Deborah Winslow

The O’Leary Line

“This,” the demon said “is something entirely new.” In front of her stood a frail old man who bore his weight on a cane and it didn’t look like it was going to keep holding him up for very long. She smiled with only one side of her mouth and not with her eyes. “Lemme guess. You want to be young again?” “No.” He said. “You want to be rid of that cane?” Again he said “No.” “Well, why are you here? Quit wasting my time. Spit it out, old man. I don’t have all night.” She did actually have all night. “I have been told that in exchange for these offerings” he laid a small wooden box at her feet “you will engage in a contest and if I win I can have one request granted that you must honor. And if I lose... I lose my soul?” It sounded stupid when he said it out loud. She disregarded his words because truth be told, it didn’t actually matter much to her about his soul. Who cares about souls? What did he think she was going to do with it? If he lost he was hers to use. He was a vessel to sow pain for her amusement. Let him think that was his soul. The truth was far more painful and if he was too dumb to get specifics, she wasn’t going to do the work for him. It’s his fault if he’s not a good negotiator, not hers. She picked up the box and lifted the lid. It contained a plain gold ring, a vial of some kind of small white rocks, and a feather. “This is supposed to be a lock of your true love’s hair. Your true love is a bird?” He seemed to shrink into himself. He stammered “It’s the closest I have. I’ve buried my wife and son and now all I have is Agnes.” For the first time she noticed the tiny and unremarkable little bird on his arm. It was an owl. “And what’s this?” She held up the vial. “This is supposed to be the blood of your mortal enemy. Your enemy bleeds rocks?” “That” he said, with fire in his eyes “IS my mortal enemy. That is the substance I found with my son’s body. That killed him so, yes it’s both mortality and my enemy.” She stood for a moment that felt like an eternity as she weighed the depth of his words and, more importantly, the pathos of his very existence. “I choose the terms of the contest since you chose to bend the offerings to your will.” Again, an eternity passed in a moment where he knew this is a terrible thing to which he was agreeing and that possibly he was blinded by anger and despair and that he had redefined the state of being over one’s head and yet he still he agreed. There was steel in his eyes and foolishness in his heart. His little owl shuffled her feet on his arm, bringing him back to reality. The demon could barely contain her giggling. “Okay, old man. I challenge you to a contest of dance. Out of the... kindness of my...heart... I’ll allow you a fortnight to prepare. This is more than generous and you should thank me. You will meet me there.” She pointed to a distant structure that he didn’t remember having seen before. “Don’t be late.” He looked even shakier than he had been a moment ago, if that was possible. With that, he turned away and limped slowly back down the lonely dirt road.