Ruth lay down and inched forward until she could look over the edge of the cliff to see what had happened.
The force of Otter's fall had brought snow and rock down upon him. One hand stuck out, and part of his face.
What could Jesus have been thinking when he said that? This enemy was the murderer and slaughterer of innocent women and children. Ruth was not going to love him, she would never do anything good unto him, and certainly she was not going to offer him yet another chance to strike her in the face.
She rejoiced that this enemy had no choice about living or dying, any more than her father and brother had had a choice about living or dying.
She thought of her mother, giving water to the wounded French officer, and for that gesture, being left behind. She wondered how Mother felt now, alone in a world where her men had died to save her while she helped their enemies. The savage was alive, trying with that one hand to dig himself free. A rim of ice fell like knives upon him. Ruth cried out. The Indian made no sound.
Ruth scuttled backward, out of his sight. She could go get help. Or let him die.
It wasn't fair! It wasn't supposed to be Ruth who had to love the enemy. That was just a verse you repeated in meeting. She was not going to take it seriously, loving her enemy.
But it was the Word of the Lord.
The Twenty-third Psalm moved through her mind, as warm and sure as summer wind. If she broke the commandment and failed to love her enemy, she would never lie down in green pastures. Not on earth, not in her heart, and not in death.
Ruth worked her way through tangles of thin saplings and around boulders. She slid down rock faces. Sweating and sobbing over terrain that could not have been made by God, only by devils, she reached Otter at last. Her bad lungs sounded like sand rubbed on floors. She dug him out, not carefully. She might have to save him but she would not spare him pain. He was bleeding where ice had sliced him and by now her mittens were shredded, and their blood mingled, flecked scarlet on white snow.
When he was finally on his feet, she said, "It's not because I wanted to, you know."
Otter took a short careful step and paused in pain, Ruth thought, though pain did not show on his face. "It's so I won't be a killer like you," she said.
He snapped a branch in his strong hands to use as a cane. Laboriously, they made their way up the cliff, crawling part of the way.
"Actually, I hate you," said Ruth. Huge hot tears fell from her eyes and she knew that hate was not as simple as that.
Nor were the commandments.
The force of Otter's fall had brought snow and rock down upon him. One hand stuck out, and part of his face.
What could Jesus have been thinking when he said that? This enemy was the murderer and slaughterer of innocent women and children. Ruth was not going to love him, she would never do anything good unto him, and certainly she was not going to offer him yet another chance to strike her in the face.
She rejoiced that this enemy had no choice about living or dying, any more than her father and brother had had a choice about living or dying.
She thought of her mother, giving water to the wounded French officer, and for that gesture, being left behind. She wondered how Mother felt now, alone in a world where her men had died to save her while she helped their enemies. The savage was alive, trying with that one hand to dig himself free. A rim of ice fell like knives upon him. Ruth cried out. The Indian made no sound.
Ruth scuttled backward, out of his sight. She could go get help. Or let him die.
It wasn't fair! It wasn't supposed to be Ruth who had to love the enemy. That was just a verse you repeated in meeting. She was not going to take it seriously, loving her enemy.
But it was the Word of the Lord.
The Twenty-third Psalm moved through her mind, as warm and sure as summer wind. If she broke the commandment and failed to love her enemy, she would never lie down in green pastures. Not on earth, not in her heart, and not in death.
Ruth worked her way through tangles of thin saplings and around boulders. She slid down rock faces. Sweating and sobbing over terrain that could not have been made by God, only by devils, she reached Otter at last. Her bad lungs sounded like sand rubbed on floors. She dug him out, not carefully. She might have to save him but she would not spare him pain. He was bleeding where ice had sliced him and by now her mittens were shredded, and their blood mingled, flecked scarlet on white snow.
When he was finally on his feet, she said, "It's not because I wanted to, you know."
Otter took a short careful step and paused in pain, Ruth thought, though pain did not show on his face. "It's so I won't be a killer like you," she said.
He snapped a branch in his strong hands to use as a cane. Laboriously, they made their way up the cliff, crawling part of the way.
"Actually, I hate you," said Ruth. Huge hot tears fell from her eyes and she knew that hate was not as simple as that.
Nor were the commandments.
( Caroline B. Cooney )
[ The Ransom of Mercy Carter ]
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