Selah, a citizen of Erudition, had a reputation for her steady kindness and encouragement. Her lamp always seemed to burn bright, even when others’ lights flickered low. Struggling villagers often came to her for uplifting or when their love for their neighbors had grown thin. Selah would listen, offer a kind word, giving them fresh oil for their weary hearts.
Erudition was harmonious in this time. Neighbors helped one another without being asked. Conversations under the great olive tree were gentle. People quickly forgave small offenses. It was said that the village was finally learning to love one another as the Promised One had loved them.
A clear morning brought some visitors. They were a band called the Toolmakers who had descended from the Volcanic Highlands of Blackpeak. They lead several sturdy donkeys laden with packs. The group brought finely crafted obsidian blades, flint tools, and strong carved staffs of mountain hardwood, planning to make trades. Among them were Garrick and Lira, whom Selah knew from the previous year. Selah stepped forward with fresh bread and cool water from the spring.
“Garrick! Lira!” she greeted excitedly. “Welcome back friends.”
The Toolmakers accepted graciously, yet cautiously, since generosity was rarer in the harsher highland region. “We have much to trade if your people are in need.” Garrick presented. “Allow us to camp just downstream in the clearing.” “Yes, on the path to the lake at the Crossroads Clearing.” Lira agreed.
They pitched their tents and tethered their mules to trees while unpacking the many wares. Woven mats lay on the ground, and they displayed sharp obsidian blades, flint axes, and various carved staffs and handles. Before long, the air carried smoke and aroma from the contents of earthenware placed in a communal campfire. Rhythmic sounds of bones rattling and chanting in ritualistic behavior followed the setting sun. This carried on for a few hours after dark, settling as the firelight dimmed.
First light awakened the group as they prepared for an active day. Lira rose, complaining of aches in her joints. She took a water jar and headed to the spring, seeing Selah and a few other women who were also getting daily water rations. Selah was quick to greet Lira. “The sounds of your camp were quite interesting.” Selah questioned. Lira was not as charitable and ignored Selah’s comment, responding with, “I hope the crowd has not muddied the water. I don’t have time for it to clear.” Selah laughed it off, yet the other women shared uneasy glances.
Throughout the day, traffic moved back and forth between the village and the camp. Trade was consistent. Villagers brought grain, coin, and wool to trade for tools and woodenware. Garrick even replaced a few broken ax handles at a reasonable price. Villagers were gracious towards the Toolmakers, who found them peculiar. The Toolmakers followed a custom, stopping at set times to chant and shake their bones, also causing peculiar feelings in some villagers.
Selah had watched while they practiced this ritual, and she questioned Lira. “Why do your people act in this manner? Why do they shake the bones and chant at set times?”
Lira gave a crooked smirk, staring back at her with some hesitancy, and eventually answered, “I doubt an outsider would understand, but I will explain it. We honor the Mountain Spirits who prosper us. They give us strength in the ways of stone. They guide our hands in our craft, blessing each according to their labor. We do not manipulate with smiles and empty words as the people of this village. We speak direct and trust our gods to reward our hard work.”
Lira’s words stung. Selah’s smile faltered in her quick response. “We offer our kindness not as a trick, but to share The Promised One’s gift with others.” Is it strange to show warmth to your neighbor?
Throughout the day, other slight disagreements between the villagers and Toolmakers defined the gaps between the two. The Toolmakers were blunt in their speech and aggressive in their bargaining. The villagers bombarded Selah with grievances against the visiting clan and mountain ways. Her inner joy turned into anxiety and sadness. The noisy, strange rituals of loud chanting and bone rattles met the sunset.
Morning brought distance between the two peoples. Sharp glances replaced curiosity, and trade mostly halted. Villagers no longer lingered near the Toolmakers’ camp, and trips to the spring were scheduled to avoid the Toolmakers. Conversations under the great olive tree halted when the Blackpeak visitors walked near. Cautious welcoming became two worlds holding the same ground.
A gathering had formed under the great olive tree. Selah approached, hearing sharp, unbridled tongues from the villagers.
“We should have them leave,” one spoke bluntly.
“They are not like us,” another scowled.
Selah attempted to calm the crowd, “We have to dig deep and refill our oil.”
Another snapped back, “Your words come easy because it is not you that deals with their continuous rudeness.”
Selah opened her mouth in defense, but self-admittedly, her oil was as low as the rest. Even she had walked a longer path to avoid the camp.
That night the Crossroads Clearing was quiet around the campfire. The Toolmakers felt the tension and worried about trade.
“We have traveled too far to leave with such little,” Garrick said warily. “Are our goods and crafts not worthy?”
Blame and confusion moved amidst the Toolmakers. Each with a reason for their lack.
“You said these were open people who would welcome us and be glad to trade,” one spoke sharply to Garrick.
Another spoke low and wisely, “We have displeased the Mountain Spirits by being among these foreigners. They do not understand our ways and are intolerant of outsiders. Their sharp glances when we are only trying to honor our gods prove it. The villagers keep their distance and whisper behind our backs.”
Garrick looks to Lira. “Lira, you have been quiet even though I know you have insight with these people. Please tell us what you think.”
The campfire crackled, dimly lighting their faces. They turned to face Lira, who eventually spoke, “We have caused offense. We approach them in ways they are unaccustomed to, nor do they share our beliefs. Tomorrow, we should try to speak with their elders to salvage our relationship.”
Lira rose from the group, taking a lantern from its place on the tent post. She headed toward the spring, intending to reflect in solitude over the matter at hand.
Lira’s lantern brightly guided her feet until she could hear the soft trickle of water. As Lira neared, she heard a murmuring voice ahead, and her feet slowed. She made out a silhouette of someone on the flat stone, and Lira recognized it was Selah sitting in the dark. Her head was bowed, oblivious to Lira’s arrival. Lira stayed at her distance, only listening.
Selah’s low, almost whispering voice sounded somewhat distressed. “I am empty trying to fill my vessel with the approval of others. There smiles, kind words, and acceptance have not sustained my light. Peace and patience have abandoned me. I preach love and gentleness, but have neither to give. Giver of fruit, please refill my vessel.”
The raw honesty took Lira by surprise, yet after a few heartbeats, she continued her approach. Lira’s lamplight fell across the water, and her footsteps gave away her presence. Selah quickly wiped her eyes and turned to see Lira approaching.
“I didn’t expect anyone would be here. Selah, why are you in the dark?” Lira asked.
Selah, still composing herself, let out a slight laugh, “Foolish me. Distractions caused me to forget my oil, and the lamp has gone out.”
“I wish to join you,” Lira said bluntly. “Your prayers… they move me.”
“You heard me?” Selah asked embarrassedly. “You should join me. The stream belongs to us both. This is a place of reflection and peace. A place to teach us who we are in the Creator.”
The two women sat near in silence, sharing one lamp. The calming water delivered peace as they stared at the dancing light on the stream’s surface.
Lira broke the silence, “I realize our presence has been difficult for your people. We came offering crafts we believed you needed, yet brought offense. For this, we are sorry.”
“Wait. What!? No Lira. The shortcomings are ours. We vainly expected you to behave as we do, neglecting the gap between us. You have only exposed our flaws. We practice love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Apparently, we have only practiced this when it is returned. We have depended on each other for oil, but this caused us all to run out.”
Lira opened her lamp. “Here, I have plenty.” She poured some into Selah’s lamp, causing her to smile.
“I’m not sure you understand,” Selah explained. “The oil I speak of fills our spirit. It produces good fruit. It comes from the Giver, who gives abundantly to those who ask. He loved us when we did not love Him; when we were unkind and ungrateful. This is the example He left for us also – to love others regardless of who they are, or how they treat us.”
Lira considered her words for a time and then asked, “Has He refilled your oil since you have asked?”
Selah thought for a minute, and then smiled. “Yes, He has sent you to remind me I have living oil. Oil that never fails.”
A bond formed that night between the two. Each agreed to share their hope with their people, intending to reconcile any differences. Selah’s lamp seemed to burn brighter, lighting her path home. Lira felt lighter, and a little warmer, like a new flame had been ignited in her.