The two days without their grandchildren moved painfully slow for
the old man and his wife. The house felt
empty and dull but was soon filled with the hustle and bustle of a young family
again. The children, like always, tore
through the house. Hugs, kisses and even
some homemade Veteran’s Day cards were showered lovingly on their
grandfather. With the help of their
mother, a special lunch and an array of desserts were spread out for a quiet
celebration of thanks. Like a plague of
locusts, the children devoured every scrap of food. Only then were they ready to gobble up their
grandfather’s story with the same zeal as their lunch.
“Okay, we left
off with the traitor rethinking his affiliation and considering a return to the
four captains.” He started.
“But the warlords
were already planning to chop out his heart and create a demon,” Zack
interjected. “Don’t forget about that!”
“Would I do that
to you? No way!” Grandpa chuckled. “The traitor stood from his seat and
announced that he’d shared everything he could remember. He turned and headed for the door when the
warlords rose. Their leader, and by far
the strongest in the dark arts, stretched out his long, boney hand.” To embellish the story, the old man stretched
out his hand, took a deep breath, making his eyelids flitter before continuing.
“In a deep, raspy voice, he called out a spell. Instantly, black snake-like cords shot out
from his fingertips and constricted around the traitor. As they enveloped their
prey, they became more and more reptilian. Bound tighter by the serpent strands than any
ropes could manage, the prisoner realized that his life was forfeit. The warlords would never allow him to leave
the village, at least not alive. He was secured to a wooden post in the center
of the village after the sun went down.
Torches burned against the darkness, wisps of smoke twirled into shapes
reminiscent of eerily shaped eyes, portholes from the pits of Hell to watch the
proceedings. The villagers hid in their
homes, none brave enough to witness the birth of a demon.”
Grandpa sipped his
coffee and took another bite of his cake, wondering if perhaps he had made the
story too frightening. The children were
flushed with excitement but did not appear too fearful. Even his wife and daughter had edged in,
listening with intense fascination. With
a wary, raised, eyebrow the old man’s expression asked the question he dare not
say aloud. Had he gone too far? Erica, his daughter smiled, realizing he
concerns.
“I’ll bet you
never knew your grandfather was such an accomplished storyteller,” Erica
laughed.
Tousling her boys’ hair and planting a loving kiss on Madeline’s
head, she casually interceded for a brief reprieve.
“How about if we
let Grandpa finish his cake and give his throat a little rest before he
continues?” She suggested. “If he loses his voice, we’ll never find out
what happens!”
Any resistance she might have heard from her children was
instantly squelched at the mere mention of their master storyteller losing his
voice. To give the old man a much needed
break, the kids set off outside to burn up some energy.
“You know, Dad,”
Erica whispered when the kids had gone. “They talked about this story all
weekend long. They love it and they
couldn’t wait to get back to hear more but if you get worn out, tell them you
need a break! And don’t worry, you’re
not scaring them. You’re scaring the
crap out of Mom... but the kids are just fine!”
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