Mustard Seed

A travel weary old man amongst the foothills preceding a mighty mountain range. Like giant, grass covered pebbles when smoothed by the steady flow of a spring fed stream, the hills lay piled up against the sheer rock face of the mighty fountains of shale, slate...stone. Old, worn boots, wrapped in straps of torn leather, plodded simply, stolidly up each grassy rise, each steeper than the next. Wood of dull sheen and solid make comprised the staff that resided in the elder wanderer's right hand. The dust brown cloak that hung around hastily mended heels was tattered at the edges, as if many a flame had spent many a night licking at this man's heels. Early morning sun sparked here and again off of the balding pate, thin wispy beard falling gray near to chest, swaying in the gentle breeze of the coming mountains. Vision when cast upon such a body would be drawn quickly to recall a leaf tossed about by the wind, a sparse smattering of dust upon a stone moments before it is blown away by winds of indeterminable, and irrelevant strength.1

The eyes. Cast aside all else much like the image of sand ravaged so by winds of age and a traveler’s weariness. Akin to burnished emeralds forged like double edged swords in the mightiest fires of the land...were the eyes.2

Leather bound boots with spider web like cracks across them, halted slowly as the old man turned to cast his green gaze upon the land he had traversed in the passing hours, days...months...years. His eyes took it all in, self assurance streaming forth from those emerald orbs to wash over him and pour out onto the grassy gathering of nature's persistent locks with an eloquence and vigor that not only deified and upstaged his dismissibly slender limbs, but the grandeur of the early morning view that greeted him.3

Turning back, he continued on and, with each step, up. Green grasses turned to pale dust, much like the grayish wisps of forgotten years that swirled about the wanderer's ears to give way to sun darkened, weathered skin. The imitation of soil, the pale shadow of sod, this dust swirled up with each gust of now stronger wind, with each step. Boot to ground, dust, and again. Thus he continued, the sun rising and sinking with a sense of weariness that hung about all but the emerald eyes.4

Dawn long before, now dusk tempted that tired red orb lowly, luring it beyond sight so slowly. The wanderer came up the last, bald hill, eruptions of dust curling churlishly around well worn boot as the sun sank lower across the plains at his back. The mountains hung thus before him. Like pointed claws reaching to the sky to gain admittance to something more, or at least freedom from the land in which they held firm. As he approached the sheer walls of darkening stone, he espied a shape not of hill or mountain.5

A youth of few more than a dozen seasons in passing birth stood before an especially precipitous rising of rock and stone. Blinking with earned leisure, the elder approached, staff, boot and breath making little noise in the silence that hung around all like a blanket of both comfort and apprehension. The boy was dressed in a pair of loose fitting trousers tied off at the waste with a crudely cut strip of leather. His tunic was sleeveless and torn, stains here and about with reddish hint of old blood. It had the hapless look of a make shift vest both slept in and fought in, hanging in most untorn places down a finger past the meager beginnings of that leather cord holding up ill measured trousers a fit too big.6

The old man came within a scant few paces before stopping, his silence an arguable sign that he was awaiting...something to be done, or said. Moments heavy with anticipation escaped the present and into the past as the elder of the two smiled to himself.7

"What are you doing?"8

The youth turned his head without moving his feet, thus unable, perhaps unwilling to look this newcomer in the face. Pause. Dark, night fed locks fell upon broadening shoulders, framing cheek unmarred yet by the beard of men.9

"I am going to move these mountains..."10

It could have been the moon that caused such to happen, or a bright star dying to lend its light so, but whatever the source, the old wanderer's eyes glinted, sparked in the faded light of day which had fled the fall of night. Again, the slight upturn of lips drawn tight with weather wearing wind and the age of years upon themselves.11

"What power makes you so capable?"12

Pause. The youth turned his undescribed, unseen eyes back to the mountain laid thus at his feet, or he at the mountain's.13

"That I believe that I may move them."14

And to provide epilogue to such an inquiry of might...a query upon motive.15

"Why would you have them moved?"16

Silence provided pause enough before the youth turned, tears glistening in bare blue eyes portraying a soul at the moment of its breaking.17

"Because they must..."18

Fear fell to the dry, dusty, mountain heralding mound, a fear like a single drop of rain on the sun ridden, cracked ground.19

"...they must."20

A tightening of the lips at the behest of a grin led to patient footfalls once again upon the dusty ground. Within a moment’s passing the old man stood before the younger, withered body of age and weary between the tear stained cheeks and the mountains. Bare blues looked to those of emerald green, treasured jewels four to bid for the price of a moment’s tension, a greeting. A moment, a place where words could be spoken, and would be spoken, if not for the tension.21

Perhaps it was that the moon sent its pale light wriggling down through night sky to alight upon them, or perhaps that dying star screamed twice. No matter. The old man’s eyes sparked with a laughter that he did not deny, drawing a look of confusion and anger from the boy before him. The tension kept words at bay for a moment longer as the elder had his laugh, a dry, genuine laugh of a man who did rarely partake of such a feast.22

“Boy,” he said, smile reaching into his eyes,” these foothills behind me have already been moved. Come, and I will teach to find spires and peaks within the soul that will dwarf these pebbles at my back.”23

Eyes pale blue with surprise and rabid interest, the boy held his breath as the wind swept a bit of dust from the toe of the old man’s boot.24

“Besides, I would rather see souls move than mountains.”