The Gift
He kept on the path, looking down with measured, punctuated steps. His feet tread on ingrown roots and a carpet of moist leaves and pine needles. A breeze passed through the woodland and tapped his face. When the thicket started to encroach him he picked up a spare, sturdy branch and began hacking away at the firth. As he laid waste to foliage clad with spiderwebs and berries a fevered determination rose in him, something deep rendered long dormant that was beginning to make its way into his tendons. In his mind he pictured a rolling pasture with a tall farmhouse standing on it just past the forest. Children were at play. A loving family lived there and when he staggered out of the wilderness they would call him out and embrace him. They had to be there, he thought. Salvation was out there, for the only other alternative was death. This place would deliver or devour him. He continued to cut away.
He came out through the thickening bush and into a small clearing. It was bathed in a cool blue color, just on the precipice of night. A naked, straight passage extended out in front of him, breaking the otherwise perfectly circular recess. He started his trek again, that hallucinatory chase, but did not get far before tripping over something embedded in the earth. He sat on the ground and looked behind him at a mound of stone and vine that lay collapsed at the base of a massive tree. A tiny shimmer was there among the dirt and weeds, almost undetectable. But he saw it still and was compelled to dig through the pile, overturning rocks and sweeping away long compacted grime. He dug until his fingernails were blackened with soil and his hands touched a metallic form. It felt vaguely familiar to him, like a toy he'd once held in a half-recalled memory of infancy, so early and hazy and minute that it barely could have existed at all.
Slowly and delicately he removed the object. He shook the dust from it and saw that it was a blade; a beaten and rusted antique of no great dignity. It bore no decorative engravings or jewels or noteworthy craftsmanship. Instead the saber was adorned with the corrosion of an unknown age, stained across its straight guard and rounded pommel. The leather wrapping on the hilt was frayed and loose, discolored the same as the whole of it. He ran his thumb down the edge. It would not cut him. As he held the weapon in his hands he heard a low growl near him. He looked up and saw standing before him a wolf, huge and gray. It stood almost as big as he, with matted, patchy fur carved with claw marks. It curled its lips over a jagged maw and stared the boy down with yellow, crusty eyes. He stood and pointed the sword at the animal, his trembling hands clutching tightly and his face a wide reflection of inward fear. It was heavy in his grip, wavering in the air. The wolf took a few paces toward him and stopped abruptly. For a few moments they both stood halted, staring at one another and breathing heavily. Rib cages silently expanding and compressing. Eyes locked. Eventually it swung its head low and retreated back into the darkening forest. The boy gradually lowered his guard as he left the circinate glen behind, but he kept the weapon close.
He came out through the thickening bush and into a small clearing. It was bathed in a cool blue color, just on the precipice of night. A naked, straight passage extended out in front of him, breaking the otherwise perfectly circular recess. He started his trek again, that hallucinatory chase, but did not get far before tripping over something embedded in the earth. He sat on the ground and looked behind him at a mound of stone and vine that lay collapsed at the base of a massive tree. A tiny shimmer was there among the dirt and weeds, almost undetectable. But he saw it still and was compelled to dig through the pile, overturning rocks and sweeping away long compacted grime. He dug until his fingernails were blackened with soil and his hands touched a metallic form. It felt vaguely familiar to him, like a toy he'd once held in a half-recalled memory of infancy, so early and hazy and minute that it barely could have existed at all.
Slowly and delicately he removed the object. He shook the dust from it and saw that it was a blade; a beaten and rusted antique of no great dignity. It bore no decorative engravings or jewels or noteworthy craftsmanship. Instead the saber was adorned with the corrosion of an unknown age, stained across its straight guard and rounded pommel. The leather wrapping on the hilt was frayed and loose, discolored the same as the whole of it. He ran his thumb down the edge. It would not cut him. As he held the weapon in his hands he heard a low growl near him. He looked up and saw standing before him a wolf, huge and gray. It stood almost as big as he, with matted, patchy fur carved with claw marks. It curled its lips over a jagged maw and stared the boy down with yellow, crusty eyes. He stood and pointed the sword at the animal, his trembling hands clutching tightly and his face a wide reflection of inward fear. It was heavy in his grip, wavering in the air. The wolf took a few paces toward him and stopped abruptly. For a few moments they both stood halted, staring at one another and breathing heavily. Rib cages silently expanding and compressing. Eyes locked. Eventually it swung its head low and retreated back into the darkening forest. The boy gradually lowered his guard as he left the circinate glen behind, but he kept the weapon close.
Comments
Post a Comment