The story behind the story: This rather random short story was inspired by the title of a poem which popped into my head not long ago: Cutting the Cloth of Heaven. This story was based upon the phrase, and grew from there. Perhaps I will write the poem one day, but for now, I’ll let the story do the telling…

I
Hura had never come close to contemplating his position. His was the joy of the menial, the commonplace, the joy of an unconscious love; his was the noble, ordinary place of doing something for others. Hura was a man – and as such, he thought and reasoned and acted on human terms in the best way he could. He hadn’t yet grown to realise that virtue was not attained by doing, but by being, specifically the presence of Being itself.
And on this particular grey, glary day Hura took silent delight in the familiar shelves stacked high with cans of beans and tomatoes; the rough smell of leather; the grainy tickling of sugar as it was poured into barrels; the clean windows; the fresh face of a young customer.
In the small town of Brown Sands, Hura ran the general store on main street and was well-known for his good quality calico, his bundles of excellent quilter’s cotton, and his own slightly freckled nose which was the secret admiration of nearly every young woman who came into the shop on the pretence of buying a pound of flour, three ounces of sugar and some ‘tobacco for the old man’. Though said tobacco was sometimes enjoyed by the buyer, rather than its intended recipient, who’d turn up the very next day for ‘a tin of goldleaf, thankyou kindly’. Hura never asked questions – being too polite – and sold the tobacco – or ‘goldleaf’ as it had come to be known amoung Hura’s customers. No one knew where it came from and Hura didn’t tell. He was prudent like that. At twenty-five he had learnt much about life – not enough to become proud, of course, but enough to hold his own.

His name was the one strange, unworldy thing about him – it had come from some distant place and time and Hura had neglected to discover any more about it. As if in honour of this forsaken fact, his personality and bearing tended towards the unorthodox; sometimes, a customer would catch a glimpse of something kingly in the gesture of his hand, in his smile, in the way he inclined his head, and in his eyes: for there mirth would bubble up, unchecked and unabashed. This unearthly sense marked his entire self like a streak of pink on sunset cloud, and those who grew to know him well (he was a man of few words and had even fewer friends) noticed it – whether they appreciated it was another matter altogether. One of those whom he’d grown to love, who’d always accepted this weird part of Hura’s way, was Cotton Applebee.
Cotton Applebee never thought Hura too slow, or confined, or old-fashioned, or boorish to spend time with, and this was a relief to both of them. There is nothing worse than a friend who pretends, or tries, to love but only ends up imitating from some distant part of their soul. Cotton was no such friend. He’d often visit Hura at midday when it was quietest in the shop and stay for as long as he, or Hura, wanted him to. They often joked or simply sat in silence and on this grey, glary day at a quarter to twelve, Cotton walked in cheerful and whistling.
Hura looked up from writing out a credit note on the counter and his face brightened at the sight of his friend. Cotton strode across the room, a rotund individual, almost dwarf-like with stunted legs and a moking grin. He saluted Hura fiercely and started right in with whatever had been on his mind a couple of minutes earlier as he’d been bobbing down the street toward Hura’s shop.
‘Well, Hura I’ve finally found it – what I call ‘the land of Eldorado’ to all my searching!’
‘Have you now?’
‘Yep – she’s currently residing on Pear Tree Lane, hanging out washing to the tune of September wattle and looking like one of those elegant birds what struts around with one leg up.’
This last part of Cotton’s speech was accompanied with bravado and a generous wink in the hopes of eliciting a laugh from the man behind the counter. Hura only stifled a grin. Cotton had always loved the ridiculous, and this went hand in hand with a love for literature. It was a devasting combination.
‘Well, Cotton – you’re none too cool about it. Might scare her off.’
‘I know,’ Cotton sighed.
Hura looked askance at his friend who had indeed sent many a woman running with his ardent, somewhat unique, romantic expressions, many whom had taken offence. Though Cotton never meant harm and was secretly hurt at their rejections, only Hura suspected this; many of Cotton’s other friends thought him a great joke, wounding the more sensible, sensative side of his nature. Unfortunately, because Cotton was less comfortable with this side of himself, he never let on that it was hurt. And no one, not even Hura, would have thought so, for the young man was a gifted actor. But the day was coming when it would be the cause of a painful lesson for Cotton Applebee.
But that day was a long way off – today was a day for rejoicing because Cotton had found a new subject to bestow his affections on – and presently he blurted out some truly terrible verse which he did on purpose to make Hura squirm.
‘Crowned with golden wattle, daughter of a golden land / Hanging out the washing, wooden pegs in hand’.
Disgusted, Hura waved his hand towards the door. And laughing, Cotton graciously obeyed, but not before bowing and exclaiming with a flourish,
‘I remain your humble servant, my most excellent leige-lord’.
The screen door rattled to a close behind him, but not before a pack of hankercheifs went flying, narrowly missing his impecable head.

II
Hura’s life wound slowly on. He grew to love his friends more, the sunrises grew more splendid with each passing day, and it seemed to him as if his life’s work was finally amounting to something. He had known a little of loneliness, a little of joy and despair, of patience and pleasure. And yet, his youth was not quite done. On the cusp of his thirtieth year, Hura was lucky because the charm and longing had not yet worn out of life. Any ideals he held were still intact. A year ago, Cotton had married his wattle-crowned sweetheart. At the wedding, Hura and Cotton found themselves in a moment of rare quiet where the guests were either too tired or too tipsy to seek out the groom and wish him all the best. Everyone was laughing and chuckling and talking to one another, but Hura and Cotton stood with their backs to the wall and their hands in their pockets and said naught. Full of joy for his friend, Hura chuckled quietly to himself. Cotton stirred beside him, but still neither said a word. There was too much to look at. And silent companionship was a better thing at a time like this than ever there was.
‘Take care, Cotton…’
‘I’ll not be far away, Hura – I’ll come and visit when I can.’
‘Yes, well – you’ll have more important things to attend to I think,’ Hura replied, but without bitterness. For he understood that the loss of change couldn’t be weighed against the Age of coming glory of both of them – and, of course, the ordinary new things which had to come about beforehand.

Hura was rememering this moment as he opened the shop early one dewy morning. A magpie sang nearby – a brilliant bright-yellow song, and it made Hura ponder the ways of the world, causing a slight particle of sorrow to touch his face, as it did often from that day onwards, whenever he’d think of all the endings and of all the beginnings of life-things.
And if anyone had chanced to walk down the street in that early hour and seen Hura standing on the verandah of the general store, they would have thought they had seen a god, what with serenity lighting him up like it did, and the sun glowing all about him.

It has been a long time since I’ve visited Brown Sands – I don’t believe anything is left there now, except for a few lonely buildings and magpie song. But sometimes, when the sun is new and the morning dewy, and an unseen magpie sings from the trees somewhere, then you might catch a glimpse of Hura – notice his easy gait, his ever youthful face as it glances lightly out the window to see how the day is getting on – you might notice the old shop and sense there is something alive about it. Because such things, such people, never really die but go on living and teaching and giving joy to the world, though it knows it not.