It is the night. In the piercing cold, all is quiet save the rustling of the trees.
A boy is by the stoop, hunched over with head hung close to his knees and arms around them. He is an armour of impenetrable sorrow, shaken only by the the sporadic, trembling chill.
He had been here for some time, hours at least. One can tell. But it is time to leave, so with a laborious grunt he heaves himself up.
The boy is handsome, with eyes as dark as the night itself, and a sturdy build. In a year, perhaps two, he will become a man. Yet his expression bears the mark of a thousand stoic lifetimes.
“Why do you cry?”
The boy knows well enough what to do. The legend was told to him by his grandmother - you do not take voices in the dark lightly. Answer with conviction and ignore their queries at your own peril.
“I do not cry for it is not within my ability to do so. But I do not deny I am troubled”
“What ails you?”
“A life of disappointment. Of unreciptocated kindness, unrewarded labour and unrequited love. And of silence in the face of my lowly station”
It is said that the voices only reveal themselves to the worthiest of Man. Gifts are given that cannot be turned down. But not all can stand up to the test of their divine word. Moses survived, yet Midas did not. Even beautiful Cleopatra failed with all that she was bestowed. Some have come to call their mere presence a curse, that the lives of humans are nothing more than playthings to them.
“Very well, I should very much like to make you an offer”.
To be continued.
