One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, Ch 14 by Wayne Fowler |
In the last chapter, Ben was shot rescuing Livvy from Salinger and his two toughs, Jones and Max. Salinger escaped, Max was killed, and Jones, suffered a head wound. Jones, though rendered mute, turned his life around merely gazing into Ben’s eyes. He bonded to Ben as a sort of servant. Jones, Livvy, and Arville Johnston, attempting to take unconscious Ben to Silverton, allowed some Ute Indians to take him to their tribe for treatment of his wound. “Jones will watch over you,” Arville said to Livvy, despite his own reservation about the possibility of Jones’ dropping dead from the bullet in his brain. “I’ll find William and bring him to you here in Silverton. You’ll be safe, and I can ride twice as fast on Ben’s horse. And don’t worry none about Ben. The Utes like him.” Livvy, uneasy with the plan, accepted its sense, smiling within at the thought running through her mind of everyone liking Ben Persons. Jones nodded vigorously his acceptance of his duty. As painful as it had been for them to watch the Ute carry their wounded friend away, their spirits were at peace, trusting better the Indians than the whites’ blacksmith or dentist’s doctoring. +++ At an encampment near Bear Creek headwaters, the Utes applied a poultice to Ben’s wound and encouraged him to swallow a cup of an herb and bark concoction. Two days later he was in the Sneffel Wilderness Area at the shore of Blue Lake where he convalesced, gradually gaining consciousness and enough strength to move about. “You worship the Creator of the sun and the earth,” Ben said, interpreted by Silver Hawk, Ben’s closest friend among the Ouray tribe. Over the many weeks of Ben’s recuperation, he’d learned some of the Ute language, but on this occasion, he felt compelled to be interpreted. Though physically restricted by a slow, gradual recovery, weakened by the loss of the use of his right lung and a general overwhelming fatigue that sapped his stamina, he rose to this occasion, despite his previous, but continuing condition. “I also worship this Creator. Many of my people, also.” Ben waved toward the east indicating the expanse of the whites. “You pray at sacred trees. I also revere a certain tree – a tree cut and made into a cross.” Ben formed a cross with two sticks he’d prepared in advance of his sermon to the gathered tribe. “Far away, made known to a people that were not whites, but in a distant land, the Creator sent his son, his only son, from his heaven to our earth. He was offended by the hateful ways of people. He wanted to return their hearts to himself. Cleansed of their evil. The evil that lives in every man’s heart. That which makes him take what is not his, and lie to his mother and father, the evil that makes him do that which is not right in the sight of man, or the Creator. Even you, who are a good and honest people know that this evil hides in hearts of even the best of you.” Following the shaman’s nod, the people nodded their understanding and agreement. “In this far-away land, the people resisted the Creator’s son. While some accepted his love and forgiveness and healing, the leaders turned away from him. They killed him on a cross of trees.” Ben held up his crossed sticks for effect as the tribe gasped their confusion. “On this cross, dying a hideous death, the Creator’s son begged his father, the Creator, to forgive the people of their fault. He who had never committed crime, the pure one sent from the Creator took the faults and sins of all the people, then and now and forever, to himself.” Ben delivered his message with increasing fervor. He paused, allowing the people to grasp the gravity of his words. “He died their death, in their place. Their own penalty of death, he took on himself, sacrificing his pure life to the Creator for them. They, as we, could be forgiven their evil simply by asking to be counted among those he died for.” “Yes. He died on that cross of trees. But he rose again to life. He rose again to show us that though we all die, we, too, will rise again. Not in this life, but in the greater life that waits for us with the Creator in his heaven.” Everyone looked to the sky, understanding the concept of life after death. Waiting for the whispered comments to subside, Ben continued. “Some whites, many who have come to your land, do not know this Creator, or his son who died for us but rose again.” The people’s expressions visibly lightened. “Yes. They buried this son. His name is Jesus. They buried him in a cave, sealing it with a great stone that no single man could move. But after three days he rose, alive! And because he lives, you can live, too. Forever. When you and I leave this world, we will go to the heaven of our Creator and live in peace and love with him and the son who saved us from the darkness of death. “We can live in this world, free from the evil that no longer hides in our hearts. And we will die and then rise as he did, ascending through the heavens to the Creator. This son I speak of has sent me to you to show you the way to his forgiveness, and to his heaven and to his great love. My friends, I tell you the truth, though many people of all colors find it hard to understand. Ask the Father Creator to help you to see, and he will. He will.” After the final interpretation, the people were silent. The shaman studied the ground beneath his crossed knees where he sat. Finally, a young man, one of the most athletic and robust of the tribe stood. Speaking toward Ben, he said, “I believe the Creator’s son is who you say. I wish to be rid of the evil, the darkness that hides not very well in my heart.” Silver Hawk stood facing Ben, but waving toward the tribe. “We have all heard you talk to this Jesus. First, we thought you were loco.” Silver Hawk motioned to his head, the tribe all nodding agreement. “You talk to this one like he’s is beside you. And he is your friend. We begin to think that you are not loco. But you see what we cannot see.” Looking to his tribal friends and relatives, Silver Hawk continued. Still looking to the tribe, Silver Hawk said, “You do not sing and dance before your Creator’s son, but you honor him with your talk, and your heart. We see this.” By that time, Silver Hawk was again facing Ben, the tribal members as one, nodding agreement. “We believe you are true. Show us this Jesus.” The entire community rose to their feet in concurrence, the chief and shaman among them. “I can do that,” Ben said. “All of you know of spirits: the spirit of the rain, of the elk, of the earth, of the sun. And many more. The Great Creator is spirit. He is the chief of all the spirits. And his son, Jesus, is now spirit. All of the spirits you know of are as the leaves of the aspen. The leaves provide shade. They become beautiful. And then fall and die. The son of the Great Creator is alive forever. He is love. He loves you, and wishes for you to love him. If you will believe this, you can close your eyes and see this for yourself.” The people’s confusion of closing their eyes to see was quickly allayed as they followed Ben’s lead. “Jesus, thank you for saving us from the evil that would destroy us. Thank you for meeting us here in these mountains. Thank you for loving us and filling us with your presence and your love.” Ben moved about, touching each on their heads, continuing to pray. “Open the eyes of my friends’ hearts, Jesus.” As Ben made his way through the tribe, laying his hands on each one, they shivered and shook as if sparked. Each one reacted a little differently than the other, some crying with joy, some shouting, many raising their arms in praise. All of them basked in God’s love. Ben made his way to the hut set assigned him, assisted by two young men. There, Ben slept the rest of the day and the night through, much stronger the next day than the day before.
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Wayne Fowler
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