“Knots are everywhere; everywhere I look, I see knots,” The Child said.
“Why are you grumbling?”
“Wouldn’t you be grumbling if you had to clear away all these small knots before we left the cove? Some are so tiny; my fingers ache.
“I offered to help you.”
“No!” said The Child. “I’ll do this by myself.”
“But why Child?”
“I don’t want your help cause…” The Child said as her voice died down to a whisper.
“You’re not alone, Child.”
“Sometimes, I feel that way.”
“I know.”
“How, Prophet?”
“Your tummy knots up like the knots you’re untangling.”
“Can you see the knots in my tummy, Prophet?”
“I feel them, Child.”
“But how?”
“Let me help you.”
“No, I want to do this.”
“Ah ha,” said The Prophet, “Autarkic.”
“What’s autarkic, Prophet?”
“Then, I’ll take a walk on the sea while you’re untying the knots.”
“No. Stay here.”
“But why, Child? You don’t want my help.”
“But that doesn’t mean I want you to leave.”
“What does it mean, then, Child?”
The Child grabbed a strong, tiny knot of seaweed; the resistance from the knot, when she pulled, repelled her backward.
“This knotted seaweed is cantankerous.”
The Prophet chuckled.
“Prophet?”
“Yes, Child.”
“Does autarkic means these knots go away quicker if you help me?”
“Maybe.”
“Then what is autarkic?”
“Shall I help with the knots?”
“Why, Prophet?”
“My dear Child, are you so blind to the consanguinity that runs between us?”
“What’s consanguinity, Prophet?”
“I believe I’ll walk on the sea now.”
“Prophet, I don’t want you to walk on the sea. Help me, please.”
The Prophet sat beside The Child and began to untangle knots; The Child untied knots with astonishment on her face; the work seemed easier and quicker.
“Prophet?”
“Yes, Child.”
“What’s consanguinity?”
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
