator,’ Sottie said as he saw the large cave fish swimming in the cool clear water.”

 Harrod’s pole pulled taught just at that moment.

 “I…I…I got sumpin’,” Harrod exclaimed in a whoop of surprise. “I got sumpin’.”

 The young boy pulled on the fishing pole and backed away from the edge until the large trout flopped upon the banks. Harrod, beaming and giggling as if he had no cares nor fears, reached down and picked up the line and held out the large fish to Urnan.

 “I actually caught one,” the boy said just before he threw his tiny arms around the Rector’s neck and hugged the priest tightly.

“Yes, you did,” Urnan replied before he looked skyward and thought. Blessed be the Creator.