The Duel

Jonathan and William entered the large and warm fire-lit room, joining the happy circle of their friends, who were all engaged in delighted laughter:

"Oh Mr. Woodworth! William!" Annike Oak turned in her seat to greet her brother and Jonathan. "You have been missing the most wonderful game! A poetic duel between Mr. Dew and Mr. Alexander." The new arrivals took their seats, smiling and intrigued at the group's happy energy. Annike entreated, "Oh please do another, Mr. Dew!"

Joseph Dew smiled and rose from his chair, "I would be more than happy, Ms. Oak, if my worthy opponent will oblige us all!" He spread his arms graciously in the direction of Rasmus Alexander, who winked at Kassia, released her hand and stood swiftly to accept the challenge.

And Joseph Dew began.

I've heard of dark men far away

Who dance at night and dream in day.

On wildly colored drums they play

And chant in most enchanting way!

'Tis said their tune could cause the moon

To sway and swoon and shine like noon."

Rasmus Alexander graciously nodded, but waited not a second before returning:

"But sir, I've heard of them as well!

Wild flesh they eat, wild potions sell.

'Tis said they pray to Heav'n and Hell,

That they've not ris'n since Adam fell.

Could any beat, then, from their feet

A wise ear meet and sound so sweet?

A round of approving murmurs and chuckles filled the circle and some gently applauded as they awaited Joseph's response. Deborah and Kassia caught each other's looks and smiled. A few moments, and Joseph's bright eyes rekindled for another volley:

"A point well made, I must concur.

For I long thought, as you do sir,

That always will man's art confer

Man's vanity or man's valor.

No base man could produce a good

E'en if he should, he never would."

Rasmus jumped in,

"Then how is it you claim the throng

Of wild men with their jungle song

Could in the world of right belong,

Cause righteous men to sing along?

If they are dark how could a spark

Of goodness mark what they embark?"

Rasmus inhaled sharply as he finished. Both men rested a short moment as the others whispered to each other in anticipation. Only Icarus Bickmore did not seem altogether delighted with this particular round, feeling that men who could use a non-iambic meter, certainly ought to.

Joseph Dew's face became a little more pensive, as he continued. And as though reading his old friend's mind, he surprised the crowd by an unprecedented shift to the anapest. Everyone glanced around at each other, as though in search of a rulebook, but smiled and settled as they were drawn in by Joseph's words:

"Yes thought I that only could holy men make

any masterpiece holy or holy mistake.

Thought I ugly men never could beautiful fake,

only righteous men could beauty choose or forsake.

Then I wandered one day into some small town square

and found crowds gathered round a profound painter's ware.

Vivid magic both tragic and bold from the hair

of his brush issued hushes and sighs from all there!

But late in the evening I heard a few say

that the artist was living less wisely than they:

That his painted perfections were only to pay

for his wretched and wicked and unworthy way."

Rasmus waited a moment longer than he should after Joseph paused, contemplating the turn of both meter and meaning, but he soon found his footing:

"And so you discovered your thought was not true,

that the holy men make as the holy men do?

You decided that beauty may come from the pen

of the lowest and darkest, unholiest of men?"

Joseph stilled and smiled,

"On the contrary, friend. The conclusion I drew

was that all men are holy, as I am and you."

The room stilled a little at this, and it seemed as if every wall of SweetRoot leaned inward to hear the finale of the great game. Joseph continued:

"If the sinner should sing some small beautiful thing,

If two wretched arms dance in a heartfelt expanse,

If a scoundrel's black pen creates good, now and then:

'Tis Divinity trying to re-create them.

"And should we shut our hearts from their beautiful arts?

When we praised them with force, before we knew their source?

If the darker deeds tell of a man's inner Hell,

Then his Heaven has outwardly witness as well."

The game was done. And smiling and striking hands, the duelers took their seats. The small circle felt broader than before, as though it might circumscribe eternity.

The Sweet Root of Doubt

"Mr. Oak, I fear I am having doubts," began Jonathan Woodworth, with great hesitation.

Hesitation was indeed his habit, these days.  Since his arrival at SweetRoot, it seemed every bit of logic he conjured up was gently, but conclusively confounded by one of its residents.  He would ask, and be astonished; would seek and be shaken; would knock and be needled; and it was a mark of his soul's great resilience that he persisted, based on the plain premise that those whom he petitioned for knowledge were wise and good.  

"That is right."  William Oak, tall and blue-eyed, continued along their pine-strewn path.  He was brother to Anike Oak, and seemingly always in motion: this time on a mission from Joseph Dew to acquaint Jonathan with the surrounding forest (while Joseph and the other SweetRoot inhabitants entertained unusual guests).  

Jonathan watched him, and thought perhaps it was not William himself who was always moving.  Indeed, sometimes he appeared quite stayed.  But it was everything in his proximity that seemed to whirl a moment, as if to acknowledge him, before settling again, accustomed to his presence.  The first time Anike took Jonathan Woodworth to meet her brother in his sunlit study upstairs, Jonathan had the distinct impression that the room had been in wild motion only moments before, and that it may start up again at any instant.

"It is 'right'?  By that, Mr. Oak, do you mean 'it is good'?"

"I mean it is right.  And it may be very good.  There!  Wild licorice, for which SweetRoot is named.  Do you smell it?"  Jonathan followed him across the fern-lined clearing, and accepted a handful of freshly picked leaves.  "Doubt, Mr. Woodworth, may be the sweetest thing under heaven."

Jonathan looked up at him sharply.  He had never been taught such a thing, and until SweetRoot he would have declared himself certain of its falsehood.  But he had quickly learned under Joseph Dew's expert eye that declaring oneself certain is a potentially condemnable thing: "Certainty is not impossible.  I am certain of many things myself.  But all truth is part of one grand whole, Jonathan, and it is an infinite whole.  If you say you are 'certain' of something, you may be right that it is true, but in your mind I believe you are drawing a line around it, binding it unto itself and cutting it off from the whole.  You are 'certain' of something, you say: and now that little truth, of which you are so certain, has no room to swell, to shift, to be added upon in your understanding.  Be certain of the whole truth, Jonathan.  Be convinced of that great and good infinity.  And surely!  Be convinced of line upon line and precept upon precept.  But never cease to ponder any single truth, which you have artificially isolated from the whole, simply because you are convinced you are 'certain'."

"I have been taught that doubt removes us from God," began Jonathan... with great hesitation.

"On the contrary.  Few things have more potential to bring us to him," William smiled as he brightly, if somewhat recklessly, tucked a bundle of stems and blossoms into his front coat pocket for Anike.  "You say you doubt, Jonathan.  For the time being, I will not ask you what you doubt.  But how exactly do you think about your doubt?  I believe you stated that you 'fear' it."

Jonathan shifted in his place, "Yes, perhaps a little.  I don't like the feeling, William.  I fear it is unworthy of one who wants to live as I do.  I fear it because..."

"Because you want to believe," interjected the broad and benevolent Oak, planted there so steadily in his fern and licorice grove.  He laughed deeply, and placed a firm hand on his companion's shoulder.  "Because you are convinced that believing is good.  And when you feel doubt, you feel guilt.  You feel your soul is in rebellion against the greatest light in the universe; like it is trying to question the sun while it stands high in the sky.  It is a great contradiction, isn't it?  To desire the goodness of the sun, and even feel it warming the backs of your hands, while your deepest heart (which cannot see the sun so well as you) wonders if it might indeed not be."  William Oak cast a hand to the sky and laughed like a child delighted in telling his favorite riddle.

Jonathan smiled and shook his head, watching what he perceived to be the most confident and knowing joy.  "Mr. Oak, how I wish I knew as you do.  But it does indeed strengthen me to see you."

The whole grove stilled a little, as William lowered his laughing eyes from heaven and set them on the pathway home.  "That is good, Jonathan. 'To some it is given to know, and to some it is given to believe on their words.'  I too always wanted to be among the knowers.  But doubt has been my constant companion."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, his brow and eyes lined now with wondering hesitation.  But William continued his lively pace along the path, sweet dusk now filling the gaps in his stride.  "Joseph Dew knows things I have only dreamed of... and yes, things that I have hoped for and at many times, believed in.  And once I feared my doubts, oh so greatly, because they made me less like him.  But then I remembered Jacob."

Jonathan had yet heard of no Jacob at SweetRoot, and wondered again how many mysterious ministers its walls had welcomed, and in some cases withstood.

William Oak went on, "The greatest wrestling match in history.  The greatest, that is, next to your struggle and mine to know the truth."  They were nearing the boundaries of Joseph's garden now, and both removed their shoes.  It was a SweetRoot custom, during the warm seasons, to soak a little earth into the feet before retiring to the evening indoors.  "Genesis thirty-two.  You remember Jacob's scuffle with 'the man' near Jabbok?  It lasted all night, and nearly to the break of day, Jonathan.  And finally, Jacob had him.  And he would not release him...until?"

"Until," Jonathan slowly nodded, "until he agreed to bless Jacob."

"Yes.  But more than that.  The opponent with whom he had travailed all the night gave Jacob a new name at the break of dawn.  Jacob became Israel.  There is never a new name, Jonathan Woodworth, without a new covenant.  And never a covenant without power, wisdom, might and intelligence.  And knowledge, Jonathan."

Jonathan Woodworth stared up at the dimming sky, his heart pounding riddles into his chest, but his mind gently understanding.

"Wrestle, Jonathan.  Feel doubt, for you must---it is hardly avoidable for men like you and I---but do not fear it.  Let it lead you to the wrestling match.  Let no question remain inside of you.  They burn from the inside!  Ask them all aloud, Jonathan!  Pose them directly to God.  And listen and study and sweat, and keep the earth beneath your feet.  Do not cease until the night is fled."

They reached the warm wood doors of SweetRoot, and stood on its porch as they turned their faces outward to the night.  "Do not cease, Jonathan, until the dawn breaks in your mind.  Until you have earned the right to demand your covenant.  And strengthened by the labors of the night, go forth in thanks and joyful expectation of another night's struggle.  Ah, Jonathan, there is nothing sweeter under heaven."