DEAD WINTER: A CRYPTIC Anthology

The Gift • Tamoja

Raven sat in the high back chair next to her grandfather's bed listening to the wet wheezy breaths that escaped his too blue lips. She watched the clock, it slow hands dragging around the circle as if nothing could speed it up.

Tick. Tock.

Her watch was for two hours. That, and not a minute more. She was promised an extra gift in the morning, and a chance to not come in tomorrow even for the ceremony, it was a no brainer.

She leaned closer when the breathing stopped. Her heart pausing and resuming with a fervent pitch. What if he died on her watch? Would mother think of it every time she saw Raven's face?

Sitting for him would be the easy part if that happened. The looks she would get she wouldn't be able to survive.

"Grandfather? It's really important that you hang in there ok? While tomorrow's celebration would be much more pleasant without you dying in the back room, I can't have you going on my shift. I'm already on the outs with mom."

His ragged breathing began again and a dusky black tongue protruded, running along his lips as is searching.

"Would you like water?"

She dipped the spoon in the cup where the ice cubes usually sat on the old pine stand. It was warm and clear without a cube in the bunch. She spooned some of liquid into his mouth, careful to lean forward and keep her hands from his mouth. Something about him frightened her now.

Her mother scolded her when she'd brought it up. "It's death that scares you, not your grandpa. He's the same man he always was. Death is a scary thing for everyone, but the sooner you see it the sooner you'll know when it's close and remember to run."

Her mother had said it like she did all things, cold and proper as if she had read it from a book that had bored her.

But Raven didn't care which it was, death or the dying man in the bed she just wanted her watching time to pass before her grandfather did.

"I'll tell you a story, would you like that? It'll pass the time for both of us. You always liked my stories when you came home from your travels.."

As expected, grandfather didn't answer. His gurgling was steady and had a higher pitch since Raven had given him the water. She scooted the chair a bit closer and cleared her throat throwing her shawl over her lap for warmth.

It started in the south, as many things do. Back in the tucked in corners of cornfields where children make mischief to pass away the hours spent breaking backs on chores. The first to fall was Mary Whitley. She was stiff and cold the morning her mother went to wake her to fetch eggs and feed chickens before her father came in from the fields.

Mary was a shy girl. Always wearing dresses and toting a corn cob doll named Anna that long ago used to sit on her dresser and watch over her in the crib. The family said Mr. Whitley had made that doll while his wife pushed Mary into this world putting all his worry and fear into his hands to complete the task.

The doll wasn't much, a few dry sheaths that housed the corn and a stub of a cob picked clean and dried. But it was dyed with berries and beets and shades of black and the face was etched perfectly by Mr. Whitley who often whittled by the fire long after the children had been asleep.

People said that doll was special. Everyone who saw it bargained Mr. Whitley for one just like it, or that doll. He always answered the same way, in as few words as possible and with a shy grin that looked almost out of place on a man bigger than most and hardened from long days in the searing sun.

"I'm not a toy maker. That doll birthed itself out of worry, I'm not even sure how I did it myself, couldn't repeat it if I tried. And that particular one is Mary's. And will be I suppose until she's willing to part with it."