R. Anderson - Wayfarer

“Take a lot to make me forget him,” mused the man. “Gwlad invited him and your mum to our house for Sunday dinner, and we ended up having a fine discussion about genetics-your dad and I, that is, and a couple of my students from the university.”

Timothy choked. “You’re a professor ?”

“Well, not now,” said Owen Jenkins. “I retired from the biology department some five years ago.”

“But…don’t you…I mean, wasn’t it hard to…” Timothy was flabbergasted. At last he cleared his throat and said weakly, “But you go to a Gospel Hall.”

“You think I shouldn’t? Not the right place for a scientific type? Best resign from the church eldership then.” And he gave a wheezing laugh.

Embarrassed, Timothy fell silent.

“Now, I won’t say there aren’t a lot of foolish and ignorant believers in the world,” said Owen Jenkins after a moment. “And I even know some fine godly Brethren who decided not to pursue higher learning, for fear it would make them proud. But I wanted to find out everything I could about God’s creation.”

“But what you learned…didn’t any of it bother you? I mean, some of the things I’ve heard scientists say about God and the Bible…”

“…sound convincing, no doubt,” agreed the older man. “But you’d be surprised how much of that talk isn’t really science at all. I won’t say that now and then I don’t come across some piece of data that doesn’t fit quite comfortably with what I believe. But then I’ve talked to atheists who’ve had the same problem. There’s not a belief in the world can save you from doubt.”

Timothy gave a reluctant nod. “I guess I just…some beliefs make more sense to me than others. I don’t want to ever hide from the truth, you know? I want to know how things really are.”

Owen Jenkins leaned forward earnestly. “Not a thing wrong with that,” he said. “To look at the world as it is, study it with the mind God’s given you, and believe: That’s faith. But to hide from hard facts, or hide them from others, because you’re afraid of where they might lead you…” He sat back again. “That’s just ignorance.”

“So if I’m questioning my beliefs…you think that’s actually good?”

Owen Jenkins peered at him from beneath his bushy brows. “Better than never questioning them? I’d say so. But you can’t go on questioning forever. Sometime you’re going to have to stake your reputation, maybe even your life, on what you believe. And when that moment comes…then you’ll know where you really stand.”

Timothy picked at the crumbs on his plate, unable to think of a reply. He was afraid that the other man would say I’ll be praying for you , or some equally condescending remark, but he didn’t. He only shuffled his chair back, said gently, “Have a good night, lad,” and left.

For a few more minutes Timothy sat at the table alone. Then he sighed and got up, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. Maybe he should dab some warm water and soap on it, try to clean it out before it got infected. He might be able to find some gauze and proper bandages if he hunted around a bit….

He was making his way through the sitting room when he caught sight of a bookshelf, and curiosity made him stop to look at it. A set of Matthew Henry’s commentaries on the Bible, some devotionals and missionary biographies, the complete works of James Herriot, and a few volumes of Dickens: No surprises there. Farther down, however, he found books on gardening, home remedies, and travel, including one entitled A Wayfarer’s Guide to Wales . He had just pulled it off the shelf and was leafing through it when Gwladys Jenkins spoke up unexpectedly from behind him:

“Like that, do you? Some lovely walks in there.”

Timothy started guiltily, nearly dropping the book before remembering that he had nothing to hide. “Er…yes,” he said. “I just…we’re going to Cardigan tomorrow, and I thought…”

“Oh, of course, you’ll want to do some sightseeing.” She shifted her laundry basket to the other hip and leaned forward to peer at the book over his shoulder. “What sorts of things are you interested in? I was brought up near Cardigan myself, so I know all about those parts.”

His heart quickened. “Do you know a church named St. David’s?”

“St. David’s! My goodness, love, that’s not in Cardigan, that’s all the way down in Pembrokeshire.” She took the book from his hands, flipped quickly through the pages, and handed it back to him. “There it is on the map, see? A great old cathedral, it is, hundreds of years old. Right at the tip of Cardigan Bay.”

She was right, Timothy realized with dismay. There were so many references to Cardigan in the legends about the Children of Rhys, he’d just assumed St. David’s church must be in or near Cardigan as well…but he’d been wrong. If only he hadn’t been in such a rush back at the library! He’d made a terrible mistake, and now he and Linden were hours from where they needed to be.

Timothy closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. “Thanks,” he said weakly.

“But you never mind,” said Gwladys Jenkins, “just ask those friends of yours about it, and see if they won’t drive you down there anyway.” She patted his arm. “Now come along, and I’ll show you to your room.”

“The coach to Cardigan leaves from the train station,” said Owen Jenkins as he drove them back into Aberystwyth the next morning. “So that’s where I’ll let you off, and you can get your ticket there.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Linden. She dared a challenging glance at Timothy as she spoke-they’d barely exchanged a word since last night’s argument. But he was looking out the window and didn’t seem to care.

As they came down the hill into the town, Linden caught her breath in surprise. In the darkness the place had seemed dreary and unwelcoming, with its narrow streets and tall, flat-faced houses that offered little shelter from the rain. But by daylight, the buildings of Aberystwyth were a paint box of vibrant colors: forget-me-not blue and the deep pink of foxgloves, daffodil and mint and primrose. And rolling toward those brightly plastered buildings was a white-capped mass of water that stretched away into the distance until Linden’s eyes ached from straining to see the end of it-Cardigan Bay, and beyond it the open sea.

When they reached the center of town, their host stopped the car, and they all got out. The streets were full of life now, people hurrying here and there, vehicles of all sizes stopping and starting and honking at one another. Linden watched the traffic with interest until she heard Professor Jenkins say to Timothy, “Here’s a few pounds to see you on your way. And if you look in your backpacks, I think you’ll find Gwlad’s packed you both a bit of a lunch.”

Linden beamed at him. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us,” she said. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Timothy, and shook Owen Jenkins’s hand. The older man nodded at them both with just a hint of a smile, then got back into his car and drove away.

“So?” said Linden, trying not to look at Timothy in case he snapped at her and they started quarreling again. “What now?”

“We find the coach to Cardigan,” said Timothy. “And when we get there, we take another one to Fishguard, and a third one from there to St. David’s. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.”

He was right to expect her to hide in his pack, Linden knew. They needed to make their money last if they wanted to find the Children of Rhys-or even just stay ahead of the Blackwings. But it irritated her that he hadn’t even asked .