A Lesson in Miserly

It was dusk, but the sky was as dark as midnight. The rain drizzled down the crumbling masonry of the old church. The only light was an occasional bolt of lightning, striking the harsh Blue Mountains in the distance. Occasional faint rumbling of carriage wheels and horse hooves could be heard in the distance. The only inclination of time was marked by clanging of the tarnished brass steeple bell, high above the roof lines.

Under crumbling stone steps leading up to a heavily tarred wooden door, if one looked very carefully, a 12x12 hole -covered with overgrown bushes -could be found. Izzy, age eight, had managed to wiggle her way into the opening - finding a haven from the cold. She huddled, arms wrapped around her knees, head resting against the cold stone- dozing off occasionally- with only a stray sewer rat to keep her company.

On a clean day, her hair would be medium brown, tips still white from baby hair, slightly curled at the ends well past her waste-line. A clean day had not happened in years. Her brown eyes were flaked with amber and sadness, her dirty face was streaked clean by tears and the occasional drop of rain.

Izzy, a creative girl, cut her dress from a stolen burlap sack that once held potatoes. It was itchy and held together at the waistline with a ribbon from her brief childhood. Once bright yellow, it was stained beyond recognition.

She barely remembered her family, her Mother, Father and her unborn sibling. She was merely three when the Leviathan attacked. They were long, skinny snake-like creatures sporting abnormally small,

triple-jointed back legs that glistened with color like an oil slick. Seven toes, with deep purple talons curving off the ends of each adorned their feet. An armor plated chest with iridescent scales - huge and impenetrable- held front arms were reminiscent of their back legs, but much longer. They slithered most of the time, but could run faster than a wind storm. Wisps of curling tentacles protruded from the snout dripping with poison. Breath reeking of despair and destruction – like the smell of cancer mixed with dead cat.

They had attacked the way that all Leviathan do – poisoning the village. The poison was a slow process, twisting the words, minds and hearts of everyone and everything good. Love turned to hate and hope into despair. When the arguing, fighting and bickering got to a breaking point; that was when they crept out of hiding. They shredded everyone in their path with barbed front talons and teeth sharpened by betrayal. As the dust settled, the dead lay strewn about the village. Mutilated bodies of villagers were sprawled about - steaming a golden ghostly mist that the Leviathan fed from - inhaling it in through their flared, blood soaked nostrils.

Six rings of the church bell resonated through the building.

It started as any other day had over the past five years. She slipped, undetected down the alley, past the muffled shouts of the shopkeepers setting up for the morning, the smell of garbage and raw sewage stuck in her nose. She stuck into the stables behind the tavern, where the stable hand had just put out fresh oats, hay and some carrots. She hung tightly against the wall and hid behind the trough. Scooping up some slightly green-tinged water with her cupped hands she took a drink. It tasted metallic, and a little like the color brown, if brown had a flavor.

Despite the flavor, the water quenched her dry mouth and moistened her lips. She kept crouched behind the trough for a moment, before slowly moving to the back of the stable. She crouched behind a stack of storage crates, as footsteps crunched on the gravel walkway in front of the stables. Her heart beat steady in her chest and the only indication of fear was the unsteady shaking of her tiny, dirty hands.

The stable door creaked open, letting in the dim light of the morning – as the heavy door shut again with a dull thud.

Two men walked in. The stable boy was dressed in his usual brown tunic. The other man was tall, with a long black beard that seemed to glow purple. His shiny silk tunic rippled with purple and pink sparks of electricity, as the tall staff in his hand flowed like fire under the wood grain. The top of the staff gripped a massive Carnelian stone - flashing orange and red – murmuring with life. As he entered the stable he suddenly stopped. His nose twitched and his dark, unkempt eyebrows furrowed. Without opening his mouth, Izzy heard his voice. It was deep and soothing, like the low rumble of an earthquake mingled with the comfort of a lullaby.

“I see you, child. I have been waiting for you.” His voice seemed to resonate through her soul and her shaking hands steadied.

He moved forward and touched the horse gently, colorful sparks ran down her dark red sides. As the sparks traveled, gold-flecked wings seemed to sprout from her side. The mysterious man moved close to the crates where Izzy was hiding. He put down a small handbag with an ornate strap. The man smelled of cinnamon. He scratched his beard, sending flakes of purple dust into the air, and waved his hand to dismiss the bewildered stable boy – who promptly left the building.

Izzy watched intently. Without saying a word, he turned his back to her and mounted his saddle-less winged horse. Glancing in her direction, he motioned at the handbag on the ground and she heard his voice again.

“This is yours, child. It was a gift from your Grandmother. ”

The large double doors to the stable flew open. Izzy watched in amazement as the man and his Pegasus they flew straight up onto the sky,a sparkle of golden glitter in their wake.

The stable was quiet now. Hesitantly, Izzy crept out from her hiding spot and grabbed the ornate strap of the handbag sitting on the ground. She threw it over her shoulder, grabbed a carrot from the nearest f trough. As quickly as her tiny, bare, blistered covered feet could take her, crept out of the stable and down the alley.

Once in the alley, Izzy walked quickly – she had learned not to run, as that drew unwanted attention. Down the alley she went, mind reeling, adrenaline catching up to her causing her knees to wobble a bit. She could not let that show- of she showed no weakness, they would leave her alone.

She made it down the maze of alleyways and into the main street, slowing her hustle to a false carefree walk. She passed the massive stone arches that she had passed many times before, but this time the horses on top, wings spread wide and holding a golden orb in the center had a new meaning. As she passed underneath the arches the carved stare of the horses seemed to follow her. She could feel the gaze of a million spirits burrowing into her back. She continued to walk- down the cobbled path, into the park with freshly manicured grass of glittering green. .

The path curved along the roaring river. Its waters swirled and crashed as it made its way through the park and to the Fourteen Falls just a mile out of town. Izzy walked along as the path turned from friendly cobblestone, to gravel, then dirt and all but disappeared. She scaled down alongside the first waterfall, gripping the slippery rocks that were splattered with over-spray, watching the rainbow of color as the mid-morning sunlight hit the droplets of water in the air.

She proceeded without incident to the third waterfall, and found sanctuary underneath the gentle overhang of a purple magnolia tree.

The handbag was small, about the size of a book bag, made of soft brown leather. It had a two gold, round buttons and a thin leather chord wrapped in a figure eight holding the top flap closed. The leather felt nice and smelled clean, with a a hint of sweet tobacco smoke. Gently, gingerly, she unwound the leather strap from the gold buttons and hesitantly opened the bag.

Nothing popped out. No magical creatures jumped out to scare her. No puffs of lightning, no fairies – nothing. She peered inside, and the bag appeared to be empty. She looked again, nothing. The bag was empty! Izzy let out a disappointed sigh and turned the bag upside down and shook it – still nothing came out. She held the bag open, peering inside, and a tear formed in her eye.

As she looked in the bag, a small yellow bird landed in the tree above her and started chirping. She looked up and smiled at it and it seemed to return the smile. As it looked down at her, it burst into flames and then the flames turned to ash, covering her with ash.

Izzy burst into tears. From the tree above, one single yellow feather gently floated down and slipped into the leather bag.

Izzy reached into the bag to retrieve the feather, and to her surprise, there was no feather. She reached in the bag again, and this time, she felt the feather between the bottom seams of the bag and pulled it out. It was long and beautiful, nothing like the feather she had seen come off of the bird in the tree. It glinted with yellow, gold shades of orange and reds varying in shades – like fire. At the end, there was a black onyx cap that glinted in the sunlight. She pulled it off and it relieved the tip of a pen.

She stared at the pen in bewilderment. What had been a two inch yellow common bird feather had somehow become a foot long multi-hughed calligraphy pen. She had seen pens and inkwells in the windows of the stores as she had walked by, but she had never held one before. She put the onyx cap back on and gently placed it back in the bag, as she watched, it slowly disappeared and was gone again! Frantic, she reached her dirty hand in the bag, searching for the pen – nothing! She felt the bottom seam and suddenly, the feathers from the pen tickled her fingers. She pulled it out again. It was in perfect condition, exactly as before. She did this a few more times, and to her glee and surprise, every time she did, the pen appeared again.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in concentration, reaching into the bag to see what would come out. She found that the usual things that one might find in a bag appeared by thinking of them. As if the bag forever held the content of what had once been placed there.

Among the items she retrieved were small daggers, a black leather-bound book and too many gold coins to count. She had spent a good part of an hour picking up (what she assumed were thousands) of gold coins.

The sun was starting to fade as she took in her surroundings and started putting the items back into the bag. She picked up the little black book. There were words scrolled across the first few pages, but she could not read. She flipped though the blank pages and picked up the golden pen and tapped the feather on her chin. Gingerly, as this was her first time drawing anything, she drew magnolia flower. As the ink dried, a perfectly formed, fully colored magnolia flower appeared on the rock beside her. She stared in bewilderment, then picked it up and put it in the bag- as expected, it disappeared.

Izzy headed back to her hole under the church stairs, contemplating how a handbag, magic pen and little black book would change her life forever.