Under the cover of darkness they brought the boy. The old man, waiting.
Give it to him, they pleaded. But he had his price. And they paid. Four dollars, each, for four sugar cubes.
This will cure him? They asked. No, he said.
That’s for the horse.
They rode, still shrouded in the non-glow of seemingly eternal night, the countryside barren, the trail long cold. The boy seemed listless, waifish, light as air.
They came to the hamlet, so different from the city they had just left. A young girl met them at the gate. Speaking no words, she held out her hand. In like silence, they responded, handing over a single white feather.
A feather from a white eagle.
The boy was taken inside a small cottage. They followed, tensely eager, cautiously hopeful. The girl showed them to a small door.
The entrance to a tunnel.
They crawled on hand and knee, pushing the boy in front of them on a small board. His weight was negligible.
After hours, still hidden in the shadow of eternal, underground darkness, they came to an iron grate.
On the other side of the grate was a boy. The boy. Their boy.
He held out his hand.
He lifted his hand.
He touched
He touched his
Their fingers
It was dark. The boy was there.
Alone.
In his pocket he found a robin’s egg. Blue. Small.
He ran through the tunnel.
He ran to the stable, for the horse.
He rode back to the city.
It was still dark. So dark.
He went to the old man. The old man stood, like a statue, eyes focused, fists clenched.
Refusing to look.
The boy moved on.
Home. He went to the bedroom. His father lay in the bed. Gaunt, he was sunken, sallow.
Wasted.
The boy pushed the robin’s egg into his father’s mouth. Wake up, he said. Wake up. They’re gone.
The man opened his eyes. Eyes that seemed not so hidden. Not so sunken. Not so gone.
They went outside. It was day. There was sun. There was light.
Cured.
I really like this one, too. You should do more creative writing. I will do more creative reading.
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