Friday Fiction: Ginnethon's Chaff

Make sure to visit Patty Wysong's blog Patterings, the homesite of Friday Fiction!

I decided this week to offer something original, so here is your "GodLinked" exclusive. The verse at the bottom clarifies the point I am trying to make. I hope you enjoy it.

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Ginnethon’s back recoiled as a new wash of pain seared through his waist. The heaviness and sharp grating of his muscles reminded him of what kernels of grain must feel as they are ground to powder beneath a millstone. Collecting himself, he deftly sliced through the handful of stalks with the light sickle, its blade blunted from use, for perhaps the thousandth time today.

The tension of the wheat stalks, which Ginnethon had used to stretch his aching muscles, released and he fell on his backside with a muted thump. Dropping his blade to the side, he gently rolled back to lay flat on his back. Relaxing the hard knots in his back and waist dulled the pain of the cut stalks which stabbed his back in a final rebellion before yielding to his full weight.

Overhead, a lone group of clouds was meandering its way across the vivid blue sky. Ginnethon raised the cutting to the sky. “Thank you Master for Your bounty. Your love endures forever.” He rested a moment and then rolled to his side, crushing more of the stubble, and, shaking from exhaustion, stood to his feet.

He dropped the handful of wheat stalks on the pile a few feet away. Dropping to one knee, Ginnethon lifted and embraced the sheave. Holding it tightly with one arm he reached to his belt, removed a loose length of cloth and tightly bound the bundle. The heavy sheave crackled softly near his ear as he loaded it to his shoulder, pressing the cloth of his tunic against his sweating skin. Ignoring the discomfort he carried the sheave across the carpet of stubble, which had marked his progress over the last four days, to his loaded cart.

“See, old friend.” He used his free hand to pat Meno’s damp shoulder, “I told you ‘just one more’. You must learn to trust me.” Ginnethon chuckled as the oxen’s wet eyes glanced back at him. He heaved the sheave on top of the other sheaves already in the cart.

He walked to the back of the cart and grabbed the water skin hanging there. Unstopping it, he lifted his face to the sky and began to pour the warm water over his dry mouth and dirty face. Ginnethon shook off the tickle of the water as it dribbled down his neck and chest. The rising breeze of evening cooled the water, refreshing him as he scanned the sea of waving wheat before him.

He saw Josi’s head bobbing above the grain while he worked to fill his cart, but there were no other workers. Gennethon was not surprised. Each days harvest had been progressively worse for workers. On the first day of the harvest, forty or fifty men from town worked the fields to bring in the crop, and each day, as they became weary of cutting, the numbers decreased. This was only the fourth day of harvest and the number was already down to less than ten.

“Where are the others Meno?” Even in the hot afternoon sun, Ginnethon shivered at the sight of the ocean of grain laying before him in every direction. To the east, the darkness began seeping into the sky as evening approached.

So much to go, and so little time. Sabbath begins tomorrow evening and who knows what the winds may bring… Ginnethon walked around the cart, pressing back any stalks attempting to escape. I will need to work harder while there is light tomorrow if I am in such small company. His aching muscles and thirst from today’s efforts made him queasy at the thought of the day ahead.

“Ha Meno! Ha!” He slapped Meno’s back leg. Meno strained against the cart as it began to roll the few paces to the road. Once on the rutted path the cart began to pick up speed as Ginnethon walked next to the ox, the lead rope hanging loosely from his hand.

Another hour until home. I hope Saida was safe at the market today with all the soldiers roaming about…she is so big with child…this one will be a boy…I know it…the Master will finally bless us with a boy…

Lost in his thoughts, Ginnethon did not recognize the wisps of chaff whirling in the eddys of the breeze. As he turned the corner around the stone outcropping and began to lead Meno up the gentle incline to the threshing stone, two figures came running down the hill toward him.

“At last! It’s about time!” Ginnethon recognized Heleb’s voice and his portly frame waddling toward him, his footsteps thudding heavily on the ground as he ran. Running next to him was the tall, lanky figure of Jethro.

“What’s wrong?” Ginnethon shouted, concerned at the two men’s rush down the slope.

Jethro reached Ginnethon first and grabbed for the lead rope. Taking it, he began to pull on Meno to quicken the pace.

“We ran out of sheaves nearly two hours ago.” Jethro said breathlessly. He swallowed and gasped. ”We still have a little time to thresh this load before dark. Can’t you get this beast to move faster?”

“Ha, Meno! Ha!” Ginnethon patted Meno’s rump to speed him up. Heleb had stopped running and was now waiting, breathing heavily with his hands on his thighs, a few paces up the road.

“Where are all the others?” Ginnethon asked.

Catching his breath at last, Jethro replied. “They are at the threshing stone waiting for more sheaves.”

“Why aren’t they down getting their own from the fields?”

“Shimea figured out an easier way to get the work done.” Heleb had joined the procession to the threshing stone.

“He has, has he?” Were Gennethon not so concerned for the amount of wheat yet to be harvested, he might have found it humorous that Shimea, of all the townsmen, had come up with a new and “better” idea. Shimea was renowned for being lazy about his own work and surprisingly critical about everyone else’s. When he could be found in the fields at all, he was leaning against a cart barking out his opinions about everything from a missed tare to the angle of a cutting.

Though there was only a short distance to go to the crest of the slope and the threshing stone beyond it, the weight of an exhausting day was slowing Ginnethon’s stride.

“Go on ahead and I’ll catch up”

Jethro and Heleb looked relieved that they did not have to wait out of courtesy, and forged ahead at even a quicker pace. Ginnethon watched them as the led Meno and the cart over the crest of the hill.

Within moments of their arrival, Ginnethon heard a series of shouts and the ensuing flurry of activity produced enough dust in the breeze to make his eyes water and nose run.

Has the heat and dust got to them? Why on earth would they be following Shimea’s lead?

He continued his weary trudge to the top.

Upon cresting the hill, the mystery of the missing workers was resolved. At least thirty men were performing various tasks around the huge table-like rock which served as the threshing stone.

Three more men had joined Heleb and Jethro to unload Meno’s cart directly onto the threshing stone. Gennethon smirked at the sight.

Five doing the job of one?

Even as the sheaves were being untied and spread on the threshing stone, six men were already threshing the wheat with sticks and flails. It seemed odd to Ginnethon that the men were hand threshing rather than relying on the donkey and oxen tethered a few feet away; but that unusual sight paled in comparison with the hostility with which they threshed. It appeared as though they were attempting to mill the grain to flour with their flails, beating the sheaves so hard that it seemed impossible that a single kernel would be left intact.

“Is Josi on his way?” Shimea’s thin voice cut through the terrible and hypnotic work of the threshers.

“He should be…what are they doing?” Ginnethon pointed toward the threshers.

“It’s our new way.” Shimea smiled crookedly, “The chaff is thick on the grain, every year it seems to get worse…so we’re not going to rely on hooves anymore, we are going to beat the sheaves until it yields all of its chaff.”

“But you are crushing the wheat, it will all scatter in the breeze when you winnow.”

“Not all of it.” Shimea replied, “If it is strong wheat…good wheat…it will make it to the storehouse. If it is not strong enough to withstand the threshers flail, it would make a poor offering to the Master.”

“Shimea, what about our families, how will we eat if you leave only what is good enough for offering?” The desperation in Ginnethon's voice was clear.

“You worry too much,” Shimea attempted a comforting smile and failed. ”Besides as long as we bring all the harvest up here to be threshed, we should have more that enough for all.”

“We?!” Ginnethon felt his control slipping through his exhausted will, ”Who will bring up the harvest? You Shimea? Or are you too busy threshing and barking orders to help with the cutting?!”

Some of the men, who appeared to have nothing better to do than lean on their winnowing forks waiting for the threshers to complete their violent business, started moving toward Shimea and Ginnethon. Ginnethon noted their scowl, and noted that he had not seen any of them in the fields today either.

Gennethon saw menace in their eyes. They’re never coming to the field again, they have tasted sloth and they want more.

Shimea sidled closer and hissed, ”We are doing the work the Master has laid out for us. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, we will need more sheaves tomorrow. Leave the threshing and winnowing to us, we cannot exhaust ourselves cutting, how would we find the strength to separate the chaff?”

Ginnethon’s heart sank. “But what of the harvest? Meno and I can’t bring it all in alone.”

“Then we will pray that the Master multiplies your efforts.”

Shimea walked a few paces toward the approaching men and barked, “Start separating the chaff, night is almost upon us and Josi will be here soon with more to thresh.” He marched over, grabbed a threshing stick and pounded the ground with the end. "Chaff! Chaff! Chaff! It's all chaff!!"

As the final sheaf was pulled from his cart, Ginnethon grabbed Meno’s lead rope and began to lead him toward home. He looked to the sky and saw the twilight shadows creeping toward the same group of clouds he had seen earlier.

With a lone tear streaming down his cheek he bowed his head and prayed:

“Adonai, the harvest is abundant, but the workers are few. Send us more workers. Please Master, provide more workers for the harvest.”

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His winnowing shovel is in His hand, and He will clear His threshing floor and gather His wheat into the barn. But the chaff He will burn up with fire that never goes out Matthew 3:12 HCSB (emphasis mine)