John Johnson A Stranger Tale	back to table of contents back to main

The hot afternoon sun turned the bus into a traveling oven, and the next stop, Phoenix, was still an hour away.  Enthusiastically occupying the last row of seats were three young children, along with their nanny.  An old man was sitting by the window on the opposite side. Both the nanny and the children were conversational in a limited, persistent way, much like an annoying housefly buzzing around a sleeping person’s ear. Most all the nanny’s sentences started with “Don’t,” and nearly all the children’s replies started with “Why?”  The old man was sitting quietly watching the children.  “Don’t, Carl,” exclaimed the nanny as the little boy jumped up and down on the seat cushions, making lots of noise with each jump.

“Come and look out of the window,” she pleaded.  Reluctantly, Carl moved toward the window, “Why are those people in that field?” he asked.

“I believe they are picking chili peppers,” said the nanny.

"But there are so many chili peppers in that field,” protested Carl.  “There's no other way they could do that?”

“Perhaps it's better this way,” suggested the nanny.  

“Why is it better?” came the swift, unavoidable question.

“Oh, look at those fields!” exclaimed the nanny.  Nearly every field along the way contained row after row of peppers, but she spoke as though she were drawing attention to a rarity.

“Why don't those people use a machine?” persisted Carl.

The old man's face changed from a scowl to an intensifying glare. The nanny decided the old man was just a hard, unsympathetic man.  Still, she could not come up with any satisfactory reason why the people had to pick the peppers by hand.

Then, the smaller girl created a diversion by reciting the ''Barney'' theme song.  She only knew the first line, but she intended to use that limited knowledge fully.  She repeated the line, over and over again, in a dreary sounding voice.  It appeared to the old man someone had challenged her to repeat the line, without stopping, several thousand times, and they were going to lose the challenge.

“Come over here and let me tell everyone a story,” said the nanny, after the old man glared at her.

Slowly the children moved toward the nanny’s seat.  Obviously, her reputation as a storyteller did not rank high in the children’s opinion.  In a low, soft voice, interrupted at frequent intervals by loud, irritable questions from her listeners, she began.  Her uninteresting story was about a well-behaved little girl who made friends with everyone because of her goodness.  Finally, the story ended with the girl’s rescue from an angry dog by several boys who admired her goodness.

“Wouldn’t they have saved her if she hadn’t been good?” demanded one girl.

The old man wanted to ask exactly that same question.

“Well, yes,” admitted the nanny lamely “but I don't think they would have run so fast to help her if they had not liked her so much.”

“That’s the stupidest story I’ve ever heard,” said one girl.

“I didn't listen after a little bit, cuz it was so stupid,” said Carl.

The smaller girl commented on the story by starting the repetitious murmuring of her favorite line.

“You’re not good at storytelling,” said the old man.

The nanny stiffened in instant defense at this unexpected attack. 

“It’s not easy to tell children stories that they can both understand and appreciate,” she said.

“I disagree with you, missy,” said the old man.

“Perhaps you could tell them a better story,” was the nanny’s reply.

“Tell us a story,” demanded one girl.

“Once upon a time,” said the old man, “lived a young girl named Maria, who was extraordinarily good.”

Instantly, the children’s momentarily aroused interest flickered; all stories sounded alike, no matter who told them.

“She always did what everyone told her; she was always truthful; she kept her clothes clean, drank her milk, paid attention in school, and faithfully obeyed the church priest.”

“Was she pretty?” asked the small girl.

“Not as pretty as any of you,” said the old man, “but she was horribly obedient.”

Suddenly the children had a twinge of reaction in favor of the story.  The word “horrible” connected to “obedient” presented a uniqueness.  These words gave the story a ring of truth that was absent from the nanny’s tales.

“She was so obedient,” continued the old man, “she always did what everyone told her.  One day, while attending church, the village priest asked Maria to bring him fresh eggs and milk every day when she came to mass.  Maria was happy to do such an honorable deed.”

“Horribly obedient,” quoted Carl.

“Every day she walked the two miles to town bringing with her fresh eggs and milk.  Halfway to town she had to use an old bridge to cross over a muddy river.  One day, on her way to church, she found the heavy rains the night before had washed away the bridge.  Therefore, she had to wade across the river to get to town.  When she arrived at the church, the priest was angry with her dirty appearance, and how she ruined the eggs and milk.”

“Weren’t there any stores in the town?” demanded Carl.

“Yes,” said the old man, “there were stores.”

“Why didn't she just go to those stores?” came the unavoidable question arising out of that answer.

The nanny allowed herself a smile, which almost looked like a grin.

“He didn’t like to go to the stores in town,” said the old man, “because the town’s doctor said that food from the stores might be bad for him.  For that reason the priest never went to any stores in his town.”

The nanny suppressed a gasp of admiration.

“Was the priest ever hurt by any food from the stores?” asked Carl.

“He stayed away from the stores, so he could make sure nothing bad would happen,” said the old man.  “Anyway, the priest told Maria to read the story about Christ walking on water and said that she must find a way to bring him eggs and milk each day.”

“What kind of eggs?”

“Some were chicken eggs, some were duck eggs, and some were really big goose eggs.”

The old man paused to let the images of Maria and the priest sink into the children’s imaginations; then he resumed.

“Maria was sad when she walked home that night.  She had promised the priest, with tears in her eyes, she would bring him fresh eggs and milk the next day, and she was going to keep her promise.”

“Why couldn’t she just stay home?”

“Because the priest wouldn’t have anything to eat.  That's why,” said the old man at once.  “The town’s doctor had told the priest that he should only eat fresh eggs and milk from the country.”

The children gave a small sigh of disapproval at the town doctor’s advice.

“The next day when Maria came to church, she handed the priest a basket full of fresh eggs and a big carton of milk.  For the next two weeks, she brought the priest eggs and milk daily.  Finally, one-day the priest asked Maria how she was able to make it to town without getting dirty.  She explained to him that she read the story about Christ walking on water, so now she could continue as she promised.”

“What did the priest say?” asked the children, amid an immediate quickening of interest.

“The priest did not understand what Maria was talking about.  So he asked her to show him what she was talking about.  Maria took the priest to where the bridge once stood.  She told the priest to take off his shoes and hold them over his head.  She did the same and started walking on top of the water.  Maria, stopping about halfway across, looked around, and saw the priest floating away in the muddy river.”

“Was the priest killed?”

“Yes, he didn't escape.”

“The story began badly,” said the small girl, “but it had the most beautiful ending.”

“It is the most beautiful story that I have ever heard,” said the other girl, with great delight.

“It is the most beautiful story I have ever heard,” repeated Carl.

A different opinion came from the nanny.

“What an awful story to tell young children! You have ruined years of religious teaching.”

“At any rate,” said the old man, collecting his belongings as he left the bus, “I kept them quiet for minutes, which was more than you could do.”

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