Page 65 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #7

I stood frozen with fear against the wall as Mother closed the door behind her. After a mo- ment, he spoke.
“Come here, boy.” His voice rattled softly in his throat. He lifted a pale, ghostly hand to beckon.
I edged closer to the bed, my heart beating loudly in my ears. Suddenly, he shot out his bony arm and grabbed my wrist. I squealed and tried to break free, but he was surprisingly strong, and pulled me closer.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chairs.
I sat. He released my arm and examined me.
“Grandfather lay in bed, his skeletal
body propped against
a mountain of pillows, his covers gray and slick with sweat. In health he had been a frighten- ing presence, but in this dark and foul place he seemed a demon...”
“Boy, yer pa had a short, hard life.” His voice dropped to a whisper and I had to lean in to hear him. “Never had no chance to leave ye nothin.’ Me an’ Gran got precious little ourselves. But it ain’t right to send a boy off into the world with nary a token from his kin—some bit to warm yer spirit when the night falls chill.”
He reached behind him and handed me a roughly hewn box about the size and shape and weight
of one of Grandma’s meatloaves. I ran my fingers across the rugged wood. At the front there was
a small clasp and a lock. I turned the box over. Taped to the bottom was a small key.
“My own granddad gave me this box when I was a sprout. But what’s important ain’t the box. It’s what’s inside.” He hunched himself further up on the grimy pillows and fixed me with a fierce glare.
“Reckon yer life ain’t much better now then yer pa’s—long on labor, short on hope. Hard times ‘round every corner. But this here’ll pass them times easier. No matter what this world throws at ye, boy, ye can use what’s in here to help ye through it.” He reached out and clutched my arm again.
“But hear me, boy—ye can only open this box once. Then it’s gone. Life’s cruel, and every bad hand it deals ye, it deals a worse next week. So be loath to open it less’n ye got no choice.”
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