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THE BOX
The old gipsy sat upon the porch of his house while about him his family spoke of things past and present, of their lives and of the many memories of joy and wonder that filled it. Although the old gipsy had never been rich, being too ready to lend a hand or a coin whenever the need arose, his family had lived a good life amongst their many friends, friends who were amazed at his ability to help them solve a myriad of problems in a troubled land. They claimed that he must have a pixie hidden away somewhere, maybe in that old box that he always carried with him. Laughing at this old jest his friends would depart.
It was not laughter that lit the eyes of one onlooker, one who looked hungrily upon him and his. To him happiness revolved around personal power, but he had lost this with the ending of the communist era. Now he only had his harridan of a wife who constantly nagged him about his lack of position in the new community. What good were his memories when power today was associated with money, something that had been elusive even with the party behind him? His life had dissolved into a living hell as her barbed taunts picked away at his pride, why hadn't he seen the changes coming and changed sides sooner. Why had he made himself so disliked by all of the party members, for it was only he who could not return as a new Socialist? Once more he wished he had possessed such insight, but how could he have foreseen that his world would turn on its axis when the Russian super power collapsed leaving all of its one time allies out in the cold with no one to help them.
The evening was turning into night when the old gipsy got up from his chair to walk through the woods while there was still light enough to see. He wanted to be alone now to remember the good times he had enjoyed when his wife had been by his side. They had been parted for a year now, but he was expecting to join her very soon. What to do with the box though, who should he give it too.
He need not have worried for behind him the communist appeared. “Hello old man, I want to talk to you.”
“Yes I do think we have things to talk about, but be careful that you know what you ask for, not all is what it seems.”
The communist shrugged off the gypsy's obscure words and replied in an attempt to disarm him. “I have always respected you old man, for you are always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone.”
“You should always be ready to help someone in need friend, always be ready to listen. I sense that you need my help now, tell me what is troubling you and how I can be of help to you.” The old man replied.
The stupid old gipsy, thought the one time communist, all he wanted was the contents of his box, then he would be free of this place, as he was free of his hag of a wife now. The earlier events of that evening had brought the need for action to a head and he could wait no longer, for that very afternoon in a fit of anger he had strangled his wife, silenced her constant nagging, and stilled her evil tongue. Even when she lay there dead upon the floor her eyes had seemed to follow him about the room, still nagging him from the spirit world.
“That is all I want old man, your box and what it contains, that is how you can help me.” He reached across and ripped the box from the old gypsy’s hands, a look of joy sprang into the old man's eyes which was missed by the other as his were filled only with hate and greed. The box seemed strangely warm in the man's hands, especially on so cool a night.
“Friend, be careful that you know what you’re asking for, not all is what it seems.”
The communist looked up to see pity upon the old gypsy's face, the first signs of worry spreading across his own.
“What is it that you say, I do not understand you old man, and tell me why your box is so warm, maybe you should be the one to open the box.” With this he shoved the box back into the hands of the old gypsy.
The old gypsy thoughts for once had turned inwards as he felt a sense of loss for the box had cooled to his touch, as it disowned him and chose another. The box was very old and very beautiful, it had witnessed a thousand years of Man's history and legend said such a box as this had the power to repay in kind all of man’s deeds, that it brought much happiness and joy for those who sought it.
“The box always feels warm for the one it has chosen my friend, but you see all you have to do is open it.” The old gipsy opened the box and touched the contents, much as a lover touches his mate. Inside were some photographs of his wife and family, some letters tied together with a piece of cord, there was nothing more inside of it.
A ripple of fear ran through the communist at the strange words of the old gipsy but he forced them from his mind, he would be as senile as the old gipsy was if he started listening to such drivel. Calling himself a fool he ripped the box from the old gypsy’s hands.
“What is this load of rubbish, where is the money that you normally keep with you.”
“There is no money, no gold, only what you see friend, all the most important things of my life.” The pity plain upon his face deepened as he looked upon the man. The other seeing only scorn struck him, blow followed by blow, and as the old gipsy went down he saw his wife standing there before him as she waited for him to re-join her, her hands stretched out for his. Hand in hand once more the old gipsy and his wife saw the only treasures he had ever possessed thrown to the ground.
The communist now took out the letters to see if they held a clue to the source of the old gypsy's wealth. His face was full of apprehension as he opened them to find that he had been tricked again, these were nothing but love letters from the old man's wife. The man's chin dropped and fear spread through his heart, he desperately needed money to escape the police who may already be searching for him.
He need not have worried about his lack of riches though, for as he looked up from the letters he heard a scream of anguish, before him the old gypsy's son stood with an old hunting rifle at his shoulder. Already the trigger was being pulled back and the world that the communist knew changed before his eyes, where there had been grass and trees there was only fire and brimstone, and for a sky he had rock. From down a long dark tunnel a lone figure approached him.
“You worthless scum, kill me would you, well see your reward for all the years that you served your true master, Satan. The boilers of hell are now your sole worry, or should I say the last resting place of your damned soul.” The woman's insane laughter echoed throughout the tunnels as she pointed across to an endless line of shades. There flickering before him stood a mournful glowing figure, and as it waited it's turn to enter the fires of hell it looked his way and with shake of its head it began to wail for its very existence.
A sharp pain of fear stabbed deep into his heart as he watched the figure finally entering the flames, and his soulless body twisted and bent into its true foul shape. The communist screamed out to God asking for mercy, begging for forgiveness but the shrill voice of his wife was his only answer as he was driven forward to tend the fires of hell. The communist began to cry and did so through all eternity as he endured all the tortures that hell could offer to one such as him. There were times that he was almost human and it was then that he recalled his old life, and with it the old gypsy's words.
‘But be careful that you know what you’re asking for, not all is what it seems.' Standing by his father's body a weeping son held the strangely warm box that had belonged to his father.
The End
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Strange Tales Page 3
