Ask For The Ancient Paths
There is nothing like a good story, but what better story than one that something worthwhile conveys,
Even though that story be fictional, like this creation of mine, which wisdom and folly weighs.
'Cause via one we gain, via one we lose, and why I'm sharing such via a tale that began in my mind,
Which seeks to enlighten midst those settings most are familiar with, and that’ll hopefully remind.
Gerry rested his foot on the outcrop overlooking Smuggler’s Cove, binoculars at his eyes,
Keen to see the caves his Uncle Ben had mentioned, and which entry to, only he could authorise.
Waves licked at the rocks below, the sea gently heaving, its foamy fingers probing the long shoreline,
Where no longer were found the tell-tale signs of smuggler’s boot prints, nor those stray corks from their
bootleg wine.
Sea birds surfed the warming easterly breeze that regularly rippled the crew-cut cliff tops come spring,
Though summer was almost ready to make its entrance, which more beautiful weather would bring.
But not visitors, 'cause Smuggler’s Cove had long been closed to the public, which suited the locals there,
Whose winter tales could keep one awake till morn, salty smoke from burning driftwood elbowing the air.
Yes, much had occurred at Smuggler’s Cove, caves more than a few, but now considered perilous to view,
And hence that “Be careful” message from Gerry’s uncle, 'cause expected collapses were overdue.
If anyone would take care, it was Gerry, he a very responsible young man, honest too,
All why he'd been given permission to visit Smuggler’s Cove, thus Gerry one of the favoured few.
Shells crunched under Gerry’s weight as he made his way down, beckoning caves soon coming into view,
Their darkness awaiting his excited inspection, such being something that he’d longed to pursue.
And here he was, footprints leaving a tell-tale sign as he trudged through the spongy undulating sand,
Where once small vessels would nose and nestle with their renegade occupants and all their contraband.
Gerry could feel the presence of the past, little having changed at Smuggler’s Cove, remnants here and there,
Such as discarded lanterns, skeletal crates, empty bottles and rusty mugs, ropes and winching gear.
Gerry’s torch light searched, he following its lead and moving further into the cooler atmosphere,
And closer to danger, 'cause not much further on (and long ago), large cracks had begun to appear.
His gaze intense, Gerry missed seeing the protruding object awaiting his leather covered toe,
Which soon saw him stumble and lurch up against the granite wall, his swinging torch still tightly held though.
He stood there rubbing his arm, his backpack askew, his senses heightened, he hearing falling stones,
Then a rush, a sudden mound, and cloud of dust that thickened the air and sent a chill throughout his bones.
Gerry’s free hand waved back and forth, his coughing echoing, and lighter stone falls sounding here and there,
He now trying to move past the offending object, back towards the cave’s gapping mouth, and fresh air.
But such proved challenging, and as he made his way with one arm supporting his lean and direction,
His right foot kicked a metal canister that bounced ahead of his coming curious inspection.
Gerry made his way back to the entrance, both torch and canister tightly held, though he more at ease,
The blue sky and warmth embracing him like a friend, his hair affectionately ruffled by the breeze.
He let out a sigh as he reclined against a sun bathed rock, and there, inspected the canister,
And as he tugged at the stubborn lid (fastened years ago), a number of thoughts began to stir.
With the help of a knife, the savaged lid arched and fell upon the shelly beach, the contents exposed,
And on close inspection — a handwritten note in his hands — the findings weren't what Gerry had supposed.
'Cause all that appeared were the following words (well, those that were legible, the paper stained and split):
“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is; and walk in it.”
Gerry stood staring at those words for a considerable time, they words his uncle would endorse,
'Cause his uncle often spoke of changes for the worst, thus condemning many a modern course.
He lamented the tinkerings of social engineers “who were responsible for so much ill,”
And being a Christian, “Those same modern, destructive inroads into the Church, and why all's not well.”
“Yes,” he’d continue in order to reinforce such, “Return to the old paths, those new ones lead astray,
They shunning worthy boundaries, or sneering at morals, standards and principles, hence that decay.
Seems some don’t want to know what they need to, don’t want to do what they should do, but what they shouldn’t do,
And given their rejection of wisdom, they’re chasing every phoney New Age mystic guru.”
Yes, Gerry’s uncle would certainly endorse those words, but why had someone put them in that canister?
Such having some significance — a double meaning, perhaps — and once again, thoughts began to stir.
"Yes, stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is; and walk in it,”
Gerry mused,
Wondering where those crossroads might be, and isn’t that so like life at times, we uncertain, confused.
Given such had aroused his curiosity, those caves were now on hold, he on another quest,
In search of someone who knew the area well, a local no doubt, or someone they might suggest.
Hence why he was soon making his way back up that same path that he’d come down, certain thoughts on his mind,
Hoping that with the assistance of some friendly local, those answers he was seeking, he might find.
Enter one friendly local.
Betty had lived in the close vicinity of Smuggler’s Cove ever since her premature entry;
The midwife confident and experienced, Smuggler’s Cove once well populated, very busy.
But not now. Betty and her mum among the few still living there, and Betty now aged thirty three,
She two years younger than Gerry, unaware she was watching from the cliff top, where much one could see.
She smiled as their eyes caught, her arms folded somewhat protectively, she slim, fresh faced and sun tanned.
“You’re not the first to succumb to the lure of those caves,” she said, “I know them like the back of my hand.”
Gerry laughed, noted the fortuitousness of the moment, and mentioned that he’d gained permission,
And aside from more banter, queried her regarding nearby crossroads, he explaining his mission.
Well, if he wanted her help, he didn’t have much choice, though she did seem interested in his find,
And he having instinctively thought her genuine and trustworthy (and “very pretty” came to mind).
Her relief that he had escaped unharmed hadn’t gone unnoticed, nor her willingness to help him,
She taking such quite seriously rather than laughing at it as if it were simply some whim.
She recalled her dad mentioning crossroads, couldn’t exactly remember where, though Kryte came to mind,
It a derelict mining village nine kilometres west, most of its streets and pathways brick lined.
And she was sure one of its pathways led to a tree clad valley where a river flowed aimlessly,
And if Gerry liked, she'd check this out, and if it was so, they could cycle there very easily.
Tomorrow couldn’t come quick enough for Gerry, the borrowed bikes fine for the task, and road worthy,
And as they cycled, they chattered as if starved of conversation, both enjoying the company.
Kryte soon came into view, streets and pathways just like she'd said, the village silent and somewhat eerie,
But where were those crossroads, and that ancient pathway — well, that particular path mentioned by Betty.
Betty was very much her dad's daughter, she steered by an acute conscience, good mind and loving heart, and
She someone who wasn’t afraid to speak up, and make some unpopular self-sacrificing stand.
And in this regard, Gerry too, his uncle’s frankness, sense of right, having influenced him strongly,
He having no time for self preservation, the well-being of others his first priority.
They both looked at each other, 'cause there were those crossroads that Betty’s father had mentioned years ago,
And as they stood there, a pathway could be seen that led to a tree clad valley that nestled below.
Betty whispered “Thanks,” her father having died when she was nineteen, a loss that she’d found hard to bare,
'Cause not only had he been a loving, trustworthy, sage friend, but when it came to her, always there.
Yes, older, wiser heads, ancient paths, she thought, the good way so oft rejected for those past mistakes,
Hence why history repeats itself, and why only after things go sour, society awakes.
Yes, “Ask where the good way is; and walk in it,” she mused, the good way seldom being some modern way,
'Cause where are the foundations for those modern hankerings? Such not built on rock but sand; folly’s way.
Mounting their bikes, they made their way down that somewhat ancient pathway that led to the tree clad valley,
The derelict village disappearing from view, they deep in thought, wondering what there was to see.
Soon they found themselves engulfed in a canopy of green, the clear sound of various warblers reaching their ears,
They experiencing the beauty and richness of undisturbed nature that refreshes and cheers.
They leaned their bikes against an old oak tree, wandered amongst the denser lushness, scanning here and there,
Aware of each others presence, their shoulders meeting as they moved this way and that, affection clear.
The valley’s floor crackled 'neath their weight — leaves, twigs and branches strewn wantonly — Gerry aiding Betty,
She first to spot the old brick building (and stained glass window, she thought), trees preserving protectively.
They squeezed past the wooden door jammed half open. “A Chapel!” Betty exclaimed, and they stood observing,
It largely as once was, pews no more than twelve, hymn books scattered here and there, from which people would sing.
But not anymore, the chapel silent as a tomb, they moving about somewhat reverently,
Aware what it once stood for, a cross reminding of crossroads, choices for better or worse, clearly.
“Look!” Gerry cried, 'cause 'neath that cross were those very words, some missing, some added, as with that canister,
And as they stared (no pirate’s treasure chest in view), a different pattern of thoughts began to stir.
“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is; and walk in it,”
And then this:
“And you will find rest for your souls.” “Of course,” Gerry whispered, “How could I something-so-profound miss?”
Betty thought she may have caught on too, Gerry confirming such, “A smuggler who’d turned from his old ways,
'Cause there’s no rest for the lawless, no good outcome for those who wrongly stray, 'cause such folly never pays.”
They looked at each other, their sameness in thinking drawing them together despite their short acquaintance,
And in the opening of their eyes, their meeting seeming something far more than mere coincidence.
Betty turned as she gazed about, and as she did, bumped the old hand crafted cross from which something fell,
Another canister (though smaller), it remaining unnoticed due to being hidden so well.
Both gasped in surprise, Gerry eagerly reaching for it, the lid yielding to his grip, and within,
A legal document — will — the smuggler having turned to an honest living, and having no kin.
To cut to the chase, the finders were to become the benefactors, thus they most favoured indeed,
A sizable piece of land, its outlook enviable, and abundant fruit trees on which to feed.
And Gerry and Betty most deserving, and that they soon became engaged, goes without mentioning,
'Cause such would’ve happened regardless, and sure enough, come one lovely day, loud bells were heard to ring.
I don’t know about you, but when confronted with crossroads, I look to those old paths, they tried and true,
And where one finds a better way, the right way in which to walk — yes, rest for one’s soul guaranteed too.
But such not so with many new paths, they forged by shovels that overturn whatever doesn’t suit,
Hence why they fail — selfishness, rebelliousness, ignorance, and that “Don’t want to know,” oft at the root.
Yes, there’s too much people pleasing going on, for which there’s a cost, 'cause some things we shouldn’t condone,
And there’re other things we should leave alone, important foundations, or some critical cornerstone.
But that’s not what most want, and so, what do they do? They laugh at the old ways, the ancient paths, and
As soon as they get their way, they bury them with their modern shovels, and often with cash in hand.
Modern day smugglers who ferry and sell their harmful contraband off the backs of strategic lorries,
An intoxicating brew that befuddles the minds of many, 'cause in the short term, it’s sure to please.
Hence those willing hands manning the winches, crates containing error, delusions, time-bombs and heresy,
Nothing untouched, including the very heart of Christendom (oft mistaken for Christianity).
Seems many who have itchy ears prefer charlatans, one way tickets to oblivion, in fact,
They claiming “watchmen” on the wall are alarmists; a worthy wall that's now become brittle and cracked.
All why those who don’t heed the trumpeters are securing their own demise, and that of others too,
Given their influence and the wrongs they peddle, their bootleg wine nothing but a deluding brew.
Gerry leaned on his spade.
“Unless new ways are based on things that preserve the true well-being of any society,
They’re flawed to start with, and,” he continued, “Will only worsen things, shortly or eventually.
Or at best, simply achieve naught whilst meantime wasting precious effort, time and money better spent,
All of which oft leaves many of us wondering where something of great value and benefit went.”
Betty passed a cool, freshly made fruit juice to Gerry who quickly downed it appreciatively.
“And what do you think those things that preserve the well-being of society are?” she asked Gerry.
“Well, whether one agrees or not, my uncle always referred to the Bible, 'cause within, he said,
Is every moral, standard and principle known to man, and there's something else that he said.
That the Christian's God not only champions truth, love, selflessness, right living and transparency,
But strongly opposes mistreating others in any form, and the removal of liberty.
If such is so, I find little to argue with, and can’t think of a better path to be treading,
'Cause I’m all for fairness, kindness, openness, lawfulness, freedom, morals and principled living.”
Betty looked at Gerry admiringly, grateful she’d found a man who could see the bigger picture,
Embracing wisdom wherever he found it, be that from lessons that life can teach, or from Scripture.
Though no current convert to Christianity, he could see the sense in much his uncle was saying,
And like it should be with us, every word that came his way, was carefully, thoughtfully weighing.
Gerry continued,
“Yes, stand at the crossroads, and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
Wisdom that old smuggler had learnt the hard way, as is oft the case, something most don’t like to admit.
We either doing whatever suits, or thinking we know better, which sees wise ancient paths oft spurned,
And how too late, the sad consequence of our foolishness, or our modern arrogance, is learned.”
Betty took his empty glass, saying, “It seems the way forward is oft discovered by returning,
And I mean, to those ancient paths of which many bridges society seems hell-bent on burning.”
“Yes,” Gerry concurred, “Hence how societies come unstuck, or experience partial collapses,
And hence why we can’t afford costly experiments, nor those convenient memory lapses.”
“Sure glad you kicked that canister,” Betty sighed. “Me too,” Gerry laughed, “Though seek and you'll find, comes
to mind.”
“Yes, too true,” Betty chuckled, a pun following, “All why we can’t afford to leave the past behind.”
At that, Gerry grabbed her 'round the waist, tussling with her playfully, she dropping the glass midst the mirth,
And yes, it didn’t take long for the proverbial stork, 'cause one joyous morning, Betty gave birth.
Not all stories end so well, especially those bearing the tidings of renounced old paths, the good way,
And why we, when we come to crossroads, should chose carefully, and only the right impulses obey.
'Cause should we fail to, who knows what tragic cost we might incur, and what we might foolishly bequeath,
And why when it comes to all that glitters, we should tread with care, 'cause who knows what's hiding underneath?
Speaking of such, “Mind those nappies,” Betty warned, delighted at Gerry’s hands on approach to baby,
He not just a doting husband, but doting dad too, who dealt with nappy surprises cheerfully.
It’s amazing what storks bring — and here, a girl — a little Gerry-cum-Betty, both in looks and ways,
The latter the result of good parenting and influence, they knowing only the “good way” pays.
Yes, the good way, those ancient paths.
By Lance Landall
This poetic story was penned June 2012 and upgraded 27 October 2022.
